Phone a "Friend"
Seven Masterlist // Prev
Tags: alcohol/drunkenness, fever, sickfic, delirious whumpee, injury/scar reveal, slut shaming, caretaking (yes for real), implied past noncon // Words: 3.4k
༻✦༺
Marquez could tell as soon as he answered the phone that Wes was drunk.
“Listen— Okay? I’onknow what you even fucking see in him, but since you fucking love him so much, whydon’you… Why’on you just fucking take care of it yourself, huh?”
“Wh.. What?” Marquez was beyond confused. Wes was clearly wasted. “What are you talking abou—”
“Seven, okay! Motherfucking—” Wes cut himself off for a moment. “Sevennnn. He’s.. He’s fucked dude, okay? He’s fucking fucked up or some shit—is that what you want me to say??”
Marquez was instantly alarmed. “Wait. What happened to Seven? Is he okay? Fuck, Wes, what did you—”
“Ughhh! He's fineee!” Wes groaned. “He’s literally fucking fine. He’s fine, he just, he just… He’s like, sick or something okay? I don't know, man. Okay? I don’t even fucking know but like. It’snotgood, dude… So you should… You should juslike… help me out, y’know.” That last part probably should’ve been a question, but Wes drawled it out like an assumption.
Marquez would have laughed if he weren’t so concerned. Was Wes drunk calling him for help? Marquez only had seconds to make a decision, and quite frankly the situation was obviously dire if Wes was calling him at a time like this. Whatever was wrong, Seven needed help, and Wes was completely unable to provide it in this state—especially in this state. Marquez figured he could sit here on the phone and try to drag more details out of a tossed and belligerent Wes, or he could just figure it out himself. The answer was obvious.
“Alright, I’m coming over. Same passcode as last time on the elevator, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah…” Wes drawled, and Marquez noted the lack of ‘thank you’ that would typically punctuate a request like this.
Whatever. Marquez wasn’t doing this for Wes. This was about Seven. It was always about Seven.
“Okay—okay, yeah. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank fucking godddd,” Wes groaned—he probably hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but Marquez knew it was as close to an actual thanks as he would get, at least for now.
A moment later, the line went dead, and Marquez went to find his keys.
༻✦༺
Seven was drifting in and out of consciousness when the bedroom door slipped open. He was somewhere far away, lost in the sprawling grounds of the McQueen estate. Seven found himself caught in the maze of immaculately carved hedges, wandering through those palatial grounds. He labored away, in that practiced fashion that was so familiar, pulling weeds that kept growing back as soon as he had tugged them from the soil. He frantically trimmed rose bushes, whose prickly vines kept trying to wrap around his limbs. At one point, he gave up, throwing down the trimmers and turning his gaze up at the sky. After what felt like a lifetime of struggling, he was willing to let it happen to him—to not fight against the forces that seemed hell-bent on sabotaging him over and over. He looked up into that bright blue abyss and willed it to suck him up entirely. He just wanted to float above it all, like a dove flying through the clouds, but the thorny brambles of the roses he had tried and failed to trim kept him tethered to the ground. Weeds sprung up around him, their tendrils thick and anchoring, covering his feet and wrapping his ankles in their undergrowth.
He squirmed in place, alternating between fighting the possessed flora and not fighting at all. He writhed helplessly against the very forces of nature he was meant to tame, that were supposed to obey him here when nothing else in the world would—when something stirred him just enough to crack his eyes open and see that the doorway was opening. A figure appeared in the space of the widening gap, and he let out a small surprised noise when he recognized the shape that had stepped through.
It couldn’t be real—a sturdy figure, black ink coiling around strong, olive-tanned limbs—his nightmare had sent an angel. The image of Marquez, still fuzzy at the edges, hovered before him, gliding like a spectre towards the edge of the bed. Yes, Seven resigned, he was definitely still dreaming.
“Seven?” came a concerned voice, that voice that flooded Seven with warmth every time he heard it. Seven’s pale, shaking hand extended forward unconsciously towards the looming figure. He tried to sit up but the motion made the room swim and all the blood rise to his face, bringing with it a heat that thundered in tandem with the pounding heartbeat in his ears.
“Mar… Marquez…” Seven whispered as though he couldn’t believe it. Like the man before him was a living ghost, gliding along the deck of a long-sunken ship. Marquez had saved him from those twisted, thorny vines, surely, for he didn’t feel their sting anymore. Only a thumping pressure behind his eyes and that burning heat that rose to the surface of his skin in a glistening sheen of sweat.
