May 14
he's delicate...
sonny's side of the fairy au
seen from Vietnam
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
he's delicate...
sonny's side of the fairy au
Would Mr Oz ever think about putting a shock collar on the boys?
seems likely!
for those who wanted to see fairy!sonny and fairy!port together
i think their fairy names would be. sunshine and pond (translated from fairy language of course)
solitaire (act ii)
close-ups under the cut
sick as a dog
solitaire masterlist: arc i ⭑ arc ii / previous
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, light medical stuff, mention of parental grief, implications of past child/domestic abuse, EMETO WARNING
~~~~~~
Rida woke to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. Few things ever got her out of bed quite as quickly as that. Even beyond her closed door, down the hall, it always pricked her ears— even from a dead sleep. She was attuned to it.
The handle to her bedroom door didn’t budge when she grasped it, which, in her tiredness, took her a second to register. Strange— she didn’t usually bolt it. She twisted the lock and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. She shivered at the cold, bare floor beneath her feet. The only light at this hour came from the dim lamp above the kitchen stove, which she always switched on before bed in case of nights just like this. It cast its orange glow past the bathroom door, ajar.
Tal must be queasy tonight. It happened, sometimes. At nights her brother had to supplement his diet through a feeding tube— never sounded very pleasant to her. It wasn’t, evidently, because sometimes it would upset his stomach and he’d vomit that milky white shit in the middle of the night, flushing all the extra nutrition down the toilet. But it wasn’t his fault. It would be wrong to blame him for it.
She padded down the hall to the bathroom on the balls of her feet, ready to pat Tal on the back or run a hand through his hair how he liked. But when she peered through the doorway, he looked wrong. It was only when she nearly jumped out of her fucking skin at the shock of the distinctly not-Tal person hunched over the toilet bowl that she remembered Tal hadn’t done a night feeding in months now and that she was currently harboring two complete fucking strangers— pets— in her home.
Right. Of course— that was why she had locked her bedroom door last night.
The little burst of adrenaline meant she was fully awake, now. She willed her heart to calm as she cautiously drifted nearer, bracing a hand on the doorframe. The boy’s face was practically in the bowl, but based on the black hair obscuring his profile it was certainly Sonny who was currently gagging into the toilet. She couldn’t possibly leave him by himself and go back to bed, but she also didn’t want to spook or embarrass him. She waited for the bout of retching to cease and drew closer, toeing over the boundary into the bathroom. She whispered his name. “Sonny?”
His shoulders jerked and his head snapped in her direction. He looked terrible, especially in the dim light. His cheeks had a hallow quality to them, and the dark shadows under his eyes were wet with tears. “Sorry,” he blurted, almost slurring. He turned back to the toilet bowl and tried hiding his face behind his hand, fighting back more acid or drool. He sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, muffled. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Her heart, still slowing, now ached for him. He reminded her of a sad and pathetic puppy, especially with that collar— though it was an offensive comparison she would never say out loud. She had thought the same when she saw him fresh out of the shower, dripping wet and shaking like a chihuahua. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. Bechara, she would say to Tal. “It’s okay.”
He only groaned. Then his body went tense— and he started vomiting again. Rida winced in sympathy at the spasming. The band around his throat must be suffocating. Rida’s own throat was bare at the moment, as she didn’t sleep in hers, but maybe she should try it to better understand what they went through every day. I'm a poser. Pets were not afforded the luxury to take theirs off for any sort of relief, despite how she tried to convince them it was okay.
At least he was no longer wearing that rough one they had stuck on him at the facility. She had wanted to get those things off the two of them as soon as she could. That shit wasn’t fit for an animal, let alone a man.
She didn’t want Port nor Sonny wearing collars at all, really, but… that was a hard sell. They were willing to settle with what she gave them— these dainty leather braided things she had found in her jewelry drawer. They could hardly even be called collars— more like chokers, relics of however many years ago back when they were in fashion and it wasn’t taboo to wear something so tight around your neck. She hadn’t been alive for that era, of course, but she’d never been one to follow the trends.
It had felt strange to be so close to them, in their personal space, putting fingers near their vulnerable throats. She felt the way Port’s muscles tensed as she unfastened the old collar, fighting with the buckle. She could even see the pulse beating in his neck. She had the bizarre thought that he might turn around and snap at her fingers like an aggressive dog. Oftentimes aggression means fear, she reminded herself. He’s probably more scared of her than she is of him.
Sonny was meeker and not so intimidating. His hair was a little longer, falling further down his nape. They both needed haircuts— or trims, at least. They could both have such gorgeous hair with the proper treatment, but it was instead dull and uncared for. As she had brushed his hair aside, she was hit with the sudden memory of sweeping her mother’s hair over her shoulder, fastening the hook of a delicate chain necklace over her vertebrae. The flash brought with it a sharp stab of grief, the beginning of a lump in her throat and a hotness in her eyes she immediately tamped down. It was funny how fast things like that came on.
She had felt like a monster as she tied the things around their throats, but they seemed more at ease. She noticed Sonny running his fingers along the braided texture over and over, though he stopped when he saw her looking.
Now poor Sonny was busy expelling everything in his stomach. Never one to be squeamish, she made her way to sit on the edge of the tub and place what she hoped was a comforting hand on his back. His sharp shoulder blade reminded her too much of a younger Tal, all sickly and underweight.
She rubbed his back through the next round of heaving. Based on the sound, it was just stomach acid at this point. He clutched at his side like it hurt and devolved into violent, painful-sounding coughing. His head hung listlessly for a few minutes after it stopped, breathing heavily. Beneath her touch she could feel the slight rattle in his lungs beyond his ribcage— that was concerning. Typical for someone like Tal, but Sonny was certainly coming down with something more than just nausea.
“Feel any more coming up?” she asked, pulling her hand away. Rida worried for his knees, with how long he’d been kneeling on the hard tile.
Sonny spit into the bowl. “No, ma’am,” he said wetly. “I think I’m done.” He lifted his head and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand— the one she had bandaged earlier that day. They might want to redress it after it’d been pressed against the bathroom floor and the toilet and who knows what else.
“Can I feel your forehead?”
He turned obediently, eyes lidded and exhausted. It was nothing like the way he had looked at her hours before, as she wrapped his hand, fearful but at the same time alert and discerning— trying to figure her out. Rida had recognized the look because she was doing the same.
