evermetnotforgotten - Tumblr blog

evermetnotforgotten · 4 months

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Found some old pieces and decided to put them up. Thank you to @whatiswhump for the encouragement and for always being so lovely. These don't really fit with anything anymore, but who cares :-) Enjoy.

content warnings: noncon, kidnapping, torture, murder, drugging.

Series One - Taken

Lev was dreaming.

Or—or he was spinning, but he was standing still. Definitely. Maybe. He wasn't sure. His head was light but for a brief moment, when gravity pressed down, and his chin flopped forward to his chest before bouncing back up again.

“Wh's happen?”

He couldn't tell whether he'd spoken the words, or they'd been spoken to him, or to someone else. He could hear them, could make out the separate shapes in the sounds, but they were fluffy, like cotton stuffing, and they floated away before he could grab and make sense of them.

“—s me?”

He did manage to grab, however, an object in front of him. It was hard, and square, and grey, and he could curl clumsy fingers around the sides of it. It wouldn't pull free. He wasn't—he wasn't strong enough. He tried to stand, but was held still at a point on his waist, and his breath hitched slightly at the vague awareness of being held down, secured to something. He didn't like it.

“Shh, love. You're okay. Here, drink this.” He only registered it after the fact, but he had taken what was offered to him with trembling hands, and had poured it down his throat. Another spin pushed at him, and the back of his head rested against a soft surface. It was as if he was upright, flat on his back, and hanging upside-down all at once.

What did Pierce always say? Breathe. In for four, out for eight. That's it.

He let the soothing baritone and the gentle pressure against his scalp anchor him. They slowly dragged him back under, to float there, in half-consciousness.

“He's just taken a Valium, makes him a little loopy sometimes.” Martin smiled softly, running fingers through the hair of the man now half-collapsed against his side. He reached across to Lev's lap, buckling the seatbelt that he had undone in his confusion.

The flight attendant looked sympathetic, returning his smile with a look that said oh, the poor dear. She handed Martin the two in-flight meals, and the two bottles of juice to go with them, and pushed the bulky trolley a few feet further down the aisle to serve the passengers behind them.

He was just so cute like this. Curled up, moderately confused, unwittingly obedient… Martin had hoped it would last until tarmac, as there was only a couple of hours left of the journey, but it had been difficult to calculate. He had a knack for estimating these things, usually getting it just right, but there were multiple factors at play here. The amount Lev had eaten beforehand, for instance, or his weight—though Martin supposed the latter would only serve to work in his favour. Lev was only of a medium build, lithe, a little on the thin side. It didn't take much.

The first dose needed to be quite small, so that Lev was just lucid enough to make it through airport security. Martin had even gone to the effort of slipping a small bag of unmarked pills in the carry-on of the couple in front of them, trying to contain a smirk when they inevitably got pulled up by officials and it caused a scene. The stunned un-responsiveness of his “partner” could then easily be played off as shock at the drama unfolding before them, quiet as they were both quickly ushered through the metal detectors—also, it was amusing.

Just as amusing were the text messages that he'd had the good fortune of reading on Lev's phone, just before they'd had to leave to catch their flight. It had been buzzing relentlessly, the display lighting up with the words Call incoming: Graham Pierce every time. Martin had lifted the hand of his unconscious soon-to-be hostage, silently cheering when the fingerprint unlocking system worked, and scrolled through them. The texts got increasingly more emotional, more desperate—god, he'd wished that he could have taken the phone along with them. He'd had to commit them to memory instead.

He'd never been this bad before, not for himself. He got jittery just thinking about it, about pulling this whole thing off.

It was thrilling.

What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

Pierce reached for his phone, having to fight off the icy shock that was threatening to paralyse him in order to do so. With shaking hands—whether from anger or fear, or both, he couldn't tell—he picked it up from where he'd half-thrown it to the other end of the couch, moments before.

