if you have some time and energy, could you be persuaded to perhaps write some streetkid chris with jake and the safehouse? i’ve never stopped needing comfort for him
CW: Heavily internalized ableism, referenced past dubcon and noncon, some internal dehumanization, referenced drug use
(Street kid Chris au pieces here and here)
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He sobers up, more or less, on the bus ride out of the center of the city, his forehead resting against the cool glass window. It's all a blur that moves through and around him, steel and concrete shifting to grass and trees and little houses placed next to each other like a child's toys.
Baldur hides a smile, imagining a giant toddler hand lining the houses up one by one by one by one, picking doll families to live in the little doll houses. Giant baby god giving this family a dog and this family a goldfish and that one a pretty boy like Baldur to do everything they say-
A laugh catches in his throat, dies there with the chill of sudden grief. What is his Sir doing? Is he at home with some new pet, playing games? Was Baldur replaced that quickly?
Of course he was. He was never special, never really very good even. Pretty, until he got too old. Stupid statue-boy trying and trying to hold still and never winning any of Sir's games. Sir would've ordered someone else right away.
He's probably forgotten about Baldur by now.
His throat tightens even more, heat stinging his eyes, but Baldur fights it back. The only thing worse than his wrong words and his wrong hands is when he cries, of course. Sir always says-
But Sir doesn't want him any longer, isn't there to tell him never to cry and then play games and hurt him until he does it anyway.
"Hey." Kauri, sitting next to him, must catch something in the shift of movement in his throat when he swallows or the stare of his glassy green eyes. "What's up, buttercup? You need some water? I know coming down always makes me so thirsty I could scream."
Baldur shakes his head, curling up as best he can, pulling his knees to his chin with his heels pressed against the edge of the seat, pushing the dirty soles of his shoes against the cushioned fabric. "No thank you," He whispers. "I... I'm fine."
"Yeah, yeah. I've heard that before - or I guess I should say that I've said that before. And you know what, Chris? Never once was I actually fine. So. Here." Kauri holds a bottle of water out, shaking it a little as if trying to lure a stray cat with a can of tuna. "Come on, have a drink. It'll help hold off the headache, I swear."
Baldur's fingers are shaking when he takes the bottle, and it takes three tries to get the cap open, but the water is cool and clean on his tongue and down his throat, and before he realizes it the bottle is half empty, his chest feels cold on the inside as the water trickles through him, and he's gasping for breath.
Kauri's smile is soft, gentle, only a little sad. "There we go. Keep working on it, okay? Hydration is the best defense against hangovers, not that I ever take my own advice. But it is still excellent advice."
By the bus reaches a stop that Kauri declares is theirs, he's had all the water and it's an empty bottle he stashes in his backpack. He can refill it at the first sink he sees, have something he doesn't have to beg for or fuck for to drink later on.
Baldur steps off the bus and into a neighborhood right out of TV.
Houses line the street on either side, and Baldur stares at old trees that rise over his head, dappling the ground with shade that blocks some of the heat of the sun. The air smells like grass, and there's a drone from somewhere nearby that he realizes must be a lawn mower, a sound he's only heard from Sir's windows while watching the landscapers work far, far below.
There's a fence around the yard next to them - a white fence, even, with chips of peeling paint. Baldur moves to it, reaching out and letting his fingertips brush the rough wood, one nail scratching at a bit of paint coming free. He doesn't hear himself humming, low and tuneless, repeating over and over, until Kauri pops back into view in the corner of his eye.
"You never seen a fence before?" Kauri teases, but then Baldur flinches back and away and watches Kauri's smile falter, briefly, before it determinedly returns. "Sorry. I scared you, huh?"
"I'm fine," Baldur says too fast, realizing too late that he isn't answering the question Kauri asked - either of them. The blush heats his cheeks and he turns away, jamming his hands in his pockets as hard as he can, hunching his shoulders. "Fine. I'm... I'm fine."
The word sounds good in his mouth. Soothes his mind. He opens his mouth to say it again, fine fine fine - but Baldur catches himself this time. He can't repeat words he hears, that's wrong. Can't stammer, that's wrong. Can't move, or sway, or use his hands - wrong.
All wrong.
"Right. Well, come on. The house is this way." Kauri walks a little ways away, then looks back over his shoulder. Baldur hurries to catch up, keeping himself hunched. The weight of his backpack is familiar and comforting, all his things in there. The usual headache when the pills wear off teases around the edge of his mind, but it doesn't take hold. Maybe Kauri was right about the water.
Kauri talks, chatting brightly. His hands move constantly, in gestures and emphasis, and Baldur keeps staring at it. Sir would have slapped his hands if he moved them so much, but Kauri doesn't even notice he does it.
The house has people there like them, Kauri explains, although not like them like them, just - other pets. Domestics, mostly. The woman who runs the house, like the shelters Baldur has stayed at but they won't make him pray.
"Trust me," Kauri reassures, "I wouldn't stay there if they did. I've traded a bed and some food for having to go to their church and let them tell me what a bad boy I am enough for one lifetime, thank you. Sinners have more fun, anyway." He winks, and Baldur blinks back at him. "The last time I stayed at one, the pastor hit on me. The very, very married pastor. Which goes to show you - when you are as good in bed as I am, even God doesn't measure up."
Baldur swallows. He should say something - something witty. Kauri seems to have things to say about everything, all of the time, but Baldur's mind is still slow from the pills, even though he's sobering up. He can't think of anything except to say, "Really?"
"Really." Kauri's smile is bright, flash of sun off the hood of a car blinding but with something about it that seems cracked, too. "Once we get there, I'll make introductions. But I promise, everybody is nice."
"... Nice," Baldur murmurs. Nobody is, not really, in his experience. Everybody takes something in return for every bit of nice they offer. Everybody sees his barcode and knows they can do whatever they want to him, and then they do. And if he's lucky it's only to make him eat food that makes him feel sick, or talk to him about how he's walking a dark path, as if there has ever been a lighter one. Or sometimes they tell him to go lay down on the bed-
"We're here!" Kauri's voice cuts into Baldur's thoughts, and he looks up.
In front of him there's a two-story house with white siding, flat-faced with windows that look down on him like eyes. There's a porch with chairs on it, and sitting in one of them is a tall, thin man with a mess of dark hair and sharp, dark almost-feline eyes. He's fiddling with something in his hands, but when he sees them he shoves whatever it was into his pocket and quickly stands.
Baldur hesitates - but Kauri moves right up the overgrown path, flat stones half-covered by grass and weeds. "Hey, Ant! I brought someone."
"I see this," The man says, in a smooth, accented voice. He sounds like velvet. Baldur looks at him, trying to think. Just a blowjob, probably. Easy. Baldur has traded those for lots of things. He barely has to do anything, once they grab his head. "Kauri-"
"Oh, wipe that worry off your face, Antoni, he's one of us." Kauri waves a hand back at Baldur, then grabs at his arm to pull him forward. "I brought him to meet Nat and Jake. Chris, this is Antoni. Antoni, this is Chris."
Antoni looks at him, then turns and silently heads back into the house.
Baldur swallows, shifting to half-hide himself behind Kauri. "... he doesn't... like me."
"Nah, Antoni's just kind of a mood killer professionally. He's a softie once you get to know him, I promise." Kauri half-drags him up the steps and through the front door, into an entryway that has a pile of coats abandoned on a coat rack, shoes on a mat. The house smells like something cooking, and Baldur's mouth waters, his stomach twisting as it remembers how to feel hungry and not just emptied-out and light. "Jake! Hey, Jake!"
"Jake's out," A woman's voice says. Baldur stares as an older woman pops her head in. She has brown hair with bits of gray in it in a braid that lays over one shoulder, a flannel shirt over a t-shirt and ancient jeans, and a soft smile ringed in laugh lines that crinkles at the corners and near her eyes.
She's beautiful.
"Who's this?" The woman looks from him to Kauri, with curiosity - not trepidation, not worry, and not anger. "You brought someone by?"
"Yeah. This is, uh, this is Chris. He's one of us. Chris, this is Nat. She feeds me sometimes."
"Love that description." Nat's voice is wry with good humor, and she steps forward, holding out her hand. "I have hobbies, too, you know. Hello, Chris. I'm Nat, and this is my house. I help runaways from WRU start over."
