He fans his fingers through the slight, styled wave he has on top, and then jabs at my chest. “You’re right. You didn’t say anything. You let me leave.” He scowls at me, bringing my shame to light. “I deserve better from you.”
I shove my hands in the pockets of my worn jeans. “You’re right. The couch is yours, no questions asked. For however long you need it.”
Avet exhales, his anger going out of him in a gust, replaced with sheer vulnerability he doesn’t often parade around. “Good. Because I’m really up a creek this time, Keran. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
I roll my eyes, now that his fight has dissipated. “Really? You hide it so well.” I rub my cheek. “You really got me good.”
“Did I?” He peels off the gray shirt he took from my drawer (which now sports a crimson stain on the shoulder) and tosses it on the floor beside the couch. “Maybe you should take some Aspirin.”
I grant him a glimpse of my middle finger, to which he grins. “Welcome home, dummy.”
“Thanks, bunny rabbit.”
I cringe. “I always hated when you called me that.”
Avet kicks his shoes off haphazardly, not even bothering to line them up near the front door. “I know.” He motions around to the rest of the apartment. “Brew kit,” he reminds me. “If I’m going to take up space on your couch for a while, I’ll return the favor by granting you a few nights of dreamless sleep.”
I am far from rest right now, which means the visions won’t come, but eventually, I will need to sleep. “Cheers, Avet. I could use some rest. It’s been a while.”
“Couldn’t tell by the homeless look about you.” He glances around my house as if seeing the details for the first time. “I can’t believe you live in a neighborhood. So weird.”
“Actually, it’s normal.”
“That’s what’s so weird about it. Never guessed normal would be in the cards for either one of us. Yet here you are, living the dream.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or giving me a compliment.
I go to the hallway cupboard and yank out an extra blanket I don’t care about. “Don’t bleed on the couch,” I warn him, tossing the thing his way.
“Sure. I wouldn’t want to add one more stain to the mix. What color is this exactly? Puke green?”
“Yes, I believe that’s what the interior designer told me it was. Puke green.” I rummage through and find another blanket because the front room can be drafty. “I don’t care what color it is; I care that it’s a comfortable place to sit, and it doesn’t have blood on it.”
“Yet.”
I move into my bedroom and fish out pajama pants and a hoodie for him, along with clean socks. “Here,” I say as I make my way back to him. “Clean clothes. When was the last time you ate?”
Avet offers up a one-armed shrug. “When was yesterday? Maybe two yesterdays ago?” He bats his lashes at me. “Are you going to take care of me, Keran?”
“I’m going to make sure you don’t die on my sofa. People crap themselves when they die. I prefer my couch puke green without brown stains on it.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Only blood stains are allowed on Keran’s beautiful couch.”
I grumble as I move to the fridge, pulling out the bagged salad I bought yesterday and dumping it into two bowls. I can usually polish off the whole thing throughout the day, but half a salad at whatever ungodly time of the not-quite-morning it is will work just fine.
I stick a fork in each one after it’s assembled and pour two tall glasses of ice water. When I set the food and drinks at the table, Avet looks at me appraisingly. “When did you get fancy?”
I frown at the food, a protest on my lips. But then I remember the convenience store garbage we used to live on. “I mean, it’s no vending machine feast, but if his majesty will deign to eat with me, you might find you don’t mind food that is still food and hasn’t been processed to death.”
Avet sits down, looking simultaneously curious and petulant. “It smells weird.”
“It’s poppyseed dressing.”
“Why?”
I sigh, knowing Avet is always most annoying when he’s either bored or he’s in pain. Being that his wound is still fresh, I’m guessing he wishes he wasn’t too prideful to ask for the mild pain reliever I keep in the medicine cabinet.
“Eat your salad,” I mutter, stabbing at my meal.