Caretaker lying in wait for Whumper, gun cocked and pointed at the door - sitting there long enough that their eyes are blurring from the focus and their arms ache from the stillness.
character with a bloody nose except rather than red coating their nostrils and dripping down to their lips (affectionate), blood welling from a split at the bridge of their nose and running in a triangle shape down each side, and a dazed look in their eyes from taking a blow so square in the face
[Short content warning for mention of blood, wounds, and [impled] self-injury, some language]
Whumpee was asleep on Caretaker's chest peacefully- basking in the warmth and comfort that Caretaker brought them. Caretaker sits in thought, as they always do, and found themselves proud that Whumpee trusted them now, and that they were doing so much better.
After a while, Whumpees breathing picks up against Caretaker's chest. Caretaker knows better than to wake them, regretfully letting the nightmare play out and wishing they could do anything else to help but trying to comfort their already sobbing lover when they wake up. Whumpee eventually jolts awake screaming and thrashing as they scramble away from Caretaker- falling off the bed with a thump and a small yelp. It must have been a particularly bad nightmare.
Caretaker rushes over to pick Whumpee up and is already saying "hey its alright" from across the room. They reach down to pick Whumpee up and they grab their waist and-- fuck.
fuck.
The familiar warm sticky feeling of blood stops Caretaker in their tracks.
Thoughts race through Caretakers head as they stood there, completely frozen. The fall from the bed couldn't have caused what had to be a gaping wound under Whumpees shirt by the amount of blood already spreading. They knew that no one else would have been able to get to Whumpee, and any wounds from Whumper were much too old to reopen like this. Whumpee was now pleading from below them to let go, to go back to sleep whispering that they were alright.
Caretaker's own breathing picks up as they arrive at the nauseating conclusion that Whumpee wasn't doing as well as they said they were. They were no longer begging Caretaker to punish them because they were doing it themself.
i think the world doesn’t know what it really means to live in a theocratic dictatorship. Let me tell you about our experiences living in the islamic regime of iran.
1. Your parents were born to muslim parents so they’re automatically muslim. You’re automatically a muslim too. You didn’t choose your religion and you can’t opt out of it or you will be executed.
2. The compulsory hijab law makes you a criminal if you choose not to wear hijab even tho you didn’t choose to be a muslim and you don’t consider yourself a muslim but the regime has forced you into that role whether you like it or not. And when you ‘break that law’, they can do with you as they please.
3. little girls as young as 7 yrs old are forced to wear hijab at school even tho the islam itself says the age is 9. and all the schools are gender segregated so imagine how they force you to get used to hijab even when you’re just surrounded by other girls. And all day long at school they tell you horrible stories about what will happen to you in hell if someone sees even a strand of your hair.
4. the regime modifies all the textbooks, story books, cartoons and movies to represent the ideal woman with full on hijab. The iranian media is ordered to photoshop every photo of a woman that may be showing a little skin. And if they’re iranian, no hair is supposed to be seen or that will be photoshopped away. Women are mostly excluded from billboards and tv commercials.
5. imagine going to work or meeting up with a friend when suddenly the morality police kidnap you in broad daylight and force you into a van to take you to a station where they will treat you like a criminal and if you don’t agree to get humiliated and do as they say, they will put you in prison. And in case of Mahsa Amini and so many more before her, they will beat you to death. My sister was barely 18 when she got kidnapped and they didn’t let her call home and she’d been so fucking scared and we had no idea where she was. Imagine all the psychological trauma.
6. If you’re in a car and not wearing hijab they will fine you and seize your car. So when u get into a taxi the driver will ask you to keep your hijab on otherwise they’ll get fined. And if you refuse they’ll ask you to get off the car.
7. And its not just about hijab. In Ramadan, they get even more vicious. If they catch you eating or even drinking water on the street they will give you lashes as punishment and even imprison you for breaking the law. If you work in a state-owned company it’s even worse. They will close the cafeteria and take away the water dispensers. All restaurants are banned from delivering food before iftar. It’s a fucking mess. Everyone has to pretend they’re fasting or they’ll be severely punished.
8. And how could I forget about this! iranian women are banned from singing! the islamic regime prohibits women’s singing voices to be heard by men so imagine the horror of having 50% of the population banned from ever becoming a singer. If they identify a female singer in iran, they will take her to jail and force her to repent her sins in the most humiliating way so that she will never dare sing again.
9. And every time the regime gets wind of a private gathering of men and women trying to have fun and live their fucking private lives, the police crash the party and take everyone to jail bc the Islamic regime bans iranian men and women from having fun.
So if you see Islam has become for many iranians a symbol of oppression and torture and discrimination, that’s why. The regime uses islam as a weapon to silence and punish anyone who opposes them. You can love islam all you want from the safety of your home in a free country and talk about how kind and benevolent the religion is, but in iran, it’s a whole different story.
Our economy is fucked. All govt officials are corrupt as fuck. Most websites are banned in iran. Even tumblr is banned. The world has cut the iranian ppl from many services. We don’t have intl credit cards like visa card. Amazon doesn’t do delivery to iran. We cant get netflix, spotify or even a gamepass subscription. we don’t get any Apple services here. iran isn’t listed as a country you could choose when signing up for a lot of services. and when we decide to leave iran and escape this hellhole, every country out there will make it sooo much harder for us to get a visa just bc we had the misfortune to be born in iran at the wrong time.
This is the story of iran for the past 44 years. Held hostage by a corrupt regime that uses religion to suppress and torture the people and being abandoned by the rest of the world bc our lives don’t matter.
Please be our voice. Once they shut down the internet completely and silence our voice, they will start slaughtering us to stifle the protests just like they did in 2019. Please help us. We want this fucking regime gone.
Cw: bbu whump and everything adjacent to that, institutionallized slavery, dehumanization, behavior modification, migraine whump, memory loss, discussion of torture methods, whipping, shock collar whump, gagging mention, blood/bruises, noncon mention (vague), whumpee with a very messed up headspace, suicidal ideation (pretty vague), conditioned whumpee, humiliation whump, food mention, noncon mention (fade to black) (let me know if I missed anything!)
There is a tiny square window in the upper left corner of the concrete cell, a pale yellow light squeezes through and washes out the gray of the wall in the spot it touches. The boy has been staring at it for so long that a sharp aching is blossoming behind his eyes. He knows it doesn’t lead to the outside world, the light coming in never ceases or dims or changes color, but still he tries to imagine that it’s sunlight. As long as he doesn’t think about how he’s just pretending, it almost makes him feel a little better.
The bruises on his knees have long gone numb, it’s probably been a few hours since one of the trainers came in and gave him his position and told him not to move until he got back. He didn’t argue and he didn’t complain (he can’t remember if he used to do either of those things when he first got to this place, he tries now to imagine the taste of defiance on his tongue and it is painfully missing, so maybe he never had it in the first place.), and hours later, when the pain has escalated and morphed into something so intense he can’t even understand it anymore, he still doesn’t even move. There isn’t a shift of his weight to try and ease the pain, no pitiful attempts to discreetly stretch out his taut muscles. He knows by now that whatever pain he’s feeling right now is nothing compared to what will be done to him if he disobeys. He acknowledged right from the beginning of this…was this a punishment? He can’t even remember that much, by now, but at the very start of it he realized there was mercy in it. Kneeling on the hard floor and bruising to the bone was the nicest thing he’d been made to do in so long, so of course he was going to do it well. He could only imagine what they might do to him if he messed up something as lenient as this. So for hours, or days, or weeks, he lost his sense of time forever ago, he stays still, he pretends it isn’t hurting so bad, he pretends the synthetic sunlight isn’t giving him a migraine, he doesn’t think, he is good, he is so tired, he can hardly work up the energy to inhale, he doesn’t know how he’s still upright, but he is good, and he is quiet. Through his delirious pain, he finds himself thinking that his last owner would be proud.
The door is loud when it’s unlocked. He’s always been thankful for that, for the small warning it provides. It’s a metallic, technical noise, with lots of clicking and shifting of overly complicated mechanics, and it takes a few seconds before the door can fully slide open. It’s almost funny that the people training him think he needs that intense of a security system to keep him in here; he’s been doing ridiculously obedient things like kneeling for hours on end for what feels like a lifetime now, and they think, without this lock, that he might just get up and walk out.
But maybe he wouldn’t walk, maybe he’d try sprinting. Until his legs give out, or until someone catches up to him and tackles him and then they would have to drag him kicking and screaming back to this room-
He knows how blank and stupid his gaze is when he looks up at the two figures in the doorway, everyone around here is always reminding him of that whenever they get the chance. It must be even worse this time around, he’s been staring at the fake sun for so long the people in the doorway are blotchy with black and purple shadows floating around his vision, and he can guess how idiotic he looks trying to blink his vision clear and search for a way around them so he can see their faces.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe it.” The voice bounces off the bare concrete walls, everything has seemed so much louder in this room since they took the cot out. “Eight fuckin’ hours. God damn unbelievable.”
“I told you.” This voice he recognizes, it’s the same one that told him to kneel and stay put, once or twice before it’s told him to put his hands against the wall and keep them there while he was dealt gruesome lashes to his exposed back (never enough to bleed, they only make him bleed if it won’t leave a scar). He knows the voice comes with a pair of reddish brown eyes and slightly darker slicked back hair. He doesn’t know his name, or any of the trainers' names. That’s the only thing they have in common: they’re nameless to each other.
Their shoes scuff against the floor as they enter the room, just enough to close the door behind them. The lock whirs back again, and now he is trapped in here with them. He realizes all at once how sporadic and pained his breathing sounds, he tries his best to steady it so they don’t make it into another punishment.
There’s a soft, baffled chuckle from one of them, he isn’t quite sure who. Then, the first voice speaks again, a little softer than the first time. “No, no, I believed you about the no noise thing but-”
“Not a peep.” The trainer interrupts proudly.
“Right. But I mean, no tears at all? He didn’t cry the whole time?”
His heart sinks at the remark, he wasn’t supposed to cry, was he? He’d always been punished harshly for it, no one here had ever wanted him to cry. He searches through his memory for the exact words the trainer used after he was in position.
“Stay here. Don’t move, don’t make a fucking sound.”
It had been echoing around in his head since he first heard it, but he wondered if it distorted with time and pain and maybe originally the point was for him to cry. He has to focus all of his energy into keeping the panic out of his face, in the process he feels his hands twitch at his sides, just the tiniest bit, not enough for either of them to notice.
“I know. This new system is a dream, I’m telling you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a recall respond this well.”
He allows himself to exhale the most miniscule breath of relief. He had responded well. So well, in fact, that the trainer had brought someone else along with him to gloat. The boy would have smiled, if he didn’t know for a fact that it would get him beat. So he instead continues to blink at the two blurry, blotched out people standing across the room.
“Imagine how much we could save if we implicated this training with the new intakes-”
“You know that’s not an option,” the other voice cuts off the trainer, “it’s too…you know this is for recalls only. If we used it right out of the gate it could get us shut down.”
The trainer scoffs wryly, the boy feels instantly afraid at how unhinged of a sound it is. Surely, he will take the heat for this going bad, he will be there for the trainer to let his anger out on when the other person leaves, he will allow himself to be berated to make the trainer feel better, and he no longer feels any conflict about it. It is his purpose, he understands now, to hurt for others. Whether it be as a stress reliever or a punching bag or a sex toy, as long as he is in pain at the hands of others, he is doing what he was made for. He should feel honored.
He feels scared.
“I don’t think you’re getting it,” the trainer starts, his shoes are making their way across the concrete toward the boy, they stop a few feet away from him, “you were here when he was sent back. You witnessed right along with me the state he was in. And now…”
The boy can make out some of his trainer's features now, the splotches burnt into his retina are slowly fading away, and he is even more scared when he finds anger in the face of the man above him. He doesn’t react, though, he looks back down at the floor, making sure to breathe through his nose and keep his spine straight.
“Stand up. Come here.”
The command comes as a surprise to both the boy and the man standing near the door still, but only one of them reacts outwardly. The man is shaking his head, laughing to himself in disbelief. The boy screams inside of his head, and then he tries to stand up.
Everything from the middle of his spine to the tips of his toes lights up with pain the second he moves, he only gets one foot solidly under him before collapsing right to his knees again. His face burns with embarrassment, his hands shake in fear, but he doesn’t let out even a whine. When he looks up to see what his trainer is making of the pathetic attempt, he finds dissatisfaction, and his heart breaks. He used to question this, at the beginning, why did it make him so sad to displease these people that were torturing him? Now, though, he swallows the heartbreak fully, lets it overtake him, because pleasing others is what he was made for, and if he can’t do that then he doesn’t deserve to even live. So he tries standing again. It proves even more pointless than the first time, his already bruised knees hitting the solid ground hurts so bad he goes numb everywhere else. His breathing picks up, he’s now a mess of hitched and quick breaths through his flared nostrils. Still, he makes no sound.
