Chapter Text
It’s like nails on a chalkboard to hear someone knocking at his door.
It’s almost laughably obnoxious that when he swings the door open (grumbling some indecipherable string of profanities), the face to greet him is Eden’s, annoyingly meek and nervous as always. Perhaps even more so, considering their previous… encounter. He’s somewhat surprised she’s gathered enough courage to speak with him again.
“Arturo, I’m so sorry to bother you so late—” The plastic surgeon pinches the bridge of his nose, interrupting her meaningless pleasantries with an exaggerated groan.
“Get on with it.” There’s pressure amounting behind his eyes already (as if it ever left). Eden is a very lucky woman to bother him on the rare occasion he’s lost track of time and is running behind schedule. She’s also very unlucky.
The ever-looming fear of knowing someone has intimate details of his life saddles him with a greater sense of shame and trepidation than he usually experiences. Having any flaw of his exposed, no matter how small (and this flaw is pretty damn significant), is comparable to driving a stake through his abdomen. In fact, Arturo would much prefer the latter—at least in that case, damage control is possible. So he’s not exactly in the mood to listen to her run in verbal circles of apologies and shake like a chihuahua before she can even think of getting to the point.
“Well, uhm, Ace is really hurt, and I was—”
“I don’t see how this pertains to me.” He interrupts again, dropping his hand down to cross his arms. Eden visibly falters, glancing at the door of the jockey’s room every other second.
Though he does feel a hint of curiosity. Injured how? Ace seems idiotic enough to have accidentally hurt himself in some inconceivable way, but the looming threat of murder causes some unpleasant thoughts to bubble up. Was there an attempted murder? If that were the case, surely they’d have already apprehended the attacker. But he can’t be too sure—the people here are quite incompetent.
As long as it won’t affect him, though, it’s not worth sparing a thought.
“I know you’re not a doctor, but please! I… I don’t want him to die, as difficult as he’s being—I don’t want anyone here to die!”
How annoying. He, a plastic surgeon, is forced to play doctor simply because the rest of this group can’t fathom that each medical field is vastly different from the others. Would they ask an anesthesiologist to treat cancer? His knowledge isn’t that of a first responder, and he is just as wildly inept as Eden. (No, that isn’t right… he’s at least got some sense in him. She would be useless in practically any emergency.)
However, his refusal would place some of Ace’s blood on his hands, and that simple notion is enough to open a vast pit in his stomach. Being responsible for the death of another, knowing your selfish actions caused a slow and painful death, one fueled by despondency and ending in isolation… not having even the smallest luxury of dying in company. Arturo feels nauseous.
It’s not worth disregarding that Arturo has the average moral compass, something that quite a number of this group lack. To kill someone is wrong, just as it is to idly stand by—complacency is a killer he knows well. So despite the irritability he feels and oncoming headache, he begrudgingly agrees, to Eden’s delight. She thanks him fervently and hovers in the hallway until Arturo shoos her off.
Now comes the difficult part. Ace Markey proves to be an impossible, irrational man. The surgeon can’t imagine herding him is much easier than holding a conversation—they’ve been in each other’s vicinity, of course, thanks to the inconsiderable freak that so rudely dragged them both down a rabbit hole of films they would’ve been better off not knowing of.
But they didn’t speak to each other. Arturo wastes no time conversing with the likes of Ace. Even if he felt it necessary, the distance that the jockey carves between himself and the rest of the world isn’t worth attempting to close. If such an insurmountable task were to be achieved, it certainly wouldn’t be by a man he met a week ago. Not that this bothers Arturo—he holds no interest in making acquaintances here, though his distance is rational and from a place of critical thinking. Ace, however, is the exact opposite, and everything the surgeon prays he’ll never be. Arturo can control himself. His bouts of impulsivity… it’s a natural response, no? As annoying as it is, he can’t help but be human.
But as a rational person, it’s gratingly difficult to try and guess how Ace will behave. Arturo can knock out a few ways of going about helping the man, such as approaching him in any capacity. That perpetual paranoia machine wouldn’t trust anyone to assist him, much less speak with him. So where does that leave Arturo?
Ace will have to come to him… y’know, actively seek out help.
