Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties

me see.”
    Roger sat back on the edge of the bed and gave Mat a sort of narrow-eyed look that said Are you sure? and Don’t be stupid and What the fuck for? all at once. Now that Mat was paying attention, it was easy to see how gingerly Roger was moving. His face and arms were probably the least of it.
    My fault. This happened because of me. Roger did everything he could. He did take care of me.
    “Let me see,” Mat said again, and maybe Roger felt sorry for him, or maybe he was just reacting instinctively to the edge of command in Mat’s voice. Whatever the case, he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.
    This time, Mat actually was sick. Just bile—not even any water in his stomach—and it burned like lemon juice in an open wound as it came up and he fucking deserved it, Jesus, the poor guy was a mess, looked like Nikolai had taken a belt to him for hours and then kicked him when he’d gone down. The damage blurred, and Mat realized he’d begun to cry, silent and insidious but utterly unstoppable, and he could make out just enough of Roger’s expression— sympathy, the stupid fucker, he’s sorry for me !— to be glad for the obscuring scrim of tears.
    “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, and when Roger just put his shirt back on and shook his head and went to fetch a towel to clean up the mess Mat had made of the floor, the feeling got so much worse that it ripped a sob clean from his chest. “Tell me how to make it right, Roger. Please.”
    Roger turned to face him, a sad little smile in place as he sat back down and laid a hand on Mat’s knee, held his gaze. “You already know how to make it right, Mat. You’ve always known. All you have to do is make the choice. Stop hurling yourself against brick walls. Live.”
    Mat blinked at him, tears overspilling and dripping off his chin into his lap. He lifted one shaky hand and laid it atop Roger’s where it rested on his knee. He’d been selfish. He’d been a fucking moron. Worse, he’d been a quitter . He’d let Nikolai turn him into the one thing he’d never abided in his life. So Dougie hated him. Call the fucking waaaaambulance. He could still save Dougie. He could even save Roger. But first . . . first he had to save himself, and yes, he could sure as fuck do that too. He would do that too, pain be damned. Nikolai could knock him to the mat, but he couldn’t make him stay down.
    He nodded—mostly to himself, but partly to that hopeful, breathless question in Roger’s eyes—and felt a sudden, powerful urge to kiss Roger, just as strong as yesterday when he’d come down off that chair. But he knew better than to give in to it this time, settled instead for bringing his free hand up to Roger’s head, cupped the cheek he’d reddened and ran his thumb ever-so-gently under Roger’s eye. Roger didn’t flinch, held his gaze, and his smile softened beneath Mat’s hand. Mat’s breath caught at the mere reflection of Roger’s devotion for Nikolai in that gaze.
    Lucky bastard. Mat averted his eyes, cleared his throat. “I, uh, I’m hungry,” he said.
    Roger stood, Mat’s hand still grasped in his own, leaned in and kissed Mat on the cheek. “I’ll go fetch you a tray.”

    Dougie was still kneeling two hours later. His whole body was aching, but he couldn’t let himself break position. It had become something of a test for himself, as if each passing minute proved his dedication and loyalty.
    Which meant he was rewarded when the door finally opened and he was still holding strong.
    He beamed up, proud of himself and excited to see Nikolai—to show Nikolai how good he’d been, how obedient, how eager to please—but his face fell when someone else strode through the door. Jeremy, the cook, the one Nikolai had sent out of the room after their first foray in the woods.
    “Get up,” Jeremy said with an impatient little wave of his hand, like he couldn’t be bothered with Dougie’s earnestness. “The master’s busy today with Roger and isn’t to be disturbed, but he asked me to come collect you. I’ve got some lunch upstairs for you, and after that I’m to put you to work.”
    Dougie struggled to his deadened feet, using the edge of the bed to help himself up when he faltered. Even his legs had gone numb. But none of that was as bad as the strange tingling tightness in his chest where he’d been holding so fiercely onto thoughts of Nikolai all morning, where Nikolai’s absence buzzed and burned in a way he