He stares at her outstretched hand, then back at her, before hesitantly shaking. His grip is limp compared to hers, but she doesn't say anything about it. "I-... I thought... you were... a man."
"No, that's Jake," Kauri corrects him. "He insists on having a life outside of waiting for my beautiful ass to show back up, so we'll see him later."
"... Okay." Baldur studies the woman - Nat - thoughtfully. Then he offers, "I can... do women, too."
Nat's expression changes - so subtly he can't tell what the change is. But he sees it. Baldur knows how to tell when the mood of a room goes sour, to try to protect himself. "Romantic," She murmurs. "I see. Kauri-"
"Don't say he can't come here," Kauri interrupts, bristling, and Baldur stares at him in open terror as his heart drops to his knees. He's angry at one of them. Baldur didn't know you could do that. "He's got as much a right as anybody else does, and you let me come here, and he could use the help, Nat, so don't you dare-"
"Kauri. Hey." Nat puts her hands up, as if surrendering in a fight. "That's not what I was gonna say. I was going to say, Kauri, how about you set him a place at the table for dinner. Okay?"
Kauri's jaw is set, and it takes him a moment to stop looking ready to keep up the argument that isn't even happening. "I-... yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll do that. Just-... Nat, you know that a lot of places won't-"
"I know. It's okay, honey. It really is okay. Just go get him set up. And you." Nat smiles at Baldur, and he tries to see the mean she's hiding, but it isn't there. Too buried underneath a kind face, maybe. Baldur can't imagine there just isn't any cruelty there at all. "We take all kinds here, and you're welcome. No one touches you here, and I'd prefer if you kept your hands to yourself at first."
Those words don't mean anything. The shelters say that a lot, too, but Baldur still wakes up to a hand over his mouth and a voice whispering to him to be quiet sometimes when he sleeps in one. He'll find out the real cost of staying here at some point.
But he'll find out with food in his stomach, and that's worth something.
"Yes, ma'am," He murmurs, looking up and around at the high ceiling in the entryway, carpet-covered stairs that curve up and disappear around an angle. Bookshelves, and off to one side the corner of a living room with a TV playing.
"Just Nat is fine. Kauri?"
"Got it." Kauri gives a mocking, if still friendly, salute. It makes Baldur smile - but he hides it behind his serious face when he sees Nat look at him. "I'll get him settled in. Maybe we'll stay over tonight? If that seems like a good idea, if not-"
"It sounds great."
Baldur watches her go, heading up the stairs - that creak as she walks, giving away the house's age. Wondering what she'll want him to do later on, to pay for the food, to earn the bed he'll sleep in.
He has more pills in his pocket. He can take some, and drift through whatever staying here costs, let his body and training do all the work. He's done it before, over and over again.
He'll always have to do it again, sooner or later.
When Kauri takes his hand again, he lets himself be led.
He doesn't notice the dark-haired man, Antoni, watching him from a doorway as Baldur digs out two small pills and swallows them dry while following Kauri into the kitchen.
Content warning: bbu, dubcon (sexual, brief, semi explicit? they do the do but it’s not super graphic), conditioned responses, self-loathing, am I missing anything? It’s been awhile.
Very fleeting and vague mention of @ashintheairlikesnow’s gross politician Oliver Branch. Right there, at the top, that’s it. Sorry for the tag, Ash.
-
A news show spools out across the flatscreen. A background murmur of voices discussing the circumstances of some politician found drowned in a river states away. It stands as the sole source of light, and with each shift of perspective the shadows crowding the living room jump and dance.
The Stray follows them with his eyes, tries to trace their dark contours before they leap into a new position. But the pressure of a palm skating up his bare thigh recaptures his attention, and he blinks at the unpleasant reality of his situation. The hand stops just short of his boxers and gives a squeeze, and sitting across from him his host chuckles.
“Don’t look so unhappy.” Jeremy leans in, presses a kiss to Stray’s neck that has him tipping his head away on instinct. On a command gone unspoken. “You said you wanted to.” Another kiss. “I think you missed me.”
“I missed your couch.” Arousal robs Stray’s voice of the disinterest he aims for, turns it low, husky. Betraying the way his body craves the touch of flesh to his while his soul screams for distance. “And I never said I wanted to, I just said I’d do it.”
Jeremy laughs. “My couch can’t pleasure you like I can.” With a splayed hand he pushes Stray back against the armrest, and holds him there as he drops his eyes. With a smirk they flick back up. “It looks to me like you want it.”
Fingers glide over his waistband and Stray looks to the side. Stares at the clothes scattered across the floor as lips brush his ear, and he wonders why he ever agreed to take his off. A park bench would have suited him just fine, and he wouldn’t have had to fuck for it.
But he knows why.
A fresh heat flushes through him as the boxers are slid from his hips. An abhorrent wildfire that burns down his reservations and stokes him to an unwilling readiness.
When Jeremy whispers, make some noise for me baby, Stray does. Gives him whimpers and whines in all the right places as hands and lips roam his skin. A flawless moan pulls from him as something else pushes in, filling his body with a pleasure that poisons his heart.
When they finish they’re sweat slick and panting. Jeremy withdraws, crawling off to sit opposite him with a lazy smile just shy of patronizing. Stray doesn’t return it. Half expecting a protest he stands, but all that pursues him is a sense of self-loathing as he makes for the bathroom.
Closing the door, he leans against it. Shutting himself in to be alone with that familiar sting, the one that comes in the aftermath of having wrecked himself for someone else.
The park was an option, but he belongs here. On a bed, a couch, a floor, with the weight of a man buried in him to give him a purpose. It’s what he was trained for. What he signed up for.
A prickle starts behind his eyes, and he presses fingers to them to stop it from turning to something else. A fist squeezes his chest, and he measures his breath to keep it from hitching.
From the other room his name is called. And when Stray feels composed he follows it back to start again.
Anon requested: *whispers from away* Rafael and Chris meet again
Ding ding ding ding we have a winner! Also this is lowkey for @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow specifically just throwing that out there
Rafael has previously appeared here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. Oh good lord he needs his own list now doesn’t he?
CW: Derogatory victim-blaming language early on, recovering whumpee, trauma response, fluff really, this is the real comf shit, conditioned behavior, pure unadultered joy, BBU
-
"You can't be serious. Where the fuck will I put him?" Jake's voice hisses in the twilight near-darkness where he stands on the porch. "You've given me no warning, Martin, and you know damn well that every safehouse in the entire fucking country is on total security lockdown-"
"Because of what your fucking Romantic did!" Calvin Martin hisses right back, his finger right in Jake's face. Jake feels a sudden urge to bite it off, spit the digit into the bushes, punch him bloody.
"I think you mean my little brother." He fights to keep himself calm, his heartbeat pounding against his chest under the loose t-shirt he wears, something he had pulled out of the dirty pile this morning because in his exhaustion he couldn’t remember which pile was the clean one.
“Sure, whatever you call him now. Because of your little brother’s dramatic show, we’re all in goddamn danger, Stanton, and I can’t keep anyone who’s a risk to my household and our safety!”
“Romantics aren’t just a danger-”
“I caught him giving money to street walkers, Stanton!”
Jake can’t help it - his eyes flick upwards to look at the young man still sitting in the passenger seat of Calvin Martin’s little nondescript four-door Toyota. He got a glimpse of short very dark or black hair, eyes pointed downward, a black turtleneck sweater, olive skin pale from lack of sun. “You what?”
“He’s been lying at therapy, lying to me, taking his spending money and heading down to the red light and buying himself fucking hookers. I’ve suspected him for weeks, caught him at it red-handed this time. You know damn well we can’t keep someone who is breaking the rules like that.”
“And you think I can?”
“I think you keep a whole house of them. Your other runaways can take the risk but mine are fragile and-”
“My house is fragile, too!” He’s struggling not to raise his voice, the anger boiling inside of him. All around Calvin Martin’s careful phrasing is what he’s not saying but badly wants to, the words Jake can hear even when they’re not spoken. The things they’ve called Kauri, and Chris, to Jake’s face and behind everyone’s backs, again and again.
Whore. Slut. Liar. Snitch. Stupid.
