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"Mark," came the voice from beyond the veil. Over and over, that familiar cadence of annoyance and exasperation. It was muffled, dreamlike. Distant as if underwater, but the voice was one he could never forget, even in his dearly-won sleep and restless dreams.
It came again, "Mark." Smooth. Deep, feminine, but commanding in its lavender venom. His shoulders tensed. This one had more finality to it. It wasn't a request to wake up, but someone reaching the end of a thin rope of patience.
His name spoken that way. A pang through his gut, his chest. He held his breath.
Sometimes he would sleep facing the wall so they couldn't see his face contort in pain as they dragged him back from the edge of sleep, always hovering by the edge but never falling over. He would be still, trying to even out his breathing, willing his fluttering heart to rest, as if they could hear how it beat hard in his chest like a predator. As if he could pretend to sleep for long enough that they would take pity and leave him alone. He had to tell himself they couldn't see his heat signature.
Then, not Mark. Mr. Bryant. Byron. Patient… whatever the number was.
His trick never worked. They always shook him too hard. Sometimes they wouldn't try to wake him at all, just go ahead and stick the needle in his neck as if in punishment. Mark knew that it was.
Someone was shaking him. Cold hands on his sandpaper skin. Gloved in latex, like he was too dangerous to touch bare. The pressure of their grip on his weak muscles sent them screaming and he trashed. The room felt hot and muggy suddenly, and he became aware of a scratchy blanket bundled up to his ears. Sheets tangling up his legs. His hair stuck to his forehead. Around him against the blackness of his closed eyes he could see fluorescent lights and he could taste the ferocity of his heartbeat on his tongue.
The presence by his bed jumped back, stumbling. That was new; they never let up when he fought, only held some part of him down so they could push the sedative into him easier. Mark bit his cheek, bracing for the prick. The soft skin of his inner elbow was bruised black. It began to sing in anticipation.
When it didn't come, his eyes which he hadn't realized were screwed tight began to relax.
Damien was there, silhouetted against the setting sun in the open door frame. He was standing awkwardly, sort of hunched in as if in embarrassment, holding a plastic water bottle in his hand. "Uh, Mark?"
Sabre-edged was his voice. Clean cutting, absolute.
"What," Mark said, voice hoarse. It was hard to talk when he woke up usually. His throat got so dry these days he woke up throughout the night grasping around the nightstand for water. Damien says it's because he snores. Mark knows better, but doesn't want to relive the memories of screaming himself hoarse most nights of the week. Damien doesn't want to tell him that it still happens sometimes.
The bottle was suddenly in his hand, uncapped. His fingers felt like jelly but he gripped it as well as he could. The cold liquid hit his lips like a balm, smoothing out the shredded remains of his throat. He broke out in a cold sweat at the clash of humid summer air and chilled water but he took several gulps, water dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. A hand came up behind his head, not draped in latex after all, and lifted him up so he wouldn't choke.
He had chugged half of it by the time he put the bottle down. He hadn't noticed Damien's hand fluttering over his own in wait, as if he was expecting him to drop it.
Mark took a few deep breaths as his brain settled on the image around him. No fluorescent lights, no doctor clad in scrubs and a plastic mask as if he were a biohazard, needle at the ready. Just Damien sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, his eyes cast down and refusing to meet his gaze.
Scratchy sheets and comforter. Well, that hadn't changed. The air was muggy; it was late evening. Somehow that settled him, muffling the humming drum of his heart. He could see out the window at the dancing colors of the sunset, could tell the time with his own eyes, not from the word of a doctor or a clock on the wall that anyone could set to tell him anything they want. On the air he could smell cooking meat.
Damien scooted back on the bed as Mark sat up against the headboard, kicking the blankets off his lap. A faint breeze came in through the open door, sending a shiver of relief and pleasure through him; he remembered Damien saying something about the AC being out.
He wiped his mouth with his hand, both to dry up the water that had spilled and to stop himself from drooling. "Thanks."
"No problem," Damien said, awkwardly. He dug his tongue into the side of his cheek. He smelled like cigarettes. Well, moreso than usual. He had probably just come in from outside, a habit he had picked up after the dozens of angry looks Mark had given him when he would smoke in the room.
Something about that felt good. That just a pointed glance would send Damien out onto the motel balcony. It was never without an eye roll or a groan; he had to preserve some of his pride. But nonetheless, the smoke trail followed him out the door.
Sometimes he liked to bore his gaze into Damien. That moment of apprehension on his face, how sometimes he tried to stare back but always faltered. He liked how it made him squirm, and how fast he tried to cover it over, thinking Mark hadn't noticed. Those were the times when he could feel Damien pushing hard with his ability to make him think he hadn't seen it.
It never worked. Mark liked it too much.
They sat in silence, each chewing on the awkward energy. Then finally Mark said, "What's cookin', good lookin'?"
Damien looked at him with widened eyes. His brow was creased in confusion and shock. Some color came to his cheeks and Mark stifled a snort. "Someone's cooking something, can you smell it?"
