solitaire masterlist: arc i / arc ii ♤ prev / next
content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), discussing the system of slavery/pets, caretaking, backstory and lore... light on whump, heavy on exposition
port wonders about his history.
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Port was sitting at the mouth of the neighborhood when the headlights appeared. He had a feeling they must belong to Beau, even with the shine in his eyes leaving him unable to discern what the car looked like. They were the only ones he’d seen in the entire time he’d been on the curb.
The car slowed and rolled to a stop as Port rose to his feet, a yard away. The driver’s side door swung open and Beau’s boot emerged, planting itself on the asphalt as he unfolded from the seat. His hair was styled in the same two braids that Port had last seen him in, flyaways framing the open look of concern on his face. He did not look like he'd only rolled out of bed an hour ago.
Port was hesitant to approach, anxiety peaking now that the man was directly before him. Beau took a step, but did not entirely close the gap. His hands hovered in an odd way like he did not quite know what to do with them, like he was either calming a wild animal or about to go in for a hug.
“Hi, Porter,” he said. “Are you alright? Are you in pain?”
It took him a second to find his voice. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. It’s just… splinters.” It sounded really, really stupid to say it out loud. He had called Beau all the way here in the middle of the night for this?
“Splinters hurt,” Beau said graciously. “Are you hurt any other ways?”
“No,” he said, willfully ignoring the way his thigh burned and his heart ached.
Beau accompanied him to the other side of the car and held the passenger door open in an excessively chivalrous way. Port climbed in, becoming antsy once Beau sat in the driver’s seat beside him. They should not be sitting so close, on an equal level, separated only by the center console.
Beau seemed much more at-ease now that he knew Port was not dying or having some sort of outwardly hysterical breakdown. It had been an incredibly awkward phone call, mostly on Port’s part. Beau had asked him questions in a carefully calm manner while Port was quiet and stuttering, overtaken by the shame and guilt of it all. He managed to convince Beau that his keepers were not the ones who had hurt him— it was nature’s doing.
He worried Beau might scold him and expose him to Rida, or that maybe it was all a trap he had set— to test if Port was disobedient enough to warrant being taken away and decommissioned for good. But Beau did not seem to care. He was willing to whisk him away in the dead of night to save him from a few wood chips and cactus needles. Port found himself wondering how ethical or even legal this was— not that he cared. He was so far removed from ethics, law, and basic human consideration himself that he had no right to judge.
“I’ll take you to my office,” Beau said, making a U-turn. “Get you fixed up. What do you think about that?”
“Okay, sir. Thank you.”
Beau flicked his blinker on before he turned out of the neighborhood street, even though there were no other cars in sight. It clicked rhythmically like Beau’s tapping finger, cutting through the silence. Then they were on their way.
“So, are you one for nature walks?” The tone was not quite accusatory, but it was certainly more than small talk.
“Um… I don't usually have the opportunity.” The answer came out so quietly he feared Beau may not be able to hear him over the hum of tires on asphalt. “But I suppose I am,” he said louder.
“Sometimes it just calls to you, right? It’s a little dangerous to be walking out in the desert at night, though,” Beau said lightly. “There are snakes out there. Scorpions.” He was taken by a shiver, shoulders shuttering. “Hate those things,” he muttered.
“I heard some coyotes,” Port said. He feared their sharp teeth more than he feared a scorpion’s curled sting.
“Oooh,” Beau intoned, like this was incredibly interesting. “Y’know, I’ve been attacked by plenty of scorpions, but never a coyote. I’ve never heard of one hurting a human, so they’re probably okay. I used to see them all the time, where I’m from.”
“Where’s that, sir?” Port asked, welcoming the change of topic. He would much rather talk about Beau than talk about himself.
“Oklahoma, the southeastern part. It’s pretty rural there.”
Port took a moment to picture this in his head. Five hundred miles north of Houston, maybe, or something like that. “Why did you move?”