“You do just fine for yourself, Stanton. Look, I need to keep my people safe, and if you don’t take him, I’m driving him downtown and he can figure his shit out with the prostitutes he’s been pretending are his fucking friends.”
“Have you tried giving him actual friends?”
“You know that they can’t be allowed too close to the others-”
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Fucking hell, Martin, no fucking wonder, you absolute piece of shit, how fucking stupid are you?!” He could punch a wall right about now, and it’s only the subtle memory of his father’s rage that holds him back.
He is not his father.
But other than his father - and the memory of the way it felt when his knuckles connected with his dad’s face is one of the best he has - this is the person he has most wanted to hit in his entire life.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way!” Martin snaps back, his own voice just below a full-on shout at this point. “I’ve been running a safehouse since you were still in high school-”
“I would’ve done a better job in high school than you do now!” He has to walk away, he has to, or he’s going to hurt someone. Jake steps abruptly back and away, stomping down the porch steps. After a hesitation, Martin trails after him, still all puffed-up in anger but smart enough to keep some distance between them. “Romantics are touch-starved to the extreme, they need contact with other people, they have to learn the safe way to get affection or they go fucking crazy with it, Martin! This is Safehouse 101 shit!”
“What you mean is they need to be able to assault the others in the house and get away with it!”
“No! I don't!” Jake stomps to the car, and he can see the poor Romantic runaway inside cringing away in a sudden terror of the rage on his face. He stops, takes a deep breath in and out. A movement catches the corner of his vision and he glances up to see his neighbor twitching the curtains close to avoid being seen watching.
Great. Fucking fantastic.
“You teach them how to be safe, Martin.” He calms his voice back down, speaking low without looking back. “You show them what safe is. You don’t let them assault anyone, you show them that there are ways to feel safe and loved that don’t involve sex. You show them that it’s not a transaction, that you will help them no matter who they are or what they’ve been forced to do. You show them that they are a human being, and worthy of all the same care as any other human being, and you don’t kick them out for a fucking conditioned response!”
“That’s the problem with you, Stanton, you coddle them and then they end up on national television turning all of us into targets!”
“We were already targets!” Jake groans. He’s been fielding complaints like this ever since Chris appeared on television, he and Kauri standing tall and strong and brave in front of a press corps, in front of the entire damn world. Jake had been terrified and proud of them both, had welcomed Kauri home with a huge so tight he’d felt the smaller man’s ribs creak, had sworn he couldn’t live with them so far away from him for so long ever again, had said all kinds of embarrassing things in the airport parking lot on the way back to the car.
To their credit, neither of them had laughed at him. And Kauri had cried a little, too.
“Sure, sure, we were watched, but nothing like it’s been since your brother put a big flashing sign over us telling WRU to wipe us out!”
“They haven’t done that!”
“They will soon enough!”
“You don’t know that!”
Calvin Martin takes a deep breath, putting a hand up over his face. “Jake. Stanton. I need you to listen to me. Real life isn’t the goddamn movies, okay? There’s no teenager who saves the fucking world-”
“What about that Greta kid-”
“Shut up. There’s no single teenager who saves the world, there’s no credits rolling before the consequences roll down. We’re going to be wiped out, and WRU will still be there, same as always. Bigger even, probably. In fifty years they’ll say it was great publicity. Your brother and your boyfriend-”
“I’ll ask you to call Kauri my fucking husband, Calvin-”
“Fine, fine. Your husband and your brother have ruined all of us. All of us. Do you get that? People like me, running all the other safehouses, we’re treading water until we get rounded up. I hope you’re still proud of them when every one of my household is back in that damn Facility having their brains wiped. I hope you’re fucking proud of them when your brain gets wiped, too.”
Jake swallows, because some of this mirrors his own fears and concerns. That it would put too big a target on them, that they’d become too difficult for WRU to ignore. They’ve been on some kind of PR blitz trying to fix it, with little to no luck. The revelations keep rolling out, new information.
That it turned out Karen Renford herself had knowingly taken a pet who had been kidnapped as a sixteen year old teenager walking home from soccer practice… that had been one hell of a hook for a lot of stories.
The guy who owned that big dating app had his Romantic removed from his custody, the guy in an adjustment house somewhere being prepared for a return to his family in Iran. One girl had even called in to a national television show to report her parents were about to give away the bonded pair that had more or less raised she and her siblings, and there had been a whole national news story about the dark side of the Platonic Companion. On the surface, it’s all good news.
But Jake has been seeing the vans more often, too.
WRU won’t go down without a fight.
Maybe it had been a mistake to send Chris and Kauri off to do what they wanted. But maybe it hadn’t been, and now they were in the in-between, trying to figure out which way the pendulum would swing.
“Look. I am proud of them, and even if I end up in one of those Facilities, I’ll still be proud of what they did as long as a single one of my brain cells still remembers them. But even if you’re scared, Cal, don’t… don’t take it out on someone who just wants to feel safe, okay? He’s probably more scared than you could ever be.”
“Ha.” Calvin Martin rolls his eyes. “I doubt it, with what he gets up to.”
“Have someone torture you every time you say no and see how fast you learn to always, always say yes.” Jake opens the door to the car, looking down at the young man, who looks nervously up at him, his hands folded politely in his lap. “Come on, out you go.”
The young man swallows, throat visibly bobbing underneath the turtleneck, and nods, standing slowly up in the driveway, immediately hugging himself and looking down at the ground, toeing at a crack in the driveway.
“So you’ll take him?” Calvin Martin is already pulling a backpack out of the backseat of the car, and it’s just so sadly half-empty that Jake almost can’t bear to look at it.
“Of course I am. It’ll all be okay, Martin. We were overdue for going public, and this way they couldn’t sweep it under the rug.” He looks down at the runaway, who doesn’t look up. “What’s your name?”
The runaway clears his throat, and speaks in a low voice. Jake can hear how he’s been trained to have a fluid, musical lilt to his speech. Went to someone who wanted him out in public now and then, he thinks. “Rafael, sir.”
“Just Jake, please. Did you pick the name, or is it one you were given? Usually we have our people pick new names, if they want to.”
“I like my name,” Rafael murmurs, glancing over at Martin. “I-... I didn’t want to change it.”
“That’s fine. We have two in my house right now who wanted to keep their names, that’s just fine.”
“It-... it is?” Rafael brightens a little at that, and Jake sees the same hint of a painfully naive need to trust that he’s seen in a dozen or more pairs of eyes by now in his career. People whose ability to discern who can be believed has been eroded so badly they don’t even remember how not to believe what they’re told.
“Not a problem. Not here. Give me the backpack, Martin.” Jake holds out his hand, but Cal just lets the whole thing drop onto the driveway, turning and walking around to the driver’s side of his car. Jake stands there with his hand out like an asshole, watching him turn the key in the ignition and back up, nearly running over Jake’s foot with his tire before he pulls away and drives down the street, clearly laying on the gas to go fast as he can.
Rafael and Jake just watch him go.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with him,” Jake says after a long pause. “That had to be pretty awful.”
“He’s not so bad,” Rafael answers, voice still quiet, leaning down to pick his backpack up and pull it on over his shoulders. He pulls something out of his pocket, a large plastic feather that looks vaguely familiar, rubbing at it with his thumbs, moving them back and forth over the carved vanes. “I broke… I broke the rules, so…”
“He fucked up first, let me reassure you. You shouldn’t ever have been put in a position where you had to sneak around to get basic needs met.”
The runaway’s dark, thick eyebrows furrow in confusion and maybe hope, as he looks up at Jake. “Needs? Mr. Martin said-”
“Mr. Martin was wrong. I get it, man. I’ve been working with recovering Romantics for a long, long time. My husband was a Romantic, my little brother was, my whole house is for Romantics. That’s what we work with, because everybody’s different, but there are some commonalities. You’ll figure it out as we go, no pressure, but… do you mind sharing a room? I don’t have any empty bedrooms right now.”
“Sharing?” The hope grows. Jake’s chest aches at the sight. “I can have a-... a roommate? I’ve never slept alone before I ran away, and-... I don’t like it, not hearing anyone else at night, so... I don’t sleep so well.”
“Yeah, no problem. That’s really, really common, Rafael.”
“It… it is?”
