#nicolai

“You’ve had worse. On the table, for example.” They had the foresight to grip his wrist hard before he flinched again. 

“Forgive me for never wanting to remember that.”

“Well, I don’t plan on letting you forget.”

He did remember. Every night. Payge was a side sleeper now. 

The second day, Nicolai changed his bandages.

“Sure you don’t want to look? You could have supervised access to a mirror.”

“I’m sure.” 

“Well, then.” 

They turned on the tap, slowly adjusting the temperature before filling a bowl. A rag was dipped in, wrung out, and pressed over the bandages to moisten them before unwrapping.

“Aren’t you grateful I’m not ripping this off with the scabs, dove?”

“...I am. Thank you,” Payge whispered.

The dressings only tugged mildly at a few stubborn parts. Probably where they cut deeper, he thought, and just as quickly shoved the idea away. A separate rag pressed against his bare skin, starting at the edge of the wound. 

He caught a glimpse of it at some point: stained various shades of brown, red, and something on the yellow spectrum.

“It’s not infected, is it?” An infected wound of that size… it spelled a death sentence without medical intervention.

“No, no. Just severe.” 

Each fiber of the cloth was tangible as it pressed him into the back of the chair, scratching whenever Nicolai adjusted it.

“It’s looking lovely so far. Red suits you.”

“My mom always said it clashed.” She had, really. Always said he looked better in neutrals. Burgundy or merlot, orange blossom or cream. Not red.

“Nonsense. Nothing could clash with you, dove.” 

“Sweet-talking me gets you nowhere.”

“I quite enjoy it, actually. Sweet-talking you is a favorite pastime of mine.” The rag drifted over his collarbones, tracing them absentmindedly, before it returned to the bowl to soak. After they were done, Nicolai would disappear upstairs and bleach them, rinse, and fold them up like new for next time. They’d made him help before.

A brown bottle emerged from the cabinet and tipped onto a third cloth.

“Oy, you told me peroxide only makes scars worse.” Payge held up a hand and pointed at the offender, as if it could be anything else.

“Yes. Put that hand down.”

“Did you forget? You try to minimize a lot of those.” A glare told him he was pushing his luck.

“You’d be a fool to think I worked so long and hard on nothing. I wouldn’t do that to you without reason.” 

He held his tongue on the truths that itched to spew forth, too aware of his current position. 

He’d felt the burn of that the rest of the day, especially when Nicolai refused to rinse it with water. Even the unharmed skin around seemed inflamed.

And this morning Payge was still wearing the shirt they’d dressed him in. Breathable, flexible fabric that zipped up to his neck in the back, still tight enough to compress his torso. He could reach it if he tried, but it would be a chore. The point of the barrier, of course.

He was stuck in bed until they came down and unlocked the cuffs. But it wasn’t all bad.

The windowless room could only be lit by the switch next to the door. At all other times, a projection shone on the popcorn ceiling. A window into a fishtank, towers of kelp swaying as different species swam by. A simple night light in the nearest outlet created the illusion, shooting light out when it didn’t detect another source.

It was strangely comforting.