She pressed a gentle hand to his forehead and immediately she could feel the heat coming off him. His eyes fluttered closed, and to her surprise, he leaned into the touch. She almost drew her hand away, taken aback— but at the same time she felt badly for him and thought he might be aching for comfort. So instead she shifted her hand so that it was cupping his soft cheek, her thumb resting in front of his ear.
“I think you have a fever,” she whispered.
He mumbled something indiscernible, eyes still closed. His T-shirt was all twisted and the cotton collar was hanging low, exposing the stark edge of his collarbone.
She helped him to stand and had him brush his teeth, though his legs were shaking like a colt’s as he braced himself on the sink. She had him sit on the closed toilet lid in fear they might give out from under him.
She guided him back to his room, the door already cracked, and… she hesitated, because Port would still be sleeping inside. She worried to startle him. The last thing she wanted was to give Port another reason to dislike her and it seemed wrong to invade what she had told them was their private space. But Sonny did not seem to be in any state to handle himself, so she set her teeth and pushed open the door.
She blinked against the darkness, trying to discern if the lump in the bed was Port. She shuffled closer with Sonny at her side. Her toe brushed up against something— her gaze lowered and— What the fuck?!
She might have cursed out loud, recoiling at the two eyes blinking up at her. It was Port, flat on his back, laying on the floor. He twitched too and sat up in an instant, scooting away in what little coordination he had. His back hit the bed. It seemed they had both startled each other.
Rida feared he might jump to his feet and extend to his full height, the same way he had at lunch. He was almost as tall as Dad was. For a second, as Port was looming over her, she really thought he might grab her by the front of her sweater or even take a swing. In that long moment, looking up at him, she really could not believe that she had let this grown ass man into her house. I brought it upon myself, like always. Whatever happened to her at that point would be entirely her fault, really. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But there had been no violence, and Tal’s valiant urge to jump in was as sweet as it was infuriating. Port didn’t touch either of them at the time, and he didn’t spring up now, though his eyes were flicking across her in the same way, with that same unsettling gaze. It could certainly be described as creepy, but Rida recognized it for what it was. When it wasn’t a thousand yards on the horizon, it was assessing a threat.
His head swiveled as Sonny, seemingly tired of standing, stumbled to the bed by himself and sat down. Port opened his mouth, a flash of his chipped front tooth. “Ma’am?” was all he said, voice hoarse. Even that one word was enough to hear that Texas accent, thick as molasses. Reminded her of childhood.
“Sonny’s sick,” she explained quickly. “I was helping him back to bed. Sorry I, uh… stepped on you.”
Port’s gaze drifted aside, maybe bashful. He rubbed at one closed eye with his fist. He looked younger without the scruff, and his cheeks were covered in freckles that might be cuter on a friendlier face. “You don’t need to apologize, ma’am. You didn’t step on me.”
“Were you sleeping on the floor?”
“…Yes, ma’am,” he said after some hesitation. “Yes, Rida,” he corrected himself.
“Is… is there something wrong with the bed?” She wished she had better sleeping arrangements to offer them, but the one queen-sized bed was all at her disposal. She had offered to give one of them the couch, or even a sleeping bag, but both Sonny and Port had insisted that they were comfortable sharing the bed together. Maybe they had lied for the sake of politeness. Some people just hated to have needs.
“No,” Port answered hastily. “It’s perfect, thank you. I just…” he trailed off, rubbing at both eyes, now. “I’m more used to floor.”
Rida did not want to unpack that right now, with Sonny terribly sick and teetering on the edge of the bed. “Well… let me know if I can get you more blankets or something.”
“What’s wrong with Sonny?”
The change of subject did not go unnoticed, but was okay with it. Rida moved to the side of the bed and placed a hand on Sonny’s shoulder, gently easing him down. He laid without protest. “He was throwing up in the bathroom.”
Port pushed himself to standing and Rida had to resist the instinct to take a step back. He wasn’t looking at her, which made it easier. His posture was looser in his tiredness, not as stiff and formal. “Might’ve been the food,” Port offered. “Not your cooking, I mean. It’s just more than he’s had in days.”
She could tell. They were both skinny things. “Maybe, but he also has a fever. His immune system is probably fucked from the cold.”
Port, closer to Sonny’s top half, laid the back of his hand on Sonny’s forehead.
“He’s warm, right?”
“Yeah…” Port affirmed. Sonny chased his touch when he pulled his hand away, whimpering. Port glanced at her sidelong, maybe reluctant to face her. “Thank you for helping him.”
“It’s no problem,” Rida said. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted again now that she didn’t feel like she was going to be attacked. “I have to be at work by eight tomorrow. I won’t be back ’til six, though Tal will probably come home at three… unless he goes to Jo’s house.” She mindlessly fluffed at the back of her hair. “He might not, though, it depends on if…” At Port’s blank stare she realized she was muttering on about nothing he cared about and cut herself off. “Will you be able to take care of him?” she asked.
He blinked. “Of course.” He might've even had offense in his voice. “You don’t need to do anything. He’s not your responsibility.”
She crossed her arms, gaze falling upon Sonny’s pinched face and his tightly closed eyes. A full body shiver wracked him as though he might be able to feel her attention. “I mean… isn’t he?”
Port did not reply. He only shrugged.
⭑ next
~~~~~~
taglist:
@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi
@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @jumpywhumpywriter
@justanotherchangeling @masterofdumbassery @paingoes @painwithoutplot @palinoiahart
@pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire @sir-fenris @string-of-broken-hearts @supasos0
@technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox @weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs @wollemi-whump
@ziptiesnfries @yourlocalgaefae33 @zozgreenery
son (part ii)
solitaire masterlist: arc i ⭑ arc ii / previous
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery, whumpee thinks caretaker(s) is new master, breaking a plate
~~~~~~
Port ran his hands over his bare face, now shaven, pressing his fingers to the patch of faintest pockmark scars on one cheek. The same pale scars could be found down his freckled arms, nearly invisible and imperceptible except under a scouring touch.
He had wondered, for a long time, what had caused them. It always bothered him how he could not for the life of him remember— until one night, after waking up from a particularly vivid nightmare spurred by a violent movie, it all rushed back to him. Barbed wire, he had realized, gasping for air and clutching at the fabric over his heart.
