[Paul curls his fingers supportively under the joint of Lazarus' elbow, his thumb falling along the vulnerable inner crease to stabilize it as he lifts the injured limb for inspection. The light isn't good, but it doesn't need to be for him to recognize the devastation of the wound. If not for the resiliency of Sleepers, Lazarus wouldn't have lasted even this long without help. It's a miracle that they found him before anything else did, so much helpless half-butchered meat in an abattoir.
He sets his numb left thumb under Lazarus' left eye, swiping at a crust of blood pooled in the shallow curve of his eyesocket.]
I believe you.
[There's no reason not to. The rest of the story tells itself, splashed over the journal that Paul isn't paying any mind to. He's known Lazarus had taken something since the night of the party, when his fingertips had sizzled with phantom sting. He'd known when he put out his message of amnesty, had it go unanswered, and still said nothing.
And look where it got you, he thinks, the edge of his nail scraping lightly at clotting rust on corpse pallor.]
We're here to help. [Soothingly, as if to a wounded, trapped animal.] It's going to be all right.
[Lazarus is diminished like this. The shame of witnessing this vulnerability evokes black sand, painted silver, and he wonders if the man watching over the result of yet another of Paul's attempts to be good remembers it too. He can't bear to make himself look. He wouldn't be able to tell if he did.
He runs his thumb back under Lazarus' eye, thoughtfulness in his own, their color vague in the dimness of this lasting night.]
no subject
He sets his numb left thumb under Lazarus' left eye, swiping at a crust of blood pooled in the shallow curve of his eyesocket.]
I believe you.
[There's no reason not to. The rest of the story tells itself, splashed over the journal that Paul isn't paying any mind to. He's known Lazarus had taken something since the night of the party, when his fingertips had sizzled with phantom sting. He'd known when he put out his message of amnesty, had it go unanswered, and still said nothing.
And look where it got you, he thinks, the edge of his nail scraping lightly at clotting rust on corpse pallor.]
We're here to help. [Soothingly, as if to a wounded, trapped animal.] It's going to be all right.
[Lazarus is diminished like this. The shame of witnessing this vulnerability evokes black sand, painted silver, and he wonders if the man watching over the result of yet another of Paul's attempts to be good remembers it too. He can't bear to make himself look. He wouldn't be able to tell if he did.
He runs his thumb back under Lazarus' eye, thoughtfulness in his own, their color vague in the dimness of this lasting night.]
Were you ever going to tell me?