Marquez reached him, and sat on the edge of the bed. Seven felt the mattress sink as his savior settled upon it, before he saw Marquez’ large, warm hands extending out to cup Seven’s flushed cheeks.
“Oh, you poor thing…” Marquez’ voice was gentle as ever, washing over Seven like a splash of cool water against his fevered flesh. Marquez gazed down at the wilted servant, his mossy green eyes brimming with concern. He looked just as he had the day Seven’s tongue had been burned—he was every bit as beautiful and unbelievable in his radiance. Seven blinked up at him, trying to focus his gaze on Marquez’ face—it was still blurring in and out of focus before him.
“Mar… quez…” was all he could say.
“You’re burning up, aren’t you.” Marquez wasn’t asking, it was merely a resigned observation. “What on earth did that bastard do to you…”
“Huhhnn..” Seven’s voice sounded slurred and far away—he barely registered Marquez’ words, savoring the richness and comfort of his presence alone, the low resonance of his voice.
“Out… Outside…” Seven said softly, when Marquez’ question finally processed in his fevered mind. Everything moved like molasses, just as it had when he’d passed out in the shower, or in the kitchen. It seemed he’d been horrible at staying conscious lately, ever since Wes had left him outside in the rain all night.
Marquez had no idea what Seven meant by that—Wes had given him absolutely no context when he’d arrived. Rather than provide any useful information, Wes had greeted Marquez by shoving him up against a wall with a fist twisted in the collar of his shirt, his other hand clutching a bottle.
Marquez had scowled at him, but didn’t shove him off. He should’ve expected something like this.
“You’renot fucking special, y’know,” Wes had slurred. “You’re my fucking drug dealer, that’ss it. You’re fucking replaceable. You’re only here ‘cuz you were free, got that?" Wes leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Marquez just stared Wes down, a fierce burning in his eyes. Whatever Wes was doing—attempting to establish dominance or some dumb shit—Marquez told himself he had to simply endure it. Let him say his little drunken threats, and then he could find Seven.
“An’ byy theway,” Wes had hissed, pressing Marquez harder into the wall. “Don’t do fucking anything other than help heal my fucking servant. Don’ fuck him or touch’him like that or any of that fuckshit I know you wanna do. That’ss how he got like this in the first place.. fucking whore.”
Marquez’ nostrils flared—a low growl rumbled in his throat—he wanted to beat Wes into the ground right then and there for even speaking about Seven like that, especially while the boy was probably within earshot—sound carried easily across all the glass and marble—in some state of peril, and likely groaning in pain in the one of the bedrooms. Marquez was one hundred percent confident he could take Wes and win. He was stronger, his biceps wider, Wes was wasted—it would be easy.
But Marquez swallowed the swell of rage that twisted up his throat—he shoved it down hard. He had to focus on what he’d come here for. It was always about Seven.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” Marquez gritted out through his teeth, clenching his fists tightly so he wouldn’t fucking deck him.
After a moment of silence so tense it could snap, Wes seemed to have gotten what he wanted, because he finally released Marquez’ shirt and stepped back from the wall. He gestured towards the staircase with the bottle in his hand, uttering a slurred, “He’ss upthere.”
Marquez then wasted no time, hurrying up the staircase to the bedroom Seven usually slept in, cursing Wes in his mind the whole time for whatever he’d done to the poor servant. He’d imagined a hundred awful scenarios on his way to the penthouse. His mind had been racing with anxiety at what state he might find the boy in, but finding him sick and feverish to the point of near delirium was, in Marquez’ opinion, one of the better options. At least he wasn’t horrifically injured. He wasn't bleeding out. No bones appeared to be broken. If Marquez was lucky, and attentive and fucking perfect, he’d be able to help nurse Seven out of this.
But Seven looked so fucking gone. He blinked up at him and his gaze was clouded and unfocused, but nothing could take the reverence out of those cerulean eyes whenever he looked at Marquez. Seven looked at him like he was an angel—a god. Marquez supposed it made sense, given everything that had happened between them. It seemed Seven had no one else that truly cared about his wellbeing. Hell, Wes would rather get blackout drunk than take care of his ailing servant. Resentment rose like bile within him whenever Marquez thought about it too hard—the fact that Wes, of all the sick people in the world, was the one in charge of Seven. But he knew, despite his simmering loathing, that stirring in his hatred for the man downstairs would do nothing to help Seven in that moment. Wes had called him for a reason. He was the only one equipped—that cared enough—to do this. Everything was up to Marquez now.