Ginny used to like to restrain him with barbed wire, wrap it all up his forearms. Constant razor-sharp pain only made worse by the slightest twitch. He had passed out, once, with his arms out in front of him. When he came back to himself, he couldn’t see out of one eye, a curtain of red running over his brow. Years later, dry heaving over the toilet as he tended to do whenever those sorts of memories resurfaced, he wished he hadn’t remembered at all.
But that was a long time ago. He shouldn’t dwell on it now.
When he collected himself enough to step out of the bathroom, aromas of spice filled his nose. Something was cooking— what? Sonny was sitting at the table with Tal, speaking quietly with his eyes lowered. Port peered around the corner into the kitchen, stomach sinking. At the stove— Rida, with her back turned, stirring something in a pot. A rice cooker was steaming on the counter. Oh no. He’d taken too long, and she’d gotten impatient, and Sonny wasn’t even helping and what were they even good for?
“Did you shave?”
Port’s gaze snapped to the two sitting at the table. They had spotted him. Tal was slouched casually in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “I coulda sworn you had a 'stache going on,” he said.
“I did, sir.”
Tal nodded vaguely in a way that might have been approval. “I’m trying to grow one, but Rida won’t let me.”
“Trust me, it’s for your own good,” Rida said, still stirring. The scent wafting over him was familiar— some sort of curry, maybe. It smelled good, but he couldn’t help the sick feeling in his gut. It was something Mr. Oz would have liked him to make.
“Whatever,” Tal dismissed. He eyed Port, who was still hovering by the open bathroom door. “Are you just gonna stand there, or what?”
Spurred to action, Port moved stiffly to the table and pulled out a chair. The folder was gone, he noticed. It felt so wrong, sitting around the dinner table with one master while the other was working in the kitchen.
They were normal people. He was not. He shouldn't be here.
“Thanks for cleaning my room, by the way,” Tal said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Port replied automatically.
Tal threw an arm over the back of his chair and twisted to grin at Rida. Facing away, it was lost on her. “I told you these guys would be worth keeping around.”
“They shouldn’t have to clean up after you,” she said with scarcely disguised ire.
“I didn’t make them do it,” he retorted, turning back around. “Yo, Porter, have you ever ridden a horse?”
The non-sequitur threw him. He had to think about it. “No, sir.”
Tal leaned over the table so suddenly that Sonny flinched beside him, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care. He rested his elbows on the wood and steepled his hands under his chin, looking at Port very seriously. Port leaned away minutely, feeling his back press against the chair. That little rattan piece was poking him again. “Can you say ‘I rode my horse to the pen?’” Tal asked.
The stained wooden spoon clattered against the stovetop as Rida set it down roughly, splattering yellow sauce. “Talha, stop it,” she snapped.
Tal ignored her and folded his hands like he was praying, leaning far enough over the table that he was hardly even sitting in his chair anymore. “Please!” he begged Port.
Rida was standing behind Tal, hand on her hip, fixing her brother with a nasty look. Port’s eyes snapped between the two siblings. Already he was being pulled in different directions, and he didn’t even understand what the point was. He glanced to Sonny, who looked about as lost as he felt, recalling his advice. Which one was meaner? It felt wrong to deny a direct order.
Port ran his nails over the worn fabric on his thighs, feeling them catch. “I rode my horse to the pen…?”
Tal slapped his hands on the table hard enough that the bowl of sugar in the middle jumped and rattled. Sonny flinched harder this time. It startled Port, even, making the hairs on his neck prickle. “Oh, man!” Tal laughed, braced flashing. “I fuckin’ love your accent!”
“Will you sit the fuck down?” Rida asked, exasperated. “You are freaking them out.”
Tal withdrew and sat down fully. “Sorry,” he said, still jovial. “You sound like a cowboy,” he told Port. “I wish I lived in Texas long enough to sound like that.”
Port blinked, bemused. “Do I?”
“Just be quiet,” Rida said, turning to switch the dial on the stove to off. Port didn’t know who she was talking to. “The food’s ready.”
Tal threw his hands up. “Alhamdulillah!”
“I said be quiet.”
“Never!”
Rida pulled four floral plates from the cupboard and spooned a hearty amount of rice onto each of them. The few grains that spilled on the counter set Port’s teeth on edge— he resisted the urge to stand from his chair and sweep them into his hand. Rida scooped a ladleful of curry on top of the rice piles and moved the dishes to the table. With warm food now steaming in front of him, hunger was beginning to override the nausea he had been harboring for the past few days. The yellow color was looking bright and appealing on the plate, especially surrounded by the flower patterns painted along the rim.
When they were all settled, Rida spoke. “This whole thing is very new to me,” she said. “I’ll just get that out of the way.” She pushed at her rice with her fork. “I really thought I was done dealing with his bullshit,” she muttered.
Tal, notably silent, was resting his chin on his hand with his eyes aimed towards the table. His lashes were quite long, just like his sister’s. If he was thinking about the ghost of his father, his face revealed nothing.
This was all new to Port, too. It had been so long since he last had to serve someone unfamiliar— and never so young. He’d gotten used to the way Mr. Oz liked to do things, how to behave around him. “We’re here to help you,” Port said. He ought to sell himself to her. “We can cook. We can clean. We can stay out of your way, if you want, or… or we can be around. Whatever you prefer.”
Rida abandoned her fork and set her chin on her palm, a near-mirror of her brother. She seemed unconvinced, frowning.
Should he keep talking? “If you went over expectations with us, it would be very helpful,” he said cordially.
She just sighed. Tal, seemingly losing interest in the conversation, whispered something under his breath and shoveled a forkful of rice and curry into his mouth. In the moment of silence, something shifted in Rida’s face, and she sat back in her chair, readjusting her posture. “I think I should just be honest,” she said. “I don’t know if you’ll understand this or not. I really don’t like the idea of…” Her eyes darkened with distaste. “…human pets.” Her tongue poked at the inside of her cheek as she considered her next words. “I find it abhorrent. I hate everything about it. Frankly, I didn’t even want to take you.”
Oh.
Oh, that was even worse than he thought. She didn’t even want them.
“I convinced her,” Tal piped up, speaking around of mouthful of rice. “You’re welcome.”
Something like distress must have displayed on their faces, because Rida suddenly looked a little panicked. It was strange to see such an emotion on her. “That sounded bad,” she backtracked hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to say I don’t want to be… ugh. I don’t want to own people.”
“So… why did you take us?” Sonny asked, voice quiet. Port recognized his hurt look. It was the same one he had worn when he told Port, all that time ago, how his first master gave him up.
