Evander pauses, scissors poised over Cas’s groin. “Do you want me to stitch you up or not? Because I can save my medical supplies.”
“I don’t trust your needle that close to my cock,” Cas half slurs, taking another swig of wine.
Evander’s mumbled response is too quiet to catch clearly, but it sounds suspiciously like something about pretty green eyes not making up for smart mouths.
Cas tips the bottle again, wine spilling across his bare chest as he lies flat on the operating table.
But he’s alive. Talking. Making terrible jokes.
For now, that’s enough.
Evander works in relative silence after that. The only sounds are the soft snick of surgical tools and Cas’s occasional satisfied gulp from the wine bottle. I don’t take the bottle from him. He deserves it. He just killed a man with his bare hands and a metal ball of spikes. If he wants to drink himself senseless, that’s his right.
The needle flashes in and out of Cas’s skin, Evander’s dark hands pulling torn flesh back together one careful stitch at a time. Blood seeps around the edges of the wound, but less now. More manageable.
Cas tips the bottle again, wine dribbling down his chin. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“There.” Evander ties off the final stitch and steps back, surveying his work. “That should hold, assuming you don’t do anything stupid like try to run laps tomorrow.”
“Finally,” Cas mumbles, voice thick with alcohol and exhaustion.
Evander strips off his bloodstained gloves, tossing them into a waste bin. “And now you’re through to next season, I’ll finally get a break from patching you up every other second.”
Cas snorts. “Oh, don’t worry, Doctor. You’ll still be seeing me. I’ll be here next week. With Robin. When you’re patching him up after his match.”
The words take me by surprise, stealing my breath.
Cas turns his head toward me, eyes struggling to focus. “Right? Tell him, Robin.”
I can’t speak. The words stick somewhere between my chest and my throat, refusing to come out. I can’t accept it. Can’t picture myself on this table next week, having just murdered Marco in the arena.
If I make it that far.
“Hey!” Cas suddenly snaps. “Don’t fucking do this, Robin.” He’s angry now. Upset. “You’re going to kill him next week. Kill Marco. You’re going to make champion. Don’t… don’t leave me. Don’t you fucking leave me here alone!”
The panic in his voice makes my chest ache. But I still can’t find words.
Evander moves closer, concern flickering across his face. “You need to rest now, Caspian,” he says quietly.
“How about you shut the fuck up?” he throws back at Evander.
Evander presses his lips and looks down at the floor.
I can see Cas already feels bad for it. But he doesn’t apologize. He tips the bottle up, takes another huge swig, then slams the base down on the table.
But Cas’s angry expression is already softening, his grip on the wine bottle loosening. The adrenaline that kept him conscious is finally wearing off.
“Close your eyes,” Evander says softly.
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he mutters. But he doesn’t fight when Evander presses a hand to his shoulder. And he does close his eyes, cuddling the bottle to his side.
His voice becomes mumbly, words blurring together. “Robin… Marco… Doctor Death…”
The names tumble from his lips without connection or meaning. Then his eyelids flutter, and within seconds he’s snoring softly against the operating table.
I grab the empty bottle as Evander pulls a thin blanket over Cas’s bare chest. “I’ll keep him here tonight. Watch for any complications.”
I attempt a weak smile. “Sure you can handle him if he wakes up?”