He had to be sure. That it wasn't some kind of a prank, or a fake. His heart was jackhammering so fast. He slowly turned the phone over to take a closer look at the dark, slightly blurry photograph on the screen.

The first thing he zoned in on wasn't the blood, or the bruises—it was the gag, and the first thought that he had was about how Lev would hate that. The second thought was about how there was actually a lot of blood, now that he had a proper look at it. It was all over the man's face, covering most of his nose, lips and chin, and had soaked into the material of the gag, which looked to be some kind of tightly pulled cloth or canvas. A nasty, mottled bruise decorated the space high on one cheek. His eyes were closed. Sleeping. Or unconscious. There was blood smeared across the green tiles underneath him.

Not. Not dead. He couldn't be dead.

Pierce tried to pry his jaw from itself, almost hurting from how hard he had been clenching it. Utterly unable to just sit there and do nothing, he took a deep breath—in for four, out for eight—and tapped on the little phone icon beside the number, dialling it.

It rang... and it rang out.

Pierce let out a sound of frustration. He dialled again.

This time, the call was answered immediately, and he recognised the smooth, clipped, deep voice instantly.

"Graham."

"Martin? What's—what do you want?"

A light chuckle from the other end of the phone. "If you have to ask, you're not ready yet."

Okay. He needed to tread carefully, now that he knew who he was dealing with. He'd always suspected that deep underneath the surface the man was a proper psycho, just never had reason to believe it. Well—the fact that the man worked for the Mob should have been the first major tip-off, but he couldn't hold that against him. Pierce was many things, but he wasn't a hypocrite.

"Let me speak to him. Please."

"Tell me his middle name."

Pierce blinked. "What?"

"Hmm. And here I thought he actually meant something to you."

"Wait, no, just—I'll co-operate. I just need proof of life."

"He's alive. You'll take my word for it. You'll also answer my question. Surely you know what it is by now." Though Martin was using the familiar, orders-only style language of the Mob, his tone remained calm, almost pleasant. “Don't tell me you're too chickenshit to have asked him already.”

"It's Alexander."

"Aha, I knew it had to be something pretty like that. Lev Alexander Johnson." He said the name as if feeling it roll around in his mouth.

Pierce was about to snarl out a response when a faint moan filtered through the speaker of the phone, causing him to freeze in place—

And the call ended.

"Shit. Shit," Pierce swore.

There was something intimate about lying there, tied up on the bathroom floor, straddled across the chest by his attacker, that Lev couldn't quite wrap his head around in its current state. The state being: rattled, foggy, just barely struggling out of unconsciousness. Thinking clearly was a little hard, considering all of that. Realising that he had to especially focus in order to breathe properly didn't help the matter. A throbbing, clogged up nose and whatever was currently in his mouth were both working to partially obstruct his air intake.

But he could still see, and feel, and everything felt… far too immediate. As if shot through a macro lens, every detail highlighted, the bigger picture forgotten in favour of minuscule changes in texture and fine patterns of light. Martin's hand, for instance—the dark splotches of blood clinging to the knuckles, the thick veins threading underneath the skin, and the shiny, black concentric rings of the camera lens.

He felt the pins and needles shooting down both of his arms, numb from being trapped underneath the weight of the man on top of him, and his wrists where they were bound together. Why was… why was Martin on top of him?

The stylised sound of a fake shutter went off once, twice, thrice. Lev blinked absently, squirming when his face was grabbed and tilted to one side, cruel fingers digging into a particularly sore spot there.

“Just a few more, sweet thing. The first one I sent him wasn't very good.”

The shutter sounded once again. Lev felt a delirious whine escape him.

“Now. Where were we?”

“It was some kind of benzo, right? Like a roofie. What you gave me.”

Martin didn't respond. Instead he reached for the gag, which was lying discarded on the ground, and turned on the bathroom sink, letting the water run until steam rose from the basin.

