Sasha flipped his hair from his eyes and mumbled softly to himself about getting the constantly in disarray locks cut. It made bending over charts, peering at black and green displays, all the harder. Still, some of the older ladies, they thought it was cute. It reminded them of grandsons, and happier times spent far away from the cold hospital rooms where they resided for now. That was what stopped the young man from changing his shoulder length, straight as a pin, near white hair.

It made him blend in well with the sterile white walls. He glanced at his watch and let his fingers fly down to adjust his blue scrubs, shirt and pants both, before leaving for his appointment. This was the main part of the building, dedicated to the patients who weren't destined to stay long in the hospital, for whatever reason.

He walked through the warmly decorated natal care area, smiling when he passed the newborns in their cribs, surrounded by welcoming yellow walls. And then he was moving into the long term care facilities, towards the far back. He was intrigued, nervous, with this newest assignment of his. Things couldn't be so bad as he'd been told when he'd been practicing with the physical therapist, could they?

When he stepped through the wooden door into the series of rooms set aside for this patient and his caretaker, Sasha, he had to remind himself that what he'd been told wasn't the patient's fault. When the blue eyed man stepped into the patient's room, he had to fight hard not to gag, to show any kind of adverse reaction to what he saw exposed as doctors and physical therapists made a last check up before leaving him in Sasha's care.

Why did they always have to poke and prod and buzz around him as if flies? Flies, like that which congregated around the dead, the disgusting. But that was what he felt when he saw his legs. Terrible. So terrible... Why didn't they cut those cursed legs off and be done with it? He wouldn't be in such pain then. They'd set up his bed, and forced him to stay upright while they uncovered the limbs. He could move them on his own, but didn't want to bother. It hurt too much to do that. When they made him watch as needles were pressed into the skin, when hands went over the surface, it just seemed to add insult to injury. The bolts his past tormentors had decided to make exposed looked so horrible. But they were actually expertly placed and clean. They'd been drilled into his bone, set in place with metal inside his legs that had been inserted through deep incisions that had left scars only the blind would miss along the outside of both legs, between the bolts that were in his hips, knees, and ankles. The weight-bearing joints, those.

He winced and moaned, the pain making him feel ill though he'd been dealing with it for the past several years before. He shook his head, closing his eyes, but it didn't do much to stop the flow of tears. It seemed his eyes were never dry now, the desperate agony---or the crippling depression that came from the cocktail of painkillers---keeping them flowing as effortlessly as the Amazon river. They didn't numb his legs specifically, though---they thought it would take away too much pain and make the after effects even worse to deal with. But Mikey---his full name Michael Telvanni---couldn't contemplate a worse feeling than this.

He would have liked nothing more than to curl into a ball, but they wouldn't let him. The fiery, full-body pain wouldn't let him either. It didn't register in Mikey's head that the door had opened, that someone was around. His shadowed hazel eyes were squeezed tightly closed until his thin pair of roomy pant legs had been pulled gently over his legs. Finally... Maybe he could be left alone now... He panted heavily, urging down the sick feeling and cradling his head in his hands as the group around him began to disperse. His amber-blonde hair obscured the room, its various doors and the machines nearby. Though his hair had a limp, ashy tone with his time inside.

He gulped his own bile down, and felt an urge to help ease his patient's pain rise within him. It was the whole reason why he'd become what he was, a student in medicine. Sasha had always wanted to help others, and this was the best way he'd been able to think of. So now he stepped forward, glanced down at the clipboard hanging from the other man's bed. The amount of painkillers made him wince. Oh no wonder the man cried, what pain and emotional turmoil must he have been going through, and for so long if the scars were anything to go by?

For a few moments, Sasha left the room. He boiled water, and then poured it into a bowl. The sun bronzed man stepped into the room again, and settled down upon the bed by Michael's side. Gently, he dipped the cloth in water and began to wash the other man's exposed legs. He had needed to push up the pant legs again, to show once more those ugly scars and shiny metal bolts. Even so, Sasha knew the warm water would help ease some of the pain, if only temporarily.