Jesus Christ, what was Calvin Martin telling this poor guy?
“Yeah, it is. Oh, hang on, my brother’s home from his partner’s, you can meet him.” Jake looks up, catches a flash of Chris’s new short lavender hair down the street, walking down the sidewalk with his earpods in, swaying side to side as he walks with his hands moving, fingers twisting and occasionally tapping on himself or in the air. He has on a t-shirt for the Lion King musical, black with a yellow lion drawn in what looks like rough stripes of paint, with his favorite black jeans, worn to charcoal gray and torn at the knees. His low voice is audible before he gets close enough to actually talk to or they can quite hear what he’s singing.
Jake leans over to Rafael. “Five dollars says he’s listening to the fucking Evita soundtrack again. He’s been on a tear for Evita lately.”
Rafael blinks. “I’ve seen that,” He says, a little weakly. He rubs the feather in his hand a little harder. “I, should I go inside? Will he be upset at someone new…?”
“No, Chris likes meeting people. He’ll be excited we have someone new at the house, I promise, don’t worry about it.”
Rafael nods, but Jake can see the tension in his shoulders, how carefully he holds himself with a kind of purposeful elegance. It’s constructed, crafted. It looks like how Kauri used to stand, sometimes, before he finally became relaxed enough to slouch whenever he felt like it, which was… most of the time.
Chris finally gets within full earshot, and Jake hears his voice, thin but not the worst singing in the world, rising high to the very top of his limited range. “-tears dry without you... life goes on but I’m gone, cause I die without you-”
“Oh, what do you know, it’s Rent. I guess I owe you five dollars, Rafael.”
“... I’ve seen that show, too.” Rafael’s voice is slightly distant, and he squints a little at Chris. “Um, what did you say his name was?”
“Chris, he’s Christopher Stanton-”
Chris looks up, giving Jake a cheery wave when he sees him standing there. Since the Olympics, since speaking out in public in front of everyone, since the news had filtered in about his aunt’s arrest, he’s moved with a kind of lightness that he’s never had before.
Jake waves back, but Chris’s eyes move to Rafael, standing beside him, and he watches Chris’s arm drop.
“Did-...” Rafael’s voice catches, and he holds that plastic feather to his chest, as if clutching it for protection. Jake realizes why it looks so familiar - Chris used to have one of those in that color, before he went to the natural history museum with Laken that one time-
Wait a second-
“Did he used to have blue hair?” Rafael asks in a thin, trembling voice. He slides off the backpack, but it’s more like he just sort of forgets to wear it, suddenly. It thumps to the ground.
Chris has broken into a run, the last of the sun glinting off his hair, turning purple nearly back to red again with the reflection of the darkening light. He tears the earbuds from his ears and jams them into his pocket. His smile is brilliant, he’s all eyes and lips in his narrow face.
Before Jake can answer, Chris has already closed the distance, and he smacks into Rafael so hard the two of them stumble backwards and Jake has to throw his hands out to keep Rafael from falling backwards onto the ground. “You did it you did it you you you, you, you, you, you did it, you did it did it did, did, you you you-”
Rafael is frozen, for half a second, with his hands pressed between the two of them, dark eyes wide. Then he wriggles his arms free just around to throw them around Chris’s waist, burying his face into the young man’s neck.
“You told me somebody loved me,” He whispers, and Jake closes his eyes against his own tears. How many times had they had to tell Chris that, when he was new and scared and convinced he couldn’t be loved? How many times have they all had to hold Kauri through his own sobbing insistence that he was used up, ruined, destroyed, not worth the care they showed him?
“Somebody did,” Chris says, and he’s practically vibrating in the embrace, his hands moving in short bursts. “And, and, and, and somebody will, and, and, Rafael, Rafael-Rafael-Rafael-Rafael-... you kept my my my feather you kept you you-... you-... I, I, I-, I can’t, I can’t-”
He pulls away, spinning in a circle, hands flapping through the air as his excitement overwhelms his body, up near his face and then down around his waist and back again, humming loudly, tunelessly. Rafael watches, startled, stepping back a little as he’d press himself to Jake’s side for protection.
“He’s so fucking happy,” Jake explains, his voice catching, strained a little. He hasn’t seen Chris like this since he got into college. “This is how he is when he’s happy. He talked about you for weeks. I-... I didn’t realize you were the same person, or I would have said… God, I wish we’d known about you sooner.”
“You… you do?” Rafael turns to look up at him, then back at Chris. “You wish you had?”
“Been able to bring you here? Absolutely. Chris was so worried for you, when he stopped getting updates on where you were.” He thinks about it, and then clears his throat.
Chris pauses in his ecstatic stimming, looking up at Jake.
“Keep smiling like that and your face will break,” Jake says, teasing, but he can’t help but return the smile. “Chris, Rafael is going to stay with us, he needs a permanent safehouse and he was just dropped off. I don’t have any empty rooms, and I’d like to keep respecting Eli’s request for his own space until he’s ready, so-”
“Can, can, can, can can can Rafael share my room?” Chris beats him to the punch, bouncing on his toes. “I, I, I can hang around more, um, Laken can come hang out here for a while, would, can we, can I-I-I, can can can-”
“Yeah,” Jake cuts in, grinning as Chris responds by spinning around one more time, then pulling Rafael to him for another crushing hug, rocking forward and back against him, hands moving up to cup either side of his face, arms around his neck.
Rafael’s eyes close, exhaling, and he nuzzles into Chris’s neck in a familiar gesture, making his way to Chris’s mouth to kiss him-
Chris freezes at first, and Jake nearly steps forward - but then Chris pulls back, putting his hand up to Rafael’s mouth. “No kissing,” He says, softly, and Jake’s knees nearly buckle at hearing his own tone in Chris’s voice, the gentle rebuke that doesn’t come with judgement that he’s used on every Romantic he’s ever worked with.
That he’d had to use with Chris himself, once upon a time, over and over.
He could nearly fall at seeing Chris simply refuse something he doesn’t want, with such ease and comfort that nothing bad will happen if he does.
Rafael’s face falls. “I’m sorry, I don’t-... it’s not-... I’m so sorry-”
“It’s, it’s it’s it’s okay,” Chris says, and hugs Rafael again. “It, it, it takes a while to, to, um, to learn how to… not do it. I remember. It’s, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
Rafael nods, and hesitantly lets his arms move around Chris’s waist again. When he isn’t shoved away, he tightens the embrace, and ducks his head against Chris’s shoulder. His shoulders start to shake, and Jake realizes after a second passes that he’s crying.
“I hate being alone,” Rafael says, voice muffled against Chris’s shirt and thick with emotion. “I hate it so much.”
“Me, me, too,” Chris says, and one hand starts to rub Rafael’s back, up and down. Rafael goes nearly boneless against him, breath shuddering in relief at the simple, easy touch given without restrictions. “But you, you’re not, now. We’ve got you.”
Jake has to turn away, or he’ll get too emotional, too.
Behind him, he hears Chris whisper one more time. “We’ve, we’ve got you, Rafael. We’ve got you.”
“Who… who loved me? Who loved me before I was this?”
Jake climbs the stairs and opens the door, and the two younger men trail him, almost reluctant to come in from the warm evening air. Jake’s eyes move over the neighborhood, and he catches a kid from the house across the street sitting out on their front lawn. The kid gives him a wave and a thumbs-up.
Jake swallows and closes the door behind Rafael and Chris.
Maybe the Olympics were a mistake.
But maybe… they weren’t.
“Here,” Chris is saying, taking Rafael’s hand to lead him up the stairs. Normally, Jake would do the house tour now, but instead he just watches them go. He sees, in his mind’s eye, a young nervous Chris with his carefully trimmed coppery hair over his eyes, a Chris with his fingers white-knuckling his shirt to keep himself from moving, a Chris who still had a collar on until they took it off of him…
And instead, here in his house, there is a Chris nearly ten years later with lavender hair and his ears covered in piercings, a new lip ring, the healed scar along his forehead, leading a nervous new rescue up the stairs to show him his new home.
“I don’t, I, I don’t know who loved you, before,” Chris says. “But we, we, we, we can love you, now, while, while you find out.” As they turn on the landing, he glances back down at Jake and smiles at him.