It sounds impossible when it first crosses his mind. There’s no shot Ace would do that so willingly, especially with someone he doesn’t know. But, to Arturo’s boundless contempt, Veronika has been rubbing off on him, and he can’t help but take notice of details she points out about a person’s character. Though it wouldn’t take a genius to know that Ace is deathly afraid of just about anything. It would be awfully uncharacteristic to not include death, so…
The best solution Arturo can think of is to leave Ace to his own devices until it becomes imperative that he has to leave his room. It sounds a bit crass, but he doesn’t have a ton of options to choose from. With a sigh, the surgeon closes his door behind him and checks his pockets. Good, he has his scalpel. Just in case.
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It’s quiet for a while. No sound except for Arturo intermittently tapping his shoes against the tiled floor.
Perhaps he overestimated Ace. He isn’t sure if the jockey’s stubbornness trumps his crippling fear, or if he’s already long dead, or if he’s figured out how to keep himself upright (as if). Maybe he got intercepted and finished off, or assisted by some other poor SOB who was insistent enough.
All useless hypotheticals. Why waste time thinking about it? Surely there’s a more peaceful, private place his mind can wander off to.
…
The door opens. If the surgeon were not watching it directly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have noticed. It barely made a creak, only slightly ajar as Ace slipped through, eyes looking somewhere else. He slowly shut the door behind him and leaned his forehead against it, breathing out like he’d just completed the most grueling task in his life.
“Took you a while.” Arturo crosses his arms. It’s slightly amusing seeing Ace startle so heavily at his voice—such a big shit-talker, now skittish and… oh my.
His eyes fall on Ace’s neck. Even though it’s covered, Arturo can tell by the extensive blood stains on his shirt that the injury is serious. It’s not terribly bandaged for a dying man, though not even close to what Arturo would consider ‘good’.
“Wh—what the fuck, man? What’s your fucking problem??” Ace hesitates, inching closer to the door. “Were you... waiting for me? You wanna finish me off?! You think—”
“Be quiet.” Arturo interrupts and stands up, crossing the room. “Don’t you ever shut that mouth of yours? Shouting like that can’t be good for whatever god-awful injury you’ve stumbled into.”
Ace’s hand reaches for the doorknob, and Arturo grabs it in return, his other hand hovering over the jockey’s neck.
“Back off,” Ace practically growls with all the grace of a cornered animal. What a bother he is. Violent, abrasive, obnoxious, pathetically weak, and now a nuisance only Arturo will bother handling. He should be asleep right now, trying desperately to ignore the stupidity that surrounds him every grueling day he’s trapped here.
“You’re only going to make it worse.” His fingers slip beneath the bandages and trace over the thin lacerations caked with dried blood. Surprisingly, Ace freezes, only wincing as the surgeon moves his fingers. Perhaps he’s beginning to understand how childish he’s being. No… he’s probably just afraid. Odd, considering Arturo would’ve assumed the fear would make Ace fight harder. It could be the blood loss draining all of his energy… well, at least he’s not being so much of a bother. The reason doesn’t concern him. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“So, care to explain? Did you try hanging yourself with… a wire?”
“Well, Nico, that fucking bastard—”
“Yes or no.”
Ace doesn’t respond quickly enough, and Arturo takes it as a ‘yes’.
“I don’t want you speaking anymore. One word, and you’ll never enter this room again, and likely die from an infection. Perhaps you’ll shout yourself to death. I couldn’t care less.” Arturo retracts his hand from Ace’s neck as if it were on fire and pulls him over to sit on the hospital bed. He moves the nearby chair closer to sit opposite the jockey, his knees brushing against the other’s.
Arturo’s hands, with increasing disgust, return to Ace’s neck, carefully removing the blood-soaked bandages. It’s all too close, especially for a man who considers being in the same room as most people ‘too close’. And it’s… well, it’s just downright nasty. His skin was practically shred apart, a mangled mess of flesh barely hanging together. Arturo felt his stomach turning over. Something like this would be permanently etched into the jockey’s skin—and quite prominent, too. Perhaps, if they were anywhere else, he’d be able to fix this. But with their limited resources, it’s going to heal unnaturally.