The trainer is getting fed up with him, the boy can tell by the way he shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s the same thing he did before he put the shock collar on the boy and showed him what it was like to really not be able to hold back his screams, and before he threw him face first into the wall and held him there to make him watch as the others took away his cot. He dreads what will happen when the other man leaves, he dreads even more that the man might not leave and he will have to receive punishment from two of them. More than any of that, he’s just embarrassed. His trainer had been so proud of the progress he’d made, proud enough to show it off, and now the boy was ruining all of it just because he couldn’t make himself stand up.
So he tries again.
And again he fails.
He wants to cry, more than anything, and he has for the last eight hours, but he just can’t. Not when he knows that crying will only earn him the shiny, much too sharp gag that he’s been in more times than he can count. For a second he wonders if having that cut into his cheeks and tongue for a few hours would be better or worse than this humiliating test, but realizes that he doesn’t get to pick and choose his punishments, why does he think he deserves that luxury?
He tries again.
This time, he gets a little further, and there’s a moment where he’s standing on shaking, useless legs, and he’s proud of himself. He attempts a step toward his trainer, and then he’s right back where he started, on his knees, biting back tears, swallowing back pleas, wondering how to get out of this and then wondering how he could dare to think such a thing.
The next time his knees hit the ground, he isn’t able to stop the soft, barely audible gasp he lets out, and then he’s shaking even more at the idea of them using it against him. He sets his jaw, he tries to level his ever-quickening breathing, he tries to stand up again. This should be easy, he can’t process why he isn’t able to make the three or four steps it would take to be in front of his trainer, and he feels so stupid, so ashamed. He throws a nervous glance at the man standing at the door, who is watching on with an indecipherable frown. Is he disappointed in the boy for not being able to complete this simple task? Is he going to order more cruel “exercises” to make him better?
He forces himself to get his feet under him, he stands slowly, he doesn’t permit himself to wince when he wants to. His whole body jolts involuntarily at the pain taking a step causes, and right when he thinks he might be able to do it, his legs are giving way beneath him and he’s sinking to the cold, hard floor with a thud. This time it hurts so much he gets nauseous, and he presses his palms into the cool floor to try and ground himself.
“Alright, I think you’ve proven your point-” the man at the door begins, the boy looks up at him with the smallest amount of gratitude written into his face. He’s panting now, and he’s pale and jittery all over, and still he’s managed to keep the tears from his eyes and any sounds of discomfort from his throat.
“No, I haven’t. You’re missing my point entirely, actually.” The trainer looks down his nose at the mess in front of him, the boy could curl up and die right there at how unhappy he looks. “I’ve given him an order, and he’s going to do it. You’ll see.”
The boy swallows, he looks at the little square of light on the wall again. He hopes that soon, they might tell him that he’s finally trained well enough to leave and he can see real sunlight again. He stands. He sways. He falls. He stands. He staggers forwards. He falls. He stands. He holds his breath. He thinks he might pass out. He falls. He reminds himself that crying will get him into trouble. He takes a shuttering breath. He stands. He wants to feel the sun on his skin. He takes a step. He wants to breath in air that isn’t dense with his own tortured cries. He falls. He reminds himself that making noise is what got him sent back in the first place. He stays silent. He stands. He wants to sleep on something soft. He takes a step. He’s so tired of waking up covered in bruises and trying to figure out if they’re from the trainers or where his bones meet the concrete he sleeps on. He takes a step. He has to get out of here. He takes a step. He has to get out of here, it doesn’t matter where they send him as long as it isn’t here. He takes a step. He wonders what he did in his old life to deserve this. He takes a step. He knows that if it made him end up here, it must have been something horrible. He takes a step. He is glad he doesn’t remember.
“There’s no fucking way…” the man at the door mutters. The boy is uneasy at how much he’s cussing, too often he’s been on the receiving end of most of that foul language, and the actions that come along with them are never pleasant.
In between his soft gasps of pain held at bay, the boy whispers out a tiny “I’m sorry, sir,” and he leaves it at that. Because he can’t will himself to look up at his trainer, he misses the smile he’s wearing, and it startles him when he laughs.
“You hear that?” He announces. “The dumb fuck is apologizing to me.” Then he turns back to the boy, takes his face in his hand. His touch is somewhere between caring and demeaning. The boy leans into it like he’s been searching for warmth his entire life. When he speaks again, it’s quietly, just to the boy. “You did good. That was exactly what I needed from you. Well done.”
All of the pain from the last few hours seems to melt away at that. The boy cracks a tired grin, he pushes further into the hand against his cheek. When he first got here, he was humiliated at any form of praise, it only made him push back against the training more. Now, it feels like it’s what he lives for. He would do anything for it, because being touched gently and being told that he was giving up his humanity, his freedom, so perfectly was far better than the pointless struggle and agony of trying to keep it.
When the trainer steps away from him, he barely stops himself from falling right to the floor again, and he stays swaying in his spot as the other two continue their conversation. He’s hardly listening now, too focused on staying upright, but he hears his trainer saying something about how much money they could save if they used this so-called “new system” right at the beginning. Distantly, the boy feels a heavy guilt, like it’s all his fault that others may be treated the same way he has. He thinks about all the times he’d lay there praying for death to show him mercy while he hugged his own bloody and bruised body, and he thinks about the shock collar, and he thinks about the migraines, and he thinks about the little square of fake sunlight that never moves, and when he imagines anyone else going through that, it makes him sick to his stomach. He may have deserved it, but no one else does, and if the trainers start using those methods on others, it would be all his fault. He only feels that distantly, though, because he can hear his trainer saying something about a reward, now, and it’s been so long since he was given anything but punishment that he can’t focus on thinking about anything other than the trainer making his way back to him. The other man is gone, the boy wonders how he didn’t notice the loud sound of the door opening and closing when he left.
“How do you think you did?” The trainer checks. His voice has a slight condescending tone, but when does it not?
“I…I am sorry it took me so long, sir.”
The trainer hums in agreement. He’s touching the boy again, his hands trailing over the nape of his neck and grabbing onto his shoulders. “You didn’t make any noise.”
“I am to be seen and not heard. Sir.” He recites it well, despite his shaking voice and his wavering breathing. He can’t ever keep himself composed when historically cruel hands are suddenly nice with him.
“Good. That’s good. You didn’t cry either.”
“No, sir, I have no reason to cry.” He wants to cry every second of every single day. From the time he opens his eyes to the time he closes them he is holding back tears. Sometimes he wakes up and catches himself crying at something in his sleep. He thinks he would die if anyone ever caught him.
“Those bruises on your knees look painful. It must’ve hurt a lot, to do all of that just now.” There’s no pity in his voice, it is very clearly a test, and it’s one that the boy knows how to pass.
“My pain means nothing, sir.” The pain is making him lose his mind. He would do anything to make it stop, if only he knew how.
The trainer steps closer. The boy tries not to tense up in his grip, he tries not to flinch away from him when he leans in so they’re breathing in each other's air.
“I’m very proud of you.” He mumbles.
“Oh,” the boy breathes, his cheeks grow scarlett and he looks away from the trainer completely, “th…thank you, sir.”
“Are you hungry?”
He pauses, is this still a test? And then he looks back up at the trainer. “If you…if you wanted to feed me I would be so, so grateful, sir, but I would never ask-”
“Wow,” the trainer laughs, “this is incredible. I almost can’t believe…when you first came here, you probably don’t remember, you bit me so hard I bled. I still have a scar.” He pulls a hand away from the boy to pull down the collar of his shirt and sure enough, there’s a faded outline of teeth where his shoulder meets his neck. As soon as he’s sure the boy saw it, he lets go of his shirt and returns his hand to the boy’s slim shoulder.
All of the blood drains from the boy's face, he shakes his head to himself, like he’s scolding himself for it. He doesn’t remember, like the trainer said, and he also can’t imagine himself doing something like that. He is horrified that he was once in a place where he would hurt a trainer, not to mention disgusted in himself, and it shows in every inch of his trembling, wiry frame. “I am so sorry, sir-”
“No, you don’t understand, pet,” the trainer is leaning even closer, his mouth is against the shell of the boy's ear when he speaks again, “I fixed you. I tore you to pieces and then I rebuilt you from scratch and I made you perfect.”
There’s a brief moment where the boy is speechless. He’s still trying to reel himself in from the spiraling self-hatred and guilt that he hurt someone so bad, especially a trainer, and he’s trying to figure out what was happening to him that would make him lash out and bite someone in the first place, and he’s trying to understand why the trainers phrasing of “fixing” him makes him feel so sad. But then, after he really thinks about it, he’s happy. The trainer fixed him, he is perfect, he said, which means he doesn’t need any more training, right? It means he should be able to leave now, and maybe be somewhere with real sunshine and night and day.
“Thank you, sir.” He rushes out. “Thank you for fixing me.”
The trainer smiles against his skin, and then his hands migrate to the boy’s hair, he’s neither gentle nor aggressive when he grabs fistfulls of it, but rather something in the middle. “I’m going to get you a nice, hot, proper meal. I’ll even bring you to the dining hall, that’s your reward. You were so good for me today.”
“Oh, thank you-”
“I just need you to do one last thing for me, ok?”
The boy nods instantly. “Of course, anything, sir.”
“Good boy.” The trainer pulls off of him, looks him up and down with a smile. “Get back on your knees.”
"Shush," the whumper wrenched the blade from the whumpee's stomach, their other hand covering their captive's mouth, muffling a broken scream.
Tears streamed down the whumpee's face, they could barely breathe through hitching sobs.
"Deep breaths darling, deep breaths," the whumper moved their hand to cup the whumpee's cheek, "It's alright, deep breaths, that's it, good job darling, you're doing wonderful."
The whumpee didn't bother to pull away, it wouldn't do anything, there was nowhere to go. Their arms were strung up above them, wrists shackled to a length of chain that barely let their feet touch the ground.
The whumper brought the knife up to the whumpee's face. The shaking figure flinched, squeezing their eyes shut as their own blood was wiped across their cheek.
"Relax my love, let me see those pretty eyes," the whumper ran a thumb over the whumpee's bottom lip.
Tears blurred the whumpee's vision as they tried to fulfill their captor's ask, anything to avoid any more pain.
"Shush, it's ok," the whumper cooed, "aw, baby you look... just awful. Tell me, how do you feel right now?"
The whumpee barely registered what the whumper said, they just looked back with desperate, unfocused eyes.
The whumper seemed to realize this was mental overload and not real defiance, they made a face of almost-convincingly-fake sympathy.
"What are you feeling right now? What is going on in that little mind of yours?" the whumper re-articulated with a cruel smile.
The whumpee couldn't think, they moved their mouth to form words but just could not get them out.
"Come on, tell me," The whumper's eyes were hungry.
The whumpee's throat was raw from hours of screaming, "..it-" it burned as they spoke, "it... h-hurts," the words set another wave of sobs, wracking through the whumpee's body.
Authors note: Wow. It is over. The final chapter. I have no words. (Spoiler alert: I'm lying. I have plenty of words. I could talk for an eternity if i was allowed.) I've been building this story and its characters in my head for literally years, and it all comes to an end with this. I want to give a very very huge thanks to the whump community: for so long I felt like I was going crazy because I was obsessing over this really beautiful and tragic and honestly personally healing idea and I felt like it was some dirty secret that would never see the light of day. Thank you for giving me a place to share this, thank you for welcoming these characters I hold so so dearly and appreciating them as much as I do. (any and all love I recieved on any of my work makes me seriously elated and I go back and read through every comment, reblog, and tag every day because it makes me so happy to see my little imaginary people and stories making others feel something, it's truly so incredible and I am so grateful.) ANYWAY, onto the pain lolol! This chapter is as graphic as it is long (15k words, like 27 pages on docs, buckle up!) and in the interest of not giving away the ending, I want to be a little vague in the content warning. However, it's important to me that people are consuming this media with as much safety as possible, so I do want to reiterate that this is an 18+ story, and that there are very heavy and disturbing topics and situations described in detail throughout it. This chapter specifically dives into Elias's trauma around dying and includes a major character death (among other things), so please please read with caution. Much love. -Crow <3
Cw: Therapy, tics/tourrettes, ptsd/trauma recovery, photo/video whump, discussion of leaked whumpy content, past torture, past noncon, vague discussion of self harm, panic attack(s), insomnia whump, nightmares, drugs/alcohol use, blood/gore/violence (graphic), intimate/possesive whumper, derealization, knives, discussion of guns, discussion of murder, character death (GRAPHIC), head trauma, blood loss, police mention, ambulance/hospital setting, medical whump, discussion of foster care/parental issues, discussion of scars, fluff (but only a little, as a treat) (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Speaking to his therapist doesn’t make Elias feel much better. He tells Angela about the party and Sophie Anders, he tells her that he would be perfectly content never having to step foot outside the cabin again, knowing that so many people, including those he sees as friends, have now seen him in that horrendously vulnerable way: tied up and mutilated and begging for reprieve. He tells her that he’s embarrassed, he tells her he’s scared of everyone now, especially after seeing some of the off-putting, lewd comments about him on some of Sophie’s videos where she includes the evidence she had bragged to him about. Elias admits that he feels like a hideous, less-than-human, piece of shit again, and he has ever since he heard Sophie dramatically warn her viewers about the “graphic and disturbing content” he was the star of. He does not tell her that, after he watched a few of Sophie’s videos, he had found people giving out the website that all of these pictures and videos were originally posted to, and he spent hours looking through everything he could find about himself. He also avoids telling her that he feels betrayed, he was stupid enough to believe that August viewed all of his polaroids, film camera footage, and even what he had on his phone, in the same intimate way Elias did. It was sick, sure, but it was just between the two of them, and that had made it a little easier to swallow at some point. He says nothing about how disgusted he is in himself for even thinking that way before finding it all online.
