#subject.

joseph's still halfway hunched over, elbow on the armrest of the bench, his other hand braced against his knee. the coughing's subsided for now, but he knows when he draws his hand away from his mouth the familiar deep red of blood will be covering his unusually-bare palm. he can feel it. however this little test started is nothing but a vague blur to him now, his awareness crashing into the present.

his eyes are squeezed shut, the fingers of his other hand curled into his knee with a white-knuckled grip. the usual sorrowful weight is there — but so is anger. he hasn't felt this much unbridled fury in what has to be years. his eyes sting.

he feels a faint pressure on the back of his left hand, too deliberate to be an accident but too light to be anything other than a hesitant brush of fingers. his grip on his knee relaxes, hand shifting slightly left as though to follow that light touch.

he misses affection. he misses touch. he misses feeling human.

joseph's silent for a moment more, and then: "sorry." his voice is little more than whisper, just loud enough to be heard despite being muffled into his blood-covered palm.

stefano's not wrong.

joseph doesn't think he deserves this. he's almost always certain he doesn't, that truth faltering only in the worst of moments. he's a casualty of other peoples' actions, not a consequence of his own. and that's what he gets.

it's what stefano gets too, although the specifics of his situation remain concealed from joseph.

he coughs — a remnant of a too-recent episode — and a hint of a sardonic grin tugs at the corners of his lips. "where do you think you'd be? if you got what you deserved." he's not sure where he'd be, himself. still a detective, if he had to guess. still alone in that apartment. still ———

That does sound lovely... My dearest subject showed me how to plant wheat and pumpkins today, I built a little raised bed with water in the centre. He says we can make pumpkin pies. Now isn't that lovely?