He could feel Ace’s eyes burning holes into his head. He’s staring, of course he is. Arturo glances up at him and catches a glimpse of something that feels alien. Shame? Embarrassment? He’s certainly uncomfortable, Arturo is sure of that much. He can’t exactly blame Ace for that—they are strangers after all, and their environment has proven to be just as strange. Not to mention he’s just escaped what seems to be a murder plot. Nico, really? That doesn’t sound right.
Arturo focuses his attention back on Ace’s neck. He sees the jockey’s shoulders relax as they break eye contact.
Once the soiled bandages are off, they’re tossed aside. The waste bin is much too far, and his patient is too much of a flight risk for him to get up. Arturo finds the washcloth he’d placed on the nearby table—he’d scouted out everything he’d need in advance, not wanting to bother with fumbling around while working—and presses it softly against the lacerated skin, using his other hand to hold Ace’s chin up. The feeling of his mutilated skin squishing under his fingers, even through the cloth...
After only a few moments, Arturo recoils and turns his head away. The sound, the texture, the sight... he’s no stranger to the human body in all its disgusting, unrefined glory, but this... it’s just too much.
“T...that bad, huh..?” Ace speaks in a quiet voice.
Arturo shuts his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “Quit whining. Just… give me a minute.”
“No need to rub it in, asshole...” There’s a hint of humiliation in the jockey’s voice. He tries brushing Arturo off in an attempt to stand, but the grip on his chin tightens, keeping him in place.
“I said. Quit whining.” Arturo grits his teeth.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” He’s still talking. “If anything, my neck hurts a hell of a—”
Arturo slides his hand up from Ace’s chin to the side of his face, hooking his thumb between the jockey’s lips and pressing until he can feel his finger wedged between teeth. He sits up straight—even with the additional height of the hospital bed, the two are eye-level with each other—and glares at Ace.
“What did I say earlier? I have no issue with leaving you to finish my job yourself, or letting you die. Don’t push it.” He feels Ace swallow and takes the lack of hostility as confirmation of silence.
He certainly loves to kick up a fuss, but when it comes down to it, his self-preservation has the final say. He might have a mind more similar to a wild animal than a human. Arturo remembers his sister watching videos of people rescuing stray animals for hours. She loved that kind of thing—pure, selfless kindness. Animals can interpret intention, they just need an indication…
“You can stop with that expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re worried about what I think.” Ace furrows his eyebrows in response. He could probably bite Arturo’s thumb off, but his jaw doesn’t move other than to tremble. “Though you don’t seem to care much about how everyone else here seems to despise you. Enough to try to get rid of you.
…I’ve seen worse, in any case.” His voice softens, and he returns to his task of cleaning Ace’s wound. It’s a lie, of course—this is by far the most disgusting thing he’s ever had the displeasure of witnessing, and in any other situation, Arturo would have no issue telling the jockey exactly how he feels. But he can feel the tension in Ace’s jaw lessening, and a calmer patient means a quicker job. Sometimes lying is necessary.
He can always express his less-than-positive sentiments later.
Arturo removes his hand from Ace’s face and wipes his thumb on the jockey’s pants. A feeling courses through him—an upsetting sense of satisfaction at the stillness of the man before him. Arturo’s never seen him so silent, so unmoving, so…
It’s disgusting to think like this. He has to avoid eye contact to keep himself from gagging. All of a sudden, Ace’s neck doesn’t seem to be the most repulsive thing in the room.
If he noticed Arturo’s eyes lingering on the drool sliding down his chin, he didn’t say anything.
-
Arturo retrieves the waste bin from across the room and tosses a pile of bloodied tissues into it. He glances at the washcloth in his other hand and decides it’s far beyond salvaging, and it falls into the bin as well. As his attention returns to Ace’s neck, he feels the sudden urge to speak. His hands begin to unravel a fresh roll of bandages. He’s been longing to return to the comfort of his bed, and yet, his mouth opens. He’s been scolding Ace for speaking, and yet, he continues to engage in conversation.