"Uh. They're barbequing across the street," Damien said. His voice was flat, eyes still wide.
At the word, Mark's mouth began to water. He looked out at the door, craning his neck to see. There was some kind of event venue across the road and cars parked in the lot. He could hear music bumping and chattering voices on the lawn. Maybe a wedding or a birthday party. "Really? You think they'll let us party with 'em?"
Most of the food they had eaten since they left the AM was better than what he had been eating for the first couple years there, and anything was better than what had probably been IV-administered fluids and soft foods they force fed him after, but Mark was sick of drive throughs and diners and greasy Chinese takeout. His heart ached for a home-cooked meal.
The stew and roast his mom made for Sunday dinner every week for 15 years until they stopped going to church. It was the best part about Sundays. Mark could taste his own sweat and sunkissed skin when he and Joanie would run in from the yard, freckled from playing in the late afternoon sun, and race each other to wash up before dinner. Even as he complained that morning while his dad fixed his tie, dreading the hour of service that seemed to drag on into an eternity, he could smile a bit to think of dinner. A pang of something that wasn't allowed to be sadness pierced his gut.
Damien's voice jutted into his memory. A bit more confident but still on edge. "Well, no, but I got you some."
Mark looked back up. His head cocked a little, almost against his will. He had always been too animated when he talked. "What? What's over there?"
"Some party. Birthday or something, I dunno," Damien said. "Family shit. Bunch of kids." He got up and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, then walked over to the microwave on the counter which also doubled as a TV stand. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.
There was a reality show playing behind the static screen. He opened the microwave door, and procured a plate of gold.
Ribs and brisket, potato salad, collard greens, coleslaw, a piece of cobbed corn. There was another plate on the counter with a similar countenance, save for the corn. Some of it had already been nibbled on but was mostly untouched, like he was waiting.
Mark couldn't help the smile that crept up his face. He laughed. "They just let you have it?!"
Of course they hadn't. Damien smiled too. If you can call it that: it was more a lightening of his features. Some weight that was always there fell away. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, showing his teeth. "Well, yeah. They had a lot. I just joined the party."
His stomach dropped a little. Not fully, the way it did when he realized Damien was using his ability on him; as much as he insisted he couldn't control it, there were times he could feel him pushing harder on it, focusing on permeating his mind like smoke, like pricking fingers, pulling apart the wrinkles on his brain. He thought about the people across the street, if they even noticed the stranger waltz in and start piling up his plate. If Damien even allowed them to notice, to care.
But how long had it been since he'd had a real barbeque. The 4th of July dinner they did at the cafeteria in the AM was a laughable, 3D printed mockery of boxed Mac and Cheese and reheated frozen meats. They didn't even have cornbread.
How long would it be again? The partiers probably wouldn't miss a couple plates.
"You just walked in? What did the parents have to say?"
Damien shrugged one shoulder. He was digging into a piece of rib. "Nothing to say at all."
Mark tilted his head onto his fist in a fake judgemental glare. He could at least try to look scolding. But the allure of the dripping meat and vegetables dispelled the guilt from his body and drew his eyes to the plate. That, and the look of smug satisfaction on Damien's face.
It made him so deeply, soul-crushingly angry to see that look most of the time. When his mind would crumble under the effortless pressure of Damien's ability and all he could do was pound his fists on the inside of his own head as his mouth spilled out endless undying memories as if on a recording that Damien could press play on whenever he wanted. And all the while Damien looked on, trying to hide his pleasure but failing.
It took everything in him, and probably a little of Damien too, not to leap across the room and punch him right in the face most of the time.
Mark could tell he liked it.
He brought him the plate.
As they ate and watched the vague outline of two women fighting on the TV, Mark cleaned off his hands with the napkin Damien instinctively handed over. He only just noticed Damien was still sitting next to him on the bed, never having retreated to the other corner of the room like he usually did.
He looked toward the door, nose sniffing out what was missing from the meal. "Did they have any cornbread?"
Damien's gaze caught his own from the corner of his eye as he swallowed down the food in his mouth, saying, "Um, yeah, I just forgot to grab some."
Mark's expression darkened. Damien coiled inward.
"Do you… like cornbread?"
Mark drew his face closer to Damien's as if it were a camera zooming in.
"I. Love. Cornbread."
Damien stared at him, stricken. Like a deer cornered, its leg caught in a trap. His pupils dilated. Mark's breath was on his face. He swallowed, then looked toward the door, wearing an expression like Mark had never seen before. Bewildered, even scared, but entranced.
Like no one had ever looked at him the way Mark was now. He probably never let them.
He jerked suddenly away, letting his plate clamor onto the bed. He swung his legs over the other side and slipped into his shoes. "I can go get some."
Mark hadn't even had to ask. He didn't let the imaginary grip falter. "You do that."
He pretended not to notice his skin bristle at how fast Damien wrenched open the door and made off across the street. Then, a few minutes later, he pretended not to enjoy the sight of Damien coming back with the whole damn pan.