the commanding tone she uses when she tells him to sit is such a stark contrast from the sweet, slightly nervous manner from before that it almost draws a smile out of him. sometimes he forgets that he is not the only person with bits and pieces of himself hidden away, that even the most unassuming person can be kaleidoscopic, constantly shifting with the light. he doesn’t mean to be self-centred –– it’s a lingering remnant of the nine-year-old boy with his parents’ blood on his hands who felt like the entire world had turned its back on him. no one had cared about him, and until anthony came along he’d had to learn to put himself first. he tries to remember that pain is not a competition, that just because someone has it better doesn’t mean that they have it good, but it’s hard not to feel bitter whenever his peers complained about the most mundane of problems.
anthony had sat him down when he’d voiced his anger – sarah from fourth period english had declared that her life was ruined because her parents had gotten her a range rover instead of the sleek mercedes convertible she’d wanted – and asked, ‘ can any of your schoolmates tell that you’ve had a rough childhood ? no, but just because they don’t know doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. ’ childishly, mateo had muttered that sarah-from-fourth-period-english was still a spoilt brat, and anthony had laughed and agreed, but the point had been made. he watches mariella leave and thinks of his foster father, wonders what her story is. he had let the monster he keeps buried within too close to the surface earlier, and now that it’s locked away, the ugly desire to scare her earlier has faded and he feels something like shame snake its way into the empty spaces left behind.
she’s been nothing but kind to him, and maybe that’s why he’s acting out, because anger is easier to deal with than fear, although he’s yet to figure out just want it is about the petite woman that scares him so. apologies have never come easy to him; sorry is a worthless platitude when there is little he does that he ever regrets enough to want to take back, but there has always been more honesty in his actions than his words anyway. and so he does what he’s told, shuffling into the chair and waiting for her return. it’s only when he clasps his hands over his lap that he realises his fingers are stained red; he thinks maybe it’s a sign. he doesn’t know what had possessed him to reach for her earlier, but the blood on his hands is a reminder of different they are. her touch heals, while these bloodstained hands belong to a killer. he’d be more amused by the cosmic irony of it all if he hadn’t already gotten used to the universe constantly fucking him over.
he digs out a packet of wet wipes from his pack and uses a single sheet to clean his hands. it’s not the most efficient, but it’s his best option now that showers have become a thing of the past. he knows that many people are impatient for the snow to thaw, but mateo’s always been a fan of the cold, and he’s fairly certain the stench of the undead will only get worse with the summer heat. of course, there’s always the chance that he won’t live long enough to have to worry about that, but between the handful of people he cares too much about to leave behind and sheer stubbornness, he’s fairly certain he’s not going to die anytime soon. it would be easier if he were dead, but his continued survival is his biggest fuck you to a world that has never been kind to him, and mateo’s never denied being petty.
he feels a little more normal again when she returns, thanking her quietly before picking up the pills and washing it down with a mouthful of water. he’s glad that he’s already swallowed when she holds out a familiar grey shirt. most of the clothes he wears now are not his, scavenged from the closets of dead people, but the shirt in her hands is. he hadn’t really thought much of it when he’d given it to her before – her clothes were dirty and she had no supplies; some might call it kindness but mateo thinks that would be too much credit just for giving away something he could do without – but it feels significant now. he tries not to imagine her in his shirt, and wonders if it would be rude to refuse. ‘ keep it, ’ the words leave his lips without permission, and he winces internally at the clipped tone. reaching out, he curls a hand around hers to try and soften the rejection, nudging the shirt back towards her. ‘ i’ve still got a couple more. ’ it’s a lie; the shirt he pulls out from his backpack and puts on is the last clean one he’s got, but he is a convincing liar if nothing else, lips pulling into a warm smile.