“I can’t do much about the visual state of your neck.” Arturo leans back, thinking of how to best dress the mangled flesh. It’s not every day you come across a wound that wraps around the neck entirely. Likely, the best starting point would be opposite the carotid arteries, so as to not put too much pressure on them.
“It will scar, permanently. And I can’t imagine what sorts of problems this will cause for your arteries, or how it will limit your movement, and just how—” Arturo bites his tongue. Calmer patient, quicker job… but really, a wave of nausea hits him every time he thinks of how ugly this will look. Ace will carry this with him forever. A symbol of just how much he is disliked, permanently etched into his skin, on one of the most visible, vulnerable parts of the body.
Shame is nearly bearable when it’s shoved down deep internally. As long as no one else knows, Arturo can pretend it doesn’t exist. But with that… ‘secret’ distribution, the luxury of ignorance has been ripped away. Now Eden looks at him like a sad puppy, pawing at his leg with a desperation to understand what he’s done. A desperation to sympathize, to see the good in him. He feels powerless around her. It’s sickening, and it’s embarrassing, and it’s degrading.
So he can’t possibly imagine just how disgusted he’d feel with such a glaring, mortifying representation of isolation. Ace will never be able to forget. He’ll be reminded when he speaks, when he turns his head, when he looks in the mirror. It’s more than the appearance—it’s the origin. A constant reminder of weakness, carved into him by someone who despises him. If Ace isn’t lying, and Nico really did do this... That probably makes it sting much more.
“Well, I don’t need to explain it to you like a child, do I?” He pauses for a response as he begins to wrap the bandages around Ace’s neck, but gets nothing but silence. “All I’m saying is that you should avoid irritating the wounds to minimize long-term damage. Which will likely prove difficult…”
Arturo tilts Ace’s head a bit to the right. There’s an appalling noise, and the jockey flinches. Just the sound was enough to make Arturo’s vision spin… thankfully he’s already covered Ace’s neck enough to not have the displeasure of seeing whatever made that noise. He carefully tilts Ace’s head back to its original position.
“Doing that will reopen the wounds. So try keeping your altercations to a minimum.”
“So then why’d you do it?!”
“To make sure of my hypothesis, that’s all. Again, I am not a doctor. I can’t be sure of these things. With that accusatory tone, it’s no wonder someone tried shutting you up for once.” Arturo sighs loudly.
“You’re such an asshole. If you’re so tired of my ‘tone’, how about you just fucking leave? You’re acting like I’m some kind of fucking burden everyone else shoved onto you, and you have to be here!” Back to this again.
“You have a very skewed interpretation of other people.” Arturo finishes wrapping up Ace’s neck, pushes his stool back, and crosses his arms. “My personal opinions of your behavior don’t have any effect on my humanity. As much as I dislike you, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”
He pauses for a second. Well, Ace isn’t necessarily wrong to think so poorly of the other people here. One did just attempt to murder him, and there’s been quite the number of violent altercations. This could be attributed to the stress of their situation, but Arturo hasn’t—okay, he did have an outburst, just ONE, but he didn’t plan on hurting Eden. It was simply an intimidation tactic!
“I guess you do have a point, though.” It’s likely the first time Arturo has agreed with anything Ace has said. “I’m sure no one else would have agreed to deal with you, save for Eden. She was the one who begged me, after all. Consider me and her outliers.”
Ace gives him an odd look, like he didn’t quite believe him. “Really? She talked to you?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Ever the paranoid man, Arturo’s mind jumps to the extreme. There’s no way he knows. Eden wouldn’t tell him about it, and he certainly wouldn’t have been with Arei.
The jockey’s eyes go elsewhere. “It’s just, well—It's not like you make yourself approachable!”
Arturo crosses his arms, suddenly feeling the need to defend himself. “But that doesn’t seem to stop any of you from bothering me, does it?”
“Besides Veronika, who even talks to you? Half the shit I hear on the daily is how much of a creep you are!”
“Half of what I hear is how much of a nuisance you are.”
They stare at each other silently. Arturo frowns beneath his mask. Maybe he’s lonelier than Ace, but he’s definitely not as hated. And hey, at least he’s not getting assaulted.
“I’m done with you.” He taps his shoe against the ground. “Leave.”
Ace is quick to make his exit.