Sleep was a blessed escape from the previous day's events, but only when the nightmares didn't plague. It had Noah safely in its arms, tangled in bedsheets and breathing shallowly into his pillow, lost in the unhappy ending of a dream.
He frowned lightly in his slumber, long legs sliding underneath the comfort of the blanket.
His injured hand was tucked tight against his chest.
Click.
Lock sliding, pins falling, springs bouncing. The door to the lamb's thicket was open. Outside stood that gelding, that eight-legged horse of myth. It smiled, glittered with a bitter pretentiousness.
He thought he'd check on the boy whose spirit he was sure he crushed.
Sidled in like an apparition, coming to rest comfortably on the bed next to the nestled little waif. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Playing with his food.
If his new favorite snack had noticed the dipping weight on the mattress, it didn't show in his face, and instead he dangerously, naively slipped closer, hairline almost coming to rest against the wolf's hip.
And as if he could smell the blood in his sleep, Noah cracked his eyes open, groggy at first, and then alert at the sight, the feeling of someone else occupying on his bed. Immediately he reeled back, head swimming painfully as he scrambled backward to hit the wall.
He stared.
And stared some more, when it wasn't enough.
Those hawk eyes narrowed just slightly at the unconscious coddling. He removed his coat as if prepping for a lengthy stay, sleeves up like a surgeon.
He'd made a mistake, a brash one. This loose end needed to be knotted, glued and cauterized. He lit up but didn't move, letting the boy panic, panic.
"How's that hand, then?"
Sleepy blues trailed across Bayard's ghostly features, his shoulders, his arms. He looked terrible. Like death himself. Reacting at last, he brought his knees in closer, instinctively cradling his hand.
A breath-- "Did you come here to finish the job?" The question was ignored.
Bayard watched him sideways as he crowded and hid in the edges of his bed. Sharp angler grin as he brought a mummified hand to wipe his nose, red engrailment on the back of his knuckles.
He crawled a little closer, revealing that both palms were wrapped in gauze and both were stained; upon closer look there were stitches here and there. A little plaster on his nose. He'd been had, sure, but he was still not one to take advantage of: charred chalk blue glare warned him of that.
"I said how is your hand." No question, demand.
"Have you been to see anyone yet?"
With fear gripping his heart, Noah made a mental note to slam his heel into the other man's shoulder if he tried anything. If he had the courage to hurt someone who'd obviously already been damaged.
"It's fine," he lied, gaze wary. "And no, I haven't."
There was a cobra readiness in the way he leaned to the side. Curious blues leveled in a watchful haze over the boy, nodding in reply to his answer. He was careful to watch for those ticks, those thousand dollar give aways: the darting of eyes, the fiddling of fingers. He'd know if he was lying because he was a liar himself.
"You sure," sweet question fluttered, daring the boy to sound less than completely sure, without a doubt, truthful. "Are you sure you haven't seen or talked or associated with anyone since then?"
If looks could kill, this predator would have to worry about more than a few bruises.
Noah curled his fingers into a loose fist. "Worried someone's gonna come after you?" He couldn't help the snap. His nerves were fried. "From the looks of it, you look like you're going to keel over soon anyway." While his words were harsh, his eyes were concerned.
He hadn't been anywhere near the Complex since it happened; he hadn't left the apartment. A pack of cigarettes was all that kept him company in the dark of the flat, frayed optics lending to anxiety over creeping shadows.
Oh and there were those teeth, chipped ivory peeking out from between soft lips.
"Aw, no, no, I'm not worried. Actually I'm more scared for you." And a fearful face was put on, a nice mask of concern and sympathy. It broke, the smile unable to be contained. "I just needed to check on you..." He peered through the limb shield towards the pierced palm. "I just needed to tell you, since I forgot, not to tell anyone about this, okay?"
Broken nose wrinkled as he growled the warning. Demeaning tone rung from his wet mouth as if he was talking to a little child.
His prize looked unimpressed. "You're full of shit," he hissed, voice noticeably wavering as he slid along painted wall toward the other end of the bed. To whatever safety he could grasp. "Will you turn me into one of those--" corpses, containers of decaying matter "--things if I do?"
Noah looked so small curled up in the corner.