Angela, as she always has been, is full of helpful advice and encouraging words, but Elias finds himself unconvinced when she promises that this does not erase the progress he’s made. It’s hard to believe her when, in the three days between the party and finally getting to talk to her, he’s only gotten about 8 hours of sleep around his worsening nightmares, apart from coming to her office he hasn’t been able to leave the house, and he’s been getting high so often he has a steady migraine and spends most of his time distant and zoned out. And that’s just what he’s willing to be honest about, he neglects to tell her that he is constantly thinking about blood, how the images of him hurting just won’t get out of his head, how he’s so anxious he’ll hurt himself that he can’t even eat.
He also lies to her, right to her face, about how he knows that August won’t still come after him, when he mentions that. He didn’t expect it to lead to a discussion, it was just a passing comment he’d made, something like, “I don’t know why I’m so afraid again when I don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Angela pauses when she hears that, she reaches up and adjusts the loose cardigan around her shoulders, fixes the silver chain she wears. Elias’s own throat itches at the sight of the jewelry. He thought he was over that feeling, the feeling of wanting to peel himself out of his skin at the mere thought of something looping around his throat, hanging there, maybe squeezing, maybe strangling, and yet, even watching his therapist adjust her own harmless necklace makes him wrap his arms protectively around his torso and start tapping his foot.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore?” She repeats, tilting her head forward so she can look at him over the rim of her glasses. “Tell me what that’s all about.”
Elias has been to therapy before. He has talked to therapists and psychiatrists and social workers more than all of the friends he’s ever had. He knows, and Angela reminded him of this during their first session, that as long as no one has been or is in danger, everything they talk about stays in this room, hovering over the fuzzy orange carpet in between them and remaining secretively tucked away in her notes. And because of that, he can’t tell Angela that, as far as Elias knows, August is probably dead in a shitty motel in LA. He doesn’t know what Angela would consider ‘danger’, but he’s pretty sure admitting to having committed a murder (two now, but he hadn’t told her about Sawyer, either) would be enough to send her sprinting to report all of their sessions to the police. So instead, Elias lies to her.
“Last time I saw him, I think I heard sirens-fucking shit - as we were leaving.” He rubs his eyes tiredly, takes a deep breath. “I like to imagine that the cops really got him, you know? I..I guess it just helps to believe that…that he’s not gonna find me this time.” He looks away from her, glances out the window to his left. He finds comfort in the sturdy evergreens just outside. For the first time all session, he is wholly honest with her. “I just want to believe I finally got away. For good. I want to believe that it’s over.”
“That’s understandable, I can see why that would make you less worried.” She writes something down, Elias has always hated these people finding anything noteworthy about him, jotting down whatever they’re finding wrong with him, he hates it even more when Angela looks over the notes and sighs to herself. “You know you can’t base your life around him forever though, right?”
“What…?” Elias mumbles. “I don’t do that. I hardly…I usually don’t even really th-think of him anymore.” He lies again, because he does think about August. Elias never truthfully stopped being afraid of him or remembering what he did to him, he just learned how to live his life anyway, despite all the memories and the fear.
“You can think about him, Elias. Thinking of him is inevitable. I just want you to know that you should heal and live your life according to you. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, you have to heal regardless.” She takes in his posture, how he’s practically guarding himself, how tense his shoulders are, and she sighs again. Elias wishes she would stop sighing at him like this is all stressing her out, doesn’t she know how hard it was to let Tyson drive him here? Doesn’t she know that she’s supposed to be making him feel better, and her being stressed out is making the entire ordeal so much worse for him? “Look, there’s a possibility that you'll never see him again. You could be right about him being in prison, and you could potentially live your life completely free of him.”
Elias glances at the door to her office, he knows Tyson is in the waiting room just down the hall, in fact he had promised Elias when he was called back that he would be in the same place when Elias was finished. He suddenly feels incredibly uneasy about being away from him, he wants this appointment to be over already. He wishes he didn’t come in the first place.
“There’s also the possibility that-”
“Don’t.” Elias stops her, shaking his head. “Don’t say th-that he’ll come back.”
“That isn’t what I’m saying, Elias. There’s a chance that he will be a part of your life in one way or another for a long time. This whole situation proves that. It’s important that you don’t use his presence, or lack of presence, as a baseline for your healing.”
Elias is silent at that, he won’t even look at Angela anymore, and he cringes when she sighs again. If he wasn’t so tired, and if he was being completely honest today, he might tell her that she wouldn’t say that if she really knew August. He might tell her that August is an insidious parasite that buried himself into every crevice of Elias’s brain, that he will never be able to fully move past the training and the torture and the manipulation. Maybe then she would understand what Elias is coming to find out: healing is just not something he can achieve, it’s all about survival now.
“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
“Yeah.” He mutters. “Can…can we be done now? Please? I-I’m tired, I wanna go back home.”
Angela huffs, she checks her watch, and then she nods at Elias. “Sure. I’ll see you next week, right?”
Elias nods as he stands up, he leaves her office like it’s on fire.
Tyson isn’t in the waiting room when Elias turns the corner, and the already disheartening anxiety he has from talking about August swells quickly to an unbearable panic. There were tears in his eyes from the time his hand was on the doorknob of Angela’s office, and they threaten to fall when Elias finds a waiting room full of unfamiliar faces. A few of them look up at him, glance away or allow their stares to linger a little longer. He wonders if any of the people here have seen his videos, if any of them have heard him beg before. Elias starts ticcing, and knowing that Tyson would make that a little easier by just being around makes the fact that he’s not that much worse. Before he can embarrass himself further, he heads for the door, stumbling out of the building in a flurry of tears and curses.
Tyson’s car hasn’t moved, and Elias practically sprints across the asphalt parking lot to get to it. It’s empty, Tyson isn’t waiting for him in the driver's seat, and a desperate jiggle of the handle proves that the doors are still locked. Without warning, everything seems to suddenly crash down on top of him; he’s so god damn sleep deprived he can’t even tell if this is happening, he doesn’t know when he last had a proper meal, he’s disgusting, he’s all over the internet, he has so many scars he wants to crawl out of his skin and start over fresh, he killed August, he’s a monster, Tyson is gone, Tyson is gone, Tyson is gone… He tries desperately to convince himself that there’s no way August came back and got his hands on Tyson, but after hearing his name and thinking about the last time he saw him, how much pain he was in, how much pain Elias put him in, paranoia jolts through every centimeter of his skin. Elias starts to cry, covering his face and sobbing into the sleeves of Tyson’s borrowed hoodie. Trying to inhale through the cloth doesn’t help the breathlessness from the anxiety, and the realization sparks an overwhelming urge to suffocate himself with the sleeves, right there in the parking lot of his therapist's office. He almost finds humor in the idea, but not enough to stop him from crying.
“Eli, hey,” he looks up to see Tyson crossing the parking lot towards him, phone in hand, “I didn’t realize you finished, why did you not stay the whole hour-?”
“Where the fuck were y-you!?” Elias shouts at him, stepping away from the car to meet him in the middle of the lot.
Tyson flinches at his outburst, shakes his head to himself. He points down at the phone in his hand as if that holds the entire explanation. “I…had to answer a phone call, are you ok-?”
“You said you wo-would be there! I was worried, you fucking said you would be - fuck! - you said-”
Tyson steps toward him, he tucks his phone into his pocket as he does. “I know, you finished earlier than I thought, it wasn’t-“
“No! You promised! You fucking promised, you s-said that you would b-be waiting for me in there!” Tyson is silent now, staring down at Elias’s tear stained, angry face. “You can’t do that to m-me, Tyson. I-I looked so dumb in there. You don’t understand how bad I…you can’t just fucking-”
“You’re right, Eli. You’re right, I’m sorry.” Tyson reaches out a hand, hovering over his shoulder like he’s waiting for permission to touch him. “I’m so sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
With a weak sniffle, Elias leans into Tyson’s hand, immediately grounded by the familiar tender way Tyson’s fingers massage into his shoulder, over his collarbone. The anger melts away with the simple touch, with the realization that Tyson is ok, that he’s here, that the nightmare isn’t starting all over again. Elias falls forward, right against his chest, burying his face in his clothes and looping his arms around his waist.
“I was so scared.” He mumbles, voice muffled through Tyson’s thick jacket. Tyson envelops him entirely, presses his lips into Elias’s admittedly knotted and messy hair. “I thought…Angela said that Aug…I was just scared that maybe he-”
“No, baby, I’m right here. That’s all over now, alright?” He pulls off of Elias, takes his face in his hands and swipes at a tear sliding down his cheek. “I am right here with you, and I am safe and so are you, and all of that shit is over.”
“I’m sorry,” Elias whines, and Tyson chuckles wryly at the apology.
“What for this time?” He jokes. Elias scoffs, shakes his head a little.
“Ye-yelling at you. And…and like, cussing you out in public…” he shuffles away from Tyson, and there’s no sense of being trapped or pressure to stay suffocatingly close, his arms fall easily to his sides and he stays where he is. “That was mean.”
Tyson shrugs, fishes his keys out of his pocket. “It wasn’t ‘mean’, I told you I would wait for you and I didn’t,” he unlocks the doors, “you’re allowed to be mad at me.” He steps around Elias, opens the passenger door for him, and offers up a reassuring grin as he timidly gets into the car.
Tyson doesn’t ask Elias to explain anything once they’re on the road, he flicks on the stereo to the CD that’s already loaded up, turning it to a track he knows Elias likes. He offers an open palm that Elias can choose to lace his fingers into, and he chooses to without hesitation. He doesn’t scold Elias for chewing at his nails anxiously as he watches the trees pass out the window. The entire song plays out, and in the few seconds of silence it takes for the next one to start, Elias looks over and mumbles out a soft, “Hey, Ty?”
“Yes, love?” He answers just a little over-eagerly. Sometimes, when Tyson does something like that, it only reminds Elias of his optimism, his good natured view on almost everything, and it makes him feel like he’s ruining Tyson’s life just by being around him.
“U-um…I just want to make sure that…well, I found a lot of pictures and v-videos of myself. Like, a lot. And I just want to…I just don’t want you to think differently of me i-if you see any of them.” He looks up to see Tyson’s jaw clenched hard, his stare focused on the road ahead of him.
“Why do you think I would think differently of you?” He says timidly, he’s avoiding looking at him now, Elias can tell, but he can’t quite decipher why.
“Cause they…cause in some of them it seems like I’m…”
“You like that, don’t you Bunny? You can scream and cry all you want, I know just how you like it.”
“It’s j-just that, u-um..” He tries shaking his head to get August’s voice to go away, it doesn’t do much to help. He can still practically feel his lips against his ear, telling him that he was doing well taking a punishment, or that he was behaving beautifully by not fighting August tooth and nail. He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but now his submission feels like betrayal to Tyson, and he hates himself for it. He almost can’t choke out his next few sentences around his building tears. “I d-didn’t like it, Tyson. I- fuck! - I was just trying to s-survive. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know that, baby,” Tyson’s voice is soft to try to counter the hysteria creeping back into Elias’s demeanor, “I could never hold anything that he did against you. I know August, I’ve..I’ve seen him…you were protecting yourself, Eli. N-nobody else did so you were doing it the only way you knew how, I could never blame you for that.”
