In League – Draw (Bath pt 3)
Masterlist
Conclusion to Bath and Mend, time to wrap up the first aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, whumpee forces caretaker to trigger them, whumpee propositions caretaker (nothing happens), dubious caretaker. Beta read by @alittlewhump!
August calls after him but it’s unintelligible amongst his sobs. Even with the door shut between them, Wyatt can hear him growing ever more hysterical. His skin crawls.
He bolts to the other end of the hall, hands unsteady as he pulls out the blessed cigarette case and matchbook. The smell of sulfur sets his nerves buzzing with the promise of respite only a breath away. He has to delay by one more to steady his hands in order to align the flame with the end of his cigarette.
If only the first drag could last forever.
A distant pain flares in his fingertips but he’s too occupied savouring the longest inhale he’s taken all morning.
He needed this hours ago.
Unfortunately, his inevitable exhale brings him back down to earth.
August is still crying in his bedroom. As is his right, with Wyatt losing all patience and leaving him there bleeding. Failing him once again and this time the lad will certainly remember Wyatt's dereliction.
He sighs, smoke from his exhale hanging in the air with no breeze to clear it. Midge hates when they smoke in the house away from an open window. He’ll have to make his excuses to her too.
It wasn’t like this with the others. Not even Hugh, who required leagues of patience. He takes another pull, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the banister spanning the length of the hall. Never before has he been so absent from the others, so quick to temper, so impulsively invested. He fans the cloud of his next exhale, trying to dispel it.
Something about August pushes him to extremes. Theo made clear what he attributes it to and Wyatt isn’t too proud to admit the truth in his theory. But that awareness does nothing to lessen his attachment, his determination to see this one through.
He takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette at the half.
August only cries harder when Wyatt slowly pushes the door open. At the very least, he’s clinging to the crumpled sheet in his lap again. “Please—” he hiccups. “Please don’t—please don’t—”
He’s about to tell the younger boy he has no intention of hurting him, and apologize for doing so before, when he deciphers what August is repeating.
It nearly brings him to his knees.
“Oh, August, lamb.” The endearment makes August cry out as though it were a strike. Wyatt approaches the dissolving boy slowly. This certainly reframes all of his previous groveling. Most of his placating served to keep Wyatt engaged. By any means necessary. He would rather be hurt to any degree than abandoned. Or perhaps ‘discarded’ is a better term from what he’s let slip about his time with Keats.
“Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”
No part of the insight is satisfying.
“August, August.” He lowers himself onto the bed, staying an arm’s reach away. “August, look at me.”
He tries but he’s beside himself. His eyes can’t seem to rest as he watches Wyatt’s every move, his hands, his lips, his brow, his gaze for only a moment before they flick somewhere else. August’s hands shake in the air, hovering uncertainly. He wants to hold himself, he wants to be held, he checks the sheet again.
“All will right, lad. Come here—”
August bites his lips together and shakes his head adamantly, leaning away from Wyatt’s outstretched hands. Before Wyatt can kick himself for damaging the one comfort the boy could find, August thrusts the unrolled length of bandage into his hand.
“It’s all right, there’s no need for haste.” Wyatt sets the bundle down. “Once you’re—”
He picks it up again, pressing it into Wyatt’s hands. “Please.” He’s no longer sobbing but his entire body hitches with each ragged breath, tears still running down his cheeks whenever he blinks.
On one hand, it’s unlikely he can get more upset than he already is but on the other, Wyatt would rather save him what suffering he can. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Take a—”
August wails in frustration, swiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Please,” he repeats, voice raw.
It would be easier to take him at his word if he wasn’t fighting shy of eye contact. “You don’t have anything to prove. What I said earlier—”
“Just fucking get it over with.”
Wyatt raises his eyebrows but August still won’t look into his face. He wonders if he’s missing a rare glimpse of the fire in his eyes.
“Please,” August amends. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense as he works to still himself and quiet his breathing.
The lesser of the two evils is most certainly to let August grow irate by refusing to do this now. But Wyatt would rather not deny this single outspoken request. Even if it will go over like a lead balloon.
