7: Blood
—Žižkov, Prague, December 2016—
It was six in the evening on Christmas Eve, and their group of misfits spent the Holiday together for various reasons. Mike’s family was on the other side of the Globe, and Lukas’s parents still refused to accept his partner. Andrea’s daughter, who worked as a lawyer at the European Commission, was spending the Holidays with her in-laws in Brussels, which left Andrea and her new boyfriend, Eda, alone in Prague for Christmas. Marta and Matěj didn’t have anybody else.
Why Simon didn’t visit his parents in South Moravia, Matěj didn’t know. Simon didn’t say anything even remotely personal to anyone for the whole afternoon. He didn’t speak to Matěj at all.
Even though Simon had called and apologized for his “overreaction”—Simon’s word—he acted as if they barely knew each other. He seemed completely unaffected, chatting with Marta and Lukas casually, and avoiding Matěj. Matěj knew Simon had only apologized to keep a pretense of peace for the Holidays. His anger that night at Dolce Vita was the only indication Simon cared at all whether or not Matěj breathed.
Matěj expected it would be like this, but it hurt. He didn’t know what was worse—missing the man for years, or watching him now, barely two meters away, so distant, they might as well occupy different dimensions.
Marta and Lukas cast careful glances at Simon and at each other—they probably assumed they weren’t painfully obvious about it. Hence, Matěj felt like an intruder. And lonely. And guilty for feeling lonely because Marta was loving, accepting, and so attentive he had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from wincing every time she called his name. Nevertheless, Matěj was with his family, and the novelty of that still hadn’t dulled.
In what seemed a desperate attempt to find a safe topic, Andrea held a long monologue about the changes in the staff of the child psychiatry clinic. Simon caught on, and continued to comment on the general crisis of the healthcare system in Prague.
Matěj listened to his voice more than to what Simon was saying. He should have cared about the topic because it very much affected his chances of finding a reasonable position at one of the orthopedic clinics in Prague. He would care after the New Year. This evening, the melody of Simon’s words, his subtle humor, the measured hand gestures, and movements of his expressive eyebrows flooded Matěj’s senses, and he lost focus within the first twenty seconds. Memories mingled with the present, making him confused, and oddly happy, just as he was very much aware of the constant nervous ache in his stomach.
“Jesus fucking Christ, there’s a worse atmosphere today than when Miloš Zeman was elected president,” Mike said loudly, interrupting a momentary silence.
An involuntary smile tugged at Matěj’s lips. He liked Mike. The young Australian was genuine, happy, and lovable all around.
Eda chuckled, and his set of perfectly white teeth appeared in the center of his dark-gray fuzzy beard. The fifty-year-old librarian was the only one in the living room who didn’t seem to be at all affected by their weirdness.
“What was the movie with drag queens you told me about in the car?” he asked. Andrea was sitting next to him on the sofa. She clasped his hand and squeezed. It was their first Christmas together.
“The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,” Mike enunciated, deliberately exaggerating his accent. He crouched down by the TV, and pulled a stack of old shabby DVDs out of the shelves.
“It has a young Hugo Weaving,” Lukas added, watching the red Cabernet swirl in his wine glass.
“Agent Smith in drag? Bring it on!” Eda said with a broad smile, his deep whiskey voice echoing in the quiet apartment.
“I thought that was Lord of the Rings,” Matěj mumbled. He heard Marta chuckle. He cast a careful glance at Simon, but there was nothing. Simon’s features were all chiseled stone and Buddhist stoicism.
“Heathen,” Mike said. Popping the disc out of the case, he stuck it in the aging player. The player buzzed to life, and after a minute, the music started. Matěj leaned back in his chair, grateful for the distraction.
There seemed to be a force field around him—the others being careful with him, giving him space, and reminding him with their kindness of how exactly he’d fucked up. It was exhausting. And he deserved much worse. In a way, Simon was the only one who behaved in sync with how Matěj thought he should be treated.
“Give it time,” Alex had repeated when they’d skyped over the weekend.
Matěj took a deep gulp of his wine and tried to watch the movie, but instead of the wide planes and endless roads of Central Australia, he saw Prague in his mind. He’d taken a walk the day before, trying to ascertain what was new and what had changed. In three and a half years, there hadn’t been much. But it felt different. Completely new.