“Pl-please just, don’t watch any of them, ok?” Elias gives Tyson’s hand a quick squeeze, followed by a more desperate one after Tyson doesn't respond to him. He’s still staring straight ahead with his shoulders tense and his hand gripping the wheel tightly. “Ty…? Promise me you won’t watch them, please. I do-don’t want you to see me like that-”
“Elias I have to tell you something but I think it might make everything…I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I should have been honest about this a long time ago but you were already dealing with so much and.. And I didn’t want to make it worse, so I just never said anything-”
“What are you talking about?” Elias breathes, his stomach is in knots again from the nervous tone Tyson has picked up.
“The first time you…a little bit after he first took you, I started getting texts from this unmarked number…”
Elias pulls his hand away from Tyson’s, his chest tight. “No, Ty.”
“I couldn’t even watch them at first, I was so…I was just so fucking angry that I couldn’t do anything to save you, and he was dangling you hurting right in front of my face like he knew that I couldn’t. But then, it was…it was the only way I could know you weren’t dead, Eli. Those videos were the only reason I knew that you were alive, and then I hated myself for being…relieved that he sent them. I’m so sorry, I should have been honest about that.”
The music seems taunting, now, no longer comforting, and Elias feels dread washing over him with every passing second. This entire time, Tyson had the mental image of whatever horrible home-made torture porn August had sent him tucked away in the back of his mind. This whole time, he knew what Elias sounded like when he was hurting, when he was begging, when he was performing. More than a few times, when he was in the most grueling part of recovery, Elias had found comfort in the knowledge that the stuff he felt guilty over was null when it came to Tyson, because he only had to know what Elias chose to share with him, and now none of that mattered because, from the very beginning, Elias’s pain, and the shameful things he did to try easing it, had been broadcasted for everyone to see.
Elias pulls his knees up to his chest, feels the seat belt digging into the side of his neck as he leans forward to hide his face as best as he can. He remembers Angela telling him that the progress he’s made is still there, that it didn’t just go away because of this one event, but he can’t feel it at all anymore. Everything is bad again, just like before, when life was so unbearably painful and he felt so much suffocating guilt he practically made August strangle him to death. Tyson reaches out to grab at Elias’s shoulder, he’s immediately brushed off.
“Don’t f-fucking touch me.” He whimpers from the crook of his elbow.
“I’m sorry, Eli. I’m really…” He sighs heavily, clears his throat. “I’m really sorry.”
When they get home, Elias goes straight for the pot sitting out on the coffee table. Tyson almost wants to stop him, tell him that they both know smoking isn’t going to help and they should actually talk through this situation at some point, but he feels guilty when he gets a look at Elias’s tear stained, sheet pale face, his shaking hands as he loads up a bowl. So instead, he follows him out to the porch and stands a good distance away from him, watching the smoke curl around his head. He tries not to be jealous of the drugs, of the comfort Elias is finding them.
“Do you know what I think of you?” He asks. Elias winces at the question, glances over at Tyson for only a split second before turning his gaze back to the trees.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you didn’t want me to think differently of you. I just wondered if you knew what I think of you in the first place. I don’t know that I’ve ever told you, fully.” Elias is silent now, it doesn’t stop Tyson from stepping closer to him and continuing on. “I think that you are the strongest person I have ever met-”
“Tyson-”
“No, please listen to me. I really need you to hear this.” He waits, as if he’s giving Elias another chance to protest, is pleased when he keeps his mouth shut and looks up at him. “I think that it’s incredible how much compassion you still have, even though you’ve spent your entire life being hurt by others. I really admire that about you, I think if I had to go through even half of what you did it would make me angry and mean and bitter and I think it’s amazing that you’ve come out of all of this a kind person. I think you are naturally talented in everything you do, you are more authentically yourself than anyone I’ve ever known. I truly think that you are capable of overcoming anything, I think that you simply existing makes me want to be a better person, and I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.” He sees tears in Elias’s eyes again, his face is flushed and it looks like he might collapse soon, with the evidence of sleeplessness etched into every detail of his face. “Elias I am in love with you and I am in love with the way your brain works and I am in love with the way you see the world and I am in love with the…the way you always steal my clothes and never give them back. That’s what I think of you. That doesn’t change just because of some stupid fucking videos.”
Elias seems stunned for a good few seconds, forgetting briefly about the glass pipe in his hand, and he searches Tyson’s face with his hazed over, exhausted eyes. Then, he grins. It’s small and has a slight sadness to it, but it isn’t tears, and it isn’t a panic attack, so Tyson takes it as a good sign. He takes a deep, shuttering inhale and sets the pipe down on the banister carefully. Every movement is shaky and with an inkling of stiffness. His shoes scuff against the wooden deck as he steps toward Tyson slowly.
“That’s…that’s because of you, Ty.” His voice is just a hoarse mumble, and Tyson steps forward to hear better. Elias tenses up further at the movement, so Tyson keeps his hands pointedly at his sides. “I was angry. I-god, I hated everyone. I was pissed off at everyone and everything, a-and myself, and then you…you made me wanna be good. You made me good a-and forgiving and nice. And not, not just mean and angry all the time. I’m not angry anymore.”
“I’m so happy to hear that, Eli-”
“I’m so fucking scared, though.” His voice hitches and wavers, and now the tears building up in his eyes are threatening to fall, blurring his vision. “I think I-I’m really broken, Tyson. I thought I could be better and pretend…I’m so scared all the time and I - fuck! - I’m so tired. I’m so tired of being scared. And now, and now it’s…I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Now, Tyson can’t hold himself off any longer. Elias is right on the edge of crying again, Tyson isn’t sure how the tears aren’t already streaming down his face, so he steps forward and draws his boyfriends shivering, incredibly unstable, body up into his arms, squeezing him like he can put him all back together, if he tries hard enough. The pressure makes Elias positively melt, his legs all but collapse and he has to hold onto Tyson’s shirt just to keep himself upright. It’s something he didn’t realize he’d needed the last few days; the videos had shoved him face first back into the belief that all touch equated to pain, and that was only exacerbated by not sleeping and keeping himself inebriated all the time. But now that he’s close enough to hear Tyson’s heartbeat and all he can feel is the security of the tight embrace, he remembers that this kind of touch is relief, it’s safety.
“I’m sorry I can’t take all this away, Elias.” Tyson mutters into his hair, starting to drag his hand up and down over Elias’s arm. “It kills me that you’re in so much pain and I can’t stop it. I would do anything if I could just…ugh, I’m so sorry, my love.”
“Ta-take me to bed, Ty.” Elias says, now he sounds so far away, the comfort of being in Tyson’s arms reminds him how tired he is and it’s suddenly so much harder to keep his eyes open than it was when he was running only on his anxiety. “I wanna…I’m tired, Ty, I’m so tired, please-” Before he can continue on, he’s being scooped up against Tyson’s chest, carried back inside, and finally set down on the forgivingly soft mattress he and Tyson share. Tyson lays with him, right on top of the blankets, both of their shoes are still on, and massages at his arms and back until he’s subdued and relaxed enough to sleep.
Tyson has to slip out of bed before the sun is up, his phone goes off incessantly until he pulls himself out from underneath Elias and leaves the room briefly to answer it. When he comes back, Elias is miraculously still out cold, and Tyson is incredibly careful when he crawls on top of him and kisses him awake. He apologizes for waking him, he brushes his unruly hair out of his face, he kisses his cheek. When he tells Elias that he has to go into work for a few hours and asks if he’ll be ok alone, he’s surprised when his half-asleep boyfriend nods and mutters something like “S’ok, go, you can go.”
“I’ll be back before you even know it.” He kisses at Elias’s knuckles, at his temple. “Hey, try to get some sun today, yeah? You’re looking kind of pale, my little ghost.”
That remark rings through Elias’s head the rest of the morning. His little ghost. It shouldn’t be enough to bother him, but he finds himself fixated on it with everything he does. As he makes his coffee and tries to shake off the leftover grime of panic riddled sleep, he can see the blue of his veins sitting just under his skin, he can remember how it felt when they were almost empty. He remembers France, which seems like an entirely different life now, looking at himself in the mirror, feeling like he was dead, like he was just a ghost trapped with August. He tries to make himself breakfast, but he feels sick imagining eating anything, because hadn’t he died so long ago? Hadn’t he dropped through the floor of the mostly empty house August took him to, hadn’t he fallen through every circle of hell all at once? He’s so far past the point of food, now. The day that August strangled him, he survived, more or less. The details of his rescue were unknown to him until he had to hear the audio Sophie had gotten a hold of, with August’s desperate banter with the dispatcher, and learned he’d given him CPR until police got there. (When Sophie and her Fiance were discussing this, she mentioned how out of character this was of August, based on his history with every other victim. According to her, after the few crimes August had suffered briefly in prison for, he had never expressed regret for any of his actions, never alluded to remorse over the pain he’d caused. She described it as “either a miracle stroke of empathy for this kid he’d been torturing, or his most convincing performance to date.”) Still, though he didn’t stay dead, he believed some fraction of him was gone and wouldn’t come back; he felt it the second he opened his eyes in the hospital room, and it had cemented itself into his brain while he was in France and August made it his mission to slowly destroy Elias. He was just dead, he would tell himself, he was just dead and nothing was real so it didn’t actually matter, and August couldn’t hurt him that way.
Is Tyson starting to see him that way, too?
That’s ultimately what prompts Elias to leave the house, even though it fills him with so much dread his skin itches the entire time he’s getting ready. It’s sunnier than it has been the last few weeks, the sky has a surprising lack of dense, dark clouds, so Elias throws on Tyson’s much too big green jacket hung up by the door and leaves to soak up some of the rare sunshine. He doesn’t bring the dogs, it’s only reasonable to take them all at once when Tyson is here and can help, otherwise he just feels unfair only bringing one. He takes a trail that goes behind the cabin and keeps a good distance from the road, the same trail that Tyson dragged him to with the promise of a joint to smoke and safety among the trees. It’s also where they had often let the dogs off leash and watched them chase each other and play with the nature around them. Elias, for just a split second, feels better. The woods are empty and he is alone with all of these pleasant memories; there is no one around that might’ve seen him naked and bloody and begging, there is no pain in these woods, and as he looks at the relentlessly thriving plants around him, he feels like he might just be alright.
But, that split second of relief and tranquility and even hope comes crashing down around him, following the intolerable pattern his life is apparently subject to. He does not get to feel good, or safe, or calm, at least not for more than a few seconds at a time. Because just when he tears his eyes away from the overgrown trail and realizes he doesn’t recognize the woods around him anymore, he also sees August.
At first, he thinks he might just be really losing his mind. He thinks that maybe seeing the videos and effectively reliving everything that happened has made him go a little crazy and start seeing faces where there are none. He’s frozen, staring wide eyed as he tries to force himself back to reality and make August disappear. But then August is lifting his hand, waving and smiling because he sees Elias too. Elias decides that it doesn’t matter if August is really there or not, because he’s already resolved himself to never see him or speak to him again. He doesn’t stick around to try and find out how August found him, or how he knew to wait in the woods for him, or how he’s even alive at all.
Elias starts running.
He can hardly feel anything at all, the forest floor a blur under foot as he sprints away from August, as fast as his legs can take him and then faster. He doesn’t remember which way home is, he doesn’t know exactly where he’s running to, he just knows he refuses to let August get close enough to even speak to him, let alone touch him. He regrets not bringing at least one of the dogs with him, and then he regrets going on a walk at all. He thought it would be safe, since it was one of the first places outside of the cabin that he’d actually felt somewhat free of fear, when he first got here. Then he realizes that maybe nowhere is safe, and maybe it never will be and never was. Maybe, before he was even born, some higher power that he never really believed in decided that he was destined for a life of fear, pain, and constantly running. He finds himself wishing that it would all just end already, he’s so tired of fighting against tidal waves of agony and never getting enough time to fix himself in between them. As he thinks it, whatever higher power is controlling his life finds its sense of humor and sticks a fallen tree in his path, covered in enough undergrowth and moss to be practically invisible. He goes flying, hits the ground so hard he can’t see or breathe for a few seconds. His head smacks against something solid with a resounding crack. Even through the stars in his vision and the blinding pain at the edge of his skull, his adrenaline pushes on and he clumsily staggers to his feet again, tries to keep running.
“Jesus Christ, you’re fast!” August is exclaiming, how did he get so close so quickly without Elias noticing? He grabs onto his arm tightly and starts pulling him along behind him, and while Elias tries to shake off the dizziness and the lightheadedness from the fall, he can only stumble and try hopelessly to pull his arm away. “Why didn’t you try getting away from me more, before? You probably would’ve been able to once or twice, you little track star.”