“I was hoping… I don’t know. I want to help. It felt wrong to abandon you to be…” She motioned vaguely with her hands, rings twinkling. “…tortured.”
The word sent a chill down his spine. An odd choice.
Tal, who was digging around for something in his pocket, rolled his eyes. “Please forgive my sister,” he enunciated with a put-on air of sophistication. “She’s a conspiracy theorist and a liberal.”
“How about I liberate your head from your neck?” Rida snapped, like a switch was flipped.
“Uh, rude.” Tal produced a few pills from his pocket and tossed them into his mouth.
“Can I ask something else?” Sonny blurted, everyone’s eyes falling on him.
“Yes,” said Rida.
He asked the question that had been plaguing Port since he first laid eyes on her: “Why are you wearing a collar?”
Her fingers rose to touch the deep red band encircling her throat. They brushed delicately against the metal ring kissing her skin, tracing the round edge. “It’s a statement,” she said. “A symbol. Of solidarity.”
“With who?”
“Well… with you.”
Sonny blinked, brow furrowed. “Oh.”
Port almost scoffed. He caught himself.
“Stupid, right?” Tal said. “I told you a real pet would think it was stupid.” Rida just scowled at him. “She’s been wearing that thing for years now,” he continued, undeterred. “All it does is make people look at you weird.”
“People look at me weird anyways,” Rida defended. “And I can just tell them to fuck off.”
“Doesn’t it get you into trouble?” Sonny asked.
“I’m an adult woman. I can tell people to fuck off.”
“No, I mean… the collar,” he said timidly. “What if someone mistakes you for a real pet? It’s like a target. I mean, sometimes in public, I…” he trailed off, maybe realizing he was saying too much. The bruise on his nose was all too obvious. It would make sense he thought of it like a target, Port supposed. He himself had not spent much time at all in public, in the years he had been a pet. Most of his memories were from within a house, a facility, a basement. Interacting with these sorts of people— people who had no idea what kind of world they lived in— was like interacting with aliens, or children. But they were just normal. Port couldn’t even imagine it, to be free and unconcerned with it all.
“It’s not usually a problem. Like I said, I can tell them to fuck off.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “Do you ever wish you could do that?”
Sonny looked far too receptive to the idea for a moment before he fixed his face. “I would never say that to anyone, ma’am,” he said bashfully, dipping his head. He was a little liar, but it was the right answer.
“You should try it sometime,” Rida said, skin unmarred.
Tal laughed. “You should practice on her.”
She shrugged, picking up her fork. “You can if you want, Sonny.”
Tal’s expression went flat. “It’s not as fun if you have permission.” He eyed Sonny. “Don’t practice on me, okay?” He winked.
“…Okay,” Sonny said.
“Did you see my wink?” Tal whispered.
“Yes,” Sonny whispered back.
Rida took her first bite of food, so Port felt he could finally eat some of his own. The rice and curry on his tongue was like heaven on earth. He was definitely hungry now, though the taste was even more familiar than the smell. This was certainly something he’d cooked before, at some point, based on a recipe Mr. Oz had given him. He was no longer sitting in this colorful kitchen in New Mexico. He was all the way back in Houston, Texas, being allowed to have his first meal after a long day of punishment.
No. No, back to reality. He was sitting with the surviving members of the Osman family. The sun was still shining through the windows. He was not starved. Still, the thought made him want to start crying, which horrified him. It would be the second time today.
“Speaking of collars, I have a question,” Tal announced. “Do you shower with those on?” Each of his index fingers were pointing in different directions at Port and Sonny’s necks, to the standard-issue collars they had received at the facility. Port wondered what they did with his old one, with the bronze nameplate. Parting with it had been an ache and a relief at the same time.
Oh no, he might actually start crying.
Thankfully, Sonny answered for him, because Port didn’t think he could speak without his voice breaking or meet Tal’s eyes without his own watering over. “Yessir,” Sonny said. It was strictly forbidden for them to remove their own collars. Just the thought of shedding it made him queasy and picked up his heart rate. Surely even touching the buckle would send a shock through him. He’d been zapped for real enough times for the lesson to stick— every pet had.
Tal’s brow furrowed. “Really?” Sonny became the subject of his curiosity. “What do they feel like? Rida said—” Tal reached for Sonny— almost lunged for him, really— hand extended, aiming for his throat, as if to close around it.
Horrified, through the standing tears in his eyes, Port watched as Sonny jerked away— so violently, in fact, that his chair started to tip. Tal pulled his hand back in an instant, startled by the dramatic display, as Sonny raised his own to protect himself. His eyes went large as saucers as he realized he was falling backwards and scrambled to grab for the lip of the table to keep himself upright. The chair teetered and stabilized, though his fingers had also caught the edge of the plate— flipping it over and sending the contents soaring. Whatever didn’t fall into his lap hit the floor, bright yellow splatters and clouds of rice. The plate, as a final twist of the knife, made contact with the tile and shattered, splitting into half-flowers and delicate leaves.
“Sorry,” Sonny and Tal said in the same moment.
“I’m sorry,” Tal repeated, clearly taken aback by Sonny’s reaction. He went as far as to scoot his chair a few inches away from Sonny’s, squeaking across the floor. “I, uh… sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Sonny gasped. He looked mortified, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. His complexion went even duller— all the color ran away from his face. He was frozen, scared to move. If he shifted, more of the food might spill onto the floor. “I— oh, god…” He started trying to scoop the rice and curry in his lap into his hands, but only seemed to only be succeeding in spreading the stains around more.
In all his shock, Port did not have the wherewithal to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling over. He distantly felt a few trickle down his cheeks, though at this point he was no longer thinking about Mr. Oz and instead preparing himself for whatever sort of reaction he was about to witness from Rida, who was absorbing the scene with her mouth agape.
Was the first punishment coming? He’d been avoiding thinking about it, if it would come to this, but now was the moment he had to decide what he was going to do. Did he want to repeat history? Did he want to avoid Sonny’s eyes as he was hurt, over and over again?
No. He wanted things to change. That was the entire point of…
When Rida stood from her chair, Port sprung up, too. Without allowing himself to hesitate, he put himself between her and Sonny. “I’ll help clean it,” he said. Maybe if he solved the problem there would be no punishment necessary. And if it came to it, well… Port’s eyes flicked from her collar to her feet. She surely could not physically overpower him, though the consequences of stopping her might be disastrous. Maybe a punishment dealt by her hand wouldn’t be so bad, anyway, unless she took out a knife, or…
Port realized that, instead of advancing, Rida was backing away from him. The whites of her eyes were visible all around her dark irises, which were darting over his face.