Jake returns it. He feels Kauri comes alongside him, and shifts, sliding an arm around Kauri’s shoulders as Kauri’s go around his waist.
“Who’s that?” Kauri asks, in a low voice.
Jake turns and presses a kiss to his curls, still wet from the shower. “New resident. He’s going to stay with Chris.”
“Chris is okay with that?”
“His idea. Remember when he convinced that Romantic he saw at a museum to call for help getting out? That’s him.”
“It is?” Kauri smiles, head against Jake’s shoulder. “He must be thrilled.”
Jake thinks of Chris spinning in circles in the drive, hands flapping, the humming sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. He thinks of the way they had hugged each other, the relief in Rafael, the joy in Chris.
Open joy, shown in every single inch of his body, not a single sound or motion held back or hidden.
Nat flinches back as Chris lets out a scream of frustration and throws the book across the room. It smacks into the wall and drops to the ground, open to a random page, the oversized letters easily readable even from this far away.
Easily readable for her, anyway.
"I, I don't want to do this anymore!" He snaps, shaking his head, rocking almost violently forward and back, forward and back. Nat takes a breath, trying to decide what to do - hug him? Wait it out? Sometimes a hug helps, sometimes it makes things worse. Waiting might just mean Chris cycling down into his self-hatred again, or it might give him time to calm and get through it on his own.
She settles for getting to her feet, with a slight groan as her knees protest, and walking over to pick the book up. "Chris-"
"It, it, it it it hurts! It hurts and it's, I'm too, I'm never gonna read again and I shouldn't even try, I, I I I'm too fucking stupid to read!"
He smacks his hands into the floor, and Nat holds the book, running her own hands back and forth over the slightly shiny cover of the book. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she should have known better - in retrospect, it was a hard day for Chris right from the start. Waking from a nightmare, struggling with leaving his room, getting overwhelmed when the roadwork guys had gone down the road - and then something about lunch had been wrong, but he hadn't been able to say what...
"Chris, it's okay," She says, softly, and takes a seat on the couch. "It's okay. We can stop for now, all right? We can try again later."
He looks up at her, eyes red-rimmed with tears, wiping almost viciously at them with the back of one hand. "I'm too-... they they they made me too stupid to read," He says, and the awful misery of his voice cracks her heart in two. "They hurt me and I can't-... I can't do it and I want to get better, but-... but but but I can't, I can't get better-"
"You can. You can, Chris, and you will. But there's no deadline, you don't have to hurry." Nat sighs, and then looks down at the book, thinking. "Would you like me to read to you for a while?"
He goes quiet, sitting in sullen silence for a few seconds, and then gets to his feet, moving across the room and flopping dramatically onto the couch next to her. "Yes," He says, in a low voice, his hair hanging over his eyes. "Please."
"No problem. Let's just take some deep breaths." She opens the book and starts to read from the spot they'd left off, keeping her voice low, a soft soothing near-monotone.
At first, Chris sits with his knees pulled up, forehead resting against them, humming soft and rocking. The humming comes to a stop, until Nat's voice is the only thing in the room, and then finally the rocking stops, too.
When he leans slowly over until his head rests against her, Nat never misses a beat. She keeps reading, even as she slides an arm around his shoulder and holds him.
"I'm, I'm I'm-I'm sorry," he says, in a voice so small she can barely hear him.
Nat places her finger on the last word she had read to mark her place, and turns, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "It's okay. Hard days are a part of living, Chris. I understand. It's okay."
"Are you-... are are are you mad at me, for throwing the, um, the book?"
"No, honey. But can we try again tomorrow?"
He nods, closing his eyes.
Nat starts reading again, and feels the tension in his body very slowly relaxing.
Maybe tomorrow will be better all around.
Chris has so many good days, it's not such a big deal to roll with the bad ones.
CW: Recovering pet whumpees, brief unintentional medical whump, conditioned responses
Alternate universe where @boxboysandotherwhump’s Dee and Sam find somewhere new for safety... it’s a (slight delayed) birthday gift for Theo!
-
“We don’t have room for them both,” Jake mutters, worrying at a hangnail on his thumb that he hasn’t yet gotten up the courage to pull, and has already clipped as close to the cuticle as he safely can. “Where are we going to put them? The fucking porch?”
“We’ll figure that out,” Nat says, reassuring, arms crossed in front of her. Outside, the night sky is clouded and a formless, featureless blue-gray, lit at its edges by the soft orange glow of the city. The two of them sit in uncomfortable hard-backed plastic chairs in the waiting area of a doctor’s office not far outside of downtown.
Jake leans over and picks up a magazine, flipping through it. His eyes scan through images and words without really seeing or reading them. Celebrity gossip, bullshit about food trends, bullshit about exercise, bullshit about parenting, bullshit about-
His eyes catch on a full-page WRU ad. It’s a photo shot in a slightly filmy, blurred way, as if to echo old-style vintage TV shows. A teenage girl in a school uniform sits at a table, chin on one hand, looking with slightly rolled eyes to the side. Next to her sits a man in his twenties, a collar visible above the crewneck of his sweater, pointing out something on the paper in front of them with a cheerfully helpful expression.
Behind them, a woman clearly meant to be the girl’s mother looks over her shoulder with a warm smile.
Give your children every academic advantage - and a lifelong best friend - with a Box Boy all their own. Find a Platonic Companion to add to your family with WRU.
Bile rises in Jake’s throat. He looks at the mellow, pleasant smile on the man’s face and wonders what torture it took to create it, how long the man spent locked in the cells, how frightened he was before they gave him the tiniest hint of mercy.
He knows there’s a law that they can’t use actors to portray the Box Boys in advertising, it has to be the real thing. So what did they do to get this guy camera-ready? What will they do if he ever fails to nail the shot?
He closes the magazine with a slap and tosses it violently back on the side table.
Nat glances over at him, eyebrows raised. “You okay, Jake?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, glowering towards the darkness visible through the slats in the blinds at the front window. He sees headlights cutting through, briefly blinding him, and blinks, rubbing at his eyes.
“Showtime,” Nat murmurs. “Remember, they’re a bonded pair.”
“Yeah, got it.” Jake pushes himself to his feet. Shadowy figures outside exit the car, one person from the driver’s seat and two getting out of the back. Jake squints, only able to see silhouettes thanks to the still-shining headlights. “Jesus, how fucking tall is that guy?”
The door opens, Dr. Masood coming in, gesturing the two others behind him.
The first one through is short - or maybe he isn’t, but he seems short compared to the hulking goddamn giant who walks behind him. The guy has to duck not to knock his head on the doorframe, and even Jake doesn’t have to do that.
Jake’s eyes narrow at the sight of the immense, muscular man, scarred heavily down one side of his face right up to his auburn hair, and down his neck, disappearing into the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing. There are scars on his hand, too, making Jake think there’s a lot hidden under that shirt. He looks… weirdly familiar. Like Jake has seen him somewhere before.
The man sees him and his eyes narrow right back, putting a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder. “Sam,” He says, in a low voice. “Stay close.”
Dr. Masood closes the door quickly and locks it, glancing around. “Hello, Natalie. Hello, Jake. Sorry I’m late - Anderson had to evade a potential WRU tail to drop them off with me. We’re here safe and sound, though.” He moves over to the door back into the hallway where the exam rooms lie. “I’ll need to perform basic physical examinations. Who would like to go first?”
Sam - the smaller one is Sam, Jake tells himself, memorizing the name quickly - presses his back against the big guy. He’s dressed in a loose t-shirt that’s more tunic than top, going down nearly to his mid-thighs with leggings underneath, sleeves pushed up to bare his hands as he crosses his arms in front of himself. He’s gorgeous, shorter maybe than Chris is. His eyes, though, have a flinty spark that Chris’s eyes don’t. “Dee and me, we don’t separate.”
Dr. Masood considers, and nods, slowly. “Fair enough. You may both come back with me, then.”
Jake, who has seen newly-freed Box Boys lose their absolute shit on well-meaning physicians after nearly all medical care has involved torture in their memory, moves as well. “I’ll sit in on it.” When he catches the poisonous little glare from Sam, he gives them a patient smile. “No worries, I don’t look, just stay outside the room to make sure you’re safe.”