Amiable smile warmed the face of the butcher, not in the least disconcerted at the hostile reception. He cocked his head thoughtfully at the question, not quickly calling to mind what he was asking him.
"Oh. Oh! Yea yea, if you want. If you're itching for a ride in a meat grinder, I could probably arrange that." Tone altered into something significantly less threatening. The same tone one might use in offering a ride to a friend.
How this boy could take on such a friendly air was an unsettling paradigm, a metamorphosis unwelcome.
Wiry arms wound around bony knees, eyes flickering over in the direction of the bedroom door. The only exit aside from a window leading out to a shaky fire escape. "... I think I'll pass," murmured the lamb, surprisingly docile now.
The boy under wraps turned his skeleton, sitting with legs crossed on the bed; scuffed and quiet. For everywhere the lamb looked, the other stared pointedly and grinned. Please make a move, those sleepy lakes asked. Run so I can chase.
A stall. A tenor. Pull that wool over those nasty fangs.
"What I'm asking isn't so unreasonable, yea? Our little run in was harmless enough, I think eh?"
Harmless, my ass, Noah bit back internally, gaze flickering between the white of the door and the white of the other's skin.
"Looks like whatever run in you had with someone else wasn't so harmless. Either that's karma, or someone was really hoping to crucify you." Slightly, he shifted, uncomfortable from the scrutiny.
Benzin thoughts ignited a streaky simper.
The embalmed edged over to the other side of the bed, pouting in objection. "Oh, this, this is just a bittie scuffle, just a little fun." And it had been. He leaned back, dropping his head back with a tired grunt. The quick bite of metal shined from his hip. A stop sign given in loving concern.
"M'sure you're right though.. karma ..it would be, wouldn't it," he murmured with a haze of weariness to the ceiling.
Before worry, there was instinctual fear in the quickening beats of an already fearful heart. And upon closer inspection, Bayard looked far too beat up to have only been involved in a 'bittie scuffle'. Noah was being lied to, but he might've done the same himself, and didn't hold it against him.
"... Please don't die on my sheets." Another shift, this time more quick, toward the edge of the mattress.
This was so not good.
Ah, belly up. All that blood letting wasn't what it was cracked up to be.
Bayard was not one to put on a show in front of the one he'd deemed lesser in his mind. Even with his ligaments stretched, knotted and scalloped, he could still bridle this being. He didn't care to impress or put on a peacock show for long.
"I won't, nah, nah... not until you agree to keep this hush hush," the worn body said listlessly as if repeating a stale part in a play. He had faith in the steel resting near his stomach.
It was a scarecrow and he was sure it'd do the job.
Watery blues narrowed.
"I don't make promises with psychopaths," hissed the younger boy, sliding off of the bed completely in the blink of an eye. He pressed his back to the cool glass of the window, fingers dancing along the sill and toward the handles lest a quick escape was required. His face was a dark shadow against the light, body silhouetted in black.
You horrify me, but you're not allowed to die on my sheets.
Precaution yelped at the boy through the fatigue.
He hummed in reply, as if indifferent. Then in a wretchedly fluid and awkward movement, slid off the bed into a squat, both hands poised into the shape of gun, indexes a barrel.
"Blam."
Chuckles rolled out past those gritty teeth. His hands dropped between knees again, gun gone, the vigor again interrupted by blase. "I'm not a psychopath. I just have good work ethic."
The sudden movement had Noah startled and frozen against the window sill, literally like a deer caught in the headlights. He look unconvinced, and slid to the next bare wall.
"... If I say I'll keep my mouth shut, will you sit back on the bed and not move until I say so?" And though he hated to say it-- "... please?"
Decrepit spine cracked as he rolled his head around, hair like a leech veil. Bottom teeth were bared in a distrust, that face hardened and tinted with that peril that Noah was sure to recall.
But he blinked it away, looking exhausted. "I suppose I could," he muttered with a studied carelessness as though he was sure the other wasn't going to try anything funny. To Bayard, history made gears and those gears were like clockwork.
For Noah, the pendulum didn't swing towards violence.
Time stood still for only two ticks of the second hand before the slender boy abandoned the wall to tread cautiously out the room. From the open doorway, the bathroom was right across the hallway. Light flicked on, and barely out of sight, he rummaged through the cabinet, a pill bottle slamming to the tile to spark a quiet "shit".
