#spichka | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zapphattack · 2 years ago

Text

Abandoned: "Pain & Pleasure" - Continuation

warning for mentions of wounds, surgical procedure, death and all that shit. this is being deleted on my drive because i don't care to continue this fic anymore

Notkin awoke to voices and the sound of shifting grass and singing crickets. He cracked an eye open only to be assaulted by the light of a lamp swaying with the movements of whoever held it. He groaned and closed his eyes once more, shifting a little and wondering what was restricting his movements.

“Shush, you two, he’s waking up.” A low voice rumbled from above him, and he could feel the thrum of it on his side, where warmth radiated. He discerned very astutely that he was being carried bridal style by Artemy Burakh, the slight sway indicating not only that he was walking but also that the man was indeed goddamn strong. He was a growing boy, so it wasn’t as if his weight was negligible, yet the menkhu gave no indication in his hold or gait that the added weight mattered at all. “Notkin, stay awake, for Boddho’s sake. It’s better not to risk sleeping.”

He opened his eyes hesitantly again, feeling sore and groggy. “You’re so fucking lucky, Khan. We’d be right to just kill you on the spot.” The voice sounded like Sticky, coming from near Notkin’s feet, where he could see the top of his friend’s head bob as he walked. “I mean, even if he lives, you fucked up so bad, you should be thankful if you only end up getting lynched.”

“Spichka, settle down. I’m sure it’s more complex than that.” The sky was still dark, and the air felt like the steppe, but Notkin imagined they were close to the lair. “If we were going strictly by what’s right or not, I should also be executed.” He was sure Burakh thought he sounded very reasonable, but it was hardly a convincing platitude.

A third voice had Notkin jolting in Burakh’s hold. “I don’t need to be defended, least of all by you.” Notkin couldn’t see Khan, as he was walking on the other side of Burakh, behind his head, but he did catch the man frowning at the words. “And I’m sure you’d love to be rid of me for your convenience, Sticky, but I’m afraid your personal grudge against me isn’t reason enough not to hear what happened.”

“By all means, Khan, explain in depth what possible excuse you have for trying to kill someone.” The lamplight dimmed, presumably because Khan held the lamp and shifted his position to glare at Sticky. “What’re you gonna do, stab me too? Fuck off.”

“Boys, you’re giving me a headache.” Burakh grumbled, looking down at Notkin. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” He held back from saying he was really fighting the impulse to poke his wound again. The man looked ahead but tapped a finger on Notkin, clearly wanting him to elaborate. “In Khan’s defense, I did ask for it.”

“You mean you provoked him?” Sticky piped up, clearly feeling his righteous rage was justified. “Just because you can be annoying doesn’t give him a free pass to stab you.”

“Listen here, you nosy brat-” Notkin decided to cut Khan off for his own sake. Abrasiveness did not a serene environment make.

“I literally asked him to stab me. It’s fine.” The resulting silence was deafening. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not a problem.” He gave into the impulse and poked the hole in his side, slightly fascinated by how warm the metal of the shiv was, as if it drained his own heat. The flesh around it throbbed.

“Unbelievable.” Sticky grunted before presumably striding ahead to avoid them, his footsteps growing faster and more distant.

Burakh sighed, looking weary beyond his years. “I hoped our conversation was purely hypothetical, but I guess I should’ve expected you to be, above all, impulsive.” He tilted his head to the left, facing Khan. “Although I never would’ve expected you to go along with something so blatantly foolish, Caspar.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” Notkin could imagine him bristling.

The doctor stood before the lair for a moment. “I will treat you like a child as long as you behave irresponsibly like one.” The door was opened for them, presumably by Sticky, and they walked inside. “Oh, Miskha, you’re here.”

Murky’s small voice almost sounded like it came from below Notkin. “Aba, I’m sleepy.” He felt a light tug on his jacket. “Is he dead?”

Notkin coughed out a painful laugh. “Not yet, kid. Maybe next time.”

Burakh pinched him and grumbled. “There won't be a next time if I have anything to say about it…” He spoke up with authority summoned from a wellspring in his soul. “Mishka, I know it's late, but could you please go home? Have Sticky take you.”