Now Tal was standing, too, and he put himself between Port and Rida. He was very close to Port’s height, if not there already. He was skinny, though, thin wrists and ankles. But Port was too, of course— and weak from not eating.
“I didn’t mean to scare him,” Tal said, eyes similarly wide.
“I- I’m sorry,” Sonny stuttered. Port turned over his shoulder and saw he had wet rice cupped in his palms. He seemed to realize he had nowhere to put it and finally got out of his chair, accepting that the damage was already done. He went straight to the floor, to his knees, allowing the rest to fall out of his lap. He pushed the mess on the floor into a little pile with trembling hands, spreading streaks across the tile. Ceramic pieces scraped. “I… I can still eat it,” Sonny said, voice shaking. “I won’t waste it.”
“Don’t,” Port begged, for the sake of his dignity.
Rida had closed her eyes at some point and was taking a deep breath through her nose. Tal’s head kept swiveling, neck twisting to look at her, then to Port, then to Sonny, and then back to her again. Otherwise, he wasn’t shifting from his wide stance, hands clenched nervously by his sides. His thumbs kept running over his knuckles over and over again.
Rida opened her eyes, steeled. “Don’t eat that,” she said. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay. Let's just calm down.”
Nobody moved. Sonny’s head was hanging, hair obscuring his face. He was still hunched over, but he’d given up on collecting his mess. He was grasping one soiled hand with the other, a trail of red running over the creases of his palm and dripping in tiny, neat circles on the tile. Fuck— he had cut himself on a piece of ceramic plate.
“Port.”
His eyes snapped to Rida as his name left her lips. He nearly yielded under her obsidian stare, fighting the sudden instinct to let his knees drop out from under him.
“Could you sit down, please?”
He had every urge to obey a direct order, but he also had every desire to defend Sonny. He fought his own cotton-filled mind. “I can help clean it,” he repeated, the only thing he could think to say.
“You don’t have to do that. Please, sit down.”
He sat, and he hated himself for it.
Rida stepped out from behind Tal, who watched her unmoving, and cautiously rounded around Port’s chair. Sonny’s head dipped lower as her shadow fell over him, exposing the crown of his head.
Rida kneeled down in a clean spot. Her skirt swept the floor as she grabbed it to adjust its drape over her legs. “It’s okay, babe,” she said quietly. “I’ll clean it up. You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s okay. Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, hair swaying.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m okay.”
“Will you take my hand?” Rida extended one, on Sonny’s uninjured side. Her fingers, adorned in rings, were trembling. In fact, her entire arm was. She grasped at her own forearm with her other hand, stabilizing it.
Sonny lifted his head to look at her offering. Port could not see the whole of his face, but his cheeks were still lacking in color. “You'll get dirty,” he said weakly. “My hand is covered in blood.”
“I don’t care.”
Sonny’s hands just hovered, static except for their shaking. Rida slowly, gently, reached to grab his good hand, so that he didn’t startle. He was limp in her grasp. “Let’s stand up, okay?” She lifted from her kneel, giving Sonny no choice but to rise with her.
Sonny was taller than her, but not by a lot. She was looking into his eyes, which, to Port’s surprise, were dry. It reminded him that he still must have tracks on his cheeks, and he grabbed the collar of his cotton shirt to lift it and press it to them, sniffing away the wetness in his nose.
“Go wash your hands in the bathroom, please.” Rida released him. “I’ll bring you a new pair of pants and we can patch up that cut.”
Sonny, with no mind to disobey anymore, wordlessly shuffled to the bathroom with his head down. A few drops of blood fell from his fingertips, marking his path.
Rida’s hand was indeed dirtied now. She went to press her palm to her forehead but just barely stopped herself before she might smear curry and blood in her bangs, muttering something under her breath.
She turned to face Tal, who still hadn’t moved, expression tight. “Let’s ask before we touch people, okay?”
“Okay,” Tal said, disturbed.
⭑ next
~~~~~~
related art (so old! o_o) -> one / two
taglist:
@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi
@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @justanotherchangeling
@masterofdumbassery @paingoes @painwithoutplot @palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump
@secretlythegodofdesire @sir-fenris @string-of-broken-hearts @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer
@toyybox @weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs @wollemi-whump @ziptiesnfries
@yourlocalgaefae33 @zozgreenery
son (part i)
solitaire masterlist: arc i ⭑ arc ii / previous
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery
Port’s knuckles turned white, fingers curled around the lip of the sink. “Get a fuckin’ grip,” he muttered to his reflection. It stared back, lips peeled back over teeth, no more collected than before. His own appearance disturbed him.
He couldn’t bear to look any longer. He hung his head, baring the vertebrae of his neck. He ran his hand over the exposed nape, the overgrown hair, the collar. He wondered if Rida would give him a new one or if she wouldn’t even care enough to. His neck was fuzzy and in need of a shave. He needed to cut his hair— Sonny’s, too. He needed to clean himself up. He needed to look presentable. What a terrible first impression he’s made… on both of them.
He watched a sud of soap slip into the black hole of the drain. There was no stopper, he realized. He imagined one of Rida’s rings slipping off her finger, circling the basin, and disappearing into the shadow.
…HOURS AGO…
Port ran the pad of his finger along the top lip of the doorframe. As expected, it was coated in a layer of dust when he pulled it back. Nobody had cleaned that in a long time— he would add it to his list of things to do.
Rida’s instruction to “relax” didn’t mean much to him. What did that even entail? He busied himself by inspecting their new room— it was small, but he was just thankful to have a place to sleep. An empty wardrobe and sparse bookshelf were flush against the wall, and other than the floral curtains draped over the window, there were no decorations. Port thought some art might be nice. He missed the seagull painting that hung in his old room, the one he would stare at when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, when he was particularly bored, he would stand with his face an inch away and count each brushstroke.
Taking up the most space was a queen-sized bed pushed into the corner, neatly made with two fluffed pillows and covers with the corners tucked in. Was that supposed to be for them? What a foreign concept. The last time time he slept in a bed was his stay in the hospital, when Mr. Oz had given him that concussion. How long ago was that? Years? He had felt grateful, afterward, that his master even cared enough to get him medical attention at all. Port shook away the memories.
