"I didn't mean for that to happen," he murmured.
"Guess what? It did anyway. And it's your fault," I snarled. "I don't really care right now what you meant to happen, Lucas."
He hung his head, hands folded across his thighs. I could practically see Nameless, see the drooping tail and flattened ears.
"Are you going to try this again?" I asked. He shrugged. "Bullshit, Lucas. I'm done playing games with you."
"No," he whispered. Which, frankly, surprised me into silence for a while. He took a breath like he was going to speak again, then let it out slowly.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Sore," he replied. "I feel stupid."
"Your parents yell at you?"
He shook his head.
"They should have," I told him.
He looked up at the ceiling. "Probably. They're going to put me in a clinic somewhere."
"For this kind of thing."
"I see you spoke with them too."
"You don't take after them, much."
"Nope. I'm a throwback," he said. "My father's father. Musician. Died in a mental institution. Nobody talks about him. I look like him."
"Well, then it must be fate," I drawled. He glanced sidelong at me. "I'm not done being pissed off at you."
"Sorry I bit your hand," he muttered.
"Good. It hurts."
"Well, I am, okay? What do you want me to say?"
"I don't want you to say anything, Lucas, I want you to not have tried to kill yourself yesterday. I want to stop trying to explain to the doctors that the dog bite on my hand came from you."
"Nobody forced you to do it. Nobody wanted you to do it," he added.
"Everyone wanted me to do it but you!"
"You took a poll, did you?"
"For fuck's sake, Lucas."
"I can't be a stray dog all my life," he blurted. "And I can't be a man and know how much better people treat their dogs. I can't live in two worlds and it doesn't matter because either way I don't belong. I don't know what to do."
"You seemed pretty sure of that last – "
"Will you punish me and get it over with already? Either shout at me and finish the job or give up on it. You don't want to play games, don't make snide remarks and then pretend you're trying to help me."
I shut my mouth sharply.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Obviously I can't ask for any favors right now. Can't even kill myself properly. I think maybe I belong in a clinic."
"No you don't. You don't think that."
"No, I don't, but where else am I supposed to go? You want me to thank you for saving me? Thank you, Christopher, I looked death in the face and I didn't want to die after all so thank you, and please feel free to shout at me all you want because I'm still alive to hear it. But there isn't really any place for me in this...this stupid life, either. I don't know. Four walls and tranquilizers three times a day isn't the worst thing that could happen to me."
"Yes, so we've proved."
We were silent for a while.
"They'd take your masks away," I said, and he flinched. "They wouldn't let you make any more. Well, whatever you could manage out of paper and safety scissors."
He snorted.
"Glue sticks if you're really lucky."
"Christopher, that's not nice."
"Of course you'd have to give them to the therapist and he'd tell you what your deep down inner feelings are – "
"Stop it!" he said, around something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.
"Lucas, you used the black crayon again! What have I told you about using the black crayon?" I said in a stern voice, and he covered his face with his hands and whimpered with laughter. After a few seconds he bumped his shoulder against mine, then leaned harder, letting me take some of his weight.
"What am I going to do with you?" I asked, when the laughter subsided.
"It's more what I'm going to do with myself."
"Lucas, you – "
"No!" he said, looking up at me, distressed. "I didn't mean – just – I don't know where to go, Christopher. I don't know how to fix it."
"Well, we're going to have to break you out of this joint anyway, huh? Not doing you any good sulking here," I said.
"I don't suppose you brought the mask," he said sheepishly.
"I had other things on my mind at the time," I remarked. "Besides, I didn't see it. I thought you might've destroyed it."
"I couldn't do that," he said. "It'd be like drowning a pet."
I lifted an eyebrow at him. He sighed.
"You can just sign yourself out, you know," I said. "You don't have to wait for your parents to decide what they're going to do with you."
"Well," Lucas said doubtfully. "It's just...I don't know where my pants are, for one thing."
I was trying to think of a way to reply to that when there was a soft knock on the door, and Marjorie looked in.
"Good morning, Christopher," she said, as calm and collected as if she were greeting a patron in a shop. "And you must be Lucas."
Lucas glanced at me, anxious, confused.
"Lucas, this is Marjorie, she's an old friend – helped me buy your book for you. Marjorie, this is Lucas."
He offered his hand silently, and she took it. Marjorie has a firm handshake – I could see him wince a little.
"I didn't know how long you boys were likely to hang around this edifice of disease and death, but I thought I'd see how you were," she said. "See if you wanted anything other than Plato. From what Christopher's told me, you have a unique taste in literature, Lucas."