“Well… there’s not much to do, unless you like to gamble. And it’s not great career-wise, either. Life just led me here.”
Maybe Mr. Oz would have enjoyed Oklahoma. “Do you like it here?”
Beau’s chin dipped. “Yes. I love it. My only qualm is living so far away from my mother, but sometimes…” His eyes flicked over to Port for a second, either realizing he was sharing too much or feeling awkward that he had brought up the privilege of having a mother at all. “Uh, anyway, what do you think of it so far?”
“It’s nice,” Port said noncommittally. He missed the familiar landscape of home. “It looks a lot different.”
“It’s beautiful,” Beau said. Port peered out the window, but all he could see were the shadows of those clay-looking buildings passing them by, all smooth edges. Sonny had taught him the word for it: adobe. “Lots of things to see, nice people, great culture… say, have you heard of Taos Pueblo? It’s only a couple hours away, you should visit. The Rio Grande Gorge is near there, too.”
Port had no idea what those were, nor when he’d possibly have the opportunity to go there, but perhaps it was a nice thought.
“If you like art, the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum is here in town…” Beau went on. “She painted a lot of flowers.”
“I like flowers,” Port said.
“I think flowers have a universal appeal,” Beau mused.
Before long, they were parked by a pale and rectangular building. Port got out of the car and followed Beau to a nondescript door with no signage. Beau fumbled with his jingling key ring on the way, picking out the correct one and twisting it in the lock.
It was dark and silent inside other than the hum of electrical appliances thrumming through the walls. Port had trouble making anything out, but Beau seemed to know where he was going. He led Port down a hallway and into a room, carpet scratching beneath his shoes. There Beau flicked on the light switch, revealing a modest space with a few unoffensive wall decorations and furnishings, including an armchair.
“You can sit there,” Beau said. “I’ll be right back.”
Something about sitting alone in the small room made his anxiety pick up again, like he was waiting in a doctor’s office or about to have some sort of psychological evaluation. The feeling was hardly eased by Beau's return, though his relaxed demeanor was comforting. He was carrying a First-Aid kit and a roll of duct tape.
“Should we look at the spines or the splinters first?” Beau asked.
“Whichever you’d prefer, sir.” Port found himself increasingly embarrassed by his situation.
“You said the cactus got your ankle, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He had the sudden urge to slip out of the chair and drop to his knees when Beau lowered himself onto the carpet, right by his feet. From this angle he could see the crown of Beau’s head and the neat part running down the middle of his scalp. Nobody had ever kneeled before him before. It did not feel right.
“I can sit on the floor, too,” Port said, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt.
Beau’s brown eyes met his face curiously. “I think it’ll be easier if you stay in the chair.”
“Okay,” he relented.
He told Beau which leg it was and Beau lifted the cuff of his pant, neatly and precisely folding it over on itself to reveal his pale ankle.
“These are very tiny,” Beau said. “No wonder you didn’t have any luck with tweezers.” He peeled up a strip of duct tape with his nail and tore it from the roll. “That's what this is for. I’m going to put this on your leg and then rip it up, like a wax. It’ll get them right out. Does that sound okay to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Beau carefully pressed the piece of tape over the affected patch of ankle. “It might sting a little. Would you like a countdown?”
Port smiled with humor before he could stop himself. “That’s okay, sir. Do what you need to.” It would not bother him.
He preferred it when Beau was not looking up at him. Beau pinched the edge of the tape between his fingers and tore it from his skin in a quick motion. It didn’t feel like much at all. Beau lightly pressed on his foot to get a better look, like he was tapping a horse’s hoof. Port shifted his legs wider without thinking. “There are still some in your skin, so I’ll do it a few more times. Look at what came out so far.” He held the piece of tape up. The sticky side was coated with a few needles, tiny white hairs against the dark ribs of the tape. And a few of his actual leg hairs, too, pale follicle buds still attached to the ends. Ripped out at the root.