The Prague he remembered from those years before he went away was blurry, muddled, full of faces he’d no longer recognize, and places he wouldn’t visit again—the clubs, the student pubs, his friends from the university, even Simon’s loft… The Prague he knew these days was less friendly, less forgiving—more a monarch than a mother. She seemed to judge him and fill his head with challenges instead of promises. However, she was also more honest, down-to-earth. Matěj knew if he managed to prove himself, and she welcomed him back, he’d feel like he deserved her acceptance.
He tried not to smoke too much in front of Marta. He didn’t even know why—she’d never said anything. It simply felt wrong. Tonight, though, he needed a break. He sneaked out of the living room when the ping-pong ball scene began. It seemed like a good time to hide. The door to the tiny balcony was from the kitchen in the typical style of housing built in the thirties. Matěj didn’t even put the lights on. He closed the door behind him, lit one cigarette, and exhaled deeply, watching the flickering Christmas lights in the opposite building. He huddled deeper into his parka. He should have put the sweatshirt on as well, but the parka would do for a few minutes.
“I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” Simon’s voice resonated from the kitchen, and Matěj stiffened. The light inside flared on. He was leaning on the railing in a gray parka behind the closed balcony door—whoever was in the kitchen wouldn’t see him standing there in the dark behind the curtains. Not wishing to eavesdrop on the conversation, he reached to stub out the cigarette so he could go back to the kitchen and make his presence obvious. However, the next sentence made him pause.
“Are you at least taking the Cipralex I prescribed you?” It was Andrea.
Too late. Matěj was sure he’d already heard what Simon didn’t want to share with anyone.
“I’m not,” Simon answered calmly. Matěj heard a clank of a glass being put down on the stone counter.
“Why not?”
“I’m functioning.”
“That’s the worst example of your hero complex…” The rest of what Andrea said was drowned by a car speeding through the abandoned street four stories below.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Simon reminded her. “Can we leave this for another day?”
“I’m not done with you, Simon,” she told him.
“Of course not.” Matěj could hear the eye-roll in Simon’s voice.
The lights were switched off.
Matěj eyed his cigarette as it burned to the filter in his fingers and died. He wouldn’t light another. He opened the balcony door, entered the darkened kitchen and froze. Leaning against the counter stood Simon, watching him. Contempt emanated from the man, perfectly clear even in the dark.
Matěj sucked in a breath. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“I’d appreciate you not telling Marta,” Simon said, his tone freezing.
“Of course not. Simon, could we talk? Not today, but…”
“I have absolutely nothing I wish to discuss with you.”
“Please, Simon. I need to explain. Please, let me explain.” He was begging. So what? Some things were worth much more than that. He had no ego left, no self-respect, no face to lose.
Surprise flashed across Simon’s face for the tiniest fraction of a second before the infallible control returned. The dim light coming into the kitchen from the living room allowed Matěj to see the lift of Simon’s ribcage under his dark-blue button-down, as he breathed in and out. Other than that, the man was motionless.
“I’m done. I expect you to respect it,” he stated.
Matěj couldn’t help but remember the other Simon—the one he used to know—the one who’d let him study in his kitchen and then smiled happily when he’d found Matěj there in the evening, and the Simon who’d asked him to stay the night. He remembered the look of defeat in Simon’s green eyes when Matěj couldn’t. Had he known then what he knew now…
“This is what you are now? I did this to you?” He didn’t want to hurt Simon with those words. They just rolled off his tongue, and he fisted his hands in fear of them.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Simon hissed, sent Matěj one more withering look, pushed himself off the counter in slow grace, turned, and walked away, his head high and back straight.
Fuck.
Simon was unwell. Andrea wasn’t a busybody. Something must have been seriously wrong if she was involved, even prescribing antidepressants for Simon. Antidepressants Simon refused to take. Marta also mentioned Simon hadn’t been doing well. Why? What was going on?
And why the hell did Matěj care so much when the man couldn’t even look at him without sneering?
But Matěj cared. It was Simon. For all the coldness, the anger, the way he got pushed away every time he tried to come closer, in Matěj’s mind, Simon’s name still equaled hope.
