This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Graphic depictions of gore
Thoughts of self harm (particularly using needles)

A creaking door heralded Machiavelli’s return. He held out an indiscernible bundle of fabric towards Malin, looking down at him with no sense of emotion. 

“Here’s something to wear. It’s just a shirt and pants, might be a bit big…” the doctor said, “Can you… can you even dress yourself as is?”

“...I asked for a sewing kit,” Malin responded, unable to hide his disappointment.

“I’m not giving you needles or string. You ended up like this for a reason, who’s to say it wasn’t at least partially self-inflicted? Who’s to say that you won’t stitch yourself up instead of your clothes?” Machiavelli said with a sudden intensity. The stranger shrunk back against the couch, eye blazing. 

“Do you have no faith in me?” Malin lowered his head.

“I don’t know you,” Machiavelli repeated like a mantra, and added, “Can you undress yourself?”

Malin noted the addition of ‘un’ into the word. The doctor’s words already crackled with starvation, and Malin was circling the name of his desire like a vulture around a carcass. What richness could be skimmed from his actions already! The feeling ran another cold finger down his spine. Other people would have caved in and called an ambulance, would have shown terror at his lucidity, would have given him the needles. And maybe Machiavelli wasn’t wrong. The blur of low blood pressure and the rush of adrenaline already laid their corpse within Malin, replenishing themselves on the safety and clean air. His arms and legs were the ripples from the damage to his head. The limbs’ scrapes and scratches, therefore, paled in comparison. Needles would make them even. Maybe that part would be undeniably self-inflicted. Maybe he could swallow the pungent, malicious idea that the rest was, deep down. 

“No,” Malin said, “I can’t. You should’ve let me patch up my clothes.”

“God, why am I arguing with the grim reaper’s flirt?” Machiavelli put his head in his hands, raising his neck to the ceiling. “What is it you want? Money? To make me sick?”

“I want you to either give me a sewing kit, or to help me put on the clothes you offered me. That is all… No money, no threats, just clean clothes,” Malin coughed, the forced firmness of his tone catching up to him.

Machiavelli swiped a hand across his own mouth, cupping his chin before facing Malin. The void of expression from only minutes before was now replaced with an exasperated scowl. Malin gave a sheepish, closed-mouth smile. He raised his hands before him in a gesture asking for calmness.

“What was it you said earlier…” he covered his mouth with one hand, a single stream of blood tracing his fingers, “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

“I doubt it,” Machiavelli said, “Let’s just get this over with. I’ll just… think of this as some kind of client work.”

“...Thank you.”

Malin pulled his chest up and away from the couch. The burning pain of opening wounds seared through his ribs again, making him almost double over against his legs. He clung onto the back of the couch with one arm. Machiavelli stared at Malin as his eye forced itself to stay open. How cocky he had been, just seconds ago. Some internal, unnamed fear brought the doctor to his knees, at Malin’s side.

“Are you alright?” Machiavelli asked.

A faint nod sent a mixed signal.

“Raise your arms, as high as you can.”

Malin did as he was told, inching his elbows up the couch and resting his forearms briefly on his head. Machiavelli produced a fresh set of gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He reached across the couch and unbuttoned Malin’s coat, one button at a time. The action revealed a stained and still-wet dress shirt. This too had to be unbuttoned, and each layer uncovered a rattling heartbeat and equally erratic breathing. Machiavelli kept his breaths low, almost humming. Malin never made eye contact with Machiavelli, not even as the doctor lifted his coat and shirt over his head. The fabric grazed Malin’s arms, and there was no point in being sly–maybe this would change the doctor’s mind? Maybe this would be the breaking point. Maybe–

“Jesus Christ,” Machiavelli said as he placed the shirt and coat to the side.

Malin’s chest shared similar wounds to his head, haphazard marks that curved and bore canyons into his flesh, tearing upwards. However, scar tissue covered most of the wounds, and body hair grew feebly between the pale recollections of some past pain. Several lines appeared fresh, or at least reopened, dragging downwards from where his nipples would have been. Only the vague impressions of darker tissue remained. Nearby, a heavy bruise, blushing in violet and rotten yellows, extended from the sternum until it hooked under a rib. Malin’s skin creased in a way that indicated he wasn’t always this thin, this desiccated. Malin focused his eye on some vacant corner and braced himself for whatever came next with a wry smile. The script of disgust, of an addition to the gallery of injuries, played out in his mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Machiavelli repeated, “I’ll get the ointment again. At least a rag. And something for you to eat if you can manage it. And after this or maybe a nap, you’re telling me how you ended up looking like roadkill.”

Malin’s eye widened. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Machiavelli was already halfway down the hall.

Malin watched him move in silence, his hands in his lap. He waited for rope, he waited for restriction, he waited for screaming, he waited for spitting and cursing and stamping. But the house was silent outside of the wheezing of the air conditioning, of Machiavelli’s hands sorting through a cabinet Malin could not see. His head spun. And the couch caught him as he slumped back against the dirty fabric. Consciousness shrieked in its triumph, in its desperation to fade, and Malin was powerless to stop it.