Page 80 of The Idol

I stood silently in the doorway of Elior’s bedroom, taking a second to look at him without him knowing. He lay on his stomach, face towards the wall. The thin blanket had beenpushed down to his waist, and his shirt taken off. His back was a mess of swollen lines and purpling welts.

“Hey, cherub,” I murmured, closing the door behind me.

Elior turned his head and gave me a timid smile, the kind that tried too hard to pretend everything wasn’t awful. “Hi.”

I pulled the desk chair next to the bed, setting down the bowl of warm water and salve I’d heated up in his small kitchen.

He looked at the materials with hesitation. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” I cut in, sitting down. “I do. We can’t let this get infected, baby.”

I wrung out the cloth and touched it to his skin. He shuddered.

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I trust you.”

I cleaned the dried blood from the highest lash mark. He made a small sound, swallowed it, then pretended nothing had happened. My hand paused.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

He gave me a little nod. “It just… stings a little.”

I pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his head, then smoothed his hair down. His wide eyes peeked up at me through his lashes before skittering away when he realized I’d seen him looking.

I smiled to myself, then continued, minutes passing in soft hisses of breath from me tending to him. When the last of the welts was cleaned, I dipped two fingers into the salve and began smoothing it along the angriest lines. His shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself small, but my brave boy didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t until I reached the lowest stripe, near the curve of his ribs, that I spoke. “I was thinking about my mom today.”

“Oh, why? Do you miss her?” Elior asked, concerned but curious. After all, I hadn’t talked much about myself during my time in the compound.

“Maybe. I saw a mom with her kid earlier, and it just made me think of her. We weren’t a touchy-feely kind of family. I think sometimes I wish things had gone differently,” I said, not lying, exactly, but exaggerating my feelings to relate to him. It was more than a little obvious he was touch-starved.

Elior hummed sadly, brows drawn together. “I’m sorry. Maybe you could bring her here? I’m sure Father would welcome her.”

“I would if I could, but she’s been gone for a long time.”

“She’s in Heaven?”

I nodded, looking down at him. “Pancreatic cancer. It at least took her fast.”

Elior’s expression folded, all quiet sympathy and earnest grief on my behalf. He really felt things too deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Me too.”

I smoothed another stripe of salve over the welt near his ribs, trying to keep my touch steady.

“Losing a parent… it sticks with you. Even if you didn’t know them as well as you wanted to,” I said.

“Mm.” He shifted minutely under my hand—just enough to tell me he was listening, not enough to cause more pain.

I let the silence breathe a little, then softly, asked, “You ever think about yours?”

Elior’s breath hitched like he was surprised to be asked about her. He hesitated before answering, “I… don’t know much about my mom.”

I kept my eyes on his back, giving him space. “Nothing?”