Port took the piece of tape from him and folded it over so that the hair was trapped inside, and then folded it again for good measure. Beau started scraping at the roll again. Port’s ear picked up on the scratch of his nails against the tape, and then the buzz of the ceiling light, and then the beat of his own heart. The clinical quiet bothered him. “Why did you choose this job?” he asked.
“Well... I like feeling like I’m doing a good thing for people,” Beau said, still fiddling with the roll.
Port waited for him to continue, but he left it at that. Port liked his smooth voice and the pleasing way he enunciated his words, and wanted him to keep talking. “How did you choose this, specifically?”
Beau blew soft air from his lips, considering. “Well, if you want my whole story… My goal was to work for CPS, originally.” He finally freed a new piece and started sticking it to Port’s ankle in an almost ticklish way. “But you have to work up to that, so I took my first job at a residential treatment center for kids and teens. And then I had a brief stint in juvenile detention. The thing is, it was…” he trailed off, pressing the tape down. “Well, I just wasn’t a good fit. Especially because I was young, myself.” He ripped the tape away with no warning, a tug at Port’s skin. Beau squinted at his ankle again and went for another piece.
“I see,” Port said. Could they be the same age? His skin was clear, and his hair was thick, but the lines under his eyes made him seem mature.
“It got me thinking about all those kids who slip through the cracks, and how increasingly more people look to Contract Companionship as an option. When you age out of the youth system, and you’re either looking at WRU or prison, it seems pretty tempting, right? And it’s not only criminals, of course. A lot foster children, too, who just have nowhere else to turn. The whole thing is just…” He stuck the tape to Port’s skin. “Well, you don’t need my opinion.” Beau met his eyes. Port imagined what he might be seeing— the perturbed look on his face, his furrowed brow. “What do you think about it?” Beau asked.
“I… don’t.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“That’s fair enough. I’m, uh, sorry to bring it up at all.” Port flinched, this time, when Beau ripped the tape from his skin. “Oh! Sorry. I should have warned you. It looks like that’s the last of them, though.”
Port resisted the urge to pull his foot up and rub at his abused ankle. He could feel his skin was irritated and see the pinkness of it. Beau flicked open the latch on the First-Aid kit and pulled out a packaged alcohol swap. He ripped the paper open and swiped the wet square over his skin.
“Thank you,” Port said, though he wasn't sure how necessary that was. Surely if he was going to get an infection it would be too late to stop it now.
“Of course. Can I take a look at your palms?”
Beau pulled over the other chair that was in the room and settled across from him. Somehow it was even more unsettling than when Beau had been kneeling by his feet. Port extended his right hand first. The tender way Beau tilted it and leaned in closer to see it better in the light felt overly intimate. He did not even press hard enough to make divots in Port’s skin. His nails were neatly trimmed and filed, clean tips of white. Port was self-conscious of his own ugly ones in comparison.
Beau decided he would be able to go at them with tweezers and grabbed them from the kit. He gently cupped Port’s hand with his own, skin strangely soft and girlish. Beau stared intently into the lines of his palm and delicately pinched one of the minuscule chips between the metal, plucking it out painlessly. He dropped it to the floor. “This room gets vacuumed every night,” Beau said, as if Port would confront him about it.
Something about the way Beau carefully picked the splinters from his palm made sweat break out over his forehead and the back of his neck. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, though Beau did not look up. “Sir?” he said.
“Yes?”
“May I know your opinion?”
“Hm?”
“About me. I mean— about us. Pets.”
“Oh. Well…” The tweezers stilled as Beau thought it over. “There’s a distinction between pets— or Companions— and the system itself.”
“Ms. Rida doesn’t like it,” Port was compelled to say.
Beau picked out another splinter. “She made me aware.”
“Do you think similarly?”