He could leave. Maybe, he should. Instead, he went back to the living room, this time watching Simon deliberately. Simon’s gaze was trained on the movie, but his eyes were empty. There once had been a time when Matěj believed he had power over this man. Ridiculous. Tonight, he was as powerless as a stray cat they took in for Christmas, feeding him morsels of affection. Worse. He was the rat who snuck in uninvited.
A hand on his shoulder made him jerk his head up.
“More wine?” Marta asked, the gentlest of smiles on her lips. Jesus, he was an ungrateful bastard.
“No, thank you. I’ll stick with water for a while.”
She squeezed, and her hand slid down his shoulder blade. He suppressed the impulse to hug her. He’d only weep again. It was the last thing he wanted in front of all those people. In front of Simon.
The movie barely ended when Mike exclaimed it was time for snacks. The whole room of friends followed him to the kitchen, drawn by his unabated energy as if he had them on a string.
“Simon, you brought klobásky?” Mike asked, rifling through the fridge.
“Yes. They’re in the upper door shelf, wrapped in white paper,” Simon answered, putting his empty wine glass on the counter next to Eda’s, no doubt expecting a refill.
Matěj stayed in the doorway to the crowded kitchen, watching the synchronized movements of the group. They were comfortable with each other, in perfect choreography, even though there were currently six of them in the small kitchen—plus Matěj—they seemed to dance. Matěj watched, and envied.
Mike handed the Moravian paprika sausages to Simon, and Simon took them wordlessly, pulled out a cutting board and reached for a large, broad knife that hung stuck to a magnetic plate on the wall above the kitchen counter. He started cutting fine slices of the paprika sausages, arranging them neatly into a spiral on a plate. Simon and his fancy treats. A wave of nostalgic tenderness overwhelmed Matěj for the umpteenth time that night.
“How’s the job hunting going?” Mike asked, pulling three different cheeses out of the fridge and handing them to Lucas, who sat with Marta by the breakfast table, cutting and spreading butter on baguettes. Andrea and Eda leaned against the counter behind Simon, struggling with two more wine bottles.
Matěj was a little stunned. It was the first time he got addressed directly during the whole evening by someone other than Marta. Then he sighed. “Well, as expected, I guess, since I don’t have a specialty exam. There are openings everywhere except for Prague.”
“Yeah, they even pay better in Plzeň or Hradec Králové,” Andrea said, shaking her head ruefully. She sipped her wine carefully, only tasting. Then she nodded at Eda, who topped off her glass and lifted his eyebrows at Matěj meaningfully, swaying the bottle of Pinot in his hand.
“No, thanks, I’m good,” Matěj said, gesturing to his water glass.
“The interview you had last week went okay?” Mike asked.
“Not really. The First Orthopedic Clinic in Motole is a lost cause. The guy didn’t even try to hide his outrage over me working abroad for three years. Apparently, I’m a traitor. By the way, there are fifty doctors there. One of them is a woman. One. It could be prejudice on my part, but I’m not sure they’d welcome a gay guy. And everybody knows someone who knows someone, who’s someone’s father or uncle. It’s ridiculous. I’m meeting the people from the Second on the fifth.”
Matěj realized how bitter he sounded and instantly wished he could take his speech back. The last thing he wanted was for Marta to believe he regretted his decision to return to Prague. Because he didn’t. Not for a second. Her back was to him, so he couldn’t tell if she was upset.
“Isn’t that where Ivoš works?” Andrea asked. “The Second Orthopedic?”
“Yes. Simon knows him. They studied together in Brno,” Lukas chimed in.
Matěj sucked in a breath. Just when he thought this evening couldn’t get more awkward.
“That’s perfect. Then you can put a good word in,” Eda enthused.
There was a silent moment which had everyone bowing their heads, focusing on cutting, buttering, and even doing the dishes in Andrea’s case. Matěj wanted to merge into the wall behind him.
“I’m not sure I left a good impression the last time Ivoš and I saw each other,” Simon finally said, his voice carefully neutral, void of any emotion, like Spock.
“Oh! Is he the bald guy we met when we visited you at the hospital? He seemed cool,” Mike said loudly. Matěj saw Marta jerk her head up in Mike’s direction, but he couldn’t see her face.
Mike’s eyes widened in mock innocence.
“Hospital? What happened to you, Simon?” Eda asked, curiously still oblivious. How that was possible, Matěj didn’t know. The tension in the room resembled a maze of rubber bands. Even time slowed down.