August lies back with a huff before Wyatt has the chance to concede verbally. Likely because he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve.
Wyatt starts by cutting the bloody end of the bandage off and gingerly removing it from the wound. August doesn’t flinch once, though his knuckles are white where he grips fistfuls of the sheet between his legs.
Nothing left but to begin.
“You’ll have to—”
August bends the leg in question so his thigh is off the mattress, placing his foot flat on the mattress.
“Right and—”
He spreads his legs to give Wyatt room to work.
“It’ll be over—”
“Don’t,” August whispers. “Please.”
He nods, though he’s certain August is still taking pains to avoid looking at him. He threads the first pass meticulously, taking great care not to make contact with his skin.
Still, August starts trembling. He tries to make haste but winds up grazing the inside of August’s thigh with his knuckle. August whimpers and claps both hands over his mouth.
“If you need—”
“Don’t stop,” he blurts, immediately covering his mouth again but not swiftly enough to hide that he’s crying now.
Wyatt makes it round once more before August's legs fall together, the lifted one shaking as he works to keep it bent. “August...”
“Please, just help me,” he sobs, fists coming down to grab either side of the quilt beneath him. “I want—I want it finished—”
“No.” He can’t. He won’t keep pushing him. Or himself for that matter. “There’s no reason—”
“Wyatt, please,” August wines.
As gently as he can, he prises the younger boy’s legs apart, taking his injured leg onto his lap to keep it elevated. He tries to be as fast as he can but every brush of skin results in more force needed to hold August in place. Every touch makes progress feel further.
What the fuck is wrong with him that he’s doing this to such a broken boy at the irrational instruction of the very same? He loathes himself—and August—for putting him in this position.
Finally, it’s over. It takes three tries to tie the knot.
“All right,” he says, relief washing over him as he releases August. “It’s done.”
He doesn’t move, hands limp at his sides, eyes fixed unseeing on the ceiling above.
“August, come now.” He’s loathe to touch him again, his stillness even more concerning than his hysteria. “We’ll get you dressed and you can warm by the fire.”
If it’s space he wants, Wyatt will gladly step out to finish his cigarette. Perhaps if he keeps the door open, it won’t feel like such a separation. He moves to stand but August sits up, slim fingers catching his wrist.
“Wait, sir, please. You haven’t finished…”
Wyatt swallows. “Yes, I have. Your leg is bandaged now.” He tries to pull away but August only moves closer.
“Please, I want it.”
“August. No.” He takes his hand in both of his and August’s grip goes slack. “Look at me. Look where you are.”
He stares right through him, a haunted smile that is anything but alluring pulling at his lips. “Please,” he repeats, letting his legs fall open.
“No.”
Wyatt drops his hand and stands but August catches his shirt. “Please,” he pleads, a hint of the earlier panic returning to his voice. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t get Master Keats.”
Wyatt feels sick. “August, that’s not what’s happening. You’re safe here, he can’t hurt you anymore.” He pulls his own dressing gown off the footboard. Has to bat August’s hands away to drape it over his shoulders and doesn’t bother threading them through the sleeves before he cinches the tie around his waist.
“I—I—” August looks down at himself and back at Wyatt, brow furrowing. His eyes are more distant than Wyatt’s ever seen them. Wyatt pulls him to his feet but when he starts leading him away from the bed, August digs his heels in. “Wait, but I—”
He picks him up, carrying him across the room instead.
“No! Please! Master Keats will—he’ll—”
Wyatt is selfishly grateful that August’s sobs prevent him from voicing the end of the sentence. He sets the younger boy in the armchair but even without his arms, August manages to hold him. Wyatt kneels which couldn’t be more apt. If he’s to bring him back without simply holding him for as long as it takes, he’ll be begging.
“Please, August…”
He curls against the wing of the chair, hiding his face against the fabric as he cries.
Not without hesitation, Wyatt reaches out to brush the tears off his cheek. August whimpers, chasing the touch until Wyatt finds himself cradling his face between his hands.