"My name is Sasha. I'm an intern here, at the hospital. I hope we'll get along, you'll be seeing a lot of me.. Since I'll be living in these rooms, so I can take care of you." He took a moment to turn away from his task and send the other man a kind smile. Sasha felt protective already, and his heart ached for his charge. The stories he'd heard ... They were so horrible!

It still took a moment after the others had left to acknowledge that someone hadn't followed their lead. He pulled his head up, sniffing deeply and clearing his throat. Who was that...? He'd never seen the person before, pale hair, almost white, skin that obviously spent a lot of time in the sun. But he couldn't see the man's eyes well. They were obscured, or downturned. Or too blurry. Despite the way the pain radiated to every cell of his body, Mikey brought up his hands to wipe his eyes clear. He was going to speak when the stranger returned, but his voice caught in his throat before he managed to react---and try to inch away somehow. No more touching, he didn't want anyone near his legs. Luckily that was all that had been manipulated before he'd been found. If his captors had gotten any further... No, he didn't like to think of that. So he closed his eyes hard again, burrowing his hands into the side of the bed with tight fists.

But he managed to keep his eyes open when the newcomer spoke. Despite his tendency to give in to his pain, Mikey did listen to whatever was said. Sasha...? That wasn't exactly a male name. But he didn't dare consider that it actually suited him. Maybe he'd take it as an insult. He shook his head. "I hope..." His voice seemed to vibrate in his chest, make it hard to speak without pain. Really he couldn't do anything without feeling as if his world were ending, and everything was being ripped from his very being. "...so too." He finished with a sigh. So tired... He could never sleep more than an hour or two at a time, though. Sometimes his dreams followed him into reality, sometimes he dreamed without going to sleep. He was sure he'd heard of that somewhere---microdreams. Where one dreamed while they were awake. But they were more like nightmares. Daymares. They made him twitch hard and scream in pain and he probably frustrated the people watching over him.

But he didn't admit it to himself that the pain did ease a little. A little and just for a moment. Though the abrasive cloth felt like tiny knives, what it left behind granted momentary relief from the constant agony. And he didn't mind. But he didn't admit it. Mikey wasn't going to curse himself like that. When he spoke next, it was quietly, so that it was almost a whisper, weak and breathy: "You... you... Ah... You're going to be here...? For good? That... Um... I'm glad for that." He hoped he wouldn't be a nuisance. Surely he was. Surely others thought him to be. But if they felt even an ounce of what he felt, they would probably be writhing on the ground.

Sasha felt an ache in his chest for the way the other man spoke. Michael sounded so ... he sounded exactly like what he looked, in indescribable pain. The blue eyed man nodded as he wet the cloth again, and changed from one side of the bed to the other. He started on the other leg as he spoke, all the while aware that even this touch probably brought the other man pain. "For the most part, I will be. I'll leave this area from time to time so I can learn more from different departments in the hospital. I'm an intern, you see, and staying here ... Well I have to admit it's rather convenient for me." He shook his head with a sheepish smile.

"Anyway, I'll have a pager with me, and you'll have the matching one. If you need me when I'm gone, just call. Doesn't matter if it's my day off or not, I'll get back here as soon as I can." Now Sasha put the cloth and bowl of water away. His hands were feather soft as he turned to pull down the thin pants his charge wore back down over Michael's legs. Then he produced a small, sleek, pager and held it out expectantly.

Intern, doctor, nurse, janitor, whatever Sasha was, Michael didn't care. If he even slightly cared, then Michael didn't mind. But he gritted his teeth when the cloth fell against the scar on his other leg. The scar that stretched from his ankle to his knee, from one bolt to the other, then from his knee to his hip. They couldn't get the bolts or the metal out of his legs, or it would shatter the bone entirely and the constructs around it, damage nerves, do damage more than what was already done. He wouldn't be able to walk for sure after that. But now he could walk, even if it felt as if he were waist-deep in a blender.