He was sure Sonny would acclimate well enough. He used to always complain about having to sleep on the floor in the beginning, lamenting how hard it was. But the rug was quite comfortable, really. Far more comfortable than tile, or concrete, or a straight-backed chair. He never really got how much worse it could be.
It would be hours until Rida and Talha came home, and with no other directions, Port decided to get a head start on things around that house than needed doing. Sonny helped a little, feeling obligated, but it was clear that he was exhausted and getting hit with the caffeine crash. Port let him doze in an armchair; he was content to do the chores by himself. The house was not large, and there was only so much to do. He dusted, swept, wiped down the counters, washed the dishes, and even took the initiative to clean Talha’s room for him, including folding that intimidating pile of clothes. It was mediative. It kept his mind off the other things.
When he came back to himself, he realized it would be less than an hour to 3 o’ clock. He woke Sonny and told him to shower— the only other thing that Rida had implied they ought to do. Port wasn’t sure he’d have time himself… hopefully she wouldn’t be too displeased. It felt unreal to be back to this sort of domesticity, this simple worrying. He didn’t know how to feel about it.
Was she expecting lunch? She did say there was food in the fridge, but mentioned no preferences or restrictions. When he looked inside, there wasn’t much. Some staple ingredients. A pan of brownies covered in tinfoil. A large bowl of soup. He was familiarizing himself with the layout of the kitchen when he heard the click-rattle of the door. He hastily, quietly, shut the cupboard he had been inspecting just in time to whirl around and watch the door crack open.
Rida’s face appeared— her head poked in and looked around like she was afraid of what she might find. She craned her neck around the shield of the door, eyes landing on Port, and gave him that tight, close-lipped smile. “Hi,” she greeted. “I have Tal with me.”
Port smiled back, face feeling similarly tight. He wondered if he might look as he did in that old photo. The file was still sitting conspicuously on the table, appearing untouched. Rida took his smile as a sign to enter fully, leaving the door hanging open for her brother to follow. From this angle, the wood obscured him— the first thing Port saw was his long flannel-clad leg stepping inside.
As he came fully into view, a few things were immediately obvious. He was far taller than his sister, and skinnier, and significantly less goth. His short hair was the same dark color, though, and sort of spiky-looking like it might crunch underneath his hands. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, which slid off and dropped to the ground, and his face turned to Port, and—
…Yes, the resemblance was more obvious in him. Not identical— he much slimmer and younger, smooth-skinned. But the brow, the nose, the lips, even the ears… that was all Parsa Osman. The eyes, though, were different. More similar to his sister’s. Rounder, wider, and looking at Port.
Port met them. The boy’s expression— Tal, Rida called him— was vaguely intrigued, maybe surprised. His dark brows were raised quite high on his forehead, one split by a pale scar. He was missing the wrinkle between them that Port had always noticed on his father. Then his mouth split into a bright smile, metal flashing in his teeth. Braces. “What’s up?” he said.
Port blinked, trying to rid his mind of Mr. Oz. “Hello, sir.”
Tal’s mouth shut in a snap, eyebrows raising even higher. He twisted to look at his sister. “He called me sir. Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Rida sighed. “Don’t get used to it.” Her weary face turned to Port. “I meant to tell you earlier, but you really don’t need to do the whole sir and ma’am thing.”
“Oh,” said Port.
“Says who?” asked Tal.
She fixed him with a glare. “Says me, the head of household.”
Tal rolled his eyes— that little quirk, again— and shot Port a grin like he was in on a joke. “The power’s getting to her head already,” he said, jabbing a thumb in Rida’s direction. Then he paused, eyes flicking over Port. “Digging the fit, by the way. You look like you just escaped prison.”
Port wasn’t sure if he should thank him for the ‘compliment’ or apologize for his state of dress. It was then that the bathroom door creaked open and Sonny emerged, immediately frozen at the three sets of eyes on him. He was freshly showered and wearing new clothes, damp hair sticking to his forehead and dripping on the collar of his cotton shirt. He looked even younger in the attire of a fourteen year old boy.
“Yo…” Tal said, looking him up and down. “Are you Sonny?”
Sonny hesitated like it was an effort to remember his own name. “Yessir,” he decided. “That’s me.”
Tal’s eyes had narrowed. “Are those my clothes?”
Sonny, deer caught in headlights, made no attempt to answer. At his terrified face, Rida butted in. “They needed something clean to wear,” she said, drifting to the kitchen. “I gave them to him.” Then, warning evident in her voice: “Is there a problem?”
“You couldn’t have given them some of yours?”
“Be serious.”
Tal broke into a laugh and swept a lazy hand through the air. “I’m just playing.” He exaggeratedly looked Sonny up and down once more, tilting his entire head. “They look better on you anyway, bro.”
“Um, thank you?”
Rida was very close to Port, now, fixing the countertops with an odd look. She peered into the empty, sparkling sink. “Did you do the dishes?”
“I did, ma’am,” Port said, though the look on her face made him think it might be the wrong answer.
“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s… what I’m here for, ma’am.”It would have to get done eventually.
Rida grimaced, but before she could say anything more, Tal’s gangly arm extended and pointed in Sonny’s direction. “Can I get in there? I need to piss.”
Sonny awkwardly shuffled aside before Tal kicked off his shoes (which went flying) and bounded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sonny jolted at the bang. He had started shaking at some point, though maybe it was just from the chill of his damp hair. He pulled his hands to his chest, only curling further into himself under their stares.
His eyes flicked to Tal’s abandoned sneakers, to the two of them, and then back to the sneakers. He timidly went to collect them, bending to pick them up from the floor. Rida was grimacing so hard it looked like she was actively in pain. When she turned to Port, he faced her somewhat apprehensively. “Were you going to shower?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I haven’t already.”
“Don’t apologize. I was just wondering.” Her gaze drifted back to Sonny, who was depositing Tal’s sneakers neatly on the shoe rack. “And you really don’t have to call me ma’am. I’d actually prefer if you didn’t.”
“Right. Sorry…“ he shut his mouth. The ma’am hung silently in the air.
The corner of Rida’s mouth pulled down. “After you shower, I think we should eat lunch and have a discussion.” Her brow was still furrowed. “A serious discussion,” she clarified needlessly.
“Okay,” Port said, not liking how grave she sounded.