Once the fogginess of hitting his head clears enough for Elias to get a glimpse of August’s hand fitting comfortably around his arm, wrinkling the fabric of the borrowed jacket, he feels like this is one of his nightmares. There’s no way August is here, he looks so displaced among the trees and flowers and moss. Seeing his own personal boogeyman in one of the places that helped him heal, in a place that has become borderline sacred to him, feels like his universe being ripped to shreds. “Y…you can’t, mmm…” another bout of dizziness slams into him, he can feel blood sliding down his temple but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet, “You can’t be here…” he finally slurs out.
August responds with a laugh, it seems distorted and daunting to Elias, especially with the symphony of birds around them. He’s definitely in a nightmare, he shakes his head hard to try and wake himself up. “Yeah, I bet you thought you were outta the woods, huh?” He laughs again, then looks irritated that Elias is too disoriented and scared to appreciate his joke. It only lasts a second, though, and then he reconciles whatever he has in place of feelings and looks instead just vaguely concerned. “Fucking clumsy idiot,” he scolds playfully, stops dragging Elias for a second to inspect the gash on his face, “you should be more careful, you know? Now I have to figure out how to fix you up before…” he trails off, reaching up and tracing his thumb down Elias’s face, following the stream of blood sliding over his cheekbone, now. He draws his hand toward himself to inspect the red on his fingertip and when Elias has to see his blood back on August’s hand, he starts sobbing instantaneously.
“Stop, stop,” he heaves, “enough, I want to wake up no-now…” he isn’t even trying to pry himself out of August’s hold anymore, his entire person radiates exhaustion as he sways, almost drunkenly, looking down at his shoes. His shoes, next to August’s shoes, which are stained with old, rusty blood. “This isn’t happening, this can’t be -fucking cock!-..I killed y-you. This isn’t real, this is not real-!“
“Wait,” August interjects, voice dripping in amusement, “aw, you think this is just another nightmare? God, you’ve kind of lost your shit without me, Bunny.”
Elias looks up at him through his tears, through his sobbing, and his lip curls like he might yell at him. Really yell at him, because he wants to, not because he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t though, he only breaks down all over again in a fit of rasping cries. August huffs like he’s satisfied, because why wouldn’t he be? All of his sadistic work stuck, Elias can’t turn off the part of his brain that August infected, the part that makes him obedient. He starts to pull Elias again, leading him through the foliage. Only this time, Elias is more present.
“Le-let go!” Elias cries, digging his feet into the ground as much as he can. But the world is still spinning around him slightly, and even the smallest tug from August knocks him off balance again and he can’t help but be pulled along. “Let go, fucker!”
August scoffs at that, turning only briefly to look at Elias with an amused smile. “I’m gonna ignore that for right now. You’re mouthy today, huh? Did I catch you in one of your moods?”
Elias feels temporarily clear headed when August smiles at him like that, like he knows exactly what he’s going to do later to make Elias pay for being “mouthy”, like he’s going to enjoy it. Like he can hardly even wait. Elias remembers August’s basement, and the way his hands feel around his throat, and how he would do unspeakable things to him just because he “sounded pretty” when he was hurting. Elias is not going to go back to any of that without a fight, he decides.
“Get your fucking hands off of me!” He shouts, he throws himself against August, enough to make him stumble back a few steps and lose his grip on his arm. It doesn’t give Elias enough time to run, but when August is closing in on him and grabbing at him again, he’s met with thrashing limbs and violent cries of “don’t touch me! Get away from me, piece of shit! Get the fuck off of me, you mother fucker!”
August is tolerant of it all with his unwavering grip, for the most part, until Elias drives his elbow hard into his ribs in one of his escape attempts, and then he’s pissed. He doesn’t give Elias time to prepare before punching him in the jaw, and before he can even right himself, August has him pinned against a tree, forearm planted steadily against his chest to trap him. Elias gives a few fruitless attempts at fighting his way out of it, pushing hard at August’s chest and squirming away from him. That is, until he catches sight of the gleaming knife August is pulling out of his pocket, and then his panic sets in tenfold. He freezes up, can’t even look at August anymore.
“Shut the fuck up now, you hear me?” His face is so close to Elias’s, and he doesn’t have to speak loudly to get his point across, Elias flinches in his grip. He can hardly feel the scar on the back of his tongue anymore, but the memory is still painfully present. He’d somewhat accepted long ago that, when it came to August, if he didn’t mind his tongue he might as well lose it. “You and I are going back to my car, and you’re going to be quiet or I will fuck your pretty face up. Right here and now.”
“No,” Elias whispers, voice small and broken and horrified, “no, I’m n-not going with you, August.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t fuckin’ ask your opinion-”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Now, there’s some sort of edge creeping back into his words, a tiny sliver of the bravery he had a moment ago, before August punched it out of him. “I…I can’t do this anymore. I can’t -fuck!- I can’t take another second of being around you.”
“You’re not making any sense,” August shakes his head in disdain, “you hit your head pretty hard back there-”
“No, August, you’re not listening, I cannot fucking do this again.” His eyes are closed, a preemptive measure in case August decides to slap him around for this. Surprisingly, though, August stays right where he is, pinning Elias to the tree and staring at him with a mixed look of white hot anger and confusion. “You have to let me go. You…please let me go, August.”
August lets out a short, almost cynical laugh at that. “Let you go?” His voice is shaking now, Elias tries to swallow back the fear that he’s gone too far, that he’s made August too angry and now he’s really going to pay. When he gets up the courage to look up at him, August is shaking his head to himself. “You just don’t get it, do you? That’s not going to happen, Bunny, you’re fucking stupid if…You really think after everything I did for you that this would end by me letting you go?! After all the money I spent, the fucking people I killed for you…no, baby, that’s not how this goes.”
“Stop it, please-”
“You’re mine, what don’t you understand about that?!” He shouts. His breathing is ragged, face totally deranged. Something has snapped, he’s horrifying, he’s fucking insane, is what he is. And yet, he’s also tangibly desperate. Embarrassingly so, and in a way that makes Elias disgusted in him. For just a brief moment, Elias sees him as pathetic instead of frighteting, especially when he says; “We… we have to be together. Why don’t you see that?”
“August.” Elias hisses out, looking him right in his eyes, glaring, no, snarling, and practically spitting the next sentence: “I hate your fucking guts. I mean that. I hate everything about you. Being around you makes me fucking sick and I want you to rot in hell.”
August is stunned into silence, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Elias speak so steadily, so pointedly, before. Especially at the end, in France, he was all stutters and barely stifled obscenities. His brain was so broken and twisted by August’s cruel hands and vile manipulation, he was constantly second guessing and focusing hard on not getting himself in trouble. Hearing him speak so fluently just to say that he hates August is painful, but it’s also incredibly astonishing, and August only gapes at him in bewilderment.
“Did you fucking hear me?!” Elias snaps, starting to struggle against his grip again. “I hate you! Let me go! I ne-never wanna see you again!”
“Fine.” August breathes, follows it with a light scoff. Elias doesn’t stop trying to get away from him still, the bark of the tree he’s pressed against is scratching hard into his back, but it’s nothing compared to how much it hurts to be so close to August. “Just know that this is all your fault then.” There’s something like defeat in his voice now, and Elias would take it as his own victory, if August wasn’t still so close to him.
Elias doesn’t even make a sound when August plunges the knife into him, his eyes only go wide and he finally grows still, disbelief scribbled across his face. At first, he’s not even sure he feels it, until August is driving it deeper, twisting it, and Elias takes in a sharp, shuddering gasp, then he’s letting out a disgruntled whine, hardly audible. He goes weak in the knees before his mind fully registers the pain, August has to shift his hold on him and push him harder against the tree to keep him up, effectively forcing the blade further into him. Then, it slams into him all at once, a fire tearing through his insides and a mind shattering aching, right under his lungs. This is no nightmare, this is painfully real. He grits his teeth around an agonized sob and is ashamed in himself when he takes in fistfuls of August’s shirt and pulls, as if he can yank himself away from the pain with a little leverage, as if that’s not only making August step closer with barely concealed satisfaction on his face.
In less than the blink of an eye, August slips into another mask, he’s now wearing a depressed frown as he looks down to see blood slowly seeping out of the wound and onto his hand, just a little at a time, since he hasn’t removed the knife yet. “Oh no, my sweet Elias,” he mutters, he can tell by Elias’s reaction of eyes blown huge, overflowing with tears, and a twitching of his eyebrows into a pathetic, sad frown, that hearing his actual name on August’s tongue is sending his head spiraling in a different way, “look at what you made me do.”
“I…ha, oh god…” he swallows weakly, tips his head back until it rests against the tree. His eyes are misty with tears, he’s shaking all over in a way that feels different from fear, in a way that’s so primally ingrained he can’t help but wonder if his body already knows that it’s going to die. “God, shit-“
“Shh, darling. It’s ok, it’s all over now.”
“No no no no no,” he whimpers. He doesn’t really process that it’s too late to beg, the knife is handle-deep inside of him, there’s no undoing it now. Still though, he stifles a weak sob and looks back at August, shaking his head desperately. “Please, I d-don’t want to die, August. Don’t do this, please stop…”
“I’m sorry, baby,” August says, and he sort of sounds like he really means it this time around. To add to his pretend remorse, he stoops forward and kisses Elias innocently on the cheek. His voice is wavering slightly when he whispers into Elias’s ear, “I really didn’t want it to end this way. But you didn’t give me much of a choice, did you?”
The knife being pulled out of his body is far more painful than it was going in, and Elias can’t help the anguished scream he lets out. He doubles over in pain, and when August finally steps away from him he barely avoids falling right to the ground. He presses his hands against the sticky warmth of the stab wound, soaked through his shirt already, and he sobs out at the insane throbbing even just touching it brings. His lungs feel heavy, like they’re filled with slowly drying cement, and his breathing comes in labored wheezes and broken moans of pain.
“You… you really fucking stabbed m…me?”
He looks up at August, vision blurring and pulsing around the edges, he can feel that something is wrong, and his first thought is that he has to find Tyson, because Tyson always knows how to help. Only, before he can think about moving from his spot halfway propped up against the tree, he notices that August has now turned the knife on himself, pressing it right to his throat. He doesn’t look scared, or sad, or even happy. For once, August doesn’t look like he’s pretending, he looks just as empty and unforgiving as he really is. Elias can barely hear himself shrieking “stop it August don’t!!” past the onsetting shock over the gruesome scene playing out in front of him and the confusing haze of his own blood loss.
August drops to the ground with a heavy thud. Elias becomes very aware of the birds chirping in the branches above him, maybe if only to distract himself from the bloody leaves and sticks and flowers under August. One of them he recognizes as a blue jay, he only knows because of the one that built a nest in the trees outside the cabin. He tries to focus on the familiar shrill call of the bird as he stumbles forward, twigs crack underneath his unsteady feet as he ambles away from the bloody scene. All he has to do is find the road, and then he can get someone to help him and he can find Tyson and it can all really be over. But more than that, Elias just doesn’t want to die in the same place as August. Elias tries not to think about how it’s starting to really look that way, that he’ll only get a few yards from August and he’ll die right on the forest floor and he’ll never see Tyson, his dogs, his friends, or the art covered walls of his house again. He sobs out something like a cry for help, and is answered by only birds.
He’s got practically no energy when he finds the hill of the ditch that separates the woods from the road, and he can hear his own pained grunts and sobs echo back to him as he digs his hands into moss and leaf scattered earth to climb it. The blood on his hands makes everything he touches stick to them, so he doesn’t try to press them back against the wound once he finds himself upright on the side of the road. He wants so badly to lay down, the dark asphalt under him looks inviting, almost pillow-soft, but it seems like even sprawling out on the street would take too much energy out of him, so he merely stays swaying and staring at the spot where the white paint meets the black street. He realizes he really misses Tyson, and he can’t remember if he kissed him goodbye that morning, or if he told him he loved him. The mere thought of Tyson drives him forward, the direction he’s going isn’t important, he just needs to find Tyson. Or help, he reminds himself, he needs to find help. A tic throws him off balance, he has to catch himself on the post of a nearby road sign. When he notices the dirty, bloody handprint he leaves behind, he almost vomits right there on the asphalt. His labored breathing sounds far louder in his ears than it really is, he almost doesn’t hear the car approaching quickly behind him. He shuffles away from the sound of tires screeching to a halt against the asphalt, wobbles in place as he tries to get his thoughts together. This car stopping means help, it means potential safety, it means he has a better chance of surviving this than he thought. In that moment, though, he finds the line connecting his thoughts and his voice is entirely severed, he can’t even get out a measly “help” anymore between his weak weeping. The car door opens, and Elias attempts to blink away the black splotches dancing across his vision. He starts to cry harder upon seeing them, realizes that the last time he saw them he died moments later, and he whines helplessly at the all too familiar dread building in his stomach. There is blood on the white line of the road now, and blood on his shoes.