Michael couldn't help but feel like an ordeal had finally ended when Sasha put the things away. It felt better to have no one touch him at all, if 'better' were a word in his vocabulary. Regardless, he took the pager and tried to manage a smile. It came out as more of a grimace, and he gave up, lowering his head. "I'll try not to use it much." He breathed. "But, um... if you're leaving now... Could I have my table back? They took it away to do their tests... I need it..." Otherwise he would lie there in a pool of pain, sweat, tears, and nearly-paralyzing depression. The painkillers didn't do anything anymore, they just made him sad, made the world seem bleak. Hateful. Terrible. He needed something to do, something the doctors let him do, since it passed the time for him.

"I'm not leaving yet." Even so he moved away to push the table to the bedside. He sat on the other side once more, feeling like an intricate dance was just beginning. Sasha's eyes fluttered over lank hair, unhealthy looking skin. Surely there was something he could do about that...

"When was the last time you had a bath, Michael?" He was sure his intent was clear. But before that, he really wanted to know more about Michael. How much pain did he live through? No he couldn't call the other man's life living, it was more like existing. He just lay in his bed, doing what he was allowed to, never setting foot outside the hospital walls. That was something else he could do, take his charge outside to see the sunshine. He smiled unconsciously at the thought.

Oh, good. He felt Sasha was different from the others. Kinder. He forced himself to sit up straighter, move a little to get a bit taller, wincing as he did. Brushing back his hair, Michael looked around and moved his arm to the drawer beside the bed. Inside he had some supplies. It wasn't messy, but he had a damp cloth in a plastic bag as well to wipe his hands clean when he was finished bothering with the clay. It was a clean type of clay, dark but workable, and it dried without crumbling. He looked up at Sasha's words, and shook his head as rigidly as he could.

"Just last night." He mumbled. "I... I can't stand it... They always think moving me around as fast as they can will cut down on the pain but it's just so much more confusing and it hurts so much... I can usually do it by myself..." He'd learned to block it out. Get rid of the concept. Act as if the pain weren't there. At this point he could manage to get into a wheelchair with some mental preparation and resolve, and that was when the depressive painkiller side effects were at their weakest. Most of the time he just felt listless, and couldn't even be bothered to wipe his eyes free of tears. His hands, though, were steady as he unwrapped some of the clay and began molding it in his hands.

Sasha watched with fascination as the other man began to mold the clay. His hands were so elegant ... Such a contrast to Michael's legs. What had they looked like before? Probably long and smooth, exquisitely shaped. What was he thinking? Sasha shook his head quickly and chased such thoughts from his mind. There was something seriously wrong with him. Definitely.

"How do you like your water? Boiling, lukewarm, somewhere in between? Cold? I want to make sure that next time you have a bath you're nice and comfortable. And what other things could I do to make you more comfortable?" That was his job, to make the other man's life easier, to wait hand and foot upon him. He wanted to, he really wanted to do that. This wouldn't be the chore he thought it could have been.

His finished works were scattered around the room. He never admitted to actually making them, because they looked more store-bought because he always coated them in a glassy gel after painting them to their fitting style. He wanted to make a horse this time. He rolled the clay between his hands and used the curved metal implement he had to cut and begin shaving away at the for-now-formless mass. It was a nice little change, to have someone that actually cared. Most feigned interest in their patients, and he could often overhear nurses and doctors complaining about chronically ill or in-pain others, people that needed near-constant care, much like Michael. No doubt they talked about him... He, as probably the worst of them all. But the others needed only worry about death, since their illness had a cure. Or if not, they could handle the painkillers and fall asleep. It worked for them. But they didn't go through what he had.

he glanced up, pausing in his slow shaving of the mass, forming the horse's body and neck. Forming it first, then carefully adding on the legs, the head, the tail, mane, and extras. Just a little at a time, so that the finished product could dry enough to hold the shape and intricate carvings. "Hot or cold, it doesn't matter. Usually they use hot, but either one will numb the pain." And he wasn't picky. Frozen or blistered skin was nothing to him now.