Just as he took note of how hot the boy’s face felt, Marquez spotted the damp washcloth, scrunched up on the sheet a foot or so away. He released one hand from Seven’s cheek to take it. At least Wes had provided the bare fucking minimum before utterly crashing out. Not that he deserved any credit for it, given that he’d no doubt been the cause of all of this, somehow.
“Give me a second, okay?” Marquez said in that soft, gentle tone that always seemed to calm Seven in a way nothing else in his life would. Marquez slowly lifted himself from his sitting position, and Seven let out a little soft whine at his absence. The sound sent a small pang of regret through Marquez’ chest—he couldn’t help it, the way the boy’s distress made his heart throb with remorse. But he took the cloth to the bathroom anyway, running the fabric under cold water and wringing the excess water from its fibers before returning to Seven, who had since fallen back down, listless, into the pillows.
“Come here, little thing,” Marquez soothed as he gently turned Seven’s shoulder so he was face-up again.
“Nnnhh…” Seven sounded. Marquez wasn’t sure how lucid he was exactly, but he wasted no time gently sliding the cold washcloth over the servant boy’s face—down his cheek and across his chin, down the other cheek and over his pale, slender neck. Seven’s eyes fluttered shut once more, and he gave a small hum of approval at the motion. It must have felt nice—the cooling sensation on his heated skin. Marquez wiped the sweat from Seven’s forehead, before folding the cloth and laying it across his skin to cool the fever.
Fuck it, Marquez thought. The kid was burning up everywhere—he needed another cloth. Marquez went back to the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a second wet washcloth. Setting it on the bed beside Seven, he reached for the boy’s thin shoulders. “Come on sweetheart, up— Can you sit up for me, just for a moment?”
“Hnnmm… Mhmm..” Seven hummed affirmatively, and although he sounded so far away, the boy seemed to understand—Seven allowed Marquez to slowly guide him up into a sitting position. Marquez slid the damp t-shirt up over the boy’s head, and Seven raised his arms in compliance when he realized what was happening. Everything felt too hot anyway, he was glad to be rid of it.
Marquez bit back a gasp of horror at the sight before him. Seven’s torso was covered in large bruises—deep splotches of purples, reds, and blues ran along his ribcage and stomach. He could see the fading remnants of old injuries in the yellow-green tinge of other areas. Marquez’ eyes shot wide when he saw the wrap-around scars of old lash wounds that he now realized covered Seven’s entire back. He glimpsed what he swore was a fucking brand on his lower back—but the angle didn’t provide a perfect view, and he was not about to make Seven turn around so he could inspect his body.
More scars littered his front, many of which he didn’t even know how to pinpoint the cause of. It made him feel sick to even think about what Seven must have endured in however long he’d been in Wes’ penthouse. Marquez didn’t want to alarm Seven, or make him feel any worse about his state than he already did, but he was fucking seething seeing it all with his own two eyes. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find when he removed the boy’s shirt, though, given everything he had seen in his visits to the penthouse so far, but seeing it first-hand made his blood run cold in sheer hatred for Wes and whoever else had had a hand in this.
As soon as Marquez released him, Seven slumped back down onto the mattress, panting slightly with the vertigo from the small motion alone. Marquez, trying to recover from the shock and surge of internal rage, twisted the shirt fabric in his hands. Calm. If he wanted to help, he had to remain calm. Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath—in… and out. He would wring Wes’ neck one day, he swore it, but today was not going to be the day.
Resigning himself and shoving the feeling deep down, he tossed the shirt aside, and began to gently wipe Seven’s chest with the cool washcloth. Seven seemed even more fragile beneath him than he had before, now that the extent of his injured state had been revealed. Hell, that wasn’t even what Marquez had been called to fix—did Seven just… live constantly in a state like this? It broke Marquez’ heart to think about.
“Uhnnn..” Seven hummed—he at least seemed pleased with this development.
“Thaat’s it,” Marquez cooed down at him. “You’re doing amazing.” He tried to keep his voice steady, and hoped he didn’t sound too patronizing. Given Seven’s state, he imagined any word of encouragement right now might, to some extent, but Seven seemed to be responding well to it. Marquez slid the cloth down the boy’s ribs and stomach, trying his best to be extra careful over the bruised areas—which if he were honest, seemed to be most of it. Slowly, he wiped the thin sheen of sweat away, before carefully lifting the waistband of Seven’s boxers to swipe the cloth over the skin beneath it.