‘ why don’t you hold onto that one for me ? like insurance, ’ he jokes, ‘ i might want it back someday. ’ here is a truth: this is the boy who burned his entire home because he’d rather watch his life go up in flames than think of anyone else pawing through it; there are very few things that mateo isn’t willing to leave behind if it comes down to that, and a measly shirt isn’t one of them. here is another: mariella is. both truths go unspoken. it is an unsettling realisation, that he’s met her only twice but already she has taken root. attachment is a dangerous thing in a world like theirs, and mateo already knows loss more intimately than he would like. but it’s been a long day and he has neither the strength nor desire to stop their lives from intertwining even further. ‘ do you think maybe you could get the guards to not aim their guns at me next time, though ? i mean, i’m glad that they take their jobs seriously, but a bullet between the eyes is a bit harder to recover from than a little stab wound. ’ as always, a smile and a little humour is the best diversion whenever a conversation veers too closely to feelings than he’s comfortable with.
Things seemed to have calmed down, at least for the time being, which meant Mariella could finally take a moment to relax. Any chances were fleeting and often gone too soon, though more than appreciated when they came about. Humming in response to his thanks, her gaze momentarily falls on the large set of windows to their right. It’s mid to late afternoon – she isn’t sure, she took her watch off before setting to work on stitching him up, not wanting to get his blood on it – and their guards are stood ground out front as usual. One is in the middle of taking down a walker that lingered too close to their ground for comfort, another is just behind her ready to lend a helping hand if needed, and the others are To most, it was a day like any other. The silence that’s fallen between them is a stark contrast from the forced, awkward distance she’d felt not long before.
When he speaks again, the corners of her mouth tug up into a sheepish smile. Their first encounter passed in a blur, but was something that had hung heavy over her in the weeks following. The face of the man who saved your life is not one you soon forget, after all, or, at least that’s what she’s done a good job of telling herself. His response to her returning the shirt was admittedly quite confusing in itself, but what she hadn’t been expecting was his hand finding hers, touch gentle but firm enough to jolt her attention back to him. Doe-like eyes widen apprehensively, frozen in place. A nervous chuckle follows as she braces herself for the shift in nature following. It doesn’t come, however, which only further confuses her.
“If you’re sure,” she mumbles, setting the shirt on the table in the space between them, leaving it there should he change his mind before she returns to her cot to put it away. Insurance. Why on Earth would he want to return, to see her again? The notion of her keeping it should he want it back someday is lost on her, yet there’s no keeping the light, airy giggle from passing her lips. He was teasing, of course he was. “Right, yeah, certainly! If nothing else, it’ll be safe with me.“ That was meant literally as odd as if may seem, given the entire time it’s been in her possession she took care to keep it in perfect condition. That was her shtick, taking care of things — of people, of their belongings. There was no Mariella Caulfield if she wasn’t looking out for something or someone in some way.
There’s a surge within her at the ‘next time’, a hopeful, warm feeling. Neglecting to respond to that portion of his statement, for fear of saying too much or the wrong thing, she instead smiles fondly. Being greeted by guns wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, so she completely understood where he was coming from. If she told the guards he was okay, that he was a welcomed guest of hers, they’d likely back off, so she nodded. “You got it. Besides, I’d prefer your next visit be on better terms... Y’know, one that doesn’t involve you bleeding out on my desk or in need of immediate medical attention.” Slouching back into her chair, her smile quirks up into something resembling an amused grin.
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ve actually been meaning to ask…” Is said with an air of hesitance. Whether or not he himself is apart of a group is none of her business, yet she can’t help wondering. Was she ridiculous for caring about him so suddenly, after only having met two times? Blame it on a natural inclination to worry about people, or call it for what it was, the fact that his safety matters to her remains. “Do you have a camp? Or at the very least somewhere safe to return to once you leave?” Mariella wasn’t exactly in the position to be asking personal questions, so she hopes he’s okay with the sudden intrusion. They’re, at best, acquaintances, which means such a prying question could come off badly. In attempt to remedy any potential riffs, she quickly adds, “you haven’t got to tell me, of course! I’m merely concerned for your health and the upkeep of your wound. Complications are less likely to happen when you’re somewhere you can set aside more time for proper care!”
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