FEBUWHUMP DAY 01. HEADWOUND.
cw: beating, knives, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, captivity, concussions, light gore mention, vomit mention.
Sometimes, he doesn’t paint Calla. Sometimes, Arthur suggests a new game; watch me closely and try not to vomit.
The not vomiting part of more of an order than it sounds like. And harder to comply with than one would think. Calla had thought she had a good stomach when it came to the sick stuff of the body—raised on a farm, with all that entails. Entrails, and the like. The chickens without heads, the baby horse coming out of its mother bloody and half alive, shearing a sheep just a little too close, red getting into white wool. She had never imagined any of it with other people, but it shouldn’t be that different. Blood was always red. It shouldn’t be that different.
It was.
An hour ago, Arthur had requested she be brought to his studio, along with one of the others Arthur kept around the house - she couldn’t remember his specific name, when he first entered. There were a number of them kept at the house with her, but their names only came to her grouped, the way Arthur had pointed at each of them as he gave her his grand tour of the house; “Reuben and Theo and Will and Roman and Max.” It might have been Theo. She thought the boy Arthur called Theo had the same jet-black hair.
Arthur had never asked for two of them around at once—the request that had made Calla dizzy with worries and what ifs, only to give her a sick and guilt-ridden feeling slicing away at her heart when Arthur only nodded at her as she entered, pointing to the velvet-green loveseat he kept in the corner of his studio, “Sit today, Calla. Watch. That’s it.” he said it flippantly, like he didn’t care what she did either way, but Calla did as she was told, quickly, hoping to avoid further notice as Arthur quietly thumbed through dozens and dozens of oil paints, each setting aside shades to be used. The loveseat and the studio it was in fit in just fine with the rest of the house Calla had seen—the kind of stuff that looked old and expensive, plush rugs and golden red curtains. Arthur’s studio was the same, the rugs just thick and intricately patterned, though these ones had splatters of paint on them. Probably paint. Calla was staring at the stains when the door opened to reveal the other one summoned. Arthur’s brush turned to the boy before his eyes did. “You’ll be the painting today. I have an excess of red paint.”
Maybe-Theo kept his eyes downturned as he approached Arthur at his desk, his mouth tightening with words probably better unsaid. Probably useless. Still, he tried. “Arthur—”
“Theo.” Arthur interrupted him, placing his palm to the boy’s cheek as if to reassure him, as if to be gentle and calming. Theo, his name was Theo. Arthur gave him a small smile before pushing, slamming Theo’s jaw into the wood, drawing a winded gasp that Calla can feel from across the room. She pulls her knees closer, an acidic taste at the back of her throat. Before Theo leaves his daze, Arthur finds another grip, burying his hand into the boy’s thick black hair and winding into it. Theo stares at him, but doesn’t speak, his eyes only flickering to the paints Arthur has on his palette already, the only way to guess what his vision might be. Red, red, red.
Arthur noticed this (he noticed everything, Calla thought with a sunken heart), and smirked, one hand still twisting in Theo’s hair as the other hovers over his palette. “Right! So, my colors. I told you red, the darker blues, violets, but these—“ he held up each paint nearly an inch from the boy’s face, like he was showing them to a small child, slowing down when he got to his more muted colors—Calla could make out brown, a dull yellow with a warm orange next to it. “These are for those golden brown eyes of yours I like so much, Theo. That’s what I really wanna get right, it’s just a matter of making sure they really stand out against the rest of ya.”
Tugging on his hair, he brings Theo closer to his own face, studying him with a frown. A red bump is beginning to form on his forehead where Arthur slammed him, but other than that, the boy’s face was the same as it was when he entered the studio. That’s not what he wants. Calla thought as her stomach gave a lurch. As soon as he decided on what he did want, it seemed, he didn’t hesitate, once again slamming Theo face first into the desk but holding on tight to his hair this time, lifting him up and then slamming him back down again. And again. And again, four times until Theo groaned, jerked away from him without ever getting away. Arthur still ran his hands through his hair as he considered the boy’s face, considered different ways to hurt him.
It is both calculated and not—Arthur hits him with abandon, reckless, careless to whether he’s giving him permanent or fatal injuries, but occasionally changing course or freezing right before he shoves Theo’s head against the desk so as to get a fresh purple bruise at an angle against his cheekbone, a perfectly circular and already darkening black eye over the left side of his face. Theo doesn’t bother with anything but groans and shouts, and a small, strangled whimper when Arthur finally pulls him back to an upright position, Theo fighting hard to catch air that’s been knocked out of him, an effort not helped by Arthur grabbing him by the jaw and forcing him to close it, his hand moving down and gripping Theo by the collar instead as Arthur only stared, looking deeply into the details of his bruised and mattered face.
