Loyalties (4 page)

Mat rose hesitantly from sleep, woozy and still tired. The overhead lights were on—why hadn’t he turned those off before he’d gone to bed? He blinked against them, wondering what time it was, how long he’d slept, if anyone would care if he went back to sleep, why his face felt so sticky and his eyes so sore. Like he’d been crying. Like—

Roger. Suicide attempt. Kissing him. Sobbing like a baby in his arms.

The memories came back slower than they should’ve, shamed him less than he thought they would. His stomach cramped and rumbled incessantly. He ignored it like he had for the past God-knew-how-long. Closed his eyes again. Thought of Roger’s arms around him, Roger’s kind words and understanding, his gentleness and generosity. Of what might’ve—no,
would’ve
—happened yesterday if Roger hadn’t shown up when he had.

No surprise, then, that he wished Roger were here now. Practically
burned
with it, in fact. It wasn’t healthy, couldn’t be. But it was all he had.

He sighed, rolled from his right side to his left. The effort wore him right out. How that would’ve scared him before Baseball Bat Guy—the weakness, the helplessness, the way his body was shutting down. Now it was almost . . . reassuring. Meant it wouldn’t be long now until the final bell, even if he couldn’t bring himself to commit a decisive act to end things.

In the meanwhile, he’d take his punches and wait.

His thoughts drifted for a while, his mind as dull and untethered as his body felt. He might’ve slept. Or maybe he just passed the hours staring at the far wall. Didn’t matter. Only mattered that nothing hurt when he drifted like that, that no stray unpleasant thoughts wafted through his skull. No thoughts at all, really. He liked it that way. Easier that way. Barely even felt the stomach cramps.

At some point, his door opened, and someone shuffled inside. He didn’t move. Didn’t turn his head to look. Couldn’t really even be roused to care. Nikolai, probably, come at last to force him out of bed, to force him to eat, to fight. Or to fuck him, or to punish him for lazing. Whatever, let him try. Hard to hurt a dead man, after all.

But what if it’s Roger?

No. Roger would’ve said something. Roger
always
said something.
Good morning
or
Hello
or even
Do you mind if I come in?
Roger treated him like a human being. Roger wouldn’t be inviting himself onto Mat’s bed like his current visitor was doing. So Nikolai after all, then. Or maybe a guard. No difference—they all wanted the same thing. They could have it. Mat was too weak to fight even if he’d wanted to.

He rolled over onto his stomach, then hefted himself up onto wobbly elbows and knees. If Nikolai or whoever wanted to fuck him, they could pull his blanket the rest of the way off themselves.

But nothing happened. The person sitting on the bed just sighed.

“This has to stop.”

Roger.

“I wish it would,” Mat replied, bitterly, then felt bad for using such a cruel tone with Roger, who didn’t deserve it.

“
You
have the power to stop it, Mat.”

“Don’t fucking say that to me—” And then his voice cracked, trembled on the edge of tears, and he managed to gasp out, “Not you too.”

He realized how much it suddenly hurt to see Roger siding with Nikolai, even though Roger always
had
. Right from the first moment he’d been Nikolai’s man, but he’d been the only kind person in Mat’s life here and God, Mat wanted more from him, wanted him to be more and do more. He knew it wasn’t fair to Roger, but fuck-all was fair down here, so why should
he
have to be?

A tentative hand cupped his shoulder, and it was the sheer gentleness of the touch that finally made his own arms give out. He flopped back to his stomach, squeezed his eyes closed. Roger’s hand followed him down, rubbed between his shoulder blades. “I meant you’re the only one who can stop blaming yourself for what’s happening here. To you. To Douglas. I know you can’t . . . you can’t
transform
like Douglas is, that the master can’t let that happen. But you can’t fight this, either, not really. So either you choose to keep hurling yourself against a brick wall, or you choose to save your strength for when it matters. And that too is a choice only you can make.”

Mat scoffed, jerked his shoulder until Roger stopped touching him. The only thing that made him madder than hearing this shit from Roger’s mouth was the fact that Roger was
right
.

Which was why he was lying here waiting to die. Because
nothing
mattered anymore. Nothing ever would again. So what was there to save his strength for?

Winning
.

God, how long ago had it been that he’d written that stupid fucking list? And everything Nikolai had predicted had come to pass. Was the list any less true now than then?

Get out of here. Burn this place down.
Save Dougie and himself.

“Nikolai told me once that you wanted to help people.”

But Dougie hated him now.

I can still save him.

“Can’t even help myself,” he growled into his pillow.

Roger, the persistent bastard, laid a hand back on Mat’s shoulder. He wanted to shrug away again, but he didn’t have the energy for it. Which was fine, he supposed—it gave truth to his words, truth Roger would have to listen to.

“Of course you can. You’ve just chosen not to.”

Strength returned in a rush of righteous fury—
How fucking
dare
he!
—and Mat lurched up and spun around, fist following the momentum in a hard right hook that smashed into Roger’s cheek and sent the fucker tumbling clear off the bed. Mat started after him, feeling pretty fucking proud of himself for managing such a clean blind strike just by following the sound of Roger’s voice—
starved half to death and you still got it, baby
—but as Mat rolled (okay, sort of fell, more like) off the edge of the bed, he caught his first good look at Roger’s face. Or rather, the bits he could see of it around the hands pressed to Roger’s cheek. Like the fresh black eye that could under no circumstance have formed in the last five seconds. Or the barely healed split lower lip. Or the defensive bruising and welts on Roger’s bare forearms.

And he knew in an instant, with a certainty that made his very empty stomach try to turn itself inside out, that somehow this was all his fault.

“Oh God . . .”

“That bad?” Roger asked, and then he fucking
laughed
.

“N-Nikolai?” Mat managed to get out, so furious, so confused, so terrified, so fucking empty and plain old
sad
he couldn’t form a sentence.

Roger shrugged and picked himself up the floor, helping Mat up in turn. “He’s my master. Our master. He told me to nurse you back to health, and I let him down. Did you think you were the only one who had to face consequences?”

Why wasn’t Roger upset?

No, Mat knew the answer to that. The guy was a fucking mess. Could Mat really hold him responsible for that fact? Nikolai had half broken Mat, probably
destroyed
Dougie by now—with Mat’s cooperation, Jesus—and they’d only been here . . . well, Mat didn’t know how long. Roger had been here for
years
. He was fucking helpless, and here Mat was making his life hell and then punching him in the face for his trouble. “I’m a selfish asshole, aren’t I?”

Roger rubbed at the redness just above his jaw, but Mat didn’t think he intended to chastise with the gesture. “A little, yes. But that’s normal, on the outside. I was too, before I came here.” Not angry at Nikolai for hurting him, not mad at Mat for causing that hurt. The guy was a saint. A stupid saint. The human equivalent of a kicked dog that kept getting abused and abused and just loved you more for it, worked harder to make you love it even half as much in return.

And Mat had the man’s welfare in his hands, and he’d completely fucked it up. His stomach tried to crawl up his throat again. First Dougie, now Roger . . . God, was there anyone he
hadn’t
hurt? Maybe Roger’s injuries weren’t so bad. He had to know; maybe he could find a way to live with himself if they weren’t so bad. Find a way to redeem himself. Maybe . . . “Let 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 wasn’t sure how to explain but knew
mattered
somehow. It was a good pain, though—it had to be. It meant he was . . . how had Nikolai put it? Transforming? Yes. It meant he was
transforming
.

Finally.

“Oh, I almost forgot. He said to plug yourself for him. He said you’d know what to do. I have stuff to do upstairs, so just come up when you’re done. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’d
suggest
you don’t get lost on the way there.”