Beau sighed, head tilting. “If you really want to know, I find it kind of... grim. The System isn’t exactly kind. That’s why I chose this job,” Beau said. “To help individuals.” He removed the final splinter from Port’s hand. “If you can't beat 'em, join 'em,” he muttered, touch lingering a few seconds too long. “That’s what I have to say about that.” He pulled away. “Other hand, please?”
Port dropped his right hand to his lap and extended his left one apprehensively. The one with the missing fingers. People’s eyes tended to skip over it, but it was impossible not to notice at such close proximity. Port waited for Beau to make some comment, or even just hesitate, and wondered what sort of tale he should tell this time.
It didn’t happen. Beau grabbed his hand without faltering.
Still, it did not prevent Port’s discomfort. The stumps had not been painful for a long time, but there was still something disturbing and sensitive about having the scar tissue touched. Sometimes they tingled or ached. But Beau’s own fingers did not brush against them, nor did the tweezers. It was a relief.
As Beau worked at his palm, and he turned Beau's story over in his mind, something he had mentioned was nagging at him. “Can all criminals go into the System?” Port asked. “Not just juveniles?”
“Well, there is an age limit,” Beau said. “And many factors are taken into consideration. But generally speaking, it’s an option. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it all started as a way to clear out prisons in the first place. The 13th Amendment outlawed slavery except as punishment for crime, so… I think it was only a matter of time before that was taken advantage of,” Beau said, displeasure scarcely concealed. “And of course, now the System has expanded so that anyone can go in if they want to.”
Port was getting strangely restless and fighting the desire to pull his hand away. The intimate novelty had worn off. Now he just wanted to be done, and not to be touched anymore. “I didn’t know that,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody ever explained it to me. At least not that I can remember.”
“I guess I wouldn’t expect them to.” Beau accidentally poked Port’s palm with the tweezer, making him twitch. “Sorry.”
Phantom taste of metal in his mouth. Sweat on his neck. The missing space of his finger prickled. “Isn’t it dangerous for criminals to become pets?”
Beau glanced at him in a way Port could not quite decipher. “Like I said, there are multiple factors. People who commit, say, first-degree murder don’t have it as an option. And there are psychological evaluations involved, even if things slip by sometimes. I used to do a lot of screenings for suicide and homicide risk.”
Port’s leg shifted. His thigh burned. More prickling.
“I think that’s all of them,” Beau said.
“Huh?”
“I think I got all the splinters. Can you see any?”
Port lifted his arms to inspect, eyes running over the lines of his palms. His hands were red. Splinter-free. Beau sat back in his chair, allowing him his personal space once again.
“May I ask something?”
“Of course,” Beau said.
His eyes remained fixed on his palms. “Do you know why I became this?”
Beau did not answer right away. Immediately, Port knew the question was too revealing. He was toeing a line.
“No,” Beau said. “I’m not made privy to that information.”
Port lowered his hands. “Oh.”
“The files they gave me are, uh, extremely redacted.”
Port knew this. He had found where Rida tucked the files on a shelf. He had needed to know if they would tell him anything about himself, and spent an hour pouring over the tiny and nauseating letters, sounding out each word in his head. All he got from it was a headache and tired eyes. Nothing of use. Too many black bars.
“But the information exists?”
Beau was looking at him quite seriously, but in a way that seemed more thoughtful than it did dangerous. “I assume so. Has it been on your mind?”
Strange dreams. Weird flashes. Wondering about a past he was not even supposed to spare a passing thought to. You chose this. That’s all you need to know. “At a certain point, it’s… hard not to wonder,” Port said, having revealed too much to backtrack now. He kept seeing images behind his eyelids he could not explain. Phantoms sitting on his chest.
Beau hummed. “I can imagine.” His fingers were tapping on his thigh, one after the other, over and over again. “I can look into it for you, if you’d like.”
Port shook his head, though the offer made something thrum in his chest. “I ain’t asking you to do that, sir, I was just wondering if you knew.”