He returned with a small sewing kit, bandages, a roll of gauze, bottle of disinfectant, and cotton balls in hand, looking just as uncertain as he had when he'd left the room, and no less frightened.
It was not inappropriate to say that Bayard was in a state of dysfunction.
It had been only a day since that glorious gutting but he'd spent it prowling and stalking his master's boss' stomping grounds. Eyes were set up and contacts were established. If anything unusual came with in a certain range of his employer, he'd know. But now the 48 hours of sleeplessness and damage, he'd grown fevered and tired.
Eyes shut, he kept battered ears on the other, listening. He didn't move when he heard the other's nervous breathing enter the room again. He didn't really know what the other was attempting but he did make an effort to open his eyes, catching the other in a icy stare. "Whatcha gonna do?"
Footsteps faltered slightly, and then resumed. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Noah rebounded snootily, coming within a foot and then lowering to his knees against the hard floor. Now significantly closer to his captor -- or his temporary captive -- his breath caught thick in his throat.
"... Take the gauze off your hands."
He indicated with a sideways glance that he didn't like the trite tone but didn't say anything. It was only natural after all. He instead frowned and obliged, unwrapping his hands, each layer winding redder and redder.
With crucifixion bared he held up his hands, expressing a resignation to whatever he had in store for him with the gesture. The holes were meaty, the white of the fat popping out uncomfortably.
It was clear from the expression on Noah's face that he didn't find the sight very appealing. But regardless of any inhibitions, he took the disinfectant and doused a ball of cotton before shuffling some few inches closer to take Bayard's hand.
The touch was very jarring, between warm and cool skin. As though the feeling of his flesh alone was enough to trigger memories of the other day, he was unable to repress a shudder, and pointedly he avoided that lazy stare while he gently wiped the blood away.
Scarlet began to soak into the cotton, and the timid little lamb grit his teeth behind his lips while the nausea set in.
Jaded, the mangled boy grunted as he was tended to. Half of him was waiting to be suddenly stuck with a poison-filled needle while the other was fairly sure he was trying to garner favor.
Either way, the vulnerose boy displayed gratitude by simply being quiet and keeping his gaze turned towards the wall or at his feet. He didn't flinch at the acid burn and didn't move, wary of breaking their delicate infrastructure of temporary trust.
"I'm not doing this because I like you or anything," came the soft murmur, words directed at a wrist. Quiet, and unsure. "But you let me go like you said you would, and stitched up my hand, so..." One dab, two. "Consider this as me returning the favor so you don't pass out from blood loss on my floor, and not as a token of gratitude." The hand was released so that Noah could fiddle with a spool of grey thread and a needle.
Without even cracking a smile, he added: "And I still think you're a psychopath."
Somber and lesion riddled, the stigmatist turned and looked at the other, unable to mask the malignant sharpness that would always be part of his looks. They were war-honed lines and argonaut stares.
"Well, that's just right sweet of ya, Noah," he murmured almost unintelligibly, hand still in the air where he'd left it. "How is your hand, Noah? I'm not too much of a Doc, I'm only gravy at stitches..."
Repeat, repeat, repeat. Names were an intimate label no matter whose it was. When you say someone's name, the more and more they will like it, like pouring sugar in water.
Sweetened.
The recovering boy only knew this because of dealing with his own psyche, dealing with how easy it was to rope and control youths like him. It was because they were sang to.
A song of names.
String was double-threaded, and hand retaken. "It's fine, and I'll live to see another day," Noah stiffly admitted, eyes falling shut to block out the sight of skewered flesh. How was he going to do this? He'd never learned to sew stitches. But they couldn't be that difficult, could they? Like mending a pair of fleshy jeans.
Only with blood, and maybe pus if he got lucky.
He exhaled sharply, needle poised but unmoving.
Bayard turned suddenly at the hesitation. He looked at his hand then the boy then his hand. He sneered and leaned his on his fist, elbow to knee.
"Ah, need some help there," he asked playfully, closing his hand for a moment, noting the obvious disgust to the knife work. Behind the foreground of the needle, the background was familiar cuts and jabs on Noah's throat. Bayard smiled possessive but blinked up at Noah.
"It's okay if ya can't do it, not so much fun knitting meat, I know."
Not appreciating that he was being made fun of at all, the boy on his knees glared hard, meeting his gaze at last with irritation.
