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Pain. Sharpness. A spark - fear, terror. Blood. An urge - stab, cut, pierce, puncture, rend - so much blood flowing within, set it free. Running, sprinting, frantic breathing, ice cold air stinging his throat, chilling him from the inside out, drawing water out of his eyes, aching feet slamming against the road with all their worth. A panic whose source was unnameable, and thus its depth was infinite. He felt - pain, throbbing pain, empty eye sockets - warmth of fresh blood on his hands, the wetness of his sleeves, flashes of memory - the sharp clack of the knife against the breastbone, the long slow slice, the pouring forth of blood and - blood and - blood -
Mod felt tender flesh under his curling fingers as he awoke, and quickly thrust himself away from it in horror. He took in the sight of Neil lying beside him, and for one brief moment he thought he had -
But no. Before the panic could overtake him, he remembered where he was, what had happened the previous day, why he was here, and he knew the violent act in his mind was only part of a dream. It was a memory, too, but at least not one from the last few minutes.
Body still thrumming with residual fear, Mod took deep, quiet breaths, and blinked in the darkness. He felt his hands - cold. Dry. Safe. They had an unfamiliar cleanness, too; the grime was gone from the grooves of his knuckles, dead dry skin on his palms rubbed away and made smooth, his nails trim and round and filed down. Even the puncture wounds where his finger blades had been were wrapped up in a soft bandage.
The evening’s events in the bathtub came flowing back to him; the soft, gentle manner in which Neil had rubbed the rag along his skin, the tenderness and familiarity of his voice as he asked permission to remove his bandages and clean his wounds, the softness of his hands holding his, overwhelming love and care implicit in every touch.
The dream’s suggestion that he had done something to Neil - the possibility of it - the very real, very serious possibility -
Mod turned over in bed so he was facing away from Neil at the far edge of the mattress. He tucked his too-clean hands against his chest and curled up, feeling hot, sticky tears pushing their way painfully out of his eye. It was all too real. He was drowning in the thought of it.
The most haunting thing was how he knew it was inevitable. He couldn’t foresee any other outcome to this situation; Neil had taken him in, washed him, fed him, dressed his wounds, and Mod knew he’d continue to do everything in his power to protect him and make him happy, so of course Mod would gut him in the end. Even now he was feeling naked for not having a knife within reach. He was a monster. He was feral, a beast, an irredeemable killer - an unsalvageable wreck - he had absolutely no business being in the bed of someone so - of someone so - so -
“I’m going to rinse your hair now, ok?”
“Is the water too cold?”
“It’s ok, it’s ok, shh, I know it hurts, I’m sorry, it’ll be done soon,”
- someone like Neil.
Mod’s throat closed up, his face was too hot, and he grimaced at the tears tickling his nose. His chest ached. He couldn’t breathe. He could see it so clearly - Neil’s broken, mangled body split open and gushing, lying spread-eagled on the ground of some shadowy back alley, that accursed thing hovering over him -
“Mod?”
He stopped cold. He’d been sniffling, trembling - maybe sobbing - and apparently it had woken Neil up. This was unfortunate.
He heard the sheets slide as Neil shifted closer, and Mod’s shoulders tensed in response. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Neil murmured, and the heavy static crackle over his voice indicated that it had booted up in a rush. He tried to clear his throat softly, to no effect. Mod’s heart felt like it was being pulled apart.
Mod felt a cold hand touch his shoulder gently. He let a tight breath out - he could feel how tense his shoulder was against it. Neil traced his hand down along Mod’s back, rubbing in a small circle around his shoulder blades. It had a naturally relaxing effect - but as soon as he relaxed, it let the sobs he was holding in come free, in spite of his valiant attempts to stifle them.
“Shh. It’s alright,” Neil whispered behind him. “Go ahead and let it out. I’m here.”
With that, Mod couldn’t hold on anymore. He slowly let himself relax into Neil’s gentle touch, shaky breaths and tears falling freely. He didn’t deserve this. He never did. Spikes of hate prickled through his core, but the cool feeling of Neil’s hand and one soft “shh” made them dissipate in seconds. It felt so good, he just didn’t have the strength to deny it. He was weak, pathetic, undeserving - he knew Neil would die by staying with him, and he was going to let it happen. Selfish.
He heaved another sob, and received another comforting “shh.” They continued like this, and after some time, slowly, the despair drained out of him. By the time he had been fully soothed into a state of quiet calm, it seemed that Neil too had lulled himself back to sleep with his own repetitive motions. With the weight of Neil’s large hand still resting on his shoulder, it was easy enough for Mod to follow suit.