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Its been a while since Orpheus beat him to within an inch of his life. A while since Orpheus dragged him out of that hut and into his home. Since he nursed him back to health and cared for him.
They exist together. They don’t talk. They don’t exchange pleasantries. They don’t discuss who lived and who died. They go through the motions. They sit together. They sleep together. Norton thinks it’s Orpheus’ way of helping him, not leaving him alone. Norton appreciates it, even if it doesn’t work.
He has these dreams. Dreams about that day. About before. About his life in the caves. Sometimes they’re pleasant. They’re mostly not. Orpheus is in most of them. His partner in life and death, arousal and slumber. Before and after. He clings to Norton like a ghost. He doesn’t ever do much except exist in the background.
Tonight he’s active. Norton had climbed into bed next to Orpheus and found drifting asleep easy. He expects to see Orpheus somewhere in a crowd. In the corner of the room. Tonight he’s in front of him.
Norton can’t move. Orpheus towers over him. Expressionless. He holds pliers. He’s wearing his stupid white jacket. His white pants. His blue tie. He’s donning a mask Norton has never seen him wear.
His mouth has to be open because he can feel Orpheus moving around, prodding at his teeth. He makes no noise when he presses the open pliers against one of Norton’s molars and pulls. He makes no comment when Norton screams. He pulls the tooth and Nortons mouth immediately fills with blood. He can’t breathe. It flows down his throat. It coats Orpheus’ white gloves. Orpheus simply stares before setting the tooth down somewhere out of sight. He goes back in.
If he could move his hands he would. He wants to yank Orpheus’ hand out of his mouth. Get rid of those pliers. He needs to get the blood out of his mouth. He knows Orpheus will stitch him up, that he’ll care for him. In order for him to do that though, he needs to snap out of whatever trance he is in. This trance that makes him hurt Norton over and over again.
Norton is lost in thought when Orpheus pulls a second tooth. He can hear himself screaming. His throat is growing scratchy. His voice is giving out. He knows he can’t scream forever. He knows it won’t persuade Orpheus to stop. He does it anyways. To give himself something to do.
It continues like that. Orpheus will pull a tooth, and Nortons mouth will fill further with blood. Orpheus will repeat it fourteen more times before he stops. Before his gloves are doused in Nortons blood and Norton’s tongue moves along the empty grooves of his mouth. His eyes are full of tears while he looks at Orpheus. He’s scared. He’s hurt. He wants so badly to believe that someone who just started caring for him wouldn’t hurt him. Wouldn’t extract his teeth one by one with a negligence for any proper medical etiquette. Orpheus has to know theres etiquette to these things, surely.
He doesn’t move, can’t move, when Orpheus brings his bloody hand to his mask. When he strips himself of it. He is smiling down at Norton. Norton knows he’s content in this moment. He isn’t bothered by the blood pouring out of Norton’s mouth or the teeth missing. He leans down, holding eye contact with Norton. For a moment Norton thinks he’ll kiss him. He doesn’t. He presses his forehead to his and smiles. He moves his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Norton doesn’t catch it.
He wakes. He’s sitting up before he knows it. His teeth are all there. He runs his tongue across them, confirming their placement, their belonging. He turns his head, peers at Orpheus. He’s sleeping. Content. Smiling. He hasn’t and can’t hurt Norton. It makes Norton smile. He knows Orpheus will hurt him again. But not right now. Not in this moment.