"Shut up."
The needle sank into flesh fast, in some attempt to provoke a response -- or maybe, to get things over with as quickly as possible.
Bayard feigned agony, doubling over slightly but stopped and chuckled again, a chuckle that was only ever accompanied by a wry half-smile. "Jus' joking, my my."
This lamb's sincere concern was endearing but the tending to would leave much wanted. Beneath his clothes were they worst of the wounds, the ones that'd unfortunately for Noah, stained his bed and blankets.
"You're a nice chappy, Noah, real nice," he whispered towards the boy, an insidious tone beneath those neatly placed words.
A spider's paralysis; a human's charm.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
"I'm glad you think so." A murmur, sent back down to a half-mended palm. One more pause-- deep breath before resuming. "You should go to the hospital. You... probably lost a lot of blood." The option of simply shipping him off to a medical professional far more qualified than him hadn't crossed his mind until right then, and again he paused, mostly out of shock and part out of contemplation.
Why even bother stitching him up if he could send him to the ER? What was he doing?
Bayard snickered, raspy and uncontrolled not unlike a hyena. He rearranged his limbs so that he was kneeling and he took the others hand with his free one. He guided the boy's fingers into a suture, face calm but eyes upturned to watch him.
"Nah, Noah, can't even if I wanted. I'd be euthanized faster than a rabid pitbull." Sour laugh.
Stitch rhythm for a brief second, breathing tangible, softening that boy's edges. That tarantula touch would gorgonize.
in out in
"Thanks, Noah." Noah, Noah, Noah: rosy retrospection would take its toll.
The repetition of his name was entrancing, and stunned, particularly at the laugh, he dropped his eyes back down to his work, not before nodding in understanding. He silently allowed his fingers to be led, shivering once in a while at the familiar -- and yet still unfamiliar -- sensation of that hand against his skin.
His heart started to pound in his chest, and he swallowed his anxiety, vision swimming at the sight of the sutures and blood and corsetted flesh.
At some point, the wiry brunet bit the bullet.
"... why didn't you kill me?"
Soft and broken all at once.
Soldier coughed, pulled his hand away at the last purl and bit the thread off, knotting it with a quickness. He pocketed the needle for later and then, as if in a arrangement of action, took the boy's hand and wiped it clean across his chest, the blood streaking his already dingy shirt.
A sigh. He held the fragile fingers, veins, bones and listened to their beat, examining the skin. "Like I said, I'm not a psychopath. I maybe be a little eccentric sometimes but--," a pause, warm hands in haggard ones. "I didn't need to. It would have been a... tragic waste."
Those emphasized syllables bounced along the floor of the room like dropped ice.
"... why, because you plan to use me again?" The tone wasn't accusatory. Only quiet, as Noah admired the foreign crimson hiding beneath his nails. In the other's grasp, his fingers twitched. "I don't see why you're bothering. I don't know anything else, and I don't understand why you think I do."
He wasn't the most informed of the Observers, and often got teased for not spending more time at the Complex, but he knew what everyone else did. There was no secret information that only he was privy to.
So what did Bayard want from him?
Metacarpal coffin was still in place. Their pulses were unified, celebrating the one harmony they seemed to both contain: the human suffering, the addled cortex.
"I don't mind if you don't know anything. I don't have to care about that anymore, no. I'm sorry I had to do that to you, I don't really like doing it but eh, that is my pocket ace."
Words became condensed, consonants like molasses. Altrostratus eyes exchanged with the others in a stormy misunderstanding. Words were a puddle of gasoline on the floor, a suspicious prediction waiting to be lit.
Lead that lamb along.
Noah's brows drew into a light frown as he soaked in the words, not comprehending their meaning. Or that they were even words at all. Incredulity passing over his face, he tried to yank his captive hands back, anger suddenly unleashing itself like a freed wildcat. This wasn't making sense. The pieces didn't fit right.
"How stupid do you think I am? You think I believe you for a second? God knows how many rotting corpses you've got down there, or how you killed them, or why. Don't even try to convince me that you wouldn't do it all over again if you had to."
He yanked hard. "You're not a psychopath. You're a fucking monster."
Bleet, bleet, little lamb.
Kick your little legs as hard as you can.