Marquez froze when Seven feverishly and clumsily caught his wrist.
‘No—! Please, don’t..” Seven pleaded, and Marquez’ eyes widened in shock. “Not.. Not now… C-an’t—please,” he just kept begging, and all the blood drained from Marquez’ face when he realized Seven was begging to not be used.
Marquez felt tears prick at his eyelashes at the fact that Seven would assume he would do that at a time like this, when Seven was so vulnerable and weak.. Marquez wanted to cry right there, thinking about how many people must have done that to Seven for him to see it as something normal and expected. He couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt in his chest, imagining how Seven must have felt in that moment—the doubt, the betrayal, the notion that his last hope for kindness and safety could be so easily twisted into being used again.
“No! I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Marquez scrambled to correct the situation, releasing Seven’s waistband immediately.
Seven gave another sad little whine when those fingers released him, which puzzled Marquez. The boy seemed distressed either way. Regret stabbed through Marquez’ chest as he imagined the betrayal Seven must be feeling, thinking Marquez had only gotten close to him, was only helping him because he wanted to use Seven like a toy, just like all the others had before him. The very thought that Marquez would weaponize his vulnerability, would use that small glimmer of hope and safety and trust just to pry him open—to build Seven up, just to tear it all down again—it would rip his heart right open. Marquez bit his lip, his hands shaking slightly as they hovered above Seven’s body, afraid to touch him at all.
Seven, even in his own fevered mind, instantly felt Marquez’ regret and lamented it. Seven desperately wanted it to be real. He wanted Marquez to touch him—but he wanted so badly for it to be genuine and soft and kind, he wanted to remember it without the tinge of pity and fever and guilt that the memory would have if it were to happen right now.
“Not… Not like… this,” Seven tried to clarify.
“I’m so sorry, Seven,” Marquez’ voice cracked. “I’m so so sorry—I wasn’t going to—”
“Want…” Seven said quietly, “Just… Just not… like this.”
Marquez worked those words over in his mind, deciding to just let the moment slip past them for now. “Of course,” he reassured, as gently and earnestly as he could. He blinked away the tears that had risen beneath his eyelids, and tried his best to recover—he needed to be strong for Seven right now.
“May I…?” He asked softly, hovering the wash cloth over Seven’s ribs.
“Uhn-huh,” Seven nodded, letting his eyes slip shut. Trust. Marquez hadn’t fucked this up irreparably. Thank fucking god.
Marquez took to drawing the cloth over Seven’s torso once more, cooling the skin there in soothing motions until it reached a less burning temperature. Seven seemed to calm throughout this, and Marquez never brought it lower than the boy’s hipbones. Marquez dabbed at Seven’s cheeks with it once last time, before spreading the cloth out and laying it across his chest.
“Feel a little better?” He asked softly, leaning forward slightly to assess Seven’s expression.
“Mhmmm,” Seven hummed, giving the slightest nod of his head against the pillow, his eyes still closed shut. Marquez felt movement at the cloth of his trousers, and looked down to see Seven’s little fingers balling up in the excess fabric. Marquez couldn’t help the fond smile it brought to his face when he saw it—the boy had done this last time too. He was clinging to him.
“You wanna be close, little thing?”
He heard the faintest response. “Please,” Seven nearly whispered, and Marquez let out an involuntary hum. Why was he so damned cute, even like this—or, especially like this? Seven was always so sweet and vulnerable and pliant with Marquez. Though it wasn't lost on Marquez that this was likely because they’d only interacted when Seven was already in some very vulnerable state, but he couldn't help the way he felt about it. He rather liked it.
Marquez situated himself beside the servant’s frail form. He took Seven into his tanned, tattooed arms, sliding his thumbs soothingly across the boy’s pale, bruised skin, and together they nestled into the pillows with a new peace that seemed to stop time entirely. Seven hummed warmly against his chest, as though Marquez were the embodiment of bliss itself, and promptly fell fast asleep, letting out little slow puffs of air against Marquez’ sternum. Marquez found himself almost as deeply entranced, as sleep nearly overtook him as well, and they settled there for a while, wrapped in a sheetless embrace, Seven’s feverish cheek against a steadily beating heart.
༻✦༺
Part 2 of this is up!!
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