…NOW…
He consciously untensed his muscles one by one and uncurled his hand from around the sink, feeling the tendons loosen. He tore his eyes away from the void of the drain, focusing on the shining porcelain instead. He shouldn’t keep them waiting too long. He wondered what meal she might want him to make. He could do just about anything she asked him to… he could impress her.
When he got into the shower, he did not wait for the water to heat up. The icy spray took his breath away, but he welcomed it. He felt more alert. Alive.
There were so many bottles in the caddy that he didn’t know what to do with them. He settled for the pump bottle of soap that read 3-in-1 sitting on the edge of the tub. He cleaned himself hastily and shut the water off, stepping out onto the bath mat, which was already damp and cold under his toes from Sonny’s shower. He ran his thumb over the soft fabric of the shirt Rida had given him to wear— so he wouldn’t have to get back into those ugly clothes from the facility, she had said.
He glanced at the mirror. It was crystal clear.
⭑next
~~~~~~
taglist:
@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi
@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @justanotherchangeling
@paingoes @painwithoutplot @palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire
@sir-fenris @string-of-broken-hearts @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox
@weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs @wollemi-whump @ziptiesnfries @yourlocalgaefae33
@zozgreenery
sunny
solitaire masterlist: arc i ⭑ arc ii / previous
content: pet whump (bbu), institutionalized abuse/slavery
~~~~~~
Porter’s first thought: I should leave right now. He could slip out the back door, run far away, and never be found again. Maybe he should be ashamed, or maybe it was the smart thing to do. I’ve come a real long way, haven’t I? With Mr. Oz he had never even dreamed of such a thing. Not until the end.
And with—
He winced against the shooting pain in his head, like a blow to the skull or pliers pulling teeth—
—with Ginny… he never did leave, did he? Not even after she was gone. No. He had stayed, for days, until they found him.
The gravel popped outside underneath the tires of Rida’s car. He was used to it, being left alone, but he couldn’t help but be surprised at how much trust she was putting in them after only having known them for thirty minutes. Maybe she would reconsider if she knew what kind of person he was. He couldn’t get a read on her. Not yet. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of her return, especially not with her younger brother in tow.
Sonny, in his peripheral, was standing just as still as him, staring at the closed door. Port thought running away was probably easier said than done.
He needed to break the silence. “I’ve never had two masters at once,” he said.
Sonny emerged from his trance. “Oh, it’s a pain in the ass. You get pulled in different directions sometimes. You just have to try and please both of them,” he said, as if imparting profound wisdom.
That was surely no easy task. “What if I can’t?”
Sonny shrugged. “Kiss up to whichever one is meaner.”
“Why’s that?”
“The other one won’t hit you as hard.”
Port nodded absently. That was pretty good advice, he supposed.
“What do you think of her?”
Honestly? “I don’t know.”
Sonny was silent for a moment. His head canted thoughtfully, eyes sticking on Port. “Are you really six-foot?”
Port considered which response would get a more amusing reaction out of him. He must have taken a second too long to respond, however, because Sonny spun towards him so fast that his hair whipped around his face. “Don’t go silent again,” he begged, suddenly desperate. His mask of nonchalance had slipped entirely. “Please talk to me.” He actually grasped at Port’s sleeve, fabric warping in his grip.
Port nearly took a step back, startled by the intensity of how Sonny bared his distress to him. He hadn’t realized his despondency bothered him so deeply. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. Port just kept fucking up, didn’t he? “I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll talk to you.”
“…Okay,” Sonny yielded, expression pinched.
He could remember well the endless days he had spent alone in the house before Sonny came into his life. He remembered the endless days he spent in the Barn before that, the basement before that, the white rooms before that… and then the wall he hit whenever he tried thinking back any further. Too many times he had thought he might go insane in his loneliness. How cruel was he to subject Sonny to the same thing?
“I’m sorry,” Port repeated, in the hopes that Sonny might truly believe it if he repented enough.
Sonny slowly released his grip on Port’s sleeve, stiffly dropping his hands to his sides. His fingers curled, still, grasping a phantom. “It’s okay,” he said, embarrassed.
Port wanted to move on, for both of their sakes. “I’m really five-foot-eleven,” he said.
Dejection was still written in Sonny’s posture. After a moment: “You are such a liar.”
“Well, it’s easier to round up.”
Sonny stared at him a second longer before turning his sullen face away and wordlessly walking over to the table where their changes of clothes were piled on top. Port followed him, desiring to stay close, and grabbed one of the T-shirts. He tried smoothing it out and decided he should fold it, even if it was already terribly wrinkled. No sense in leaving them all crumpled on the table. Maybe he should fold the rest of the clothes in Talha’s room, too, to make himself useful.
Sonny tentatively grabbed the other shirt from the pile and inspected it, derision crossing his features. He checked the tag sewed to the inside of the collar. “Ugh. I’m supposed to wear this?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Sonny turned the shirt around and unfurled it like a banner, displaying its front covered in big block letters. Port squinted at them, and read: EAT. SLEEP. GAME. REPEAT. “I don’t want to dress like a fourteen year old,” Sonny said disdainfully, throwing the shirt back onto the pile.
“Is that how old he is?”
“Yeah, Ms. Rida mentioned it. You weren’t listening?”
“No,” Port admitted, folding his shirt in on itself. Fourteen was younger than he’d expected. When was the last time he’d even interacted with anyone younger than thirty? (Other than Sonny, of course… and the two new people he’d just met today.)
“How old do you think she is?” Sonny mused.
“I’m not too sure.” She definitely didn’t look old. Her face was smooth and round, albeit a little scary-looking with that dark makeup. If anything, it gave her an ageless, almost alien quality. “She has an interesting style.”
Sonny huffed, seemingly amused by Port’s comment. “She’s goth. She seems sorta young. Like our age, maybe. That’ll be really weird.”
Port set the folded shirt on the table. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke fun. “What do you mean our age? You’re younger than me.”
He didn’t have to look to know Sonny was scowling; he could hear it in his voice. “How would you know?” Sonny asked derisively. “How old even are you?”
Port grabbed a soft, worn pair of sweatpants. “Well, I don’t know exactly.” No handler had ever mentioned it.
“We could be the same age.”
Port eyed him incredulously. “You look about sixteen.”
Sonny scoffed. “I will assure you I am not.”
Trying not to smile, Port stacked the sweatpants on top of the shirt. “You’re babyfaced. Nothin’ wrong with it.”
“Fuck off.”