“You don't have to tell me twice.” Sticky said, apparently forgoing pretending they didn't exist and mutinously stomping up the stairs and taking Murky's hand. “I cleared the table for you, Burakh. Good luck.” Sticky looked at Notkin with a mixture of anger, concern and resignation. “Get well soon.”

“Aw, thanks, Sticky.” Notkin pretended he had been addressed with a small modicum of sincerity. “G’night, Murky. Sorry I stole your dad for tonight.”

The girl looked unbothered besides the sleepiness in her eyes. “You need him more than I do.” She said, voice small but sharp, eerily similar to Sticky's annoyed inflection. They truly were quite the pair of siblings.

Khan stayed quiet for the whole exchange, and Notkin was slightly forlorn at not being able to see him clearly from the angle he was held. When the two orphans exited the lair, Artemy sighed and walked down to his little workshop/operating room, settling Notkin on the stone operating table. “I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do, Khan. Although I doubt you'd listen to me either way, you're free to go home. We'll talk about this later, and don't think I won't go to your family with this if you avoid me.”

The boy in question stood proudly, leaned against the wall and looked directly at Notkin as he replied. “I want to stay and watch.” His voice was even, albeit tinged with a bit too much vehemence to be considered adequate. Notkin's blood burned and his nerves flared as he considered he was being looked at like a particularly vulnerable beast of prey presented before a ravenous tiger.

Burakh was readying tools on his workbench, back turned to them and in complete ignorance to the heated exchange of stares they were partaking in. “This isn't a show, Khan. Your family must be worried. Go home.”

Notkin barked a laugh. “Do you hear yourself, old man? Khan doesn't give a rat’s ass what his loving family thinks. He hasn't been home in years, you know. He's as good as dead, where his dad's concerned.” He was sticking needles to see what hurt, watching his rival's muscles tense, his fingers tighten, his nostrils flare, his jaw clench.

“The Polyhedron in my home.” He gritted out, finally breaking eye contact to glare at Burakh. “Not that it's any of your business, much less my father's. I'm staying.”

The man turned back to them, eyes flicking from one to the other with a kind of exhaustion he seemed to always carry. Notkin could tell, he was a tired man; strong, but gentle, a bull whose yoke bore too tight and too heavy for too long. “I'm not unused to working with an audience, given my more ritualistic work. Still, I'd rather not have to worry what your reaction will be.”

Khan scoffed and stood straight, hands in his pockets. “I'm familiar with violence, Burakh. No need to coddle, especially those not under your jurisdiction.”

“See, you calling it violence just tells me you haven't the slightest clue what you're getting yourself into. Surgery is not violence. Being able to stomach blood doesn't necessarily translate to being at ease watching surgical procedures, else women would easily be the more skilled surgeons.” He spoke evenly as he put on gloves and tugged his sleeves up, forearms toned and scarred.

Notkin looked between his two present companions with words sitting on the tip of his tongue until he finally spoke them, just to have a say. “If it's up to me, he can stay. It's only fair he gets to see the damage he did.” He grinned with confidence he did not feel, focusing on taking his jacket off his shoulders to distract from the discerning looks he received both ways.

“Don't encourage him.” Burakh said, at the same time as Khan hissed: “Your opinion hardly matters.” They looked at each other as if they had a lot of words to say but little desire to start this conversation.

Burakh sighed with great weariness, seemingly reticent to give in his stance and essentially concede to Khan, which was fair. Khan had the effect of maintaining persistence while effortlessly chipping at his opponent's own resolve, all the while making it crystal clear that if he was given an inch, he'd ruthlessly take a mile. The man pointedly looked at Notkin before pointing to the boy's feet and gesturing at the table, so he obeyed and turned his hips to sit on the operating table the right way, resting his elbows on his knees.

Metal clinked from Burakh’s workbench behind Notkin, who resolutely avoided meeting Khan's eyes boring into the side of his head. “If you insist on staying, make yourself useful, Khan.” The man sounded thoroughly exhausted, which was fair, given that he was woken up in the middle of the night to treat an entirely avoidable but possibly lethal wound. “Notkin, lay down. Khan, fetch me a bottle of antibiotics. The small glass vial with orange liquid will do, it has a drawing in the shape of a drop on the label.”