“Oh, sure, you say that, but-”
“It’s standard,” Dr. Masood says in his own warm voice with its lilting, slight accent. “I have worked with Jake for many years, I promise he means what he says.”
Sam and Dee share a look, and then they must decide this is as good as they’ll get, because they nod - with a little huff from Sam - and follow Dr. Masood and Jake back to the door labeled PATIENT ENTRANCE.
“I’ll keep watch,” Nat calls.
As Jake’s back turns, she picks up the magazine he discarded and starts flipping through it, curious about what angered Jake so badly.
Dee ducks again to avoid the doorframe, even more this time, and Jake clears his throat mildly. Part of him wants to remark on it, the rest of him knows how annoying it is to have people constantly point out you’re tall. After all, he gets it all the time.
He can’t shake how weirdly familiar this guy looks, even though he’s sure he’s never seen him before.
“We’ll just take this exam room,” Dr. Masood says mildly, opening a door and flipping on the lights. “Sam, if you’ll step inside. Dee, is it?”
The giant nods.
“Dee, if you’ll stay out here with Jake. We’re going to do a basic physical and I would prefer to give the patient some privacy.”
“Oh, we don’t get privacy,” Sam says, casually, his arms swinging a little at his sides as he moves into the room. He’s already pulling his shirt off, not even waiting to be told. Jake catches sight of scars, long, thin, and surgical, along his ribcage and chest.
“Nonetheless, I would like you to get a sense for it,” Dr. Masood says kindly. “To your underwear, please, and here is a gown to wear-”
“Don’t want to bother with the gown, and underwear just slows me down. Look at whatever you want.” Sam shrugs, and Jake quickly turns away, looking across the hallway at a framed painting of a flowerpot. He knows the challenge when he hears it - are you trustworthy, will you look, will you touch, will you hurt us, will you will you will you.
Dee looks over at him, leaning against the wall, and Jake realizes the big man is more or less echoing his movements. When he crosses his arms, so does Dee. “Sam is my bonded,” He says, in a low voice, barely audible.
Maybe he’s shy.
“So they said in the phone call,” Jake replies, pitching his voice low and kind to suit the big man’s demeanor. “I know you don’t know our safehouse, but I should tell you, we don’t separate bondeds, if you were worried about that. You stay together.”
Dee swallows, hard, and looks at him more closely now. He’s still got a collar buckled around his throat, tight enough that he’s got a bit of red rubbed raw along the edges. “Good. Um. Good. They, the last place, they said no room for a bonded pair, that we’re… dangerous.”
“Well, for starters, they shouldn’t say shit like that to you.” Jake snorts, irritated, raking a hand back through his hair. “Even if they separate bonds for sleep, they shouldn’t tell you it’s because of you being dangerous. That’s not really why.”
Inside the exam room, they overhear Sam say, “No, it’s fine, I don’t even have a gag reflex,” and Jake is reminded with a bittersweet pang of Kauri.
Who is, as usual, God knows where doing God knows what with some asshole who doesn’t deserve him.
“Well, why then?” Dee asks, curiosity overcoming his reticence to speak. “Why do they separate us? I-... I need my bonded. Sam takes care of me.”
Jake had expected it to be the other way around. His surprise must show on his face, because Dee actually smiles - very slightly - and then looks away. He’s hiding the scarred side of his face, Jake realizes, his clouded eye.
“Usually the big guys are there to take care of the smaller ones,” He offers, and finds himself relaxing more and more in Dee’s company. “I don’t think I’ve seen it the other way around before.”
“Oh.” Dee goes quiet, for a second, and he starts fiddling with his fingernails, looking down at them. Within, they hear Sam critiquing at length the quality of Dr. Masood’s instruments. Finally, Dee asks, hesitantly, “Why do they separate us? You didn’t answer.”
“Oh, it’s. So, um, WRU is the one who puts bonded pairs together. So the idea is… to fully recover, they have to learn how to be apart. Some safehouses do it, like, what they call the ‘tough love’ way. Separated right off the bat.” Jake shrugs. “Nat doesn’t believe in that shit, though, because… we have kind of a different philosophy.”
Dee just looks at him, eyebrows raised slightly in curiosity that he doesn’t put words to.
“If you’re bonded,” Jake says, glancing down the hall towards the door to the waiting room where Nat watches for the possibility of a raid right here and now, “you’re bonded. It’s a real feeling, right?”
Dee doesn’t respond at first, then realizes Jake must be waiting for him to at least react. He clears his throat and says, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is.” He smiles, just a little, his head still tipped so Jake doesn’t see the scarred side.
“Right. Just because they created it artificially doesn’t mean it isn’t a real attachment, a real bond, even real love, depending on the people involved. Separating can be… some people handle it, some don’t. But the slow approach works better, Nat says, and she’d know, she’s been at this for like twenty years. So, you stay with us, you stay together. The work on learning how to live on your own happens together. We can kind of adjust towards independence as we go, right?”
“Um. Right. But… what if we don’t want to be independent?”
“Well, that’s up to you. We want you to live happy lives, free of WRU, as the real people you really are.”
“Huh.” Dee looks away, wincing as if his head is beginning to hurt, reaching up to rub at his temple.
Jake looks over at him, and once again, he can’t quite… shake the sense that Dee looks like someone he’s definitely seen before. Maybe at a group meeting, or in a video or something? Maybe…
“Hey.” He clears his throat. “Uh, can I ask, do you-... remember anything from before you became-”
“At least warm the fucking speculum up first, asshole!” Sam shouts from inside, and Dee whips around with sudden speed at the sound of his voice raised high from surprise and discomfort. Jake watches him nearly smack his head on the door before he ducks at the last second, glowering at the doctor, who is already backing away.
“My apologies, I wasn’t aware that it hadn’t been left to warm as I requested, the machine was off-”
“Yeah, well it was still cold. It’s okay, Dee, I’m okay, but listen if I wanted to freeze from the inside out I would buy some ice cubes!”
“Again, my apologies-”
The moment is gone. Jake frowns, staying right where he is, looking at the flower in the frame across the hall and wondering what lives these two had lived before they came here.
-
@finder-of-rings @astrobly @burtlederp - who have asked to be tagged in all things
CW: Trauma survivor, referenced noncon and assault, heavy internalized victim-blaming and self-loathing/anti-asexuality (Chris has serious issues from his conditioning around this)
(references events from this small series)
I think you should spend time apart, not with me.
When Chris picks up his phone, it's not at all the message from Laken he expected to see. Not the kind of thing they've ever sent before.
He has to read it two times, then three. The letters swim and shake along with a dull pounding inside his head, but no matter how he tries to make them into other words - tell himself he must have misunderstood, must be missing something - they come back together the same in the end.
I think you should spend time apart, not with me.
Each letter is as crisp and clean as a sterilized blade between each rib, one by one by one by one.
The words are a body blow. They're a hundred blows, beating him into a barely recognizable shattered shell of himself. It wasn't supposed to happen this way - it's been a bad few days, yeah, a bad week really, but until yesterday's fight it had never occurred to him that Laken might give up on him.
The fight was his fault, anyway.
He meant to apologize last night, but then Nova had come into his room, and he'd lost the rest of the night to lying next to Jake, trying to remember how to stop living inside his head again, how to stop being still.
He'd woke up this morning with his stomach doing butterfly flips inside him, nervous, but he'd really wanted to say he was sorry, for the fight, for all the weirdness lately. He'd wanted to apologize for being difficult.
Instead... he'd woken up to find a missed text from the night before, sent after he'd shoved Nova away but before he could stand to look at anything again.
I think you should spend time apart, not with me.
There it sits.
He hasn't unlocked his phone yet. Instead, he keeps tapping the button to light up the screen, looking at the message preview that has all he needs to see. Lets it go dark again. As if one of these times he'll click and it'll say something else.
But it doesn't,
It just says the same damn thing.
I think you should spend time apart.
Not with me.
He's still staring at it when another one comes in. He feels the soft pulse of his phone in his hand, and the screen lights on its own.
LAKEN - NOW Did you see my message?
He thinks maybe Kauri had it easier when he was the age Chris is now. Back when Kauri carried on entire conversations in emoji form, letting the nuance and ambiguity take over, the recipient working through the meaning on their own. With this, each letter is merciless, each word is unmistakable. He can’t misunderstand it.
