Page 83 of The Mourning Throne
Lex folded the napkin beside him. Sipped his can of pop. Crossed his ankles.
Monstrous and so utterly mine.
He looked absolutely beautiful.
Ollie hadstopped eating.
It wasn’t a refusal.
It wasn’t even rebellion.
His fingers had gone still near the napkin. His mouth hung slightly open, breath fogging the bars. His eyes no longer tracked Lex’s hands or the can of pop.
They drifted.
Loose. Fogged. Like the part of him that knew where he was had gone to sleep.
Lex may have noticed, but he didn’t say anything.
He just reached forward and wiped the corner of Ollie’s mouth with a clean towel. Folded the napkin into a square again. Dabbed a speck of lamb grease from the floor.
As if the cage needed tidying already.
Ollie blinked slowly. Like someone waking up in a dream they didn’t remember falling into.
Then—barely audible—he whispered, “I want to go home.”
Morgan shifted his grip on the glass. Took another drink.
This sounded like someone beginning to spiral. Lost in their own mind. Trapped somewhere beyond the physical.
And that was the most difficult thing to keep under control.
“I want to go home,” Ollie said again. A little louder. Still breathless.
Lex didn’t respond.
He didn’t coo. Didn’t lie this time.
He just hummed. That same tuneless melody, slow and steady, as he tossed the can in the trash.
Morgan watched Ollie twitch, just slightly, like a glitch in an old tape. His breath hitched. His hands tightened into fists.
“I want to go home,” he said again. Faster now. As if it might call something back.
His voice cracked on the next one. “I want to go home.”
Lex didn’t even look up.
He was cleaning again—wiping down the inside of the bars with a damp towel, never rushing.
“I want to go home,” Ollie whispered.
Over.
And over.
And over.