Bayard groaned at the cumbersome boy and gave a slight shake of his head, a gesture indicating that his suspicions were not needed. He did let the hand go but with a snowfall slowness gracing each knuckle.
He gave him an ingratiating smile, rising in a slow, timid speed so as not to frighten the other. He perched on the edge of the bed looking sullen and hurt.
"Aw, that stings, Noah. There's no point in me lyin' though. You've already been squeezed dry, I've left you a a customary mark that should keep you safe enough." He eyed the boys hand pointedly. "You're in a unique situation. You are in a position of trust because you are harmless, see? So don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you."
He fenced in the lamb with a picket fence, keeping the jackals at bay.
"So don't fret then, yea?"
Though it didn't quell all of the younger's anger, he did manage to look a little bit less hostile. He swept long legs out from underneath and settled on his hip on the floor, bandaged hand cradled uselessly against a thigh.
"So when you said you came here to check on me, that's really all you were doing?" Still he sounded guarded.
Hands squeezed the linen with a vulture's grip. A menagerie of man, this one. All a feral collage in a human cage. He looked at the boy with an expression denoting sheepishness.
But it was still the wolf in the fables, so he walked gently to the side of the other, doubling over in a bow to tunnel those eyes through his.
"I don't need to lie. I would tell you otherwise if need be. Like I said, you are harmless." Reassurance? Demand. It didn't matter.
"Don't be afraid, yea? All that's over."
Whether or not it registered was beyond the point. Those flighty blues trickled downward to the stains on the other man's shirt, his hands, his shoulder. The whole mess of him.
"... but you're still bleeding," he whispered, perhaps more to himself than Bayard.
Bayard followed the direction of his eyes and pulled on his shirt to look at it himself, standing up straight to do so. He shrugged and dragged a worn hand up his face, back into his hair.
"I bleed, its what I do. But you're okay right, Noah?" He set a mild hand on the other's crown. "I think I did your hand up good..." Stroke.
And the one still remaining on the floor dipped his head down to admire that very skewered hand of his own. His matching accessory. "I told you, I'm fine." And then a brief break in topic. "... are you leaving?"
It was exceedingly difficult to mask that faint note of desperation hiding in the chords of his inquiry.
A smile, mouth to glabella, sanctified and tone-touched.
"I am." Oh, that velor tenor flicking against creamy skin. It was a self knighting, a spear through the heart as it clung to the shame and the submission through some sort of affection. Had he caught him?
"Would you like me to stay?" You could afford putting off paroling for a little longer and wean the lamb instead.
Noah didn't like the idea of being a needy person -- despised it, really -- so he, instead, went with the most sensible response for someone in his current predicament.
"At least long enough for me to stitch and... bandage you up. It wouldn't look very good if you left my flat and then fainted of blood loss on the street."
Pessimistic, but truthful.
He gripped the boy's hair in a tantalizingly gentle pull then let go. Nodding briefly, straightening that spine, he became the weather worn obelisk he was shaped into.
"I suppose that'd be helpful if you wouldn't mind. I won't be so bold as to say that wouldn't happen." Only Noah's clean hands, his inculpable, were enabling him the mercy of the doubt. Without that the dark haired boy would be irreverent with distrust. But no, the gold hured boy had kept his cherub mask.
He turned to the boy questioningly, unspoken inquiry as to what he wanted him to do. His short-lived obedience with slowly seal that link, that link only a tormentor and the tormented could have.
Nodding in return, the reluctant lamb uneasily shifted into a crouch and gathered what he'd strewn across the floor next to him, then stood, anxiously noting that Bayard towered at least a good three inches over his head.
Regardless of the other man's reassurances, Noah still wasn't entirely convinced that he wouldn't get a knife to the back the very second he let down his guard and turned. But swallowing his worry, he silently slipped past and through the door.
The apartment, for the most part, was bare. There were no pictures, no hung paintings, and little furniture outside of necessities. It was barren, but not empty, and from the dishes in the sink, it did appear that someone lived there. The balcony door was cracked open, allowing brisk air to squeeze through to eradicate the light scent of cigarette smoke, and the only light that illuminated the rooms was the rising sun beyond the glass.
Bayard's figure was laced with lassitude. Every breath and step and crinkle of the other's clothes were followed, the acoustics a trail of bread crumbs. Yet he was drained and his hide was harassed.
