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Sandwich

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Kurt has himself more or less propped up, unwrapping a couple slices of cheese to throw on his sandwich. He looks over to see his brother come in, scrounging around in the pantry and grousing about something or other.

"Want a sandwich?" He offers. The stuff is all still laid out on the counter, anyway. Mark pops back out and gives a confused noise.

"Huh?"

"I said, do you want a sandwich. I already got the stuff out." He sets his cheese down and awkwardly swings himself around, letting Mark see it all. There's a pause, like he wants to say something scathing, but then he comes closer, almost hesitantly.

"I'll get it myself," he grumbles, with none of his typical bravado, "you're already hurt and putting effort into your own lunch. Go ahead and finish up." He gestures to the parts laying there, and Kurt's almost surprised. Probably the nicest his brother had been to him for some time.

"Thanks," is all he can think of to say, and shifts again, wincing a little as he pieces his lunch together. He scowls when he realizes that he only has two hands, and those two hands need to be used for moving; he huffs a few choice words under his breath and tries to eyeball how far the table is.

"You tryin' to figure out how to get your sandwich over there while you got crutches?" Mark asks, probably at his show of squinting at the table, then looking back to his sandwich.

"Yeah."

"Coulda asked," Mark says, picking it up and setting it on the table. Kurt is surprised again, and Mark rolls his eyes melodramatically. "You're horrible, but we're still brothers, dumbass. By the way, nice shirt." Mark was being almost affectionate, and Kurt looked down. Oh. It was that grey cotton Street Breed shirt he'd nicked years ago. He looked back up to his brother in confusion, but he was already occupied making his sandwich.