“No, I’ll do it.” Beau said it casually, not even meeting his eyes. He was busying himself with the First-Aid kit, and pulled out another alcohol swab. “Hands?”
Port held them out, palm-up, like in supplication. The cold swipe made his fingers curl, antiseptic smell filling his nose. “Thank you,” he said.
“No problem.” Beau sat back, and tilted his head, eyes turning a little impish. “Now did you want to go back home, or… like… McDonald’s?”
More time away? Of course. “McDonald’s sounds good,” Port said. Beau rewarded him with a smile.
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, light medical stuff, mention of parental grief, implications of past child/domestic abuse, EMETO WARNING
~~~~~~
Rida woke to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. Few things ever got her out of bed quite as quickly as that. Even beyond her closed door, down the hall, it always pricked her ears— even from a dead sleep. She was attuned to it.
The handle to her bedroom door didn’t budge when she grasped it, which, in her tiredness, took her a second to register. Strange— she didn’t usually bolt it. She twisted the lock and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. She shivered at the cold, bare floor beneath her feet. The only light at this hour came from the dim lamp above the kitchen stove, which she always switched on before bed in case of nights just like this. It cast its orange glow past the bathroom door, ajar.
Tal must be queasy tonight. It happened, sometimes. At nights her brother had to supplement his diet through a feeding tube— never sounded very pleasant to her. It wasn’t, evidently, because sometimes it would upset his stomach and he’d vomit that milky white shit in the middle of the night, flushing all the extra nutrition down the toilet. But it wasn’t his fault. It would be wrong to blame him for it.
She padded down the hall to the bathroom on the balls of her feet, ready to pat Tal on the back or run a hand through his hair how he liked. But when she peered through the doorway, he looked wrong. It was only when she nearly jumped out of her fucking skin at the shock of the distinctly not-Tal person hunched over the toilet bowl that she remembered Tal hadn’t done a night feeding in months now and that she was currently harboring two complete fucking strangers— pets— in her home.
Right. Of course— that was why she had locked her bedroom door last night.
The little burst of adrenaline meant she was fully awake, now. She willed her heart to calm as she cautiously drifted nearer, bracing a hand on the doorframe. The boy’s face was practically in the bowl, but based on the black hair obscuring his profile it was certainly Sonny who was currently gagging into the toilet. She couldn’t possibly leave him by himself and go back to bed, but she also didn’t want to spook or embarrass him. She waited for the bout of retching to cease and drew closer, toeing over the boundary into the bathroom. She whispered his name. “Sonny?”
His shoulders jerked and his head snapped in her direction. He looked terrible, especially in the dim light. His cheeks had a hallow quality to them, and the dark shadows under his eyes were wet with tears. “Sorry,” he blurted, almost slurring. He turned back to the toilet bowl and tried hiding his face behind his hand, fighting back more acid or drool. He sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, muffled. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Her heart, still slowing, now ached for him. He reminded her of a sad and pathetic puppy, especially with that collar— though it was an offensive comparison she would never say out loud. She had thought the same when she saw him fresh out of the shower, dripping wet and shaking like a chihuahua. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. Bechara, she would say to Tal. “It’s okay.”
He only groaned. Then his body went tense— and he started vomiting again. Rida winced in sympathy at the spasming. The band around his throat must be suffocating. Rida’s own throat was bare at the moment, as she didn’t sleep in hers, but maybe she should try it to better understand what they went through every day. I'm a poser. Pets were not afforded the luxury to take theirs off for any sort of relief, despite how she tried to convince them it was okay.
At least he was no longer wearing that rough one they had stuck on him at the facility. She had wanted to get those things off the two of them as soon as she could. That shit wasn’t fit for an animal, let alone a man.
She didn’t want Port nor Sonny wearing collars at all, really, but… that was a hard sell. They were willing to settle with what she gave them— these dainty leather braided things she had found in her jewelry drawer. They could hardly even be called collars— more like chokers, relics of however many years ago back when they were in fashion and it wasn’t taboo to wear something so tight around your neck. She hadn’t been alive for that era, of course, but she’d never been one to follow the trends.