“Elias?” He can’t tell if the voice is in his head or if the person really knows who he is, and he can’t seem to force himself to look up from his shoes, there is so much blood on them he knows that if he survives this, he’ll have to throw them out entirely. There’s no amount of bleach that could undo this mess. He looks up when he hears the slamming of a second door, and it sort of starts to feel like some bizzare nightmare again when he sees Chris and Rayne standing there, taking in Elias’s disheveled, breathless state with their own degrees of concern. “What are you doing all the way out here-?”
“Oh my god, is that blood?!” Rayne cries out, starting off in a sprint around the back of the car towards Elias’s trembling frame. He flinches away from them, still on edge from having to endure August. “Shit, Elias, you…that’s a lot of blood, what happened?”
“U-um…I…ugh, I think I’m dyin’, Rayne…” he hears a shuffling of bushes behind him, swiveling around a little too quickly to make sure August didn’t follow him. Rayne gets close enough to grab at his upper arms, and that small bit of stability and comfort is all it takes for him to finally collapse, right into Rayne’s chest. They barely stop him from hitting the ground fully, cradling him against their body, despite the blood soaking them both.
Rayne only holds him for a second before pulling away from him, carefully splaying him out and peeling his shirt up to get a better look at the source of all this warm, sticky red all over the now pale and shivering boy. Upon seeing the gaping hole under the center of his ribcage, they suck in a horrified gasp and start taking off their jacket to press against the wound. “Holy shit, Chris you gotta call the cops right now-”
“No, no,” Elias is slurring, forgetting momentarily that calling the cops and getting help was his plan in the first place, he tries to wave his hand to get Chris’s attention, it falls hopelessly to the asphalt, “I want…I want to talk to Tyson, p-please, I just want to hear his voice…”
Chris doesn’t listen, or can’t hear him, he’s already climbing back into the cab of his truck to retrieve his phone. Rayne presses the layered cloth of their jacket against his abdomen, really adding pressure, and Elias wails with more conviction than he thought he had energy for.
“I’m sorry, Eli,” Rayne tells him, “it’s gonna be ok, help is coming. I just need you to take some deep breaths for me, yeah? Can you do that?”
Elias tries to listen and get in a deep breath, but is cut off by a few pained coughs and groans. He reflexively grabs onto Rayne’s sleeve, biting down so hard to muffle his sobbing that he feels his teeth might crack. “Oh god Elias, who the fuck did this to you?” Rayne mutters, almost to themselves, then looks over their shoulder to find Chris. He’s climbing down from the truck with the phone pressed to his ear, then he’s jogging back to meet them on the side of the road. “Is someone coming? Tell ‘em to hurry.” Their voice is more urgent, despite how low they’re speaking to try not to frighten Elias more.
“He…he’s dead.” Elias whispers abruptly, both of them frown at him, Chris turns away to say something discreetly into the phone, and Rayne starts to brush Elias’s hair tenderly away from his face with the hand they aren’t using to stop him from bleeding out. They avoid the gash on his forehead from the faceplant that got him caught in the first place. “He did it right in f-front of me… he…how co-could he do that….?”
“Hush, Elias,” Rayne says softly, “it’s alright. You’re safe with us, ok? We’re gonna make sure you get help, I promise. Don’t think about all that other shit right now.”
“I don’t want to die-”
“Don’t say that!” They snap at him. “What did I just tell you, Eli? Chris and I are gonna help you. You are not dying.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry.”
Rayne looks off into the trees, hazel eyes calculating and overflowing with worry. Finally, they fall back down onto Elias and they force a small smile. “Hey, someone brought a pigeon to work today.” Elias is just dizzy enough from the blood loss and possible concussion that he grins, his eyes flutter a little.
“A pigeon? Wa…was it a pet?”
“No,” Rayne starts to laugh softly, and they think maybe they can hear sirens distantly and they allow themselves to exhale just a smidge,“no, her dog caught it. Her little cocker spaniel. Tried to play with it, she said.”
Elias hums something like a chuckle, he seems to be relaxing a great deal. Either that or he’s just succumbing to the injury, joining August in the darkness. Rayne becomes desperate to keep him aware, focused on something until the ambulance arrives.
“Do you remember that cartoon movie that has the cocker spaniel in it?” They rush out. “I’ve been trying to remember the name of it all day but it’s just…I can’t think of it.”
“Um.” Elias closes his eyes, and Rayne feels their heart stop for a second, but then he’s opening them again, looking up at the clouds. “Nah, I don’t think I know th-that one.”
“Oh, well, one of us will think of it later.” They definitely hear the sirens now, and they look up to see Chris watching on with a slightly green paleness under his beard. “Anyway…the uh…the pigeon is fine,” they look back down to see Elias has closed his eyes again, and they feel his breathing slowing under their hands. “The pigeon is fine, Elias. We named him Phillip, Chris thought you would think that was funny. Isn’t…Isn’t that funny, Eli?”
“Eli?”
“Holy fuck Rayne tell me he’s still-” There’s a sharp edge to Chris’s voice now, and Elias wants to sarcastically tell him to chill out, but he feels so far away from his body, from this entire situation, he can’t get any words out. The sirens are getting closer, Elias wishes he was present enough to find relief in the dissonant wailing of the approaching ambulance.
“I-I think he just passed out. He’s still breathing.” Elias remembers to breathe, his inhale is slightly jittery and broken under the jacket and the crushing pressure Rayne is using to try and stop the blood fleeing his body.
“Oh my god. Oh my god this isn’t fucking happening.”
Even though he didn’t choose any of this, even though it all still feels slightly unreal, and even though he is dying, Elias feels guilty. Humiliated, even. How disgusting of him, to burden his friends with this, to make them audience to the final act of August’s shit show. He would apologize, if he could remember how to speak, and if he wasn’t suddenly so cold it makes him breathless.
“Relax, Chris. That isn’t helping…..Eli, stay with me, bud. Just hang in there for a little bit longer.”
There’s a moment after Rayne says that, unless it’s longer than a moment and Elias is just losing his sense of time in his state, where everything morphs into nothing. The road under him disappears, he’s floating aimlessly, he can’t hear Chris panicking or Rayne reassuring him, he can’t even see the backs of his eyelids anymore. Didn’t he hear sirens a moment ago? He worries that help isn’t coming anymore, after all, and the slight hope he had of surviving this fades to nothing.
Elias is nothing. Again.
Elias is dead. Again.
Then, the moment passes. The first thing that comes back to him is his hearing, even though everything is muffled and muted by a distant ringing. There are voices nearby, and a dissonant beeping that’s vaguely familiar but Elias can’t process why. Then, as if he’s being forced back into his body, the pain sinks in. First in his stomach, so deep inside of him that he’s instantly nauseous and can’t focus on anything else. After that his skull feels like it’s splitting right in half inch by inch, and that’s when he hears himself let out a feeble groan. He’s confused, because if he died again, why is he in so much pain? He doesn’t think it was like this the last time, last time he was so relieved to be free of pain and seeing Tyson again, for whatever reason, so why did it stick around this time?
“It’s ok, baby,” he hears, close to his face like Tyson is there with him, right on cue, “I know it hurts, but you’re ok now. You’re ok.”
“Ty?” He chokes out, his voice hoarse and rasping. He tries to open his eyes, but something is keeping him weighed down and barely conscious enough to even move.
“Yeah, yeah it’s me. I’m right here my love-”
“I d-don’t understand…it hurts still, wh-why…ugh…” he starts to cry softly, before he even really feels like he wants to cry. Fingertips brush against his cheekbone and he’s even more perplexed at that, because last time Tyson didn’t touch him, didn’t even try to. “Am I not de…dead, yet?”
Though it’s making him far more confused, he finds relief in the gentle hand petting through his hair. “No, Elias.” Tyson breathes after a long time, his own voice is watery and shaking, and if Elias wasn’t under a million pounds of water and only partly present, he would throw himself into Tyson’s arms so they could comfort each other. “You’re not dead. Y-you’re alright, they saved you. You’re not gonna die, ok?”
“...what? Really?”
Now, Tyson laughs softly, with his own degree of disbelief. Elias starts to gain a little more awareness, he feels the stiff mattress under him, the sort of scratchy blankets he’s under. He also feels something resting in each nostril, he realizes distantly that he’s probably hooked up on oxygen. Finally, he’s able to peel his eyes open, but he has to immediately squeeze them shut again after the horrendously bright fluorescent lights assault him.
“God, Eli, I’m so glad you’re here.” Tyson breaks down, even though seconds ago he was chuckling at Elias, and it almost hurts more than the stitched up stab wound when Elias looks up at him just to see his face tear stained and distressed. He’s still in his scrubs, but the chair he’s pulled away from the wall to be right next to the bed has a blanket draped messily across the back, and there are a few of the hospital's bland coffee cups discarded on the bedside table like he’s been there for awhile. “Th-they called me from the ambulance and I…fuck, Elias, can’t take almost losing you anymore. I’m gonna go actually insane if I have to see you halfway to death in a hospital bed one more fucking time-” He’s cut off by a soft tapping at the cracked door, he yanks his hands away from Elias as he jumps at the small sound. Then he’s writhing a little, wrinkling his face up as his breathing stifles.
The nurse that pops into the room looks immediately surprised to see Elias conscious, and she proves that further by glancing at Tyson and exclaiming, “he’s awake! When did he wake up?”
“Uh…” Tyson huffs, wipes the tears from his face. “Just now. I was gonna come get you, he’s in a lot of pain, so…”
“Oh no!” Even as she says it her voice is chipper, and she crosses the room carefully to the sink, begins to scrub soap into her hands with practiced ease. “I’ll get some more of those delicious painkillers as soon as I’m done checking your vitals, sound good, Elias?”
Elias looks up at her, this all feels a little too similar to the first time he woke up after dying, and he feels too frightened to answer. She finishes rinsing her hands off, but she doesn’t try to approach him after they’re dried. He imagines her touching the places where his body is ablaze with agony, and it makes him sick all over again.
How badly does it hurt, scale of one to ten?
How dead do you feel right now, scale of one to ten?
“I…” he trails off, glancing at the little screen that’s displaying his heart rate, flinches again when he hears Tyson shifting to be close to him. “Are you su-sure I’m alive?” He whispers to Tyson, and he is taken aback when the question makes Tyson go stiff suddenly. “S-sorry, I just kinda feel-fuck!-” the jolt of ticcing makes him hiss and curl into himself, and Tyson immediately has a gentle hand back against Elias’s temple, his thumb tracing tenderly at his hairline.
“Shhh, baby, it’s ok. I promise, you’re alive, you’re right here with me. And hey, look, I gotta show you something-” he uses his free hand to reach for his phone, leans even closer to show Elias his screen, the picture of all three of the dogs sleeping on his side of the bed. “Chris sent me that this morning. They miss you, isn’t that so fuckin’ cute?” He’s doing his best now to keep his tone light, like the nurse that just walked in, but Elias can’t seem to find comfort in it. He ignores the attempted distraction without missing a beat.
“So…so is August really g–gone, then?” He knows the answer already, he was there when it happened after all, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the dread that comes when Tyson throws the nurse a desperate frown.
“Yes, Eli, he is. He…he can’t hurt you anymore. ” He’s watching Elias’s face carefully, waiting for his reaction with bated breath and stiff shoulders. When all that he gets is a measly nod and a suddenly far-off, blank stare, he grows even more uneasy.
The nurse must be able to sense the doom blossoming in Elias’s head, because she pointedly pulls on a pair of gloves and steps half a foot closer. “I feel bad, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Joanne.”
Elias still doesn’t look completely present, but he whispers out a soft “Hi, Joanne,” with as much politeness as he can muster.
“Is it ok if I check some things? I want to get rid of your pain as soon as possible but my boss doesn’t let me hand out drugs without the proper paperwork.” She smiles brightly when he nods at her, and she’s nice enough to try to explain every procedure and the reasoning behind it, even though he seems to be majorly checked out still. He doesn’t complain about the pain anymore, even though Tyson can see the very evident anguish on his face when Joanne changes the bandages on his stomach and cleans dried blood from around the stitches. The jagged, stitched up line is much bigger than the stab wound initially was, Elias wonders how much internal damage August dealt him. She puts new gauze and tape over the soon to be new scar among countless others, promises that she will change the dressings on his head that he hadn’t noticed in a bit, and then she leaves to get the promised painkillers.