His soil needed to replenish and with a light flop, he dropped onto the bed. The cell in his pocket buzzed for a moment and he whipped it out: deer was all it said. A safe word. His master was in the clear for the moment the eyes informed him. He could allow the REM recovery, the soporous remedy.
"This is the part where you follow me to the kitchen," Noah's voice rang out from that very room, which opened out into the living room, separated only by a counter. As he set down the bandages, his gaze landed on the display of knives, four in two pairs, stuck in a block of wood. Would Bayard notice it? Would he make a move for it? Was he being too paranoid about having a killer in his apartment?
There's no such thing as too paranoid, he assured himself, quietly removing the smallest knife and tucking it into the back waistband of his jeans.
The soldier grasped at a fleeting somnolent wisp but it disappeared at the resounding voice. He blinked his eyes open, dragging himself obediently to the kitchen with a little dramatic strain.
He leaned on the counter with full weight, head dropped onto the folded hands. He noticed the slight bump concealed in the back of the boy's pants but didn't bother mentioning it. Espionage chiseled little awareness like that; it was a whetstone to hone the mind to things that would commonly be passed over.
Yet he did nothing except note it, a small drop of respect in his mind at the other's cleverness if nothing else.
A half-empty pack of cigarettes was nudged out of the way -- to smoke later once Bayard was off the premises -- and the counter next to him was patted once, to imply that he was meant to sit up on it. Already waiting there was a glass of cold water, filled nearly to the brim.
"Drink that, and sit," Noah ordered quietly, if his actions weren't self-explanatory enough.
Needless to say, the clear commands were need because cyanosis was clearly showing on his face. Not enough fuel to power his cognitive powers at the subtle motions.
"Right right," he muttered, acting as if he already knew what to do. He shot down the water with a thirsty vigor and clambered onto the counter, already taking the initiative to shed his coat and shirt, hooked skin and apoplexy.
Gash, gash, hole, cut, scrape, bite.
He seemed as if he'd been speared, gored, shot, torn and whipped all at once. He didn't seemed phased as he hunched quietly, elbows to knees and legs swinging gently above the floor. He smirked, wondering why the squeamish boy was offering such help to him. The kindness was revolting. Yet it appealed to the soft hollow near his spoiled heart.
"Ya think ya can do anything 'bout these?"
Troubled eyes scoured the trainwreck of a body, taking in the damage with silent distress. Even if this guy was or wasn't who he said he was, these lacerations were still very real. He was still a human being capable of bleeding. And though Noah grew nauseated at the sight of blood and gore, he felt obligated to tend to him.
Sometimes, people did things they hated.
"I'll try," he murmured, gripping the disinfectant once more and scooting closer to clear away the dark and crusted sediment from that punctured shoulder.
Kiss of life, the exsanguine thought quietly to himself.
He didn't flinch at the wound dressing, didn't spasm when the gauze pressed deeper. It was as if those scales weren't really attached to the mind beneath.
"Ah, Noah. You don't have to do this you know. They will heal up themselves..."
Questions tailored to bring out the sand buried line between them; he'd pull it up and pull it toward him as the symptoms would permit.
Silence pervaded the air for some time, as the brunet went through four cottons balls clearing up the red. "They'll scar, and it'll be pretty ugly. Maybe you don't care, but..." They fell to the counter. "I'm not heartless, so be quiet and don't tell me what I shouldn't do."
Count to five, and breathe.
A toothy smile was given in retort.
"Fine, fine, fine," he mumbled with pernicious charm. He slung a wan arm atop the other's shoulder, a support to let his head hang. Eyelids were like lead and he was more than tempted to grab sleep; it was self preservation. With a premeditated yet ungainly movement, slumped against the other's chest, still hanging precariously on him with one arm.
"Thanks," he rasped in a subdued purr.
The very sudden and close proximity of Bayard was startling, and the boy's movements slowed. He sank his teeth into his lower lip and hesitantly brought a hand up to settle against the man's pulse, tentative yet nearly comforting. His fingertips burned as he searched for that heartbeat.
Resistance to a shiver failed, and his opposite hand twitched against the countertop, tension flooding through his nerves.
"If you pass out, I'm gonna lock you out on the balcony," he warned with a weak threat.