Can he?
He opens the phone with shaking fingers, types back yes, presses send, and turns his phone off.
Then he throws it at the wall.
He’s grateful for the heavy plastic case that makes it bounce off and drop to the floor without breaking. There's a strip on the back, textured and a soft purple, gray, white, and black. He rubs his fingers over it sometimes in class to keep himself from rocking and being distracting.
Now he just... stares at it.
Laken bought that for him. They bought the shirt he's wearing right now-
He yanks it off his head before he can think, balls up the soft fabric and throws it as well. It just sort of drifts pointlessly to the floor, a single eyeball from the print of a band he likes staring back at him.
Laken has ranted before about people who break up by text message, and Chris has to breathe through a physical ache in his chest that tightens every muscle at how awful he must be that they're not doing this face to face. How awful, how used-up, how shredded apart, how fucking pretty he is.
After all, he and Laken have been together for more than a year, and he still held perfectly still for Nova to touch him before he remembered how to move. After all, he’s a grown man who still cried and fell apart when Jake was hurt. After all, after all, after all...
He scrambles across the floor for his phone again, turns it back on. Part of him hopes he’ll see a new text saying they take it back, they didn’t mean it. Or just asking him to apologize for what he’d said that night before, for how he’d thrown their confusion over his reaction to something back at them, echoing out the way Kauri fights sometimes, talking about himself the way he thinks everyone else might be thinking about him, so he says the insult first and no one else gets to surprise him with it.
But there’s nothing new.
He manages to open the texts again, barely, and breathes in gasps, nearly pants, as he types out, you don’t want me at your place?
Not right now.
Is it because of what I can’t do?
It takes them a minute to answer. Every single second ticks by with a slowness Chris hasn’t felt since his days in the cold white room, tied down to stillness, forced to endure every minute that passed in perfect silence or to the soundtrack of his own tears and pleading for it to stop.
When they do respond, it’s just, it’s because of what you won’t do.
His breath catches in his throat. The ache in his head starts to pound harder, and he has to close his eyes against a sharp stab behind them.
What he won’t do.
They’ve never cared before. How-... how could they suddenly care now? The fight had only a little bit been about that, it’d really been about something else. About his nightmares, how he’s not sleeping, not seeing his friends, skipping therapy. It hadn’t even been about... that. About what Chris can do and what he can’t, in bed.
But that was the thing - the fight had started when Chris had flinched back from Laken’s touch to his back, and snapped at them, and accused them of wanting too much, and...
And now this.
It’s like they knew about Nova. Knew that he could be good just fine - better than fine, Handler Petrus said he was one of the best he’d ever worked with once - he just... wouldn’t. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Never wanted to.
Can’t do it without tearing himself to pieces all over again.
It was always a scream inside his mind, but should he have pushed it down and tried harder to be more like everyone else? Is he losing Laken because of it? Did Nova pick up on something Chris himself doesn’t know?
Should he have... tried?
Even if it hurt?
He drops the phone again, then kicks it viciously under his bed, listening to the scrape of it sliding across the floor, the thump as it hits the wall. He hears it vibrate again, but this time he doesn’t care what Laken has to say.
They’ve said enough.
He understands.
Part of him expected this eventually.
He leaves the room, doesn’t bother to pull on his compression shirt, even. He lets his skin prickle bare and exposed to the air. He accepts the discomfort, the uneasy feeling of being too seen, too felt.
The house is quiet, this early.
He makes himself toast with butter, wincing at the scrape of the knife against the crisp bread, the sound boring into his ears. But eventually it’s done, and he slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, willing himself to cry. Somehow, the tears just... don’t happen.
He can hear Jake snoring softly from the living room. He’d been up with Chris until nearly 4 am, then Chris was awake again at 6:30, looking at that text, looking over and over and over again. Two hours of sleep leave him weirdly euphoric alongside his despair. Like he’s floating in some nightmare place that isn’t awake and isn’t sleeping, either.
He’s probably slept nine hours in three days at this point. He keeps seeing Jake with a knife sticking out of him every time he closes his eyes. Jake, screaming as Antoni pushed cloth into his wound to stop up the bleeding. Jake with a bullet wound, sitting up against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes whispering, It’s okay, Tristan, I love you, it’s okay as he dies.
He can’t sleep. He can’t leave for long. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.
Him being what he is, it’s the reason Jake is hurt. If he hadn’t been his brother, he wouldn’t have decided to run a house for Romantics, and he wouldn’t have ended up dealing with all the dangerous bits about them.
Jake said it himself, didn’t he? It’s a mistake, running a house for Romantics. Not his best idea. A mistake.
Chris is a mistake.
Him being weak, and cowardly... it’s hurting Jake, making his life harder.
He makes everyone’s life harder.
There’s a soft sound of footsteps behind him, and he turns to find Nova in the doorway, staring back. She’s in a sleeveless gray dress and has her long dark hair pulled back from her temples, spilling in a waterfall down her back. Her eyes are dark and fathomless, and she gives him a faint, slight smile.
She had smiled like that with one hand down his pants.
Chris turns around, too fast, his head spinning a little, and hunches over his toast. “Good... good, um, good morning,” He mumbles.
She clears her throat. “Morning. Chris, about-... about last night...”
“Don’t, um, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t worry about it.” He takes a breath. He doesn’t want his toast any longer.
“I’m sorry,” She says, simply. “I spoke to Sarita about it, and... and she said this happens with us, and I should apologize, but, um. So I am. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-... I thought I was helping.”
“I... know you did.” His words are slowing down. Chris can’t hold on to his thoughts, they want to drift away somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere darker.
“When I was with-... with my Miss, she would always say, if you are sad the best way to fix it is to make your body forget that feeling, replace it with something else. And that was what we replaced my sadness with. So, you were sad and upset, and I thought I could fix it that way.” She pauses, flushing a little, looking down and to the side as she moves with effortless grace to get a glass and fill it with water, take a small sip.
“Kauri used to... to do that,” Chris says after a pause, thinking about it. Kauri, who would show up in the small hours of the morning reeking of liquor and someone else’s cologne, or just didn’t show up at all. Kauri, who would laugh instead of crying, and laugh with someone’s arms around him, a guy whose name he didn’t know.
Kauri, who ran and ran and ran and can do things and be things that Chris can’t.
Or... won’t.
What if he’s been hurting Laken this whole time and didn’t know it, because he was already hurt himself?
His foot starts to tap tap tap on the floor until he stops it.
“Did he? Did it-... work for him?” Nova asks it with genuine curiosity, and her eyes are so pretty. He looks up at her, and then down again, pushing the plate of toast away from himself.
“I don’t know,” Chris whispers. “I, I don’t know. He’s happy now, but...”
“Was he happy then?”
“No. But, but, but... maybe we aren’t supposed to be. At least... not with, with anyone... who isn’t like us.”
“Jake isn’t like us,” Nova points out. Her presence in the room feels heavy, like a weight pushing down on him. But what does it matter? He’s not with Laken anymore, anyway. If he wanted to, he could stand right up and kiss Nova right now, press her back into the counter, and learn what it’s like to be the one doing things and not just having them done to him.
But his body doesn’t stir at the thought. It never has.
“He is,” Chris answers. “A, a little bit. I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, too, Nova. Sorry that I-I can’t.”
“No, I know. You have a partner, and I shouldn’t have-”
“I don’t have... I, I, I I don’t have a partner anymore.” Chris stands up, leaving her there with his plate of untouched toast. The sky outside is bright as the sun rises, as if mocking the way he feels like a stormcloud inside.
Nova watches him leave, and whispers to herself, “No partner?”
Chris goes outside, pulling a sweatshirt that hangs on the coatrack on over his head to protect his skin, curling up on the porch swing and watching cars pulling out of driveways as the neighborhood starts to head to work in ones and twos.
He doesn’t cry.
He sits very, very still, and he is silent.
Upstairs, under the bed, his phone vibrates, again and again, unnoticed.
Just go talk to Nat, Chris.
That’s all I said.
Just go see Nat and get a night or three away from the house.
Being there all the time is overwhelming you.
Are you even looking at these?
Chris you can’t just ignore me every time I say something you don’t like
Chris answer me
...
