There was a point during his convalescence in his brother’s questionable care, shortly after he’d come to realize in some sort of vague sense where he was and what was going on, when he woke to the feeling of careful hands on his left foot. He’d spent so long consumed by fever dreams and night terrors it was a moment before he was certain that he wasn’t sleeping. Eyelids barely open, he gazed down towards his feet. Diogenes was crouched there, slowly running his fingers along Pendergast’s insole, lips moving silently.

When they were younger, before Diogenes’ illness—for Pendergast still called it such in his mind, even though he now knew it had been something else entirely—he had allowed this frequently. Diogenes had been a student of anatomy even then, and had found his brother’s pale, nearly translucent skin a fascinating source of study. Pendergast, for his part, had been something of a hedonist even in youth, and had enjoyed the contrast between the heavy Louisiana air and Diogenes’ small, cool hands as they followed blood, bone, muscle, and nerves. Sometimes, after there parents had gone to sleep for the night, Pendergast would lie silently on top of his bedclothes, hovering...   read more »