“Simon fell on a glass table and cut his hands,” Lukas answered after several uncomfortable beats of silence, his voice clinical.
Matěj couldn’t help but stare at Simon, looking for an explanation. He watched his hands as the man sliced the sausages, one after one. From this angle, no scars were visible, even though they had to be there.
“Ouch. Aren’t those things made from safety glass?” Eda stepped closer to Simon, inspecting Simon’s hands in a more obvious way.
“Apparently not when you buy them secondhand at a vintage store,” Simon told him, his head down, cutting the klobásky with the care of a sushi chef.
“But still, how?” Eda was relentless. Was he really that oblivious or was he having fun at their expense?
“He was drunk,” Lukas said finally. Simon continued cutting—a sure, slow movement of his forearm, cut, pick up, put down, cut… How many sausages did they need?
“His mother called everyone and said—” Mike started.
“Mike!” Marta interrupted loudly.
“Sorry.”
“What?” Eda asked.
“She called Marta and said I’d attempted suicide,” Simon explained, emotionless, still slicing in slow rhythm.
“Jesus!” Eda gasped.
“Yeah. She was very…riled up,” Marta told him. “But I found her at the hospital and…explained.” She said it in a way that made Matěj want to ask for details about the conversation.
“Wow, it must—”
“Let it go, honey,” Andrea finally intervened, putting her hand gently on Eda’s arm. He squinted at her suspiciously but then shrugged.
“Anyway. I mean Andrea, Lukas here, and Simon know plenty of people all over Prague’s hospitals and university clinics,” he said. “I’m sure between us, we can help Matěj to find at least a temporary contract in surgery. There’s plenty talk about lack of doctors—”
The intake of breath was loud enough to stop Eda mid-sentence. Simon swore quietly and leaned over the counter, nudging the handle above the sink with his elbow. Holding his left thumb with his right hand, he stuck his fingers under the stream.
Matěj stepped closer on instinct and on seeing the blood mixing with the water, he reached for Simon’s hand.
“Show me.”
Keeping his left hand above the sink, Simon released the grip and exposed his thumb. A clean gash appeared; it went from just above the interphalangeal joint to the metacarpophalangeal, and Matěj noticed the white of cartilage for a split second before the wound flooded with blood again.
“That’s at least four stitches,” he said, not looking up. He could feel Simon’s gaze burning into his profile.
He gripped the injured thumb firmly, stopping the blood, and pushed Simon’s hand back under the cold stream. This, he knew. His confusion and helplessness from a moment ago faded.
“We need to compress it before we go to the emergency room. Otherwise he’ll bleed all over someone’s car.”
“Hospital? Again? Jesus fucking Christ, Simon!” Mike spluttered. Simon’s glare should have turned the young man into an ice sculpture, but the Australian only shook his head and added an exasperated laugh.
Matěj deemed it best to ignore the loaded exchange. “Guys, do you have a first-aid kit?”
“Give me a second,” Lucas called, already heading to the hall. He returned in barely twenty seconds during which Matěj did not think about holding Simon’s hand, nor the man’s breath fanning his temple.
He dressed Simon’s thumb perfunctorily, trying to keep the wound closed.
“We’ll never find a cab. It’s Christmas Eve,” Marta said, peeking over Matěj’s shoulder.
“We’ve already drunk three bottles of wine between us. I can’t speak for everyone here, but I’m a little more than tipsy. I can’t drive,” Mike said, rocking on his heels.
“Me neither.” Lukas shook his head. He stared at Matěj as he said it, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. And Matěj realized where this was headed.
“Matěj?” Marta asked. She knew he’d only had that one glass. He didn’t want to drink with Simon present, afraid of what a temporary loss of control could do to him.
“I’ll drive.” His heart hammered in his chest.
Simon still hadn’t said anything.
“Hold it like this,” Matěj instructed, wrapping Simon’s fingers over the gauze. “Squeeze it tight.”
“I have medical training, too, you know,” Simon responded.
Matěj found it wiser not to react.
“I’m coming with you. I know where the Toyota is parked,” Marta decided, and Matěj managed to smile at her gratefully. Like this, Simon might not kill him solely with the power of his mind.
