ethan used to fight back. he used to yell and kick and scream, used to do anything he could to try and prevent their ‘ experiments ’. it never worked, but it was always worth a shot ; it proved that the connections hadn’t broken him yet. nowadays, he can’t be bothered. it’ll happen either way, no matter what he does. what’s the fucking point? brought to the brink of death over and over again with cruel yet effective methods, only to heal and start the cycle once more. it’s never-ending. ethan’s own personal hell.
how long have they been at this this time? ethan can’t keep up with it. he knows that hands have been wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air supply over and over again. so close to death he comes every time, only for the researcher to quit just before he can actually die. is regeneration a blessing or a curse at this point?
still, ethan isn’t frightened anymore. this is just … the new normal. his fucked-up version of a life nowadays. at least shinya TRIES to make it easier on him, tries to make it TOLERABLE. would any of the other researchers be GENTLE with him afterwards? no. ethan knows that they wouldn’t. every single time. every single time that he tortures him, every single time that he hurts him, he cleans him up afterwards. cruel beatings turn into tender touches. it’s a ROUTINE. it’s EXPECTED. it makes things so much … BETTER, in a twisted sort of way.
the room’s pristine white walls are tainted with black decay, the spread of the mold. ethan doesn’t know how to control it ; he couldn’t get rid of it even if he wanted to. ethan is barely even aware of the fact that he’s creating the spread, even when he’s being hurt. it’s a defense mechanism. a subconscious thing.
currently, he’s leaning against one of said walls for support, his skin pale, and watching with a blank expression as the other man gently scrapes away at the mold covering his skin. he used to care about this shit — now, it’s NORMAL. he doesn’t resist. doesn’t fight back. not anymore.
it takes a moment for the question to properly register, and even then all ethan does is slowly nod his head. he doesn’t care which one it is. he just feels FILTHY, covered in the decay as he is. the cleanup attempt only does so much, after all. “ either one. i don’t care, ” he manages, wincing afterwards. he’s still in the process of healing, and after however many hours that hands had squeezed his neck, talking hurts just a bit more than it should.
ethan knows he probably shouldn’t. he knows that they’re being watched, but it doesn’t stop him from slumping forward, forehead coming to rest against shinya’s shoulder. he’s just TIRED … so fucking tired …
“ we’re done for today, right? i get a break now? ”
“Yeah,” Shinya says quietly, “we’re done for today.”
Turned so that his back obscures Ethan from the cameras, he brings his hand up to stroke gently through the man’s blond hair. Some Mold’s gotten into it; they’ll have to scrub that, too.
“You don’t have to talk any more, Ethan.”
The speakers crackle, something’s said about the rest of them going ahead to their lunch breaks, and Shinya uses his free hand to wave them off. All the better-- it makes it a lot easier to heft Ethan up, his arm hooked around his middle while he ensures Ethan’s own arm is slung over his shoulders.
On particularly bad days, he’ll carry Ethan himself. He’s not sure if he needs it this time, but he’ll keep an eye out.
The experimentation room is connected to Ethan’s living quarters through a passage with sterilisation chambers on either end. The rapid whoosh of air and the distinct scent of disinfectant hits them both, but still Shinya makes the rest of the trek to Ethan’s cell so he can take him to the bathroom in it.
While Ethan isn’t allowed a separate room for his hygiene, per se, a session or two after Shinya had been taken onto the Winters Project he’d insisted on dividers being placed to give him a sense of privacy in his nudity. The things are translucent-- enough to allow Ethan’s silhouette to show through for monitoring and ensuring he doesn’t harm himself-- but it’s still better than nothing.
Once Ethan’s seated on the covered toilet, Shinya carefully undoes the buttons of his shirt, its white fabric stained with black Mold. It’s heavy and gross when he pushes it off his shoulders, but Shinya’s stopped noticing such things ages ago.
“I’ll run a bath for you,” he says, tearing his eyes from Ethan’s pale chest to his face instead. “They let me bring bubble bath in” -- in exchange for Shinya giving a worse session later in the week, just to see if allowing the asset some niceties makes the cruel treatment produce more -- “if you want to use that.”
He doesn’t expect more than a nod or a shake of the head, but either way, he’ll get to work according to Ethan’s preferences.
