Page 77 of Sick Bargain

He looks showered and clean, and a glance into the bathroom shows me the drips sliding down the glass doors. A part of me likes that he’s made himself comfortable here, but a predatory part of me, which is stronger, doesn’t like that he defied my bounds, either by breaking free or being set free. I also won’t appreciate it if he’s re-bandaged his own wounds. Those are my marks to cater to.

When I close the door, he looks at me.

It washes away my frustration and softens me to his needs. He’s sore, suffering from healing wounds, and I had the fucking audacity to tether him in an uncomfortable position. He didn’t even complain about it, but I see the fatigue in his eyes and the discomfort in his body.

I walk to my bed, forcing myself not to crowd him. His eyes track my movement, and his shoulders sag when I sit down. “How is it coming?” I nod at the guitar.

He looks at it like he forgot he was working on it. “Um, good. Almost done, just tuning it.” He fiddles with the tuning keys and then sets it on the floor to lean against the desk. “What’s… is everything okay?” His brow creases in concern.

“Why are you asking?”

“You’re… over there.”

I almost grin.

I lie back against the headboard and close my eyes, more tired than I thought. “Then come be over here with me.” I kick my boots off and listen to them thunk to the floor. I pat the bed beside me. “Let me look at your wrists, Remiel.”

Silently, he sits cross-legged beside me, holding his bandaged wrists out. The t-shirt is mine, and I like that he’s wearing it, but I like it even more that it shows off his arms. Toned with defined muscle and skilled at playing cello. Veiny and pronounced, but covered by white gauze. I peel it off, unwrapping it slowly so it doesn’t rip his healing skin away. They’ll need to air out for a few hours.

“I thought you don’t do gentle,” he says, watching my nimble fingers.

“I said I don’t respond to soft,” I correct him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be soft.”

“Can you?” he asks, a hint of a smile on his face.

I look down at his arm, my smile also trying to appear. Not sure why. “First time for everything.”

Glistening blisters that barely leak, mottled red flesh in the shape of my name, and peeling skin make up the underside of his arms. I’m not sorry. I know it hurts because the one on my chest hurts like a bitch, but they’re safeguards. Watchdogs. A line of defence that will make him hesitate, even for a fewseconds. I can save him with a few extra seconds. I won’t let him attempt it again, but if he gets the idea in his head, I feel better knowing my marks will cause even the slightest hint of second-guessing.

The burns are still oozing a little clear liquid, but the cream I’ve been putting on them is working wonders. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“Like a pill?”

I look up at him. “Don’t joke.”

His eyes fall for a second. “Do you…”

“Do I what, Remiel?”

“Do you really give a shit about me, or is it all about ownership and possession?”

“Do you expect more from me?”

He sighs, buying time to plan an answer. “I don’t know. Can you feel more than that?”

“Are you asking if I’m a psychopath?”

His lips pinch, but he owns it. “Yes.”

I grin and start unwrapping his other wrist. “I’ve gotten the diagnosis in the past, but no. I’m not. I can feel a full range of emotions. I just confuse them and can’t properly label them all the time.”

“Give me an example,” he says.

“I’m frustrated because you aren’t where I left you, so I’m mad, I guess. But I don’t know if I’m mad at you or at myself for putting you there while you were so sore. And since I don’t know, there’s a gnawing feeling inside me that’s probably something like regret or the need to apologize, but instead, it just makes me feel hungry. Or horny. Agitated.” I look at him again. “Which is actually another source of frustration because, until you walked into Vile House, I didn’t really get horny.”

“So, it sounds like you can label the feelings and the reasons, they just all blend together into a circular pattern. That’s not uncommon.”

“No?”

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