It had felt strange to be so close to them, in their personal space, putting fingers near their vulnerable throats. She felt the way Port’s muscles tensed as she unfastened the old collar, fighting with the buckle. She could even see the pulse beating in his neck. She had the bizarre thought that he might turn around and snap at her fingers like an aggressive dog. Oftentimes aggression means fear, she reminded herself. He’s probably more scared of her than she is of him.
Sonny was meeker and not so intimidating. His hair was a little longer, falling further down his nape. They both needed haircuts— or trims, at least. They could both have such gorgeous hair with the proper treatment, but it was instead dull and uncared for. As she had brushed his hair aside, she was hit with the sudden memory of sweeping her mother’s hair over her shoulder, fastening the hook of a delicate chain necklace over her vertebrae. The flash brought with it a sharp stab of grief, the beginning of a lump in her throat and a hotness in her eyes she immediately tamped down. It was funny how fast things like that came on.
She had felt like a monster as she tied the things around their throats, but they seemed more at ease. She noticed Sonny running his fingers along the braided texture over and over, though he stopped when he saw her looking.
Now poor Sonny was busy expelling everything in his stomach. Never one to be squeamish, she made her way to sit on the edge of the tub and place what she hoped was a comforting hand on his back. His sharp shoulder blade reminded her too much of a younger Tal, all sickly and underweight.
She rubbed his back through the next round of heaving. Based on the sound, it was just stomach acid at this point. He clutched at his side like it hurt and devolved into violent, painful-sounding coughing. His head hung listlessly for a few minutes after it stopped, breathing heavily. Beneath her touch she could feel the slight rattle in his lungs beyond his ribcage— that was concerning. Typical for someone like Tal, but Sonny was certainly coming down with something more than just nausea.
“Feel any more coming up?” she asked, pulling her hand away. Rida worried for his knees, with how long he’d been kneeling on the hard tile.
Sonny spit into the bowl. “No, ma’am,” he said wetly. “I think I’m done.” He lifted his head and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand— the one she had bandaged earlier that day. They might want to redress it after it’d been pressed against the bathroom floor and the toilet and who knows what else.
“Can I feel your forehead?”
He turned obediently, eyes lidded and exhausted. It was nothing like the way he had looked at her hours before, as she wrapped his hand, fearful but at the same time alert and discerning— trying to figure her out. Rida had recognized the look because she was doing the same.
She pressed a gentle hand to his forehead and immediately she could feel the heat coming off him. His eyes fluttered closed, and to her surprise, he leaned into the touch. She almost drew her hand away, taken aback— but at the same time she felt badly for him and thought he might be aching for comfort. So instead she shifted her hand so that it was cupping his soft cheek, her thumb resting in front of his ear.
“I think you have a fever,” she whispered.
He mumbled something indiscernible, eyes still closed. His T-shirt was all twisted and the cotton collar was hanging low, exposing the stark edge of his collarbone.
She helped him to stand and had him brush his teeth, though his legs were shaking like a colt’s as he braced himself on the sink. She had him sit on the closed toilet lid in fear they might give out from under him.
She guided him back to his room, the door already cracked, and… she hesitated, because Port would still be sleeping inside. She worried to startle him. The last thing she wanted was to give Port another reason to dislike her and it seemed wrong to invade what she had told them was their private space. But Sonny did not seem to be in any state to handle himself, so she set her teeth and pushed open the door.
She blinked against the darkness, trying to discern if the lump in the bed was Port. She shuffled closer with Sonny at her side. Her toe brushed up against something— her gaze lowered and— What the fuck?!
She might have cursed out loud, recoiling at the two eyes blinking up at her. It was Port, flat on his back, laying on the floor. He twitched too and sat up in an instant, scooting away in what little coordination he had. His back hit the bed. It seemed they had both startled each other.
