Borders
When Camus returned to their room he was limping, but Miklotov was well-rehearsed in their routine and he politely ignored it, opting instead to turn the page of his book as though he had spent the past two hours reading it and not pacing about, waiting on silence.
"The Lord Commander is calm, for the moment."
"I see."
At what cost? Miklotov often wanted to ask, as he looked up to take in the sight of Camus' face. One black eye, and fingerprints smudged deep into his throat. Lips bruised from kissing, cheeks flushed from embarrassment, or pleasure, or maybe something else. He moved carefully, trying his best not to wince, but Miklotov saw straight though it.
"Is the bath ready?"
"Mm. Salted, as you requested."
"Thank you."
The footsteps receded, and the door to their bathroom swung nearly shut, hanging instead in an uncomfortable between. Miklotov counted sixty seconds in his head before standing up and moving to where Camus was climbing into the tub. The wounds from the whipping were fresh: cracked and raw, they bled themselves across his vision.
"Please inform my officers that I am feeling unwell, and will be unable to attend to anything tomorrow."
"I will."
It would have been easy to step inside and cross the distance between them, to hold that slender body until it finally shook itself apart and screamed, wept or did something to mourn for the loss of the soul it housed. Instead, Miklotov remained at the threshold, unread book in hand and lips wound up against the spring of silence, to stand there and pretend that this wasn't Camus breaking apart in front of him.