He could lay down, but his abdomen hurt with the throbbing of his bleeding wound, and he was interested in watching Khan when his back turned, if only to unsettle him; a reversal of action, if you will. His rival walked languidly to the bench near the machinery opposite Burakh, the name of which he couldn't hope to recall. It was funny to see him ponder the tools of a menkhu’s trade, even from the back; his head tilted slightly, and he raised his left hand to his face, probably tapping his curled pointer finger against his lip in thought.

Khan's posture was always stiff in a formal way, not uncomfortable, but certainly posing an air of superiority; it rarely changed drastically, but shifts in the way his spine settled could tell a lot about his thoughts. Pondering the lair, he bore his weight on his right leg, tapping the heel of his left boot on the stone ground as well as his right pointer finger against his left bicep. The Kain boy was examining the machines and bundles of dried herbs as if they'd tell him something about the practice of medicine, a detached sort of clinical examination, as if he'd be mildly interested in unraveling the skill for himself. Notkin didn't know if he should be frightened to imagine Khan was more than capable of learning medicine if he saw fit to try.

Too bad Khan wasn't applied enough for such things.

The boy in question turned, taking the requested vial off the table with a sweep of his arm, almost as if it were an afterthought. He approached Notkin and tapped his nail on the glass, eyes tired but vigilant. “Drink. Doctor's orders.”

“Too bad I don't follow orders anymore.” When his response was met with narrowed eyes he continued. “I wonder whose fault that is, eh?”

Khan clicked his tongue irately, setting the flask down hard enough to convey irritation, but softly enough not to be chastised for it. “Fine. If you intend to make pain and infection an accomplishment, who am I to take it away once I give it to you?”

He drew close, their stares unbroken as Khan rested the tips of five fingers on Notkin's chest with force, pushing him back until he gave into the pressure and laid down, looking up at Khan. “Stay down. Play dead.” His pinky drifted to hover over the open wound, slowly lowering to enter his flesh shallowly, flaring the pain to a wildfire. Notkin drew a sharp breath only to let it go through his clenched teeth, eyes closing. “Good dog.”

A cough rang out from Artemy's general vicinity, startling Notkin and making Khan tense, consequently shooting another flare of fresh pain through the Soul-and-a-Half’s core with an aborted groan. “Caspar Kain, I realize you've grown used to saying and doing what you want, which is, I'd wager, a hereditary trait from your mother's side, but I want to make something very clear…” Notkin felt Khan retreat, taking back his hand and leaving invisible prints on his skin. Burakh approached and took the boy's hand, one finger stained with fresh blood; he looked stern, more so than expected for someone with the heart of a bull. He was showing his horns, figuratively. “I will not tolerate your rancid behavior. Not in my presence, and certainly not when it's directed at someone under my protection. You want to forfeit your place under my watch, fine. From now on, you're at best a nuisance, and at worst a threat.”

Khan seemed impassive, but the subtle twitch of his nostril and his widened eyes gave away how startled he was. His posture stiffened, as if someone had stuck a pin in the base of his spine, his shoulders tightening and his hands clenching. The Doghead leader was surprised and afraid, but when he spoke, a thick undercurrent of wondrous bafflement tinged his voice. “...I didn't think you had it in you, Burakh. I suppose my assessment of your temperament was wrong, you're hardly a soft-hearted pushover wearing a bull’s skull.” His frigid eyes were calculating as they roamed over the man. “I'll behave.”

Something about the docility of his tone sent shivers up and down Notkin's spine. He'd never seen Khan so submissive and pliant; it felt like a particularly hazy fever dream. It reminded Notkin of a cat picked up by the scruff of its neck. The satisfaction he felt at the sight was dampened by Burakh’s gaze pinning him. “And you don’t have the luxury of vetoing treatment. Take the antibiotics, Notkin.”

“...Can I opt out of the painkillers, though?” He felt the pressure on him double as Khan, previously looking away in chastised shame, turned to him with entirely too much discernment behind his eyes. Paired with Burakh’s waning patience, Notkin figured it was only a matter of time until someone in the room snapped, himself included.

#ZapphAtext #pathologic #pathologic fanfiction #pathologic khan #pathologic notkin #khotkin #khan #notkin

1 note · View note