CRACKS IN HIS MASK

Images of a burning factory came to mind. Of dying men—American and Russian—shrieking in agony and choking on soot came from all conceivable directions. As he dragged them both from under all the violence, he cradled a small boy in his arms. 

From somewhere behind them, Cifer was screaming himself raw. 

…

Matt didn't know when it happened, but he'd bolted from the balcony and into the bathroom. The man slammed it shut and fell to his knees, jarring his surprisingly not as painful injuries. Actually, his whole body hurt considerably less. White knuckles clung to cold porcelain while he stared at his own reflection in the mirror.

Fuck. There was a sharp, black vein going up the left tide of his neck. And he only just now realized he'd allowed Cifer to parade him through the streets without his jacket to cover his now almost fully deflated knot. 

Ugh. So fucking embarrassing. Unsteady digits furiously jammed themselves under his nose to scratch at it; this place was making him itchy. It had to be dusty or something. Messily, he flipped on the tap; Matt ran his hands under the ice-cold water and threw it over his face. There was a shake to his muscles that encompassed his entire body as he started the process of roughly peeling out of his clothes and kicking off his boots. 

Cifer sure knew how to kill a conversation. 

Fwump.

His shirt hit the ground. Then his belt clattered, and his pants soon followed. The rest absconded easily enough. Matt couldn't stop himself from ripping all the bandages he had on his body off—he was too hot. It was muggy here, or something. Whatever it was, it's uncomfortable beyond belief. However, as he finished yanking everything off his arms and legs, Matt's movements slowed and became deliberate. 

His wounds had almost vanished completely. How the fuck did…? No, the doctor in the hazmat suit wasn't that good of a healer. Two possibilities remained—either Cifer paid a supe healer to treat him while unconscious, or Iosif intervened. Glowering with a vengeance at the mirror, Matt pulled himself away and stomped to the shower. 

The bathroom was spacious; he'd give them that. The bathroom featured an open concept, a reinforced toilet, and a large, industrial-size porcelain sink—or maybe it's made of something stronger, as he wasn't a construction worker. Either way, it was a free-standing sink without pipes. Had to be more of this freaky pocket shit.

But the wall. 

A wall that was simply a mirror held the sink. The entire thing, mind you—the mirror extended into the open shower space, too. There wasn't anything like a shower door or glass to prevent water from splashing around. The place had tiles and drains everywhere. 

Probably so guys could drag their suits in here and try to spray off the blood. And the guts.

Whatever. Matt made his way over to the shower and deliberately faced it. The wall on his left was just tiles, and to the right, that stupid mirror. 

SHHHHHHHHHAAAA—

Cold water shocked him back into his own skin. Relief flooded his veins before he could think. For a few precious moments, Mattias could shower by himself. It was unadulterated bliss, and he scrambled to grab the soap so he could wash himself for once.

The door swung open. The sound he made was probably overdramatic, but he made it all the same. Didn't stop the guy from entering, though. The dick.

"... You're my prisoner. You don't get fucking privacy, genius."

"I noticed," Matt's hand pressed against the cold tiles whilst his body slumped, "what the fuck do you even want?"

"Your meds, dumbass."

It's Matt's turn to be weary of his own anger, he guessed. "You get someone to heal me?"

"Yeah. Did it finally kick in?"

Matt hummed, holding out one of his arms for display. Faint splotches of red were all that remained of his burned stripes. Of course, there wasn't any sign of lasting damage—people don't scar. That still begged the question of how the hell Cifer had developed one. Even when Cifer had showered him before, he'd always done it with some kind of shirt on, or an open coat that was covering his back.

Now that he was thinking about it, the drugs likely prevented him from realizing how strange it was for a man to wear clothes in the shower while scrubbing some other dude.

"Good. Come here."

"I'm busy." Matt's body shifted under the spray as he brought the outstretched hand up to gather under the water instead. 

Too-heavy boots thunked against the tiles as Cifer approached. "Your neck looks like shit. Take them now."

"... My dialysis usually lasts longer than this," he said, temporarily pushing himself away from the shower to turn and face Cifer. 