More times than Elias is willing to admit, he had imagined something like this. In his head, in the sick, shameful fantasies he sometimes got, August would die by Elias’s hand. Elias had thought about giving him a taste of his own poision-laced medicine by chaining him up and torturing him until his body gave up on him, and he had pictured stealing August’s gun and shooting him in his sleep so he could escape, and when he shot him in the motel in California, that had briefly turned into a reality. All of those times, he thought that killing August meant justice or revenge for himself, he thought that it would bring him peace to know that he couldn’t be hurt again by the person who had torn his life apart in every way he could think of. But now, with August actually gone, and Elias somehow miraculously still alive, all he can think about is a bleak conversation he’d had with August pretty early on in France.
“Do you ever imagine your own funeral?” August asked. Elias felt like it was a trap, he knew that August liked to talk about upsetting shit like that just to send Elias spiraling. That time, though, he sounded somewhat genuine, and he’d been drinking a lot that day, so maybe he was just feeling somber. Or whatever was the closest thing to somber he could feel.
“What a-are you talking about?” He was not ridiculed or immediately punished for asking, and he remembered it registering that August might not be planning on using this as an excuse to shove Elias further off the deep end.
“Do you ever picture what your own funeral would be like? Like, what kind of flowers would be set up? Would they play that shitty organ music or the music that you actually enjoyed?” He paused, took a short swig, and looked away from Elias and out the living room window toward the beach. “Does anyone actually show up, and do the people who do show up cry their eyes out? You know, that kind of thing.”
“Uh…y-yeah, I guess I have a few t…a few times.” He was on the floor during this conversation, because when August got drunk and pretended to be vulnerable he also liked to make Elias kneel in front of him and stroke at his hair and stick his fingers in his mouth and otherwise torment him in any little way he could think of. “Do…Do you?”
August hummed, switched the elegant glass of whiskey from one hand to the other so he could rake his fingertips through Elias’s hair. He was gentle, and Elias pushed further into his touch to try and keep him that way. “When my dad died, I was in charge of his funeral. I spent…I spent so much god damn money and time on that stupid fucking thing.” Elias flinched minutely with every curse, but surprisingly August’s touch didn’t grow harsh to match his tone. “I even got these huge bouquets of a bunch of different flowers for the piece of shit, you should’ve seen them, they were probably taller than you.” He smiled warmly down at Elias and used the backs of his knuckles to stroke lovingly down his face before returning to his hair.
“Th-that’s not really saying much…” Elias breathed, instinctively trying to comfort August with humor because of the incredibly touchy subject he was diving into. August had mentioned his fathers death only once before, glazed right over it like he was just telling Elias that the sky was blue and the grass was green. And in that moment he was drunkenly spilling his guts out about it and he almost sounded vaguely bummed out, so Elias pushed all the past torture and lies and other life ruining atrocities to the back of his mind and started trying to make the sadistic monster feel better.
It worked, August looked incredibly amused at Elias’s joke, he even laughed after a second. “That’s funny, sweetheart.” He took in the flustered, confused stare on Elias’s face at that, very clearly loving that he was discomposed by something that sounded just vaguely like praise. Then he sighed, looked into the brassy liquid he insisted on consuming every waking second, lately. “Anyway, no one showed up. I spent almost a month planning and organizing and setting shit up, and I was the only one there. How fucking shitty is that? And after sitting in a funeral parlor with my dead dad for, like, an hour, I just left. I went and chainsmoked some cigarettes in my car and I watched them clear out the parlor for the next poor fuck and…and I watched them drag those gigantic fucking bouquets all the way out to the dumpster. They didn’t even keep them to use for someone else or donate them, they just threw them away.”
Elias didn’t know what to say for a long time, but August didn’t seem to be expecting him to speak, still lost in thought staring at his booze. It was the closest to human August had seemed in a long time, and that’s probably what prompted Elias to press his forehead against August’s thigh and nuzzle against him and say: “that’s horrible, August. I’m so s-sorry.”
“Aw, thank you, Bunny, but it isn’t horrible. It’s…it’s cause and effect, that’s all. He’s the reason no one but me showed up.” By then, August wasn’t restraining himself with his affection, he massaged his free hand into Elias’s shoulders and the back of his neck without inhibition. Elias couldn’t tell if it was a product of the alcohol, Elias’s behavior, the nature of the conversation, or a mixture of all three that was making him so nice, but in that moment he was praying that it lasted forever. “But, anyways, yeah, I do imagine my own funeral. It’s going to be even lonelier than my fathers. I don’t think it’ll even count as a funeral, it would be more like the bouquets getting tossed into the dumpster.”
“Don’t say that,” Elias muttered disdainfully, “th-that’s not true.”
“Yeah it is. I’m an asshole but I’m not an idiot, I’ve done all that I can to guarantee that no one will show.”
Elias looked up at him, he was shocked at the pained expression August was wearing. “I… I would show up. If you ever…I don’t wanna think about- shit- about that, but I would show up.”
August smiled brightly at that, he hooked his finger in Elias’s collar and pulled him up off the floor, yanked him into his lap. When Elias winced and softly whined, August smiled and lit up just a little. His eyes scanned up and down the younger man's battered body with devouring intensity, and Elias felt like he should stop egging him on before it led to what it always did and he was hurting even worse.
“You wouldn’t.” He tested.
“I would, A-August.” He paused, trying to read August’s face to figure out how he was going to react. He seemed to like the vague degree of humor Elias had used a moment ago, so he tried that again. “Even if it w-was just a dumpster funeral.”
August chuckled, looped his arms all the way around Elias and drew him close, pressing his mouth against his neck just under his jaw. When he spoke against his skin, Elias shivered. “Would you cry?”
“Of course I would, you kno-know me. I’d cry like a little bitch.”
That must’ve been the perfect mixture of self-deprecation, humor, and stroking August’s ego, because he consumed Elias immediately after. Right on the couch, he took off the few clothes Elias was wearing and used him and the idea of him crying over his death to get off. By the end of it, Elias had no idea if he was telling the truth or just trying to make August feel better. He also had no idea why he would do either of those things for this hurricane of a person, the thing that ruined his life in ways that Elias could never imagine or even fully understand yet. He hated himself, just like he always did after doing anything that August enjoyed, and he hated August for being so confusing and hurtful, and he hated Tyson for not saving him yet.
August does not have a funeral. At least, if he does, Elias is left blissfully unaware of it. He stays in the hospital for another three weeks; he can hardly move around, even with help, as he recovers from surgery and the short coma he supposedly fell into from blood loss and his concussion. But beyond that he finds himself in so much mental anguish he doesn’t feel safe leaving. Paranoia drives him insane the first week, and after that he still won’t allow anyone but Tyson and the near constant flow of nurses and doctors in the room, even Chris and Rayne have to wait until he’s released to even see him.
Tyson is, unsurprisingly, the only comfort in the dark and gloomy hospital. He only leaves him for minutes at a time, but is otherwise adamant about staying right at his bedside, calming him down when he wakes up screaming, or holding his hand while he gets his incredibly sensitive wounds cleaned and bandaged. He also manages to find a pad of paper and some colored pencils and spends a majority of the time drawing with him, keeping him distracted from the terror he had to suffer through. It doesn’t work every time, but Elias will admit that it’s nice to at least keep his hands busy. Tyson notices that Elias doesn’t ever use the red shades, and Elias notices that the next time they draw together, all of the reddish hues have been removed from the box. Elias doesn’t know why that makes him lose his cool, why he ends up sobbing in Tyson’s arms about how grateful he is, but some part of him realizes that the simple gesture is proof that Tyson really does love him, it’s enough to finally, finally extinguish any doubts that still played in Elias’s broken mind even after all this time. Tyson loves him, he loves him enough to notice the familiar color bothering him, he loves him enough to carefully remove the ones that might be close to upsetting, he loves him enough to not even mention that he did it. It’s strange, because compared to everything that Tyson has done for Elias, taking three or four pencils out of a box is nothing, and yet Elias feels like he might implode from the small act.
Eventually, Elias is well enough to go back to the cabin, and Tyson surprises him with something resembling a welcome home party, only much smaller and not as intense as Elias imagined something like that would be.
Chris and Rayne are there, and they both spend the first few minutes pouring their hearts out about how happy they are that he’s ok, how much they were worried about him. Rayne tells him that the only reason they even came across him in the first place was because Chris had grown worried after the mess that transpired from the party, and begged Rayne to drive out to the cabin with him to check on Elias. Later, Chris really drives that home by profusely apologizing over the last time they saw each other, promising that he deleted Elias’s picture from his phone immediately after he left and never even thought about searching for more. He sounds the most caring and genuine he ever has when he pulls Elias into an almost too-tight bear hug and tells him, “you’re like a little brother to me, I would never hurt you like that on purpose.”
Tyson’s mom, Kathy, and his father, William, also come, along with their four other children. Tyson has talked endlessly about his siblings, and getting to finally meet them (despite the sort of bizarre undertones) is nice. He meets Tyson’s older sister Sierra, who is a bubbly engineer, and she blows Elias away with just how smart she is. She also gets giddy and teary eyed when she talks about her girlfriend, and she shows Elias the ring she’s planning on proposing with, makes him feel special when she tells him no one else knows yet and to keep it a secret. Reagan is Tyson’s older brother, and though he’s not incredibly talkative, he does seem to share the same artistic passion his brother has, and he compliments Elias on his paintings and his photography. At one point he tries to convince Elias to take an expensive digital camera that he recently got but will never use, tells him it’s a gift, but eventually backs down when Elias shows him his cracked phone screen and jokes that the camera will likely suffer the same fate. Tyson’s two youngest siblings are far younger than the other three; when Kathy was introducing them, she made a joke about Tyson moving out causing her and William to get bored, so they popped out two more kids to keep them busy. Carter is a seven year old boy who wrestles with the dogs until they get tired and still has the energy to do laps around the living room and kitchen for about an hour after. He is also obsessed with Elias’s hair, he tries to separate the blond and the blue down to each individual strand, he laughs lightheartedly every time Elias tics and ruins his progress. Meredith is the youngest at only five, and she proudly shows Elias all of the beads woven delicately into her hair, she stomps her feet with excitement when Elias tells her how much he likes the ones shaped like butterflies because those are her favorites too! At the end of the night, before her parents take her home to get much needed sleep, she sits on the couch with Elias and traces her little fingers over his tattoo. She asks innocently about how he got all of his scars, and he finds himself speechless. Eventually he tells her that it was just an accident, he tells her sometimes people get hurt and you can see where it happened for a long time after. She nods her head in understanding, and then she peppers a few tiny kisses against his skin, over the scars.
“Does that feel better, now?” She asks him after. “When I get hurt, Mama kisses it and it feels better.”
“Y-yeah, it does,” he tells her, and he isn’t lying even a fraction, “thank you, Mer. You should b…be a doctor, I think you might have secret healing powers.”
“Like Ty?” She asks through a stifled yawn.
Elias glances across the room to see Tyson and his father talking quietly, and it’s almost as if Tyson can sense his boyfriends eyes on him, he smiles brightly when he sees Elias and Meredith sitting together. For the first time possibly ever, Elias’s heart feels full. He doesn’t feel any subconscious urge to search for an escape or a distraction or something to numb him; he is perfectly content in this room with all of the people he cares about, holding eye contact with the love of his life from a distance but with an underlying sense of warmth and closeness. Knowing it’s all because of Tyson makes him feel gooey and weak at the knees, he never thought he’d meet anyone who would care enough about him to do even half of what Tyson has for him. He’s eternally grateful that someone so kind decided to take him in, show him that the world is not all sharp edges and misery but instead complicated beauty and life changing sunsets. Tyson gave him a sanctuary when he needed it most, and showed him that his feelings mattered, and showed him that he could be loved as he is, even if what he is constantly changes, and now is giving Elias something he has always ached to have: a family.
“Yeah,” he finally answers Meredith, “yeah, just like Ty. Maybe h-he gave you some of his magic.”
Meredith giggles, but she doesn’t disagree with him. Elias thinks that, as young as she is, even she can tell just how much Tyson has changed his life for the better.
It’s late when everyone leaves and Tyson and Elias are finally alone again, and they begin to tidy up the aftermath of having so many people over. Tyson stands in the kitchen, elbow deep in dish water. He can hear Elias in the living room collecting dishes, ticcing the entire time. Tyson listens to the soft clicking and humming and occasional curses, but in between that he’s murmuring compliments to the dogs, and he doesn’t sound bothered. After debating himself for a solid minute, Tyson decides to go check on him, because he did just go through something horrendous (again) and that was a lot of people to be around after isolating himself with Tyson for so long. Besides, he knows Elias’s tics flare up when he’s anxious or stressed, and for the past year and a half that’s nearly all that he’s been. It feels…habitual, now, call and response. He dries his hands off, and on his way out of the kitchen catches sight of an old vinyl his dad gifted him before he left, and he grabs it last minute.