...
Oh shit, Chris, my phone autocorrected earlier and I didn’t notice
I meant “some time at Nat’s”, not apart
Chris?
Are you seeing my messages?
Baby?
Chris, please check your phone and answer me.
Please.
CW: Trauma response, brief flashback to minor whump and a creepy, intimate whumper, dental visit/mouth whump but not really
"Okay, lean back for me, sweetheart." The dental hygienist smiles down at him, her lips perfectly painted in a bright, cheerful red that makes her already-sparkling teeth seem even whiter. Her hair is short in the back but longer in front and Chris watches the sway of the tendrils towards the front as they hang close to his face. "I'm just going to do a little lookie-loo in here to check for any visible issues, all right?"
Chris swallows, hard. His fingers grip tight to the armrests on either side of the padded dental chair. It feels too much like other chairs he's been strapped down to, but there's no stirrups to force his feet into here, and there aren't any buckles or straps at all.
"Oh-okay," He breathes, shaky.
"I know you've got sensitivities, and trust me, we'll be nice and careful. Our instruments are quiet, too, most people barely hear the drill. There we go..."
Her hands have plastic gloves on them and they smell like the clinic at the Facility, sterile and clean. Chris's heart is thrumming, barely contained by his skin. He swallows, nods, and tries to do what she wants.
"That's right. There we go... just open your mouth for me, darlin'."
Chris freezes in places, eyes wide and unfocused, but he obeys Sir's order and opens his mouth wide. His body is cold, he's a block of ice, he's a good boy, he's going to do exactly what he's told to do because then it won't hurt.
Maybe it won't hurt.
Sometimes it doesn't hurt.
Sometimes-
He whimpers, just barely, and flinches back from the sound of his own fear.
It's only then that the hygienist pauses and looks him over. "Are you all right, darlin'?"
Are you quite all right? Sir whispers, hand on the back of his neck. Do you need to relearn that lesson about your mouth, Baldur?
He catches himself, just barely, before he can say I'll be good.
"I'm, I'm fine." He smiles at her, nervous and scared and eager to please, and she smiles back, not reading the panic like Nat would, like Jake would. She doesn't see it.
He opens his mouth for her to press fingers inside.
imagine: Chris’s survival instincts kick in and he fuckin shoves Nova onto the floor and runs. Nova may or may not get injured from this. Chris then feels guilty about it and doesn’t explain to anyone what really happened because he knows she’ll get in serious trouble for that, possibly removed from the house even
(follows directly on this post)
CW; Noncon touching, noncon kissing, very brief emeto ref, Nova's fucked-up whumper discussed, past noncon reference, conditioned response, trauma response
"It'll help you feel better," She coos against his ear, and Chris's stomach does backflips around inside of him. It feels like his panic knocks against his rib cage like wings beating desperately to escape, but he can't do anything more than pant, mouth open, pulling in air that smells like Nova's shampoo and skin.
"It, it, it d-doesn't-" He can barely force out the words, his tongue nearly as frozen as the tips of his fingers, hands down gripped into his sheets, fabric twisted until the fitted sheet is pulling off one end of the bed. "Please, it's, it's not, please-"
"You don't have to be shy," Nova whispers, kisses his cheek, his jaw, back to his neck. She's already sucked a red mark there, right where a collar used to be, once upon a time.
When Chris swallows, he can feel the leather he hasn't worn in years, tight around his throat. He can very nearly hear the clinking of the metal tag at the front.
Her hand is untucking his compression shirt, baring skin to the air, to the heat of her hand. She's sucking on his neck again, biting down hard with her teeth, a flash of pain and then the heat and wet of her tongue, and he groans, disgusted and shivering.
Her other hand is hard at work, and he hates it, he always hated it, he never wanted hands there. Or anything. His wrists jerk, he wants to push her away or tap or hit or do something, but his body is still, only shifting his hips into the rhythm of her hands on sheer instinct from training that his body hasn't forgotten, no matter how badly he wants to.
"I'll make you feel better," She says. Her voice is so soft and sweet, higher-pitched, entirely unlike Laken's deeper husky almost-growl. There's no maliciousness in her face when she pulls back to meet his eyes, no sparkle of joy at how helpless he is.
There's something else there.
Genuine, open desire.
Is that better? Or worse?
"Nova," He says, voice strangled and barely-there, nearly a whimper, "You h-have to stop to, touch-... stop, stop, touching m-me, I can't, I can't do, I I I I-"
"But you were crying," She replies, rubbing her thumb over him between his legs in a way that makes his legs jerk under her weight, his breath catch in his throat. "Because of your fight. I can fix that. You had a bad day, and I'm here. I'll make it better, Chris."
Something filters into Chris's thoughts, cracks through the ice of his fear.
Don't be shy, sweetheart, I've had a hard day and I want something pretty to fix it.
She tucks her chin just a little, head tilted to the side. Her top teeth press, just a little, into her lower lip.
Tell me how much you want it, darlin'. You know that always cheers me right up.
"I want to do this with you," She whispers.
It breaks the spell.
Chris lets go of the sheets, puts his hands up, and shoves.
Nova falls backwards off of his legs, tries to twist and catch herself, loses her balance and goes off the bed, smacking hard on one side into the rug on the floor. She looks up at him, long hair hanging in her face, nearly covering up one eye.
He stares back at the shock, the lack of comprehension. His heart is pounding in his ears, the unwanted awful warmth in the pit of his stomach is still there demanding attention, release he doesn't want. He looks down at himself, face red with shame, and back up to meet her eyes as they fill with tears.
"I'm trying to help," She says, and he has to force himself not to apologize at how hurt she sounds.
"I-I... I, um, I know you are," He manages, with difficulty. Words are getting harder. There's a noise inside of him, more feeling than sound, buzzing against his fingers and toes, pushing against the inside of his skin. It makes the words he needs to say harder to find. "But, but, but, but this-... this, this doesn't, um, this-... doesn't... it, it, it it it doesn't, doesn't, doesn't... help me."
"Yes, it does." Nova sits slowly up. One of her shoulder straps is falling down her arm. "It's what makes us feel better, because we're-"
"Not," Chris interrupts, putting a hand up to stop her before she can finish. He knows what comes next. He knows.
Don't cry, Handler Petrus whispers in the back of his mind. Not my fault you had second thoughts about this, slut. Should've had them before you signed up to get on your back for me.
"I tried-... I tried to, to say no." He pushes himself further back into the corner where the headboard of his bed meets the wall. Pulls his knees up to his chest, hands up over his face. One thumb rubs over the healing scar on his forehead, the other hand runs back and forth over his hair, feeling the softness of it, soothing himself with the motion.
"That's how you do it," Nova says, sounding puzzled. He doesn't look up at her again. "One person says don't do it, stop, please, and the other person does anyway, and then everything is better after."
"Better for-... who?"
He doesn't really need the answer to the question. He knows.
"You," She says, pulling herself to her feet. He sees her as a blur in the corner of his eyes and he doesn't look. He feels himself rocking, forward and back - tries to still himself - then starts rocking again. "And my Miss. Her friends. Everyone feels better, after."
"Not me. Please, please, please go."
"But-"
"Nova." He looks up at her, tears building, and she looks back, wide-eyed and startled by the expression on his face. "Please. Please."
"You really didn't like it?" She tucks her hair back behind her ear. "But... you didn't?"
He shakes his head, slowly, digs his hands into his own stomach, starts to tap, desperate to soothe the disgust slithering around underneath his skin.
"Was I not doing it right?"
"I don't-... I, I, I don't, um. I don't like... being, being t-touched... there." He can barely force out the words, they're spat out like disgust and not the fear he really feels. "I, I-I don't want y-you to, to, to to to to... touch me. At all."
For a second, he thinks she'll hit him.
Her face goes very pale and then suddenly bright red in the cheeks, and she turns away from him, races from his room, slams the door shut behind herself. He hears the sound of her footsteps down the hall, another door slamming - probably the room she shares with Sarita.
His phone, long-ago forgotten on the bed, vibrates with a text. He looks over, but the words swim and don't come together. He can tell the text is from Laken, but he can't read what it says.
He can't read.
Chris slowly slumps sideways, against the wall, lets his head thump there once.
