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It was a simple pocket watch, made out of silver and gold, molded together and polished with great care. The numbers were written in calligraphy, giving the item a dignified flare. Machiavelli brushed his thumb over the inscription at the back, sighing as he leaned against the uncomfortable pillows of a hospital couch.
Three hours. He had been waiting for three lonesome hours in this sterile, colorless room, only ever seeing a couple of nurses walking past him without much of a glance. Time had stopped, he was convinced about that.
That blasted bike. He had opposed the idea immediately when it was first brought up, but it did nothing to stop or even slow down Billy who was already certain that he could drive a motorcycle despite the fact that he had only operated four-wheeled vehicles thus far. Machiavelli had tried to talk him out of it, but before the end of the month, the damn thing was standing outside their household, ready for a test drive.
That test drive ended up being its last. The bike was now towed to the nearest workshop, and the driver was tied to the hospital bed while his lover sat alone in the lobby, waiting for a news from the medics. Frustrated, Machiavelli stood up and started to pace around the room once again. The clock was securely placed inside his jacket’s pocket.
What was Billy thinking, taking off to the highway during his first drive? The man was too confident for his own good, believing nothing so ordinary as a crash could ever happen to him. But here they were, a mere hours after his leave from the house.
He should have gone with him. Billy had asked, handing him a spare helmet, but he had said no. He was not a fan of the motor vehicles in the first place, and an idea of holding onto a romping bike did not appeal to him the slightest. But now, as he stared at the plain wall in front of him, he wondered if this could have been avoided had he agreed to ride along. Or would there had been one more bed occupied after that?
From behind him, a gentle female voice woke him from his thoughts.
“Mister Acerbi? Could you please follow me, we have stabilized your partner and are now about to take him into the recovery room. You may see him now.”
The name was an alias they had written down into Billy’s medical and financial papers for in case of an emergency. His real surname could (and had) raised unwanted questions from the public in the past, so they’d agreed to use his false name when it comes to an official matters. Billy, however, had decided to keep his own birthname since his nickname had overwritten his true identity a long time ago.
Straightening up his crumpled suit, he turner around and saw a young nurse standing beside him, a small comforting smile on her face. “Yes, I would be delighted to.”
He followed her through a maze of corridors and doors before they stopped in front of a open one with light coming from the room it lead. The nurse gestured him to go in as she continued her tour, writing down a mark in what he assumed was a form of Billy’s personal information. Pleased to be left alone, Machiavelli steeled himself and took a step forward. As he pushed his way past the doorframe, he saw Billy’s lean form lying on top of a narrow bed. He was hooked up in a monstrous machine, the mechanism filling the air with a silent humming which broke time to time to make room for a shrilling beeps. The younger man’s eyes were open, but the look in them was empty and confused as he watched Machiavelli approach the bed.
There was a stool beside the cot, and Machiavelli’s lips pursed up. How was it even possible for an institute which charged their “customers” thousands of dollars per stay to still manage to purchase the most torturing furnitures ever released to the markets? But he didn’t really have a choice, and with a huff he lowered himself into the chair, grimacing as he went.
“Next time when I tell you to think before you do, listen. We’ve had enough excitement in our lives as it is, and both of us have spent quite satisfying time in the hospital. I would appreciate if you could reduce this pastime in the future.”
He was about to grab other man’s hand but was stopped by the frightened look on Billy’s face.
“Who are you? Why am I in a hospital?” the cowboy said, glancing around the room with frantic eyes. “And why the hell is my arm in a cast?”
Machiavelli frowned, leaning closer to his lover’s bed. “You were in a crash, Billy, with that new dangerous toy of yours, which by the way is now in two pieces in a nearby repair shop. You had a broken ulna so they operated your arm.” His concerns were multiplied when Billy’s face stayed indifferent. “You do remember the accident, correct?”
The other shook his head, his hands beginning to tremble where they were fisted into the sheets. “I can’t remember that at all! And why are you telling me this? Who the fuck are you?”
Something fragile and delicate shattered inside Machiavelli’s chest as he raised his hand to wipe away the tears before Billy could notice. “Oh, we are... old acquaintances. Perhaps even more than that.” He tried to smile, squeezing his eyes shut. “But we can talk about that later. You should get some rest for now, I’ll come back when the morning comes. I’m sure you will feel better by then.” The elaborate clock from his pocket was placed on top of the nightstand by a shaking hand.
With that, Machiavelli got up from the stool and walked swiftly to the exit, resisting the urge to take a look over his shoulder to see if Billy’s expression had changed. He knew it hadn't, not this fast. He would talk to the doctors and inform them about the new situation, and then he would go home.
It was going to be a long, lonely night.