By the time noon arrived, Esteban was still in bed. His pupils shook slightly as he stared into this distance, trying to find a position that didn't hurt his back.
"Do you need the heating pad, Duckie?" Medusa hummed "lovingly", placing the infected blanket on top of his bare chest. His rotting hands caressed the younger's hair, almost making him throw up if he hadn't forced himself to look back... And force themselves to do other things.
They nod slowly, obediently like a trained animal. Once more, they stared into the distance. In the end, they had only themselves to blame, they thought. They chose to come back, aware or unaware of what he would do. How innocent was the duckling if it crawled into the mouth of the snake? Could he, after that, sob and bleed? Did he deserve that?
"Alrightie! I'll be back, Duckie!" That was the worst part about him. He was charming, changing, a good actor. He knew where, how, and with who he should appear different. On command or not, he was likeable if you didn't know what he had done.
Crawling to the edge of the bed, they searched under the couch where he had hidden his phone. Now open and with low battery, they questioned if to call anyone. What would they say? "I can't get enough of him, so I came back"? "I'm impure, and even though all he does is shower me with my own blood, I have never left cleaner"? Nothing that would help him, or invoke pitifulness in others.
Both sides of their brain were at war; if to save themselves, or let go and accept this. They didn't love Medusa, but-- they didn't hate him either. Or maybe they did and he didn't want to admit it.
Or maybe this is how love was supposed to be.
Maybe there was no one to call. No one could help him.