Already in the hall, Lukas dropped the car keys into Matěj’s palm.
“Give him a towel,” Matěj said to Lukas, tying his sneakers. Marta helped Simon into his boots while the man leaned against the door, cradling his hand to his chest. The blood was seeping through the gauze already. Lukas handed Simon a large dark-blue towel just before they closed the apartment door.
“Good luck!” Mike called from the living room. Matěj couldn’t help but smile.
In the small red Toyota, Marta spread the towel over Simon’s knees as he sat on the front passenger seat.
“This is a joke,” Simon muttered.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” Marta smiled ruefully, and kissed his cheek, before she closed the passenger door and jumped into the back seat.
Matěj watched the exchange and caught Simon’s emotionless stare when the man turned his head.
“Are you going to start the car?” he asked, the tone of his voice matching the chilly air in the car. Wordlessly, Matěj looked forward and turned the key.
The ride from Žižkov to Bulovka took barely fifteen minutes. Late at night on the most important Holiday of the year, the streets were mostly empty.
The emergency waiting room at the Hospital Na Bulovce was ridiculously busy in comparison. They found a seat for Simon, but had to stand themselves. There were broken arms and legs, burned hands, and bleeding noses all over the place.
Marta filled the forms for Simon, he signed them and then stared into space, pale and aloof. Matěj rested with his shoulder against the wall next to Simon and watched him openly, his earlier restraint gone. He didn’t care anymore if Simon caught him staring. Why should he? He’d already begged for forgiveness. He was probably going to do it again. Who cared how much he humiliated himself?
He’d expected Simon to look older, but it had only been three years. Simon looked exactly the same—his short buzz-cut hair, his evening stubble, the laughter lines around his broad mouth, the torn earlobe… The green eyes. Matěj used to be fascinated by those eyes. Expressive, intelligent, deep. Now, the strain of pain around them was too distinct. The cut in Simon’s thumb was deep, reaching into the joint. Matěj had to compliment Lukas on the sharpness of his knives.
“You okay?” Matěj asked quietly. He wasn’t sure if the green pallor of Simon’s skin was due to the wall paint and lighting or if Simon was feeling ill.
Simon only nodded and leaned back until his head rested against the wall behind his seat.
“Not nauseous?”
“No.”
That was the last word Simon uttered. For the next half hour, Matěj was pushing the minute hand of the generic white clock with his gaze. Sometimes, Simon opened his eyes and looked around, then he closed them again. He didn’t say a word and didn’t look at Matěj. Marta tried staying busy; she went to the toilet, chatted with a teenager who was waiting for an X-ray of her wrist, bought coffee at the vending machine… Simon and Matěj barely moved.
“Mr. Simon Mráz?” A nurse finally called from the double glass door.
“We’ll wait here,” Marta told Simon as he stood. She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
“How are you?” Marta asked Matěj as soon as the glass door swooshed shut behind Simon and the nurse.
“You’re asking me? Why? The injured man just left that way!”
Marta kept watching him with her head tilted to the side, waiting. He sighed.
“I’m okay,” Matěj mumbled, looking away.
“I’m sorry Simon’s being an ass,” she told him.
“He’s not! He’s just… I understand him.”
“Bullshit. He’s an ass,” Marta hugged Matěj’s shoulders, and he leaned his head on hers, grateful. She was different than he remembered. It was strange.
“He called me after the evening at Dolce Vita,” Matěj told her.
“I know, I made him do it. I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d be so obtuse for so long. He’s more persistent than I thought he’d be.”
“Marta, please, let him be.”
“I see you looking at him, big brother. You’re watching Simon the same way as you used to. You two were always obvious. A few years back, you would have just pushed him against a wall and shut him up.”
“Marta?!” he spluttered.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t pretend otherwise. I knew you. It breaks my heart to see you this insecure all of a sudden. Don’t give up, okay?”
“There’s no fight.”
“Oh, yeah, there is. Our Simon is fighting you with all his might. He’ll exhaust himself, don’t worry.”
“Marta, he doesn’t seem to give a fuck. You saying the opposite is frankly only messing with my head.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just… Gah! You’re both so stubborn. Men!”
“Hey! Stick with your own rules! Suddenly it’s okay to use gender stereotypes? Opportunist!”