Now that he knew what to look for, he glanced about the room and saw signs of the other man's creativity everywhere. Such nice little statues decorated the room. Each one was far more intricate then the last, and the very newest one seemed like it would prove to be so much more then all the rest. Sasha leaned forward to watch, to see how the metal dug into the clay to shape it, form it, into something entirely beautiful.

"Is there anything else I could do to ease it, take some of the pain away? Or make you forget about it?" To live so constantly with such a thing, the medicine barely bringing any aid at all ... Oh what a horrible life! Constant torture, Sasha was sure it was exactly like that.

Michael glanced up at Sasha, the sudden movement torturous as a blade of pain slipped into his spine and twisted, then went down his legs. It brought fresh tears to his eyes, yet again. Now he wasn't crying as much as reacting silently to the concoction inside him. Pent-up rage at what had happened to him, sadness and depression at the mixture of his sad little life and the constant pump of worthless medication, the pain, the pain... Every hour of every day, every moment of his life. But Sasha was actually finding interest in what he was doing. Unlike the others, who huffed and hummed at anything they might see. Maybe they thought he only worked the clay to feign having made the creations. But who could bring them in, really? He had no one that would care to take time out of their day to visit. And he wouldn't want that anyway.

He shook his head at the offer. "No... They tried everything. It's why they don't care to try anything else. But I guess someone pushed the higher-ups to get more attention on me... I don't know who. But I'm not sure why they want to make me walk again. I don't even know how I'll do it." His fingers moved the clay again. the horse would be proud and tall, its head held back in pride, a leg up, its tail flowing. He could see it in his mind's eye, which was crystal clear. "Thank you though. You... don't know how much it means." To have someone ask if there was something they could do? Unheard of recently. They knew they couldn't get the rigging out of his legs, and didn't seem interested in just cutting everything off from the waist down---it could work, he'd sen the documentaries. The entire facility was like a massive, legal torture operation.

Sasha lifted a hand to wipe a few stray tears from the other man's eyes automatically. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Michael was in his care, someone he was supposed to do all he could for to make his life easier. Doing something so simple was the very least of what he could do, should do. His eyes fell to the horse again, for now he could tell what it was and how it would shine in the room, making it brighter somehow for its creation.

"Probably because they want to see if you can, and if your legs mightn't be strengthened with some exercise. They'll only take such drastic measures as cutting you in half if there's no other way. The operation could kill you." And he found himself distressed at the idea and his transparent emotions showed through. He'd just met the man, and already he felt so responsible for him!

"You don't have much company, most of the time ... do you?"

Michael automatically winced when the man's hand touched his face. It was a gentle touch, though, kind. And soft, like what he thought satin felt like. It didn't hurt then, if for a moment, the time it took for Sasha to withdraw, at least. He shook his head, though. No, he wanted it gone. It was the only thing that would help him. He bit his lip, running a thumb over the clay to smooth the side before he started carving the creature's muscles. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier to die." He admitted quietly. This wasn't living. It was troubling. Troubling to him and others.

His metal shaver paused above the clay. "... No." Michael sighed. "I, um... don't. It's for the best, I..." He caught himself, looking to Sasha for an instant before returning to his work. "... Never mind. It doesn't matter what happened before." The point was, he was here. Now. Searching for death. But if something happened, they'd bring him back. A few times he'd flatlined because of the sheer shock, the shock of being put in a new place, and the overload of pain that shot randomly in every direction, every moment of his existence. It was too much for his mind to comprehend, and he'd shut down.

He closed his eyes briefly, trying to bar the thought of such a thing happening from his mind. Then he opened them again, and caught a look with his blue-green eyes, one he hadn't expected. "It does matter," insisted Sasha. "Even if it matters to no one else, how you feel .. well it matters to me, and not only because it's my job." Should he mention that he'd volunteered, because he'd heard how some other interns were already making mean remarks about the newest long-term patient of the hospital? No, that would only bring the other man's mood down all the more, if that was possible.

