"Yes. Yes I would love it if you delivered it and set it up. I don't mind paying extra. I understand that a fifty-four inch TV is huge, Mr. Turner. Yes, I will try to visit you soon. With the lemon cakes you like, of course. Alright, take care. Bye."

Marcus sighed as he cut the call and placed his phone beside him on the floor next to the stacks of literature homework and tests he had been going through for most of the day.

Yawning as he marked another failed test with his left hand, using his right to type in the score on his laptop laid on his right, his legs crossed and folded underneath him, Marcus was close to nodding off. Though his guest did a good job of keeping him wide awake with his need to stare at Marcus for hours on end.

"What are you doing, human?" the angry guy asked at last.

"Scoring some tests. Writing notes on how they can improve. Teacher stuff," Marcus answered, pausing to stare at one of his ninth graders' answers.

He did not understand how she got 'x = 7' from a question about Hamlet.

"Teacher? You teach hatchlings? Do you train them?"

Marcus glanced at Kuzma from the side of his eye, finding the wording of that question odd.

"If you mean train them about the techniques, styles and so on involved with literature, then yes. I train them." He wasn't sure why Kuzma was starting up a conversation. Marcus had gotten the impression that he did not want to deal with the human more than he needed to.

Marcus raised his head when he heard Kuzma scoff, just in time to see the snappy man roll his eyes.

"The job of a woman."

"That's a bit sexist, don't you think?" Marcus asked, going back to work. He at least wanted to enjoy his Sunday off since his Saturday was ruined.

"Sexist?"

"Yes. Sexist."

"Are you asking me to m-mate with you? I-Is that your p-price?"

Marcus shot his head up so fast, his neck cracked, his expression matching Kuzma's shocked one.

"What? No," he said as he relaxed quickly.

"Then what did you-"

"Sexist means you're discriminating someone based on the...lower parts. Like saying teaching is a woman's job even though men can do it too and women can do other jobs. Where have you been living? The 1800s?" Marcus said, chuckling and the sound startled him more than anything had so far.

Marcus wasn't a laughing man, only a few people he could've thought of that were able to make him chuckle, not including cartoons and kids.

"Are you laughing at me, human?" Kuzma asked, voice low and holding a threat.

"Hmm? Oh no. So were you trained? Like physically? That is what you meant, right?" Marcus asked, changing the subject to avoid a fight. Fights took way too much energy and as he wasn't sure about Kuzma's everything, he would've preferred to avoid dying in his old pajamas.

"...Yes. And in other fields as well," was all the other man said, sitting back on the couch with his left leg under his right.

"And you said hatchlings. Were you...hatched?" Marcus asked, his mind conjuring up an image of a small, frail Kuzma covered in fluids as he popped out of an egg and began to cry. Horror movies tended to do that to his brain.

"Weren't you?" Kuzma asked, looking at Marcus with an expression holding nothing but childlike confusion.

"Uh...human birth is a lot more complicated than that," Marcus said, turning back to his work, not wanting to think about the one time he helped a lady give birth to her daughter while on a plane.

"How so? Explain," Kuzma ordered.

"Look, I'm a bit busy right now with this so maybe another time? I just need these to be done by today," Marcus asked with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he got very frustrated with some of his students and their stupid answers.

Kuzma remained quiet after that and Marcus looked up, wondering if his guest had flown off the balcony, and saw the possibly older man had gone back to staring at him.

Is he blinking?

No. No, I don't think he is.

"Are you bored, Kuzma?" Marcus asked, being wary of his guest's temper. Maybe that's why he's talking to me.

Kuzma nodded once, continuing to stare.

"Have you tried another book?"

Kuzma's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly.

Marcus had no idea what he had said to cause such a huge reaction.

"I-I can have another?" Kuzma asked with a shaky and quiet voice holding disbelief.

Marcus was confused as fuck.

"Yes? Make yourself at home and use what you want. Just don't touch my laptop and do not touch the box under the bed. I repeat, no touching the box under the bed."

Kuzma didn't look like he was listening, what with the way he got off the couch while Marcus was talking and grabbed as many books as his skinny arms could carry, which was surprisingly a lot, and dumped them around the couch, picking one and immediately opening the thing.

He looked excited, eyes wide and shining with so much curiosity, it really was like the guy was a child, and that had Marcus' mind racing.

A lot of things Kuzma did were almost too childlike and also seemed like he was deprived of things.

I want to ask so badly, Marcus thought to himself, sucking his tongue to keep himself from doing so. His need to know everything he could during a situation needed to stay back for a while.

Kuzma was obviously a victim of abuse and neglect, that much he could tell. The thing Marcus wanted to know at that moment was for how long. How long was Kuzma in such a horrible, terrifying situation to even get so shocked and excited at being allowed to read books?

What happened to him to make him think that I would want him to put his hand in a fucking fire? And just for letting him stay here?

It made his chest hurt, his weak eyes water with tears, and his analyzing mind work on overdrive. It was like his days as a detective in the NYPD, always trying to find a connection in a case that had barely any concrete clues.

"Ah man," Marcus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before getting up.

"I'll be in the bathroom. Nature calls and all that," he said as he shuffled towards his bedroom door.

He was just about to grab the door handle when his arm was suddenly grabbed and he was turned around forcefully, a sharp pain going up his left arm, to face Kuzma who stared at him with fear written all over his face.

"What?" Marcus asked softly, wincing at Kuzma's harsh grip on his arm but otherwise trying to remain calm.

"Where are you going?" Kuzma asked, his voice low and shaking more than it did before. His eyes were glassy and Marcus didn't think his consciousness was all there.

"...To the bathroom. Hey, Kuzma. What's wrong, man?" Marcus asked, not sure if he should touch the guy or not. Last time he tried that, it ended with his hand being bandaged up.

"Don't go," Kuzma said, begged, sounding like a scared boy as he looked around the room as if something was going to jump him.

"Wha-" his question was cut short when the scared man wrapped his arms around Marcus' middle and pressed his face on the teacher's shoulder.

"Please don't go. They come for me when I'm alone," Kuzma said again and again in Russian, shaking violently.

Marcus kept quiet, desperately in need to take a whizz, as he looked at the couch. He wondered what had triggered Kuzma's sudden reaction and winced when he saw a Stephen King book.

Slowly and awkwardly hugging the scared man back, Marcus wondered where he was going to hide those while also wondering who the hell they were.

I should also probably hide that box now that I think about it. Did I put it in the closet or under my bed?