Rida feared he might jump to his feet and extend to his full height, the same way he had at lunch. He was almost as tall as Dad was. For a second, as Port was looming over her, she really thought he might grab her by the front of her sweater or even take a swing. In that long moment, looking up at him, she really could not believe that she had let this grown ass man into her house. I brought it upon myself, like always. Whatever happened to her at that point would be entirely her fault, really. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But there had been no violence, and Tal’s valiant urge to jump in was as sweet as it was infuriating. Port didn’t touch either of them at the time, and he didn’t spring up now, though his eyes were flicking across her in the same way, with that same unsettling gaze. It could certainly be described as creepy, but Rida recognized it for what it was. When it wasn’t a thousand yards on the horizon, it was assessing a threat.
His head swiveled as Sonny, seemingly tired of standing, stumbled to the bed by himself and sat down. Port opened his mouth, a flash of his chipped front tooth. “Ma’am?” was all he said, voice hoarse. Even that one word was enough to hear that Texas accent, thick as molasses. Reminded her of childhood.
“Sonny’s sick,” she explained quickly. “I was helping him back to bed. Sorry I, uh… stepped on you.”
Port’s gaze drifted aside, maybe bashful. He rubbed at one closed eye with his fist. He looked younger without the scruff, and his cheeks were covered in freckles that might be cuter on a friendlier face. “You don’t need to apologize, ma’am. You didn’t step on me.”
“Were you sleeping on the floor?”
“…Yes, ma’am,” he said after some hesitation. “Yes, Rida,” he corrected himself.
“Is… is there something wrong with the bed?” She wished she had better sleeping arrangements to offer them, but the one queen-sized bed was all at her disposal. She had offered to give one of them the couch, or even a sleeping bag, but both Sonny and Port had insisted that they were comfortable sharing the bed together. Maybe they had lied for the sake of politeness. Some people just hated to have needs.
“No,” Port answered hastily. “It’s perfect, thank you. I just…” he trailed off, rubbing at both eyes, now. “I’m more used to floor.”
Rida did not want to unpack that right now, with Sonny terribly sick and teetering on the edge of the bed. “Well… let me know if I can get you more blankets or something.”
“What’s wrong with Sonny?”
The change of subject did not go unnoticed, but was okay with it. Rida moved to the side of the bed and placed a hand on Sonny’s shoulder, gently easing him down. He laid without protest. “He was throwing up in the bathroom.”
Port pushed himself to standing and Rida had to resist the instinct to take a step back. He wasn’t looking at her, which made it easier. His posture was looser in his tiredness, not as stiff and formal. “Might’ve been the food,” Port offered. “Not your cooking, I mean. It’s just more than he’s had in days.”
She could tell. They were both skinny things. “Maybe, but he also has a fever. His immune system is probably fucked from the cold.”
Port, closer to Sonny’s top half, laid the back of his hand on Sonny’s forehead.
“He’s warm, right?”
“Yeah…” Port affirmed. Sonny chased his touch when he pulled his hand away, whimpering. Port glanced at her sidelong, maybe reluctant to face her. “Thank you for helping him.”
“It’s no problem,” Rida said. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted again now that she didn’t feel like she was going to be attacked. “I have to be at work by eight tomorrow. I won’t be back ’til six, though Tal will probably come home at three… unless he goes to Jo’s house.” She mindlessly fluffed at the back of her hair. “He might not, though, it depends on if…” At Port’s blank stare she realized she was muttering on about nothing he cared about and cut herself off. “Will you be able to take care of him?” she asked.
He blinked. “Of course.” He might've even had offense in his voice. “You don’t need to do anything. He’s not your responsibility.”
She crossed her arms, gaze falling upon Sonny’s pinched face and his tightly closed eyes. A full body shiver wracked him as though he might be able to feel her attention. “I mean… isn’t he?”