Elias perks up as soon as he notices Tyson in the same room as him, smiles in a way that Tyson can’t quite read, can’t tell if it’s disingenuous or not. He watches Tyson as he makes his way to the new-age record player they haven’t used yet. Elias sets the dishes he was gathering onto the coffee table and joins Tyson, observing how carefully he pulls the vinyl out of its sleeve and sets it on the turntable.
“Wh…where did you get that?” He asks softly.
“It was my dads,” Tyson explains, “he told me to count it as a housewarming gift.” He turns and looks at Elias as the soft crackling of the record spinning rings out through the speakers. He’s jittery, but his face seems serene, unbothered.
When the music starts, Elias finds himself leaning against Tyson, watching the record spin and breathing in the slight static of the piano. After a few measures, recognition falls over his face and he gasps, snapping his head up toward Tyson. It was the song Tyson had played for him so long ago, before everything was ripped apart and they were left in the ruins. That seems like a dream now, the people in the memory who danced in each other's arms are strangers. Everything is entirely different now, and yet, when Tyson smiles down at him with his dark brown eyes shining and his face glowing with visible adoration, it feels like nothing has changed at all.
“This is…thi-this is the…” Elias stammers, his hands are flailing again, Tyson still can’t tell if he’s picking up on hints of anxiety or not.
“Yeah, baby,” he interrupts, this time around he’s the one to pull Elias close, starts swaying with him ever so slightly, “you remembered.”
Elias giggles, gets as close to Tyson as he can while tipping his head back to still see him. “Of course I- fuck!- of course I remember. Wow, it sounds even prettier like this.”
The dogs are exhausted from rough housing with Carter, but they offer a few interested glances at the two as they dance in front of the speakers. Tyson wonders if they’ve ever seen him and Elias this close, it feels like it’s been ages since they were able to melt into each other completely, with no outside distractions or worries. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he feels a sense of togetherness that was muted for so long, he can’t tell if it had been him holding back, or Elias, or maybe both of them, but now neither of them are. They’re close, swaying in each other's arms, there’s no timid self-restraint or averting eyes or tension.
“The first time I showed you this song was the day I realized I was in love with you.” Tyson mutters it like it’s a very intimate, personal secret, despite them being alone. Elias blushes and smiles again, Tyson is so relieved to see him smiling so much, given what just happened to him. “I wish I would’ve told you that right when I knew. I regret keeping it a secret for so long.” He leaves out the part where most of that regret stemmed from losing Elias, from having to carry the knowledge that Elias almost died without knowing how loved he was.
“That’s ok, I d-didn’t tell you right when I knew, so we’re even.” There’s amusement in his tone, he trails his hand over Tyson’s shoulder and caresses the back of his neck, plays with his hair. Then, as if he can tell what Tyson is going to ask before he opens his mouth, he says “It was the night I came over without asking, and it was…it was late and you were-” he cuts himself off with a soft laugh, shakes his head to himself. “Man, you were so stoned when you opened the door. Like, Cheech and Chong level stoned, Ty. And you didn’t get mad at me for just showing up, you didn’t even ask me why I was there. You just…” as he trails off, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to put himself back into the memory. Tyson can’t stop himself from tracing his fingertips over Elias’s cheek gently, he’s too beautiful for Tyson to keep his hands to himself. Elias leans into it, and then he looks back up at Tyson and sighs wistfully.
“You just smiled at me. This big, lopsided smile that ma-ow, shit- that made my lungs hurt, and then you said ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day.’ I don’t think you even said hi. And when you said that I…I realized that I didn’t want anyone else in the world, I just wanted you. I just wanted to keep hearing you say that you think about me.”
“I don’t think I ever stop thinking about you.” Tyson chuckles. Elias wrinkles his nose up as he smiles, tugs at Tyson’s hair playfully.
“Yeah, well, as creepy as that sounds, the feeling is…very mutual.” He pauses, directs his gaze to the floor for a second, eyes shining with tears when he looks back up. Tyson frowns at him, but before he can really react or say anything, Elias is speaking again. “I want to thank you, Ty. I-I know you always say that I don’t have to, but I…you have changed my life. I feel like I’m whole, like I’m not s-so empty anymore. And that’s all because of you. U-um…tonight was really…meaningful, for me. Your family is incredible.”
Tyson breathes a sigh of relief, wipes away the tears streaming down Elias cheeks. “You’re alright, then? I was a little worried about having so many people over…”
Despite the tears on his face and the wavering in his voice, Elias laughs and nods his head. “I th-think this is the happiest I’ve been in…” he sighs, sniffles just a little. “In a long time.”
With that, Tyson leans in and presses his forehead to Elias’s, pulls his body closer. “Can I kiss you, Eli?” He whispers. Even as he’s asking, Elias is leaning forward, lips slightly parted, eyes screwed shut, breathing hitched and bothered. It’s invitation enough, but Tyson waits for an answer before closing the space between them.
“Please, Tyson…” Elias finally mutters, and as soon as his name falls from Elias’s lips, Tyson is kissing him like they used to be fused together and Tyson’s trying to absorb him again. There is nothing between them but clothes and the music floating from the record player still, and Elias can’t remember the last time Tyson touched him so unafraid, but it feels like finding water in the desert. Which is how Elias kisses him, like he’s been wandering around a vast sea of sand and his throat is parched and his muscles are weak and Tyson is a forgiving, ice cold waterfall that Elias can’t ever drink enough of. Just like everything has been since Elias woke up in the hospital, the kiss is different. It’s not anything that he’s ever experienced, with the closeness that doesn’t hurt and the innocence of a tongue trailing across his lip without trying to intrude behind it, with the occasional smiles and breathless giggles that they don’t let interrupt them for long, with the eyes closed tight out of trust and not fear, and Elias doesn’t hate himself and Elias feels desirable because he’s Elias not because he’s a toy to be used. And it all feels earth-shatteringly perfect.
Today I was thinking about how in this chapter, Salem spent like 20 minutes alone with Giovanni and in that time was like "...dude you're a mess, I think I have just the thing." and then puts him in the fluffiest pink sweater known to mankind. Like, I just love love love the idea of seeing someone so broken and scared of everything and obviously traumatized by horrors unimaginable, and knowing he can't fix or change any of it, but he can make him hella cozy and comf !!! what makes it so much better is one of the first things Salem really notices about Gio is how Nicko and Rory always dress him in thin tee shirts/shorts so that his tattoos are more visible, and giving him really soft and warm clothes right away makes gio start associating him with comfort and softness and Nicko and Rory with being cold and overexposed <3 and he also later realizes his favorite color is pink and doesnt even connect it to the sweater <33 This small generosity was the first time he could remember being treated with kindness in a way that wasn't demeaning and because he's so newly trained it feels like the only time, like ever in his whole life, and he doesn't even know why the sweater and that color feel so significant to him the lil dummy
anyway i could literally go on for hours about this but instead have this portrait of Gio in said sweater he's babee blorbo cutie patootie i'm lovehim
Content: Non-consensual body modification (tattoos), abuse, [implied] broken bones, defiant whumpee, branding (kinda?), restraints, begging, conditioning, pet whump, captive whumpee.
Not sure how happy I am with this but have it anyway
Masterlist
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“What’s my name, pet?”
“Asshole,” Max spat, squeezing his eyes shut as Trever kicked him in the stomach once more. He could have sworn he was hearing his bones crunching with each blow, however he made a conscious decision to ignore it, knowing he’d never get any help anyway. “Your name is asshole.”
Trever tutted disapprovingly, slowly bending down at the hips to grab Max by the throat. He roughly lifted him into his feet and backed him against the big wooden board behind him, never letting the boy go.
“Wrong answer. What is my name?”
Max bared his teeth, wriggling and squirming in a fruitless attempt to escape the man’s rough grip on him. “Asshole!” he repeated angrily. “You. are. an. asshole.”
Trever tutted again, though this time, Max felt the pressure on his neck from the man’s arm being replaced by some sort of leather strap that kept his head from going anywhere. After wrapping four other straps around his wrists and ankles, and tightening it until it hurt the poor thing, he reached over to grab something off the table beside them.
A tattoo gun.
“One way or another, you will learn to use my name,” he promised as he held the thing up for Max to see. “I want you to call me your master around everyone we meet – not because you want to, but because you’re scared of what I might do to you if you don’t. I think… if we’re gonna make this possible, however, you need a little persuasion.”
As soon as the boy realised what was about to happen, he began to silently cry, his wide, terrified eyes filling with tears. Still, he said nothing, simply watching as Trever pulled a chair up in front of him and sat down by his hip.
“All you have to do is beg for me and I’ll stop, pet. Say my name and tell me how much you don’t want me to do this, and it’ll all go away.”
“No, no, no…”
“What was that?”
Max suddenly let out a frustrated cry, kicking and flailing his arms in an attempt to free himself as the man got himself set up and ready for whatever it was he had planned. “I hate you!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Trever faked a yawn, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his pocketknife and made easy work of Max’s only shirt. He cut right up the middle, allowing the tip of the knife to graze his chin as he got to the neckline. “There we go! Now you’re all ready. I truly do thank you for being my canvas. I’ve been lacking the motivation I need at work, and I think this is just what I need. Don’t you, pet? What do you think I should start with?”
Max didn’t respond, though a small, barely audible sob escaped the back of his throat as Trever massaged his hipbone with his hand. He was so scared, and he knew the man wasn’t above tattooing him against his will. He’d only been here for under a week and he already knew what he was capable of.
“Hm, how about I warm up by doing my initials? Perhaps in a fun bubble font?”
Max couldn’t stop himself from panicking as soon as the sound of the tattoo gun turning on sounded in his ears. He began to squirm all over again, trying to rid himself of his leather restraints.
“No! No tattoos,” he sobbed. “Please. Please, stop.”
Trever reached up to wipe the boy’s teary eyes, smiling warmly at the sound of his begging. “I need one more word put at the end of that sentence before I can stop. You can do it. Please stop…?”
“Asshole!”
The man sighed disappointedly, shaking his head. “You were so close.”
Max had never gotten a tattoo before. He’d never felt the desire for any, and he hated the idea of sitting in pain for so long. To make matters worse, his parents had always been against them, outwardly looking down on anyone who felt the need to ink their body like that. For years he’d done the same, wanting nothing more than to get their approval.
Admittedly, the feeling of the needle touching his skin wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he thought it would be. While it hurt, it felt more like a rough pinch than anything else, though realising he’d actually gone and done it was enough to make him scream.
“Say my name and I’ll stop, pet.”
“Never!” he wailed, eyes wide with fury as he struggled to look down at what the man was doing. He couldn’t see a thing with the strap holding his neck tight, so instead of struggling, he settled on tiredly resting his head back against the board, endless tears dripping down his face.
This was it. He was gonna have this man’s initials forever on his hip.
What must have only been five to ten minutes felt like forever to Max as he stood there against the board, every limb strapped down and Trever sitting in front of him. His entire body was trembling out of sheer fury – he refused to call the man his master. No.
Once the man finally deemed his work done, he set all his tools down and carefully wiped it down with a wipe. It hurt to touch, and Max could only imagine how red it must have been. The man had the biggest grin on his face that only widened each time he winced in pain.
Smug bastard.
“There we go,” he eventually chirped. “Look at you! Your first ever tattoo. How does it feel?”
“You’re a fucking monster.”
Trever shrugged, slowly reaching out to run his fingers through Max’s damp hair with one hand while the other began to undo each of his straps. “All you had to do was follow my instructions. They were easy enough, weren’t they? If you ask me, I’d say you wanted this.”
“I didn’t!” Max sniffled. “I didn’t want it…”
“No?”
“No!”
The man tilted his chin up so they were looking at each other. Tears were welling in Max’s eyes, threatening to spill as he got further into his personal space. He still hadn’t undone the last strap binding him to the board, and kept him in place with his other wrist pinned above his head.
“Well, you better start getting your act together before your entire body is covered in ink. I’ve got plenty of other ideas that I’d love to make a reality on you.”
As soon as everything came off, Max shakily collapsed on the ground and squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to ignore the growing pain in his side. It’s just a small one, he tearily thought to himself, exhaustedly pressing his forehead into the dirty concrete below him as the sound of Trever’s footsteps began to fade away. Don’t give in.
That didn’t stop him from crying all the way back to his bed.
