Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties

leading up to the ground floor were locked—Nikolai knew better than to trust him that far—and there wasn’t a single thing in the basement he wanted to see.
    Mat. Mat’s down here somewhere.
    Not a single thing.
    His new clothes were folded in a neat pile atop the dresser on the far wall, his sneakers beside them, cleaned of the dirt and leaves he’d tracked through this afternoon. Someone had done that for him and he didn’t even know who. He thought briefly of putting them on. Thought equally briefly of throwing them away. All they meant, all they represented . . . it was too much to trust him with right now. Left him feeling too much like his old self. Maybe he should tell Nikolai that. Ask for his help—ask him to take them away so he wouldn’t have to think about it again before he was ready.
    He stared at them for a long time. Until his eyes felt dry and he realized he’d forgotten to blink, even long after he’d stopped thinking of anything his conscious mind could access. Overload. Maybe even shock. Too much to wrap his head around. Too much to wrap his heart around. Best, then, just to put this whole day behind him. Sleep on it. Maybe he’d wake up with answers tomorrow.

    He didn’t, though. Woke, instead, to a tentative knock at his door, and blinked into the darkness, wondering who that could possibly be. Nikolai never knocked, didn’t need to knock; this was his room and his pet inside it. Couldn’t be Mat—Dougie disgusted him, and Nikolai wouldn’t let him wander free besides. Nobody else ever came to see him here.
    Another knock, just as soft as the last one. Dougie sat up in bed, groped for the light switch. Blinked against the too-bright flood of full-spectrum bulbs and mumbled, “Come in?”
    The door cracked, and a face peeked around its edge. Handsome. Open. Familiar. What was his name . . .?
    “Roger?” Dougie rubbed sore eyes, pulled the covers a little higher up his lap. It’d been forever since he’d thought to be shy, but it was hitting him now, powerful enough to heat his cheeks.
    Roger nodded, smiling a bit sheepishly. “Mind if I come in?”
    “Um.” Dougie made himself let go of the blankets, gestured a little awkwardly. Strange how quickly he’d forgotten how to talk to people. How to behave around them. “Sure?”
    Roger let himself in, closed the door behind him. He was dressed more casually than Dougie remembered him being the first time they’d met—a lot like how Nikolai had dressed Dougie yesterday, actually: washed-out jeans and a soft forest-green sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was balancing a tray in one hand. “Brought you breakfast.”
    “Um, thanks.” He tracked Roger with his eyes as the man sat on the edge of the bed, placed the tray between them, lifted the lid. Yogurt and granola and fresh fruit—perfect after yesterday’s overindulgence. His stomach grumbled. Was it okay to just dig in? Should he offer to share?
    “Go on,” Roger said, nudging it forward. Added, “I already ate, so don’t mind me.”
    Dougie took that for the permission it was and started mixing granola and strawberries into the yogurt. Took a bite. The sugar, or maybe just the pleasant tang of it, woke him up a little, cleared his head. He realized Roger was still sitting on the edge of the bed. Watching him with that soft, inviting smile on his face.
    Was still watching him when he’d scraped the last of the yogurt from the bowl. It wasn’t unnerving so much as just plain strange. If Roger wanted something, why wasn’t he saying something? Dougie put the bowl back on the tray a little harder than he’d intended and said, “What?”
    Roger made a sort of half-shrug, and his smile turned rueful. “The master thought you might find it helpful to talk with me.” When Dougie said nothing to that, he added, “Seeing as I’ve . . . you know. Been where you are.”
    He looked a little uncomfortable. Dougie hadn’t seen very much of Roger, but he’d never seen him even hint at unsteadiness. Did Dougie remind him of something he didn’t want to think about? Was he worried that he couldn’t give Dougie what he needed because he’d been faking it for the last twenty years or however long he’d been stuck here? Oh God, was he—
    Dougie flinched so hard from the hand landing on his knee that he almost knocked the tray off the bed. “Hey,” Roger said. “Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”
    Dougie