He licked dry lips and angled his head to look out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of other's lips, slope of his neck, shine of that watchful glare.
"M'not, m'just tired, see? Maybe I oughta go," he droned forlornly and quite obviously not meaning it since he stayed quite still. "M'sorry Noah, I'm a bit of a handful I suppose." Whispers let the boy taste the others finely shaped shoulder. A taste that made his eyes just barely clear into a tumultuous blue.
A taste.
You don't sound very sorry, griped the younger to himself as he slid an arm around Bayard's midsection to pull him up somewhat, jaw tensing at the touch of his disconcertingly cool skin. "'A bit'? Listen, I'll lock you out there anyway if you don't shut up for real." More of a promise than a threat this time, however empty.
Feign that innocence was the mantra in his head.
False testaments, polished and sculpted through repetition, led to authenticity.
Bayard was a knew how to mold the vague and the fake to his advantage; mind a tumulus over the tombs of truth. So he remained obedient and didn't speak but again shifted upwards to support himself, mouth just grazing that neck as he moved away.
Persistence was a quality he was familiar with, but forcefulness didn't come as second-nature to Noah as it did the other. Anxiety coated his words with stubborness rather than any sort of power, like a child attempting to get their parents to listen. He swallowed hard, and moved to rethread a new needle now that there was no more weight balanced on him.
Before settling in to begin stitching, he eyed the wall over a damaged shoulder, took a deep breath, and then started mending, lips parting to speak.
"The first time I scraped my knee, I was six. I was out on the playground, and some older kid pushed me against the asphalt for no reason at all than to be a kid. My mom left work and came to the office where I was crying, because I wouldn't let anyone else bandage my knee except her." The anecdote seemed to be going somewhere, and so he continued, pausing once in a while with the needle to keep his nausea at bay.
"Every other time that I scraped my knee, she'd come to the school and make it better. Sometimes I'd hurt myself just to see if she'd come, and she always did, even when I was out of elementary school," explained the distracted brunet. "By the time I finished grade six, I was already at the intellectual level of a tenth grader. I skipped middle school and went straight into high school, even though I was only twelve at the time."
Stitches finished and snipped after a cautionary double sew at the end. "I had to switch schools four times to get away from the teasing and the insults. It got so bad that my mom eventually withdrew me from school, and had me homeschooled from then on. I got prank calls all the time, my doors and windows got egged, and once someone trashed my dad's car before we decided to move out of state like fugitives."
Noah lethargically reached for the roll of gauze.
"... when I was fifteen, my parents got divorced because my mom had been seeing another man. She called every weekend to check up on me, but I didn't get to see her very often because her new boyfriend didn't want to deal with kids." A pregnant pause. "My dad hung himself from the second floor railing before the divorce papers were even finalized. He didn't leave a note, but did give us the PIN numbers to his bank accounts on the kitchen counter."
The story came to an end as he taped the gauze over the wound, one strip of medical tape at every side.
The living casualty listened raptly and without a sound. His eyes followed the others' through the childhood tale. Bayard was soaking in the story with a new attention. He wasn't used to a conversation that didn't involve either pre-tactile war plans or military commands. No, small talk with him quite out of the norm.
He blinked impatiently, face turning to a frown. Why was he telling him then, he wondered. He felt numbly resentful for some reason but wasn't sure why. Parents were a foreign concept, instead it replaced by a male figure head that was more of a dictator than a fraternal entity.
Perhaps he was jealous but quietly tucked the bothersome, fleeting thought away. He slid off the counter, examining the handiwork, satisfied. He folded his arms across his chest and craned his neck forward inquisitively.
"Will you fix me up if I get bloodied again, Noah? You're good at it..."
Bloodied fingers settled against worn hemline, ready to instinctively wipe away before the owner of them remembered the state of them. "... it depends," began the slighter brunet, curling that hand into a loose fist at his side. "Do you plan on making a habit of getting yourself crucified?"
The sarcasm was hard to suppress.
He laughed but the sounds held no joy.
He rose like a cobra, that dark hair a hood, marked with cautionary patterns.
The soldier arched his back in a crude stretch, vertebrae cracking and mouth open in a languid groan. He looked like he was howling at a moon that no one else could see but him. He returned standing akimbo to the other.