Theo decides to speak, Calla cringes.
“Please Arthur please please please can we be done can you just paint me please.” he mumbles it through certainly broken teeth, with his eyes closed, expecting the answer. Calla doesn’t know it exactly yet, but she can feel it coming. She closes her eyes alongside Theo.
“Hey. Eyes open, look at me. You too, Calla.” Arthur announced, not even looking back. No way of knowing she closed them, except that he knew she closed them. She swallowed, hard against any reaction she would have in sympathy for the boy, scared and bloody and utterly helpless. He would know. He would know, and he wouldn’t want to see it.
Theo opens his eyes, too, cautiously, sheepishly up at Arthur, the only real place to look. He’s cradling one side of Theo’s face again, like he had at the start. She readied herself the sound of another broken cheekbone against the desk, but instead he took out a knife, making Theo go limp as he looked up at it, his hands reaching out to grasp at Arthur to hold him steady, to try and change his mind. “I’m sorry for asking, I shouldn’t have asked, you should just do what you were planning before—” the begging ends with Theo squeaking in fear as Arthur placed the sharp point of the knife at Theo’s temple, not yet drawing blood.
“I was actually finished, but I know you know how I hate people fucking rushing me. I know you know better than that. Don’t you?”
“I do, I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry, please don’t—!” Arthur drew three quick, deep hazing across the left side of Theo’s face, one’s that would definitely scar, maybe bleed out, maybe kill him. Calla gripped the armrests of her chair, feeling trapped without restraints as Arthur drew three short screams from Theo before grabbing him once again by the collar and gently placing his head on the table, as if it were a regular inanimate object in a still life, rather than still connected to a breathing neck and body.
“So, main point eyes.” Arthur said mostly to himself as he finally began sketching onto the still-blank canvas before him. “All about the eyes. But also: the colors of bruises. In bruises, blending, fading.” He pinched Theo’s cheek at that, certainly seeping the bruise that was already there, but this time, Theo didn’t even dare flinch, his only movement to close his eyes for just a moment longer than a blink. “Also, also: bruises versus cuts. Differences. Similarities. Made of the same stuff, blood and broken vessels and all that, but certainly feel different. Heal different. Thanks for that idea by the way, kid.” He ruffles Theo’s hair as though he’s a proud older brother.
And he keeps painting—slowly, precisely, thoughtfully. He’s a very thoughtful painter. He’s always considering the light. And not considering Theo, his head still resting over the table while the rest of his body slumps against the ground. Theo, with his ragged, quickening breaths. Theo, who hasn’t stopped bleeding for hours.
The need to vomit came and went and came and went and came and went. Arthur painted. Theo sat, suffered. Calla watched, and time ticked on as he added layer after layer, stopped to change the light, went back and adjusted his coloring. He was a very thoughtful painter.
“Are you going to let him die?” Calla said it quietly, said it because she had been about to say it for hours, said it because the boy names Theo was dying in front of her and she might have been the only one that noticed.
Arthur had been lost in thought, silent and focused on the canvas, paints, strokes in front of him, Calla thought, but suddenly he was across the room in a moment, grabbing her by her ear and twisting, forcing her to lower down until he let go, but she stayed low, sinking into the loveseat as he stood over it, all sudden rage and violence.
“You’re still so brand new, you still don’t know anything yet, so I’ll be patient one more time with you, Calla-dear.” She hated when he called her that. “You do not ask me questions when I’m working. You do not offer advice, or suggestions or your own thoughts. You sit here, and you watch, and stay absolutely silent. Do you understand?” At the question, he put a single finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him, but Callas’s eyes caught Theo’s first.
He really does have brilliant eyes. She thought blankly. Expressive. She could tell exactly what he thought of her right now, even through the fog of pain and almost certain concussion he had. He thought she was stupid. Stupid for asking, stupid for feeling sorry for him when she should have been worrying about her own skin. He thought she was stupid.
So did Arthur, she was reminded when her eyes finally flashed to his, and she forced a nod, choked out an “I understand.”
“Good.” he said, back to calm as quickly as he had turned to anger as he walked back to his desk and easel, pausing for a moment at the table, placing his hand once again on Theo’s head, who grits his teeth, ready for a hit, focused on not flinching. Not whimpering, but the hit never comes. Instead, Arthur leans forward until he’s speaking directly into Theo’s ear, breath on his neck, soft as anything, “The session will be done soon, and I’ll get you some bandages, I promise. Just keep being good and still for me, then I’ll help you out. Promise.”
He places a kiss to Theo’s forehead, wiping blood and sweat off of himself as Theo allows himself to close his eyes for one second longer, and not any more.
