This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Reference to the ingestion of rotten food (and insects)
Self-Victim Blaming / Guilt
Light descriptions of blood and gore

Please note that Malin's feelings about himself (ie, the victim blaming) do not reflect my opinion of people in or escaping from abusive situations. You deserve to heal and to be safe!

He recalled standing over Malin’s unconscious body, needle in gloved hand, and weaving him back together. A searing guilt made Machiavelli hum and straighten his hair as he worked. He had never been so close to a man. A faint heartbeat met his fingers as he worked along Malin’s chest. The house had held its breath then, all inputs outside of his tunnel vision reduced to nothingness. He would save him. He would make the blood and cleaning and food mean something. Maybe there would be screaming, or crying, or more blood. Malin laid still and quiet, against all odds and thoughts in Machiavelli’s mind. The constant soothing gestures–the off-key hums and such–made the doctor sick to his stomach. What was good or bad here? Wrong or right? God, it’s been too long since someone has entered his home without fear directed at him. Every inch of him wanted to grip Malin’s arms and shake him back into consciousness then. He would enter the zone of distrust that Machiavelli saw on everybody’s faces nowadays. He might scream. Something, anything. Some reaction to make sure he wasn’t a corpse.

Corpses don’t bleed. Malin’s fresh blood covered Machiavelli’s gloves like a second skin. Maybe that was enough.

He couldn’t bring himself to unwrap the head. The nerves there were on fire as is. A needle would just strain the area more. So Machiavelli tucked the bloody needles into his pockets, stole a pillow and blanket from his bed, and stumbled down the stairs. Hunger. He hadn’t felt hunger for so long. He wished he had a tarp. He wished he was out shooting ducks with Mikhail and Bri again. He wished for many things. And then three days passed, only a trace of its passing being found in a receipt from the grocery store.

“Does it hurt?” Machiavelli indicated his own nose as he looked at Malin. A strip of gauze created a makeshift nose-ridge, but the open holes still poked out from underneath. Come to think of it, Malin’s voice had not faltered during his story. Maybe he was feeling better. 

Malin blinked. Or did it count as a wink now?

“Yes,” he considered, “It does. But have you ever felt sad that an illness was receding? That the buzz of a fever and its nausea were leaving, and you had to go back to your ordinary life. Have you ever felt that? Jumped off a high of delirium?”

“...Do you need more painkillers? Or did you take something in the bathroom?” Machiavelli asked flatly.

“No,” Malin replied, “Neither of those. I’m fine.”

Malin hung his head back, pressing himself into the corner of the couch. He pulled the blanket over his shoulder. The fresh gauze–tan, this time–made him look pale by comparison. Despite his rest, his eye was sunken with a light smattering of purple underneath. 

“Tell me your story, too,” Malin’s words broke a momentary stillness.

“Oh,” the doctor paused, “I don’t have metaphors or…”

“That’s fine. Just…” Malin glanced towards the ceiling as he thought, “Where to begin… ah, do you have children? The bathroom was…”

“Theirs, I know.” Machiavelli’s interruption didn’t sound angry. He just sounded unsurprised and perhaps slightly annoyed that Malin had noticed. Stole the words and placed his own. Well, how annoyed could he be? Machiavelli himself sent Malin there. “I had kids.”

“Alive, or…?” 

“Yes, they’re alive!” Machiavelli’s shield of cool disinterest cracked when he looked at Malin with visible disdain, “What kind of question is that?”

“A pretty important one. ‘Had’ is a choice of a word,” replied Malin.

“I had kids with my wife. Ex-wife. We’ve been divorced for about… 10 years now? Give or take. I know it’s not exactly a pretty tale, but she’s out there and happier for it.” Machiavelli said.

Malin nodded at a tilt, staring down mindlessly at his hands. “Are your kids grown up now?”

“...Yes. I suppose so. I don’t know if you have children, but being a father, it’s…”

“Strange to see your children become adults.”

Now Machiavelli nodded with renewed interest. “Did you have someone? A wife, or a kid, or…”

“You’re talking about everyone but yourself. Who are you?” Malin narrowed his eye, the wrinkles betraying a thin smile underneath his hand. An intrusive thought swept across Machiavelli’s mind as he sat rigid, not daring to express it: he wanted to hit Malin. Just a light punch on the shoulder, maybe. Machiavelli kept his hands in his lap.

“I… I am a dentist,” the words of introduction felt rusted, somehow, “You know that. I work. I read sometimes, mostly thrillers or scientific papers in my field. It’s not exactly an exciting life, but it’s mine.”

“Are you hungry?” Malin must have noticed Machiavelli’s eyes struggling to find something to look at that wasn’t him. He had settled his gaze on the food between them.

“I suppose,” Machiavelli said, “I wish I could offer you more about myself, but there’s not much going on nowadays. Kids are gone, wife’s gone. Retirement is growing closer. I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary for someone my age. Except for taking care of a stranger.”

Machiavelli took his sandwich from the plate. Some cheap American cheese, equally cheap processed meat, and a small spread of mayo. The lettuce had turned rotten overnight, so the meal had an artificial air to it without that little piece of greenness. He tore into the sandwich. Malin watched. Ravenous. Crumbs spilled and he wiped his face with the palm of his hand.

“Eat yours,” Machiavelli said, straightening up, suddenly aware of himself.

“...Right.”

Malin turned away to eat. But he did eat, at least. And, though Machiavelli didn’t know it, part of Malin recoiled at the cleanliness of the sandwich. No maggots. No mold. And he checked–lifted the bread up, ripped some of the crust, turned it around in his hands. Maybe there was a subtle poison in it, or maybe it was meant to be tantalizing. Something good before more disgusting meals, a reward for sitting still. He wasn’t quite used to American cheese. Too yellow. Almost sweet. But not bad, especially not compared to his previous meal. Machiavelli had to be thinking of something. Planning something. Malin ate the sandwich anyway. He drank the rest of the water bottle in one long swig, as if he couldn’t stand the idea of thinking about the sandwich any longer.

When he finished, Malin looked up to see the corner of Machiavelli’s mouth raised ever so slightly. A smile. A couple of crumbs still clung to his face. Malin could almost see his teeth poking out of the corners, glistening. Or was he imagining it?

“If you want another one, I’ll make you another one.”

“...Why?” Malin wiped crumbs off of his face.

“Why?” Machiavelli scoffed. Scoffed! “For all this talk about hunger, you seem to be the last one who knows you’re starving. You weighed about as much as a bunch of grapes when I picked you up earlier. Not literally, of course,” Machiavelli’s upper canines clicked against his lower jaw when he finished speaking. He rubbed his jaw with a quick, almost mechanical motion.

“I’m fine for now,” Malin replied, relaxing on the couch, “but I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, then…” Machiavelli raised his arms over his head, stretched his spine, and pulled himself to his feet, “I have a client coming in today. Will you be okay with staying up here during that?”

The look in his eyes made Malin believe there was only one answer to that question.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” He crinkled the water bottle in one hand.

“I’ll get you another one of those, at least,” Machiavelli said, and suddenly he was stepping down the stairs and far away with their plates in tow. The afterimage of his pale form clung to Malin’s eye like mold on bread.