"I don't do it on purpose," the boy replied ruefully, taking a few steps towards the boy, carelessly invading his space. The soldier cracked into a scheming smile. "Say, if you can keep me as scrummy as this, I promise I'll keep you tidy, yea?"
Noah's first impulse was to take a tiny step back, hand resting against the counter as he literally felt goosebumps creeping up his arms. "Are you gonna come creeping into my apartment in the middle of the morning, too? It's called using the door, in case you've forgotten how to use it," he shot back, bristling like an angered cat.
He didn't particularly like the idea of playing doctor either, but not having a heart attack took significant precedence over that. Waking up next to someone wasn't the problem; it was waking up next to someone uninvited.
They were aligned now, he knew that much as he closed the space for a split second, hands on either side of the boy's head. Fingers stroked just behind his ears, feather soft and definitely not from an animal.
"Aw, I did use the door though see? But sure, I'll oblige since you've done me a favor. Or I've done you a favor. It hardly matters I suppose." He released the boy's head with an apologetic smile and turned to pull on his shirt, a scaleless snake's spine flexing under his skin. "As long as you're quiet I'll keep everything quiet around you, yea?"
His captured lamb nibbled at one full lower lip, considering the demand. Did it seem fair? And to whom? How was he supposed to keep something like this to himself? Question after question flooded his head, but already dazed from the touch, the contact and the missed heat, he could only rock back on his heels.
"... yeah. You should, um--" Noah snagged the the roll of gauze off the counter, and hesitantly held it out -- "... take this. Or something."
The boy took it blandly, grim sarcastic smile as he held it between two fingers. "Good stuff, this." He pocketed it for later even though it would probably just be forgotten about and amass into a lump of lint later.
He pulled on his roughed jacket, an article of clothing that'd been better off burned. He rolled his tongue from one side of his mouth to other in thought.
"Fathers and mothers are difficult to understand and I can only glean from observation, see. I suppose it is nature though; like an eagle pushing the chick from the next. They seem like harpies sometimes but...in the end they've armed you. Cultured you. You should only be so lucky, Noah. You've a right head on you."
Fingers rapped against the countertop, in close proximity to the cigarettes there. His addiction prompted a quick glance at it, and then back at the taller man. "For now, anyway," he muttered, giving in and taking up the pack in his hand, one slim container of tar and nicotine easily maneuving itself between eager digits.
"If you ever show up in my bed again, I'm gonna slug you in the face. Okay?" He probably wouldn't, but that was besides the point.
The soldier's hands went up inoffensively, flash of white palms signifying he was defanged. "Looking forward to it," he said cattily, taking a few steps towards the door he'd came in through.
It was a process of iodizing and purifying: fear to acceptance, acceptance to addiction, addiction to symbiosis. All of it was a blueprint he'd already experienced. Putting it into play was easy enough.
He paused, turned his head back with a face that denoted sudden revelation; it was well made.
"Try not to leave your house much, ey? If only for emergencies and necessities. Unfortunately there are still others with tags on you. So lie low, yea?" Lips spouted the vague and probably false information with an assured urgency.
"I have a job, asshole," retorted the younger, before holding up his dominant hand. "Even though you I'm out of commission for the next month." Staying inside was hardly a problem, but he hadn't swung by the Complex in a while, and it was bound to raise suspicions. Or at least, be enough to get him teased about it.
Truthfully, Noah did enjoy the time at home.
However desolate it was.
"Like I said, necessities. Do what you must," the darkly clad boy replied icily. Underneath the sentence was a tired and more than real threat of don't sass me, Bayard did not mind insults or name calling but he did not enjoy arguing pointlessly. He didn't have the capacity to be constantly convincing just constantly intimidating. It took much less effort.
The tentacle tone died quietly under a sudden chuckle and he walked to the threshold of simple little apartment. "Be a god boy would ya?" The soldier waved a hand in the air as he left, not looking back, the faint farewell of footsteps leaving his to stir the paretic.
Those very steps were trailed and counted, one two three four fifteen until they vanished down the corridor and left him in peace. Balancing his cigarette between teeth-worn lips, the Observer -- or really, the observed -- lit up his stick of marvelous toxins and slid down along a cupboard to the tile, smoke expelled behind as he swiftly yanked the knife from out of his waistband to let it clatter loudly against the floor. And spin. And stop.