She stuck out her tongue at him, and he grinned, the stretch in his cheeks reminding him of how little he smiled these days. Thank God for his sister. It was a grand, marvelous adventure getting to know Marta again. She was stronger, more self-assured, and unafraid to use her intelligence. His kid sister was amazing. And it was very subtle, but he sometimes saw Simon in her—a few mannerisms, a slang word here and there, a phrase Simon used to say. The reminder of their intertwined lives warmed him, and then burned hot in his throat.
“He cares about you,” she added emphatically and caught his hand squeezing gently. Matěj feared it was a lot more wishing than judging correctly on Marta’s part. Still, her insistence helped. Hope. Waiting in an emergency room on Christmas Eve, Matěj let himself think about hope.
Fifteen minutes later the nurse reappeared.
“Is there a Matěj?” she called.
Matěj pushed his stiff back off the wall. “Yes? What’s going on?”
The nurse stepped closer. She was young and pretty, the lack of makeup accentuating her freckled beauty. She also seemed tired and very uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry but Mr. Mráz is having a reaction to the anesthetics. He’s being…difficult,” she explained in a low voice. “He might be calmer if you were present.”
Marta looked at Matěj with wide eyes.
“He asked for you specifically,” the nurse added, her words not matching her expression. Matěj was pretty sure there was more going on than what the nurse said.
“Okay.”
They left the hum of the crowded waiting room behind them as the young nurse led Matěj through the wide corridor toward a brightly lit room with a miscellany of drapes. There were ten beds, most of them occupied, divided only by white curtains. And Simon was noisy.
“Did you find him?” he called out, making the nurse smile apologetically at Matěj.
Oh, God.
Matěj stepped closer to the third curtain and peeked around it. A doctor sat there, his back to Matěj, a small table next to him, holding the basic kit for suture. He turned his head and nodded at Matěj, most of his face hidden behind a mask.
“Good evening,” Matěj mumbled.
“There you are!” Simon exclaimed loudly.
The young doctor winced visibly behind his mask. He turned his attention back to Simon’s hand without a word.
“Hi Simon. How are you?”
“Pfft. It hurt like fuck. I didn’t want to say anything before, but it hurt like fuck.”
“It doesn’t hurt anymore, though?” Matěj tried to talk quietly in hopes Simon might subconsciously mimic him. No such luck.
“No. No. It’s gooood. It’s good,” Simon said, his voice booming through the room.
Matěj turned his gaze to the doctor’s back. “What did you give him?”
“Tramadol.” The young doctor didn’t lift his head, carefully removing the bloodied gauze from Simon’s hand.
“Intravenously? You know he’s had alcohol?”
“Sorry. We had to let him wait for an hour. He seemed to need a break.” The doctor didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Don’t be mean to him,” Simon chimed in loudly. “He gave me the good stuff.” And he chortled. Matěj had never heard Simon laugh like that—a gleeful, childlike sound.
“That’s great. We’ll go home soon.”
Simon shook his head. “Home? I don’t want to go home. There’s nobody there.”
“I meant we can go back to Lukas’s.”
Simon tilted his head to the side, looking at Matěj with surprisingly clear eyes that didn’t match the slur in his voice. “You’re coming with me?”
Be reassuring but neutral. “Yes. I drove you here.”
“I know. I remember,” Simon said slowly, watching Matěj with a small smile. “You’re so beautiful,” he said suddenly.
Matěj felt heat on his neck. He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. This was a disaster. He should call Marta in here instead and leave, right now. “Simon…”
“You are. You look like shit. But you’re so beautiful.”
Oh, God. This is fucked up.
“My beautiful boy.”
“Simon…” Matěj tilted his head meaningfully toward the young doctor currently cleaning Simon’s wound.
“Oh, he doesn’t mind.” Simon grinned and turned to the doctor. “Do you mind?”
“Nope,” the doctor quipped. The mocking was obvious even from that one syllable. Matěj rolled his eyes.
“See, he doesn’t mind! I mean, you’re pretty, too, Doctor. But he is beau-ti-ful,” Simon added cheerfully, pointing his intact hand in Matěj’s direction.
Then Simon squinted and seemed to think hard about something. “You’re coming with me back to Lukas’s?” The slurring was getting worse.
“Yes. I drove you here, remember?”