“I said it ain’t a bad thing. And watch your mouth,” he chided. Sonny said nothing more, which Port considered a won argument, until Sonny’s hand crept into his field of vision— he was reaching for the abandoned folder. “What are you doing?” Port asked, alarmed.
“Finding out how old we are.”
Port did not stop him, but ceased his clothes folding and watched Sonny leaf through the papers with some apprehension. “I don’t think those are meant for our eyes.”
“It’s our information. Why shouldn’t we be able to look at it?” He flipped another sheet and his eyes widened. He had found his prize. “Oh, wow. This is an old photo of you. Your hair’s so short.” He read a little, then grinned wide, crooked teeth peeking from behind his lips. “It has your full birthday in here!” His eyes flicked between the file and Port’s face, comparing the two visages before him. “Guess your birthday month,” he said with more excitement than Port thought was warranted.
“I don’t know,” Port said, entirely uninterested in this game. The headache was pulsing behind his eyes.
“It’s July,” Sonny revealed. “You’re a summer child.” He met Port’s eyes, still grinning. “And you’re 23, for the record.”
That sounded about right. It was hard to believe he’d been… well, not exactly Port, not the entire time, but a new person for so many years now. It felt much shorter and yet much longer at the same time. All those blank spots in his memory. The walls.
“And you’re Caucasian, by the way, if you didn’t know,” Sonny said, snapping him out of his contemplation. He was reading more, eyes bouncing across the page like he was watching a game of table tennis. Port didn’t like the idea of Sonny reading whatever information about him was in there. He didn’t even really like the idea of Sonny knowing his birthday… not that it mattered. It just felt… private. Personal. It was something that didn’t need knowing.
“Not much else interesting,” Sonny announced. “Do you wanna look?”
Port’s brow furrowed even more. Not really. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. “Sure,” he decided.
“Here you go, Caucasian Male.” Sonny held out the single sheet for him. Port grabbed it somewhat cautiously, like simply touching it the wrong way would make him bleed. He steeled himself before setting eyes on the front.
There, in the top right corner, was his own face staring back at him in grainy black and white ink. The shadow outline of a paper clip overlayed the fuzzy edge of his hair. The file looked like a poor quality photocopy of the original document— the entire thing was skewed crooked on the page.
Even with the lost details, his face was stark. A close-mouthed smile, dark blank eyes. He had vague memories of this day. He’d been numb. Drugged, maybe. A bright flash that momentarily blinded him. He remembered how they told him to keep his mouth shut to hide the gap in his smile— that had been before they put the fake tooth in. He ran his tongue over the back of it, feeling the bumps of the metal fixtures glueing it to the real ones on either side.
It was downright unnerving to look at, so he scanned the rest of the document. At the top of the page, in the margin, PORTER was written in thick pencil. There were lines of text printed in the body. It hurt his eyes to focus on them. They didn’t look like full sentences, just tidbits of information. ID, sex, race, DOB. Then numerous thick black lines stretched across the page, like they were scrawled with marker.
“Mine doesn’t say,” Sonny said.
Port lifted his eyes from the page. “What?”
Sonny was no longer smiling. “Mine’s redacted. Look.” He flipped the folder around for Port to see. His was marred by even more black bars, including near the top. “My birthday. They redacted it.”
“Oh.”
Sonny retracted the file, glaring at it. “And I’m Brown Male. Are you serious? Brown?”
“You are brown, aren’t you?”
Sonny’s eyes flashed angrily at him. “Everyone is brown, if you want to get technical about it.” He slapped the folder shut and tossed it carelessly back onto the table. “You get to be Caucasian, I get to be brown?”
Port inspected his own hand. It was a very, very, very light brown. He looked up and appraised Sonny’s dull-colored face— eight months with no sun. It was at that moment Port noticed the light in the house had dimmed. He didn’t realize until his eyes skipped over to the dusty window, beyond which the sun was hidden by early morning clouds.
“You’ve went a little Caucasian yourself,” he said.
“Ugh!” Sonny exclaimed, distraught. He said something in Spanish— cursing, probably, with that foul mouth of his. “Don't say that.” He crossed his arms and turned his face to the floor. Port almost thought he might stomp his foot like a child. “I want to know my birthday,” he muttered.
Port saw little appeal in knowing his birth date or his age, but Sonny was specially talented in making Port feel bad for him whenever he made that sad face of his, no matter the the reason. He looked especially pitiful in this dim light, with that bruise on his nose, and the circles under his eyes, and the way his overgrown hair stuck out from under his hat like he was an unkempt little boy. Port was struck by the desire to wrap him in a blanket and fluff a pillow under his sorry head. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the doors beyond the sofa. It was then, like a signal beacon or divine sign, that the cloud cover drifted aside and the light shifted in such a way that the sun streamed through the glass, casting everything aglow. The edges of Sonny’s hair turned golden.
“Want to go outside?” Port asked.
Sonny’s brow furrowed, distracted from his sadness. He turned over his shoulder, tempted. “Is that allowed?”
“She didn’t say it wasn’t.”
Sonny frowned deeper. “What if it’s alarmed?”
Well… Port hadn’t considered that, but now that the idea was in his head he didn’t really care. He strode to the door, twisted the lock, and turned the handle. Sonny did not say anything, nor did he try to stop him. When Port pushed the door outward, and no alarms blared, he released the breath he’d been holding and relished in the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs.
Sonny was behind him when he turned around, having silently drifted like an apparition. Port beckoned him closer, until their shoulders were practically touching. They both stepped into the sun.
The cobblestone patio was cool under his socked feet. There was more rattan furniture sitting out here, with dirty pillows. The grass looked brown and dead— likely no hope of starting a garden— and the fence enclosing them was obviously weather-worn. But the sky was blue. Sonny was blinking up at it, door wide open behind him. Port leaned to shut it gently.
“I really thought I might never see the sun again,” Sonny said. “When they put us in that van.”
“We got to watch it rise,” Port reminded him. “In the car.” Even as he was trapped in his head, Port had noticed him staring at the landscape, enraptured.
“Yeah,” Sonny said quietly. “Through a window.” A small bird flew by and landed on the fence. It cocked its head, tweeting.
⭑ next
~~~~~~
taglist:
@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @distinctlywhumpthing
@hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @justanotherchangeling @paingoes @painwithoutplot
@palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire @sir-fenris @string-of-broken-hearts
@supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox @weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs
@wollemi-whump @ziptiesnfries @zozgreenery