"I want to be your friend." He had to try and understand the other man. Michael had been through things he couldn't imagine, survived an ordeal that had probably killed others. Now ... he wanted to die. The pain and the medication was probably reason enough for the thoughts, then add the reason of why the pain was there ... Sasha's eyes softened as he thought of something that might help to ease some of those thoughts, the loneliness he saw. Maybe he could contact the animal therapy people and see if they could get one of their volunteers to visit Michael now and again. It would probably lift his mood some.

Michael set the model down, a mixture of completion of this particular task and an inability to hold onto it easily now. It was good to get his hands moving, but to rest them as well, or they'd begin aching more. Sasha was a strange one. He'd done more in the short time he'd been here than most would do on their own for several days. He put up with Michael. That was something. It wasn't just hollow words and rehearsed phrases he could see right through. So he softened his expression, and managed to smile lightly. "I'm glad you want to be my friend." He whispered.

Looking back down, he tore a small bit of clay off the block and started rolling it a little. A leg for the horse. It would be held together with a tiny wooden pin while the seams were smoothed to invisibility. "But it's okay. I understand what they must be going through. They thought I was killed. When your son is taken... and after seven years... you have to start moving past it. I guess they'd rather keep me dead in their minds. I can understand that. It's easier than opening old wounds just to pour salt into them." Maybe they'd grown bitter. He wasn't honest with himself when he thought he'd like to see them again. Maybe he didn't. What if he was too different...? No... It had to be better to live in mystery.

He smiled in return, but the expression fell from his lips when he heard of the other man's long captivity, and the way his family treated him. Sasha's face crisped up as he tried to hold back an angry outburst he knew would just upset Michael more. He forced himself to breathe, to calm down, and let his hands relax in his lap. "That's no excuse. They should be here, they should visit! They're your family." Sasha sighed and shook his head.

Maybe he was taking his job too seriously.

"I'm sorry, it just seems unfair that they refuse to visit you for something you can't help." Sasha lifted his eyes. "Seven years?" What an eternity! How had Michael survived? He was a living miracle, and yet he wanted to die so badly. If only Sasha could come up with something for Michael to live for, some cause, anything.

Michael shook his head. He didn't want to put his family through hospital visits. Didn't want them to go out of their way when they were content with believing he was dead. There was comfort in familiarity, whether that was something the person liked or not. When that familiarity was ripped away, it was a strange new world and so unpredictable. A person was conditioned to find flaws with the new, the strange, the unusual. It was how they survived. Or how they avoided danger. "I don't mind. They're only human." He pulled the clay into a different position, then molded it over one of the pins.

Seven years. He nodded at that. "I was stolen when I was fourteen. They never used their real names. They said I was too young, it'd all pop out of place if they did it now. So they waited, and they... tested my pain tolerance for three years, until they saw I was finished growing. They measured me every day by the micro-inch, using a laser. They kept me in... in some kind of half-sleep. I was awake, but everything seemed like a dream. I couldn't feel anything until a few days later, when I came to. And..." He breathed in shakily, focusing hard on the work in front of him rather than what played out in his mind. Memories. "Everything hurt. It was so... bad... I was sick for weeks. Until I started to get used to it. But they made me move around, and since I couldn't walk upright, I had to drag myself from room to room in the basement. It was all like a big... lab." Michael swallowed hard, wincing, and pushed the pin and half-finished leg into the body.

Wordlessly, he moved and shifted to wrap a soft hold around the other man's shoulders. He wanted to squeeze Michael close and tight, but that would hurt more then help. Already, this was probably stressing the other man out. Reluctantly he pulled back and settled back, leaning up against the same pillows as Michael, while being careful not to brush up against him. He felt sick to his stomach. It was unimaginable ...

"Why would anyone do something so horrible? You didn't deserve that ... " Sasha turned his eyes to the other man and sighed. What else was there to say? The situation had become so awkward. He didn't know how to deal with the conversation anymore.

