plotted starter: @boltsandashes
cw: drugging, forced captivity
It wasn’t a bad life. It wasn’t. Ben reminded himself of that. He could be on the streets, starving. He had food, shelter and clean water. It was more than most people could say. Most people would probably kill for the chance to eat fresh fruits, to sleep on a mattress made of actual down rather than straw - to be admired by anyone who came to visit. But it chafed at him. The first week he’d been here, he’d tried to flee. There were plenty of others here, those who enjoyed the fine silks and the pretty jewels delicately glued to their faces, how could he be missed? But he had been, and he’d been caught immediately. The whipping he’d endured for his attempt would have been enough to dissuade him from trying again but of course, they wouldn’t take his word for it. They gave him medicine every morning, medicine that made everything seem slow and thick like syrup, the pain of everything dulled into a pleasant ache, and it made it easier to smile, to serve fruits and wine to esteemed guests, to move to the music they sometimes played - all the embarrassment and shame he’d have felt on his own buried down deep.
It wasn’t a bad life.
The few moments of clarity he had before his morning dose, those words always sounded more desperate in his mind, but after - after they were just an echo.
They had visitors today. Everyone was bustling about - Ben, quiet and a little drowsy, sat in a chair while someone spread shadow over his eyelids. Absently, he hoped these visitors were nice. Sometimes they were. Most of the time they were. With medicine singing through his veins, it was easy to ignore the leering, to close his eyes and sway to music. As long as they didn’t touch him, he considered them nice.
It was a small group today, so it’d only be a small group of them. He and six others - sometimes he liked when it was a big group, when all thirty of them were out. Easier to sink to the back, to hover around the edge and the dull buzz of anxiety that sometimes snuck through the shroud the medicine left eased.
The room for guests is large, a few plush couches about the room, brightly colored rugs on the floor, a bar area where drinks are prepared, a fountain that Ben doesn’t really like, because sometimes the sound of water makes his head hurt. It’s richly decorated, bold - far bolder than the colors outside the tent walls.
The seven of them are brought in to wait - today Ben’s job is to offer fruit on a platter. He doesn’t mind. It’s easy to sway to the music when dancing is his task, as long as he keeps his eyes closed, but having all eyes on him can be difficult to take sometimes. The medicine dulls it though, the feeling just a whisper at the back of his mind. He knows he should be fighting it, knows that he’s only becoming more dependent on it with every dose, but he isn’t actually sure how to care anymore.
He takes the tray when it’s handed to him, loaded with exotic fruits - pineapple and mango and sweet dragonfruit. Ben isn’t sure where they can even be found these days, but it’s not his concern so he lets the thought fall from his mind.
The group that enters looks rough. They look like they’ve been out There. Wide, dark eyes sweep over them, just for a moment, before his gaze falls. They’re greeted by dancers who usher them to seats on the plush sofas and Ben knows he’s supposed to wait until they’re all settled before he brings them refreshments.
