Matters of Small Consequence
There are butterflies in his room. They will die soon, they always die soon, and their bodies will crackle underneath him like subdued fireworks, like splintering wood, like memories that are too far away. One touches his wrist and the brush of it burns, sends him reeling back a hundred thousand years to primal - but it's not fear and it's not anger, it's just a kind of tension he can not place. He doesn't want to hurt it, but he also does not want it touching him, spreading its feelers to taste at his skin.
When the door opens, the butterflies lift, shadows dampening the light. "I was wondering where you were," Adrian says; patient, good Adrian. He's almost smiling like he always almost smiles, and he's too tired to do anything but cover his eyes a moment, closing out the thing inside his mind that comes to life, clawing, every time Adrian comes near. "Are you hungry?" he asks.
But no, he's not, and he wants to say the words but they catch in his throat when a butterfly lights on his cheek (searching for something he can not give - he has nothing, nothing). Adrian frowns at him and shuts the door and then they are both closed in with the butterflies. They touch down on Adrian's jacket, drawn by the color, but he's a lie, too. There is no life for the butterflies there. There is no way they will survive.
"Come with me," Adrian says, and when he complies, shaking to his feet, the butterflies rustle away. "That's right, good," he says, and when they are in the hall he passes over a single wrapped sugar cube. He stops. Butterflies eat sugar, he thinks, and they have no means of acquiring more - but he does, he has hands and legs and knows how to open doors and cupboards and - and Adrian touches his shoulder when he turns. "Where are you going?"
"Don't deserve this," he says, but that is not what he means. What he means is that if he can help the butterflies live a little longer , then he will. That's what he means. Adrian does not like his answer; his shoulders tense as if butterflies are landing down. "Going to give," then, "I am going to give the butterflies this." He has been trained in eloquence and is very good at it; Adrian presses pens and pencils into his lax hands and tells him to write about his dreams. (He does not like his dreams.)
"Don't be silly," Adrian says, and he takes the sugar from him. There are craters from his fingertips. "Here." He touches it to his lips, nudges it in with a thumb, and that burning feeling is back, that thing he does not understand that sits heavy in his forearms and weighs down his chest. But he doesn't understand it, so he opens his mouth and tastes sugar and salt and over Adrian's shoulder he can see a blizzard picking up (he does not like looking at Adrian when he touches him).
"Come on, then." Adrian doesn't wipe off his thumb like he wants to wipe off his lips, just touches his arm. "I have some visitors, tonight. I'd like you to meet them."
Visitors do not equal doctors, so he's sure that he will.
He sees their reflections before he sees them; they are facing each other, whispering, leaning in the glass of the ceiling, distorted. They must be relatives of Adrian. He likes Adrian, so knows he will like them, unless they are not and are here to hurt them. There are stiff lines that he recognizes as aggression running up both of their bodies, after all.
"Hello, Sandra. Sam." Adrian keeps a hand on his shoulder like he is a new development, so he tries to be proud and stand still and straight, but he can't stop staring at all of their reflections, spiraling together in the curved surfaces. It is more comfortable. (He doesn't really like looking at women, doesn't like the shameless curves barely tempered by white coats and dark slacks, put on display as if forever vain.)
"Holy shit," one of them says, and he flinches.
"I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Adrian says.
"We're not friends," he corrects him, embarrassed. They're something, certainly, but friends is not the right word. For one, he has never told Adrian a secret (they've never met at night - met and done what, he can not discern, but he knows that friendships are born in moonlight).
Adrian laughs. "Is this a joke?" the girl asks, and he does not like her tone. It's all needles and fire too close and crackling wings.
"Rorschach," the man gasps, and that's when he hits his knees.
Because oh, oh. It hurts, he can feel his blood straining against his veins, he can feel the pins holding him (strewn like a butterfly), he can feel the incision up the back of his neck, he can see those horrific images, watching him, spinning and there's no color, no definition, only pain red and raw and the taste of sugar is sickening and bitter in the back of his throat. Someone is screaming. Someone is screaming. (You could have saved her, you know - she is being taken apart piece by piece, she is bucking up against colored pins and crying for her mother; the blood, the blood is congealing and her skin is pale; her eyes ring dark with bruises; Mommy, Mommy.)
Someone is echoing her. "Mommy, Mommy, no," and then a name familiar from dreams, "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel," but then Adrian has his hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right, hush, now, you're all right." And Adrian is saying it, so it must be true, but he can still see her, can see her open shadow of a mouth and the lift of a cleaver and he's at the other end, it's him (he doesn't want the pill but his mind, his mind is spinning out of reach, and when Adrian presses it into his mouth all he can do is swallow obediently because Adrian makes things right again). Then, "Interesting, isn't it?"
When he looks up, Sam is standing over him, face broken open with fear and the butterfly spread tension is back, but different this time, swelling in him like tears. "What did you do to him, Adrian? I - I thought he was dead, but…"
"You're such a sick fuck," the woman snarls, looking at him, and he's too tired to do more than look away.
"No need to make such a fuss, Sam," Adrian says, stroking his hair with light fingers cool as fresh snow, placating, and the heaviness is throbbing through his head, lowering his eyelids, which means he's calming down; he'll be okay, he'll be okay thanks to Adrian. Always thanks to Adrian. "He'll be a fully functional member of society soon. Impressive, how far psychology has come. Oh, and Sam - please, do refrain from saying that word again. I only have two more pills on me at the moment."
"You sick fuck," the woman's repeating, and he looks up, glances over the brutality of her expression to look at the painting behind her. His head's clearing. He will be able to stand without shaking again, soon. "I should wring your fucking neck, you -"
"Don't speak to Adrian like that," he murmurs; Adrian and the woman turn to him (and the man named Sam is shaking, pale moustache trembling, and he wants to tell him that it's all right, he can calm down, Adrian is taking care of things).
"What?"
"Impolite to threaten your host," he tells her patiently, wiping away the sweat from his forehead and standing, letting Adrian's hand fall away.
"What can we call him?" Sam asks suddenly, voice disjointed and quiet like his when Adrian closes him away so long that he forgets how the words are supposed to fit in his throat. Although Sam is speaking to Adrian, he only stares at him.
"Walter," Adrian offers. "He responds to Charlie as well, interestingly enough."
But he doesn't like the way they are all staring at him, making him the epicenter of the room; they are not doctors and this is not a test and if anything makes him uncomfortable, he can confide in Adrian; Adrian makes things easier on him. Adrian is a good man. "I don't like it here," he murmurs, looking at Sam looking at him. "Adrian."
"All right. You can leave. If you'd like, I'm sure the butterflies will be waiting for you. You enjoy their symmetry, don't you?"
He nods. "And their wings." He backs away, nods again to Sam and the woman, understands why he is here. Adrian uses people as points, has brought him before many men and women, and this is no different; the lines of their faces are thin and expectable. People don't like him, much.
"Wait, Ro - W-Walter, don't." Sam's hand is out, threatening to touch (threatening to spread primal tension down his forearms, to spark untouchable, unforgivable brutality). "Don't go."
He shrugs. "Apologies, Samuel." That is enough words to turn while staying polite, it's enough justification to walk alone out to the hallway (he will not understand when Sam charges after him, when he refuses to let him leave alone, but at the least he will understand the heartbreak in his tremulous fingers when they catch).