Michael grimaced, but didn't back away. He knew that it was only the human thing to do. To wish to comfort someone in pain. He supposed the staff here was just tired of hearing it all day after day. Maybe it got frustrating, more than saddening, after a while. He bit hi slip. "It's okay. It happened... And now it's over. Even if I'm left with nothing, I... Well, I haven't decided yet. He shifted again, the sudden movement sending shockwaves of stabbing pain deep into his legs and doubling him over with a wordless cry. "I-I should be used to it by now. They said they were trying to do good, to... help. To... create indestructable skeletons. Somehow replace it a little at a time. That they'd found out how to cease paralysis regarding the manipulation of the spine... But when the police arrived, they killed themselves before they could be taken in. I was found in their basement lab..."

He sighed, shaking off the pain mentally, wiping his eyes on his shoulder and working on the next leg for the figurine. "You... you can go if you like. No one likes to spend time with the epitome of self-pity. I-I'll show you the finished product when you come back." He would probably have the horse finished by morning the next day, for sure. It was only three in the afternoon, after all, he had so much time when he didn't sleep but a couple hours.

It was a sad tale ... One he wished he could have changed. He wanted to reach out and ease the cry away, but he couldn't. Sasha felt helpless, useless. There was nothing he could do! It went against everything he'd been working towards. "I'm staying here. My room is right over there, so I don't have far to travel to sleep." He did need to get his things though, but he didn't want to leave.

"I like spending time with you, so apparently someone does." He grinned, trying to bring some joy to the room. Already, Sasha was trying so hard. So far he hadn't made a dent, but hopefully his optimism would do so soon.

That was true. He didn't have to be alone anymore. Someone would be just a few steps away. In that room that was made to look like a very nice bed and breakfast type of room, a traditional type. He'd seen it a few times when he wheeled past, or when the door was left open when someone was cleaning it each week, as necessary when the room was unused. Sasha was so much kinder, it wasn't faked. Or was it? If so, he couldn't tell. The man seemed genuinely interested in everything, and worried.

He set his work down, dusting his hands on the damp rag, and pulling himself over just enough to put both arms around Sasha. Though the movement strained his legs and pulled at his painful muscles, sent waves of room-spinning horror through his body, but it was worth it. He couldn't just say 'thanks' and leave it at that. Sasha deserved more than a weak hug, but Michael couldn't let go. It was a show that was so rare---nonexistent---for him. No one else had come to deserve, or really want, something so close. Maybe they thought he was ill.

His breath caught in his throat. Slowly, Sasha lifted his arms and wrapped them gently around the other man. Tears flowed from his eyes. He didn't even realize it, though Michael probably would. It was just such an unexpected gesture, one that meant all the more because he knew just how much it hurt the other man to move at all, to simply sit! There was no way he could leave now, none at all. Michael was his charge, no one else's, and woe betide the person who tried to harm the man anymore then he had already born.

Apparently his optimism had worked. It felt wonderful, knowing that simply being there made such a difference.

Michael had grown up sheltered. Sheltered until his fourteenth year, then his life had been devoid of love, or any sensation that could compare to or replace a hug. His captors had been cold to him, giving him grainy, tasteless paste that included all of one's necessary nutrients, making him sleep on a mattress with a steel cuff and chain connecting him to a plate in the concrete floor. And then when he'd been found, he was treated like a fragile science experiment. And no one had given him comfort. It was something all humans needed, regardless of age.

His breath caught when he had to move. Move to go back to his original position and grit his teeth through the burning sensation that began to ebb into the usual dull throb. "I'm glad someone cares." He muttered, fawning over his creation as his hands worked to finish. It had been a long time... He needed to remember how good it felt to have someone that actually cared.

Sasha smiled and lifted a hand to smooth down some of the other man's blond hair. "I'll do my best by you, Michael." There was nothing more he could promise then that, or his words might become lies. "Speaking of, what have they been giving you to eat lately? What do you like? I could go pick something up." His own rumbling stomach had reminded him of food, which dragged about other thoughts. Did Michael need help when it came to certain things, unsavory to bring up and talk about?

They had just thrown Sasha into this position without really instructing him in more then the basic necessity of how to take care of Michael's legs, and his physical therapy. When it came to everything else, he needed to rely on his charge to inform him. He supposed he could go ask one of the nurses on the floor to give him the information. Sasha would probably do that soon, if it became necessary.