"It's the Cradle. Anywhere that's a pocket, I guess. It fucks with the Rot." 

Soft fur hitting the wet tiles drew Matt's gaze to Cifer properly. His next question retreated back inside his body and went south. "Put your clothes back on. I can shower by myself—"

"I feel gross." Cifer's hands shifted to his belt after he tossed a bottle of massive pills Matt's way. 

"So? Why can't you shower once I'm done?" his fingers curled around the bottle, rattling it loudly when he did. It felt good to have strength back in his arms enough to catch something without missing. Hitting someone with your fists is decidedly not as difficult when said fists are massive. 

It was also nice not to be hopped up on pain meds for his burned limbs anymore. But that didn't mean he wanted a naked alpha showering with him.

"I want to get some sleep before I head out to Kvasov's place, and I'd rather not do it gross." 

Ah, right—

"Damn. When are we leaving?"

"Fuckin', I'm leaving twenty to nine. You're staying your entire ass here."

For a moment, Matt almost wanted to protest. Then he recalled how uncomfortable that man's behavior made him feel, and he shut his trap. "Sure. You gonna be good going by yourself? What about your guards?"

"Don't need 'em."

"Cocky."

"Iosif is my friend."

"Oh, bullshit!" it twisted open easily enough, "you fucking hate that guy. I can see it in your eyes. Much as you want to pretend we didn't grow up together, we did."

He tapped out a veritable horse pill into his hand.

Cifer choked on himself again, but this time, it was less intense than the last. 

Matt was mid dry-popping a pill when he caught sight of it, so he froze with it poised on his palm. "Why can't you say things sometimes?"

Cifer's eyes went wide, and several things happened at once. Cifer's boots flew off, sending his pants to the ground. For some unnecessary reason, Cifer wasn't wearing anything underneath. Bastard was on Matt in an instant, his hand raised under Matt's and forced the pill into his mouth. 

The smaller alpha's face screwed up as Cifer pressed both their hands tight, covering his lips and silencing him. He swallowed the pill—with a painful amount of difficulty, mind you—in order not to choke on Cifers whole audacity. Brows tilted down so he could stab Cifer with a sharp look of his dark eyes, but what he saw softened them again. 

Hope.

Raw, silent elation, pleading through soft, pale blues so beautiful, Matt forgot what else he was supposed to be looking at. However, that glassy, dead look swept anything he may have seen away like a tsunami of monotony. 

However, just as quickly as that arrived, it shifted into something else. Loathing and disgust made Cifer turn his nose up at him as the hand around Matt's mouth squeezed to where he heard something crack and fire blossomed in his jaw. 

"Why the fuck are you always talking? God, you're so annoying."

Cifer's scent spiked with that burned scent again. What did Matt do to piss him off this time? Cifer was speaking Russian again, too. That hand on him forced him back so hard, he stumbled under the unforgiving, now hot spray of the shower. Sputtering and furious himself, Matt turned his face away from the spray and swiped his face so he could breathe. 

"Turn around."

Matt didn't want to. The alpha in him bristled at the challenge—

"Now."

No! That abyssal, rumbling snarl seized him up again. He wasn't some omega, so it didn't compel him to follow the other man's orders, but it stunned him enough that Cifer could work his way into the shower to turn him around himself. 

"Hands against the wall."

Matt was about to ask if this was a prison or something, but then he realized the answer was yes. Steadying himself and leaning forward so his head wasn't constantly under the spray of water, Matt placed both his hands against the cold tiles to think. 

Cifer was inexplicably in one of his explosive moods again. He had to decide—either he could take his chances by stunning the bastard under a spray of freezing water and bolting out of the room, or he could comply and see if that soothed his irrational rage. 

Bolting gave him the chance to go after the card. He might even lock Cifer in here for a while. But it also ran the risk of making everything—absolutely fucking everything—ten million times worse. 

With Cifer getting himself inside Matt's bubble enough that the alpha in him puffed up his chest and set his jaw, he probably had about thirty seconds to make his choice before Cifer made it for him.