bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter sixteen, part one. ?

"Yes," Case replied flatly, even for the spots he'd lost sensation.

Sir prodded the wound. Just like Case's tongue, his finger slid through the split skin. Fingernail scratching against gums. Rubber taste.

"When did you stop bleeding?"

"Dunno."

"Did you swallow any blood?"

Case shrugged. Obviously.

"Is that a yes or no?" Sir asked, his impassivity offset by impatience.

"I guess, yeah."

"How much?"

"Does it matter?"

Sir stared him down, eyes darkening like storm clouds. After a beat, he huffed and started busying himself with the first aid kit. "Blood curdles in stomach acid. In small doses, ingesting blood can irritate the stomach and cause vomiting. In large doses, death." He looked up at Case, challenging, silently demanding an answer.

Case looked down, mumbling, "A little."

"Right," Sir replied, more to himself than to Case. A worn-out, fed up undertone. He held up a syringe. "You'll feel a slight pinch."

Five pinches. Each one a lingering discomfort, even after the syringe had left his skin. The nerves around his mouth went off like popping candy. Is he euthanizing me? Case wondered as the anesthetic slowly bloomed into effect. Numbness, nothingness.

Sir lifted a needle and black thread. Probably the same thread he'd used to stitch the gash on his forehead when Case had smashed a toilet lid over his head.

"Try to hold still."

"What are you, a doctor or something?" The words came out of his mouth before they'd even formed in his brain.

"Or something," Sir replied, his tone giving nothing away. A moment of silence as he threaded the first suture through Case's lip. But then, his aura seemed to ease, relenting. "A surgeon."

Case narrowed his focus on Sir's face, searching for some hint of a lie or trick. Instead, hiding beneath the surface, he found sincerity. And he laughed. Childish, uncontrollable tittering.

Sir frowned, letting the thread drop against Case's open smile.

His giggling fit tapered out into an easy sigh. "Sir the surgeon. That's funny."

Sir remained poker-faced. A quick flick of the eyes followed by a mildly humored sniff. He picked up the abandoned needle and thread, resuming his work. "Don't move."

Case inhaled through his nose, not wanting to disturb the thread. Sir's scent bloomed in his head: earthy smoke, the chemical burn of alcohol, undefinable base notes that were warm and comforting. Suddenly, Case was uncomfortably aware of the sour taste of blood in his mouth. Instinct told him to tighten his lips, but he couldn't while Sir was stitching him back together. So instead he held his breath, his lungs taut with nerves.

Sir's face, so close to his. Close and steady enough for Case to memorize his features: the flecks of gray in his stubble; the sharp point of his upper lip; the bulbous nose-tip narrowing into slender cartilage; the fine lines by his sea-green eyes.

Sir stared into him. Case stared into Sir. A deep, unsettling sense of opia washed over him—intense and invasive, ambiguously arousing.

"You really think I'm charismatic?"

"And good looking."

He looked down, breaking the spell. I'm not gay, he told himself, heartbeat, erratic and asphyxiating. It occurred to him he was shirtless, half-naked and exposed. Now he was insecure about the rolls of skin on his midsection. Hyper-aware of his nipples, tiny sandy-pink buds, hard from cold and fear. He ran his hands up his arms, smoothing down raised hairs. He focused on the resumed tug-and-pull of needle and string through his anesthetized skin. A snip as scissors cut the thread, signaling Sir was done.

Finally, Case allowed himself to exhale, a dizzying rush. He ran his fingers over his lip. Smooth skin, coarse stitches.

"Don't touch that," Sir said, packing away his tools.

Case whipped his hand down. He pulled his knees up to his chest, fingers locking around his shins. "So . . . what now?" His speech was slurred, drool pooling under his tongue. Fearing the answer, he asked anyway, "Are you going to kill me?"