“I know you drove me here! I’m not stupid.” Simon frowned.
“Yes, I’m coming back with you,” Matěj reassured. He tried to see over the doctor’s shoulder whether the man had finally begun suturing the wound. Matěj wanted to bend down and hug Simon just as much as he wanted to flee and get shit-faced in the closest nonstop bar. He didn’t know if he could stand it for five more minutes. Intoxicated Simon was…adorable. The contrast between the sober Simon from this afternoon and the flirty, joyous, sloppy version was painful.
“Good,” Simon exclaimed loudly and looked at Matěj with an exaggerated frown. “You can’t go away again.”
This can’t get any worse, can it?
“Understand? You can’t go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” And he wasn’t.
“Good. Good.” Simon leaned back and sighed, closing his eyes. “My beautiful boy,” he mumbled and wiggled a little, getting comfortable. “This shit is good. Fuck Cipralex. This shit is great.”
Matěj couldn’t hold it back. He chuckled. “Yeah. I know.”
“Kinda understand the junkies,” Simon continued sleepily with his eyes closed.
“Yeah.”
“My stomach feels a bit iffy. But I don’t care,” he said. Then his eyes popped open again. “Come closer, I want to see you. Sit down. Can he sit down?”
“Yeah, he can sit down. But you have to hold still now, Mr. Mráz,” the doctor told him, finally, finally reaching for the suture kit.
“See, you can sit down. This guy is good at his job. He’s really good. He’s, like, digging into my bare joints, and I can’t feel a thing.”
Matěj stepped closer. He went through possible distractions in his mind, but it was hopeless. Simon said he was beautiful and wasn’t allowed to leave. Matěj wished he could fall to his knees next to the bed and kiss Simon’s hand, scars and blood and all. But Simon was also high as the summer sun at midday.
“Sit down!” Simon repeated, and Matěj saw no other option. He sunk onto the plastic stool next to Simon’s bed. He felt like a character in a reality show; his surroundings, the hospital personnel, the grinning man in the bed in front of him, even the lighting and the typical smells in the air—it all seemed staged, wrong, improbable.
“Lovely, there you go. Now I can see you. Beautiful. You’re coming home with me, right?”
The doctor pulled on the string and tied it. Matěj had to admit, the guy was skilled. With this kind of suture, the scarring would be minimal.
“We’re going back to Lukas’s,” Matěj repeated for what felt like the fifteenth time.
Simon nodded, his head lolling on his shoulders. “Lukas, yes. I know. He’s a pain in the ass. But I love him. Lukas is my best friend.”
“Yeah, I like him too,” Matěj said quietly. The contrast between his low voice and Simon’s loud exclamations only became enhanced.
“But he doesn’t like you. Because you left me.”
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. No. Not now. Please not now.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Why did you leave me?” Simon asked loudly and lifted his head again, staring at Matěj as if he were questioning a student at an exam, mildly curious, serious and calm.
“I didn’t want to,” Matěj said truthfully, because what the heck. Simon was watching him, leaning back until he sunk into the bedding again.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mumbled, his eyes drooping. “My beautiful boy. You can’t go away again.”
“I’m staying,” Matěj whispered hesitantly. It didn’t matter what he said. Chances were that Simon wouldn’t remember this tomorrow.
“Once I dreamt you were dead,” Simon said, this time barely audible. “You were in my bed, and I was so happy to see you again, and you were dead.”
That hurt. Like knife-in-your-stomach hurt. Matěj breathed in and out heavily through his nose, concentrating on the movement of his ribs, the loosening in his belly. He reminded himself Simon was under influence of a significant dose of opioids and alcohol. He focused on the nonsense, the absurdity of Simon’s babbling. But it was of no use. There was a realness in this bizarre conversation that went straight to Matěj’s tear ducts.
“You’re crying? I don’t want you to cry. Don’t cry. See? I’m not crying. He’s not crying. Nobody’s crying.”
Matěj couldn’t help it. He laughed. And sniffled. He wiped his face on his sleeve and realized he was still wearing his parka.
“Don’t cry, beautiful boy, don’t cry.” Simon was finally quiet. He almost whispered. Almost.
“We’re done,” the young doctor announced.