“Come now, show me you’re still brave in there. One bath can’t have doused that fire.” August sniffles, chin trembling. At least his eyes are clearer, even if they’re full of doubt. Wyatt squeezes his shoulders. “There’s fight in you yet. I know it, sweet lamb.”
He pulls in a shaky breath, conflict playing out on his face. He’s trying so hard to reach that version of himself, to square his shoulders, to step away from his past. But he had to be small for so long, even without the ties that bound him, their force isn’t so easily forgotten.
Wyatt feels his own tension rising the longer he observes. “I’ll make you a deal,” he tries. Bribery is bread and butter around these parts after all. “Have you ever had hot chocolate?”
August’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere around Wyatt’s shoulder.
“Melted chocolate and milk, served warm…”
Now he has the feral little thing interested. His dark amber eyes flick up to read Wyatt’s face, to see if he is spinning tales or telling the truth. He’s certain the younger boy wouldn’t be able to discern the difference either way. He could fool almost anyone with a bluff, very few walking the earth know his true tell. In this case, though, it isn’t a lie.
“Does one…drink it or eat it with a spoon?” August whispers, as though afraid of scaring away the offer.
“You’ll have to get dressed and find out for yourself.” Now he has his full attention. “I’m sorry for losing my patience. I do hope you’ll forgive me in time.”
August narrows his eyes.
“The deal stands,” he reaffirms. “If you’re interested. Though you ought to get dressed either way. ”
“I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“Which part?”
“All of it,” he admits in a small voice. He pulls an arm out to swipe his hand under his nose. “Why did you even come back when I was being so difficult?”
“Why’d you let me back in here when I was being so difficult myself?”
August furrows his brow. “Sir…”
“All right. For starters, this is my room and I won’t give it up so easily.” He points to the corner beyond the foot of the bed. “Only one with two windows.”
“That’s not—”
“I know, lamb,” he chides gently, reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. August leans into the touch until Wyatt indulges his cheek with a caress. “But you’re not going to like the true answer.”
He pulls away, fear colouring his expression.
Wyatt leaves his hand between them, trying to show that this doesn’t change anything from one moment to the next. “I don’t know why I want to help you, only that I do and I will so long as you’ll let me.”
August shakes his head. “Sir—”
“I warned you, lamb.” He uses the term of endearment again, hoping it will win him some favour and it does, August leans back within reach though not back into his hand. Wyatt stands to retrieve the parcel he’d carried home this morning, dropping it on the boy’s lap “Lively now, I can see you shivering.”
August unwraps it delicately like the paper and twine are gifts in themselves. He fingers the underclothes inside. The right size and wool, the warmest they had. He looks up at Wyatt and back at the garments as if to make sure they haven’t disappeared.
“Thank you for giving me another chance.” He’s heartbreakingly earnest, though Wyatt couldn’t guess if he means in this moment or every chance that proceeded it.
“Honestly, I could thank you for the same.” Wyatt ruffles his hair, marvelling in the downy softness of those curls now that they’re clean. The gesture brings the colour back to August’s cheeks. “I’ll give you some privacy to get those on. Midge will bring up some hot chocolate for you and something to eat if you can.”
August looks down, hands falling limp in his lap. “You’re leaving.”
It’s not a question and he won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, is only punishing himself by prompting a verbal sentencing. Wyatt unrolls his sleeves, leaving the cuffs unbuttoned. He replaces his waistcoat and pulls on his jacket. All the while, August doesn’t raise his eyes, a cumbersome silence dividing them further.
“You did well today,” he says from the door. “I’m proud of you.”
No dice. August doesn’t move a muscle. He looks so fragile, from his bony knees to the ribs one shouldn’t see, climbing his chest to his delicate collarbone, the column of his throat. He doesn’t cry, just lets the armchair swallow him as if he could disappear before he’s abandoned.
Sometimes no one wins.
“I do hope you’ll forgive me. In time.”
The frigid evening air bites at his lungs, every inhale rendering their capacity smaller. His eyes sting from the sharp, relentless wind. He couldn’t light a cigarette if he tried so he buries his hands in his pockets and quickens his step but the further he gets from the house, the more Wyatt feels like he’s lost.
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