Simon eyed the gauze on his thumb. “He’s good. Would you look at this. So nice and clean. He’s really good. You have a future, kid. You are really, really good.”
The young doctor stood, tugged his mask down, and picked up his tray. He was a baby, not more than twenty-five years old. He smiled gently at Matěj.
“Thank you,” Matěj said earnestly. “And I’m sorry,” he added with a head tilt toward Simon.
One corner of the doctor’s mouth lifted. “Don’t worry about it. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Matěj repeated, but the doctor was already behind the curtain.
Matěj sighed. “C’mon, Simon. Time to go.”
“He did a really good job. Did you thank him?” Simon sat up, swaying back and forth. “I forgot to thank him.”
“Yes. I thanked him.”
“Good. Good.” He nodded, cradling his hurt hand to his chest. He looked like a little boy. “We’re going home?”
“We’re going back to Lukas’s.” Matěj reached for Simon’s arm and tugged him upward. Simon stood and leaned heavily on Matěj’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to go back to Lukas’s. Everybody’s there. I want to go home.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said! I changed my mind. I want to go home.” And the loud Simon was back.
“Okay.”
“You’re coming home with me, right?” Oh, God. He couldn’t possibly be more audible. His voice echoed through the corridors.
“I…”
“You promised you’re not going away again.” They passed two nurses, and the women watched them with wide eyes.
“Okay.” Matěj would agree to anything just to get them out of there as soon as possible.
“Good. We’re going home,” Simon mumbled, stumbling a little and straightening quickly. He walked next to Matěj on slightly steadier feet. “I’m sleepy,” he announced.
“Of course, you are.” They entered the crowded waiting room.
“Marta! We’re going home,” Simon called making Matěj wince again.
Marta stood and stared, and Matěj could read the profanity from her lips even though she remained quiet.
“That’s…good,” she said and looked at Matěj questioningly. Matěj pointed to Simon’s elbow with his free hand, showing an unmistakable gesture representing an injection. Marta’s mouth fell open.
“Yes. I’m hammered. It’s awesome. You should try it,” Simon said, louder still.
Marta’s hand flew to her mouth, and she muffled a laugh. Matěj rolled his eyes, again.
Simon pointed a shaky finger at Marta. “But you’re not coming with us. You’re going back to Lukas and Mike. My boy is coming home with me.”
“Oh, wow,” Marta murmured.
Simon continued toward the exit tugging Matěj with him. “My boy is coming home with me,” he repeated. Matěj could feel Marta behind him. He kept his eyes on the exit sign, ignoring the throngs of people they passed, praying no one recognized Simon.
In the car, Simon was blissfully quiet. The only thing he said was “beautiful” twice while looking out on passing city lights. He seemed to be smiling.
They dropped Marta at Lukas’s—she implored emphatically whether Matěj was okay, but he waved her off. He drove to Simon’s, his heart in his throat. He had maybe one more hour until the effect of the Tramadol abated.
“Simon, we’re here.”
“We’re home?”
“Yes.”
“There’s nobody there.”
Matěj looked up at the five-story house, the lights on in most windows. It was eleven on Christmas Eve. Everybody was at home with their families and friends.
“You’re coming with me?” Simon asked, sounding anxious.
“Yes. I’m coming with you.”
He barely managed to push Simon into the elevator. The man was close to passing out.
“I think I need to go to bed,” he mumbled by the door when Matěj extricated the keys from Simon’s jacket pocket and opened the door.
“I think so, too.”
Simon leaned on the wall in the hall and watched as Matěj tugged his boots off without a word.
“You’re staying?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Matěj said. There was nothing else.
***
Simon fell asleep before Matěj finished tugging his jeans down. Matěj went to the bathroom, took the fastest shower known to man, and used a clean towel from a cupboard—he still knew where things were in this apartment. He put his boxers back on, and the T-shirt he’d had under his button-down. He tried not to dwell on the last time he was here, more than three years ago.
He sat on the couch in the living room. The carpet and glass table were gone; there was just a lamp and empty floor. Wrapped in a fleece blanket, Matěj sat down in the dark, not daring to close his eyes. The events of the night began sinking in, and hope swelled. Amid the chaos, and the let-the-floor-please-swallow-us cringe, there was a future—a shy, anxious one, but young and vital. Simon still cared. Matěj could fight. He would fight.