Lev didn't really expect a reply to his question. It felt good just to speak, softly, to be free of the cloth that had been pulling and stretching his lips, drying them until they cracked. The gag wasn't the type to completely cut off all sound, just to make it so that anything he said would be moderately unintelligible—but that was enough to make Lev anxious. Pierce had always liked to joke that there could be a rampaging werewolf right in front of them and Lev would still try to invite it over for tea. That he would be chatting even underwater, with a mouth full of concrete.

It was always hard to describe how helpless not being able to form words properly made him feel. Like he wasn't a real person.

He was still bound with the duct tape, at four different points on his body—hands, knees, feet, and around his whole torso, at the elbows. Martin had come into the bathroom, grabbed him under the arms, and propped him up against the wall. Lev had been bracing himself for the incipient pain as soon as the man had walked in the room. He'd been surprised to find, then, not a fist, nor a knife, but instead a small carton of liquid breakfast—strawberry and blackberry twist—being shoved into his lap, and the gag being untied at the back of his head. Martin had told him he had five minutes until it went back in.

Lev was able to take small sips through the straw, trying not to notice how it came away with more blood each time he brought it back from his mouth. He didn't know whether grateful was the right word, exactly, but the idea that he wasn't being left to starve was filling him with some mixture of relief… and apprehension.

He had to ask. The question was burning his tongue. It was predictable, and cliché, and entirely futile, but he had to ask it, regardless.

“What do you want from me?”

“From you?” Martin looked over his shoulder at him, still wringing out the wet cloth with deliberate movements. His eyes were soft, a small smile across his lips. “You're already being really good. I'm incredibly impressed with you.”

That… Lev didn't even know where to start with trying to make sense of the response. He couldn't detect any trace of sarcasm or deceit in the gentle praise, laid out so matter-of-fact like that.

“You didn't even scream when I took off the gag,” Martin commented.

“I would have, if I thought it would achieve anything,” Lev admitted.

Martin tilted his head to the side, thoughtful. “Smart. And honest. Now drink up—you've got one minute left.”

When his time was up and Martin knelt down beside his captive, the wet and slightly less bloody gag in his hands, Lev decided to give his best puppy-dog eyes a go. It was worth a shot. Lev wasn't above debasing himself—he'd worked in retail, after all.

“Please, don't. You don't need to.”

At that, Martin studied him for a few moments. “You're pushing it.”

Lev couldn't do much except open his lips when the gag was refastened and pulled tight. Satisfied, Martin pulled back, reaching up to the counter of the sink. “I think you'll be grateful to have something to bite down on, anyway.”

The silver shine of a knife in the other man's hand sent Lev head-first into panic, and he tried desperately to scramble back and away from the blade, despite his back already being up against the wall. He brought his bound hands up to protect his chest, and curled his knees up as best he could to do the same.

With a free hand, Martin grasped Lev's ankles and yanked, hard. Lev let out a startled sound as he was pulled out flat to lie against the tiles, as he had been before, his head almost smacking against the floor on the way down. Then, the knife against his cheek forced him to lie still. Very still. Barely breathing.

“Bring your hands down.”

There wasn't anything else he could do except comply, right?

As soon as Lev's hands were away, the knife sliced down the front of his jumper, severing the fibers with relative ease. It would have done the same to his T-shirt, but Martin instead opted to cut only a little portion of the collar, and then grab the corners and tear it the rest of the way open, with forceful hands.

Lev took several shaky breaths as his collarbone, pecs, and eventually his shoulders, were all exposed to the cool air. His hairs stood on end at the feeling of being so unprotected, his lungs and hammering heart right there, vulnerable, just underneath the thin layer of freckled skin. He'd never been one to be ashamed of the way he looked without clothes on, but to cut and tear them away, to be put on display like this… was different.

He felt like a little frog, about to be vivisected.

Martin brought the knife down to hover just underneath his collarbone, and Lev instinctively turned his head to the side, and squeezed his eyes shut.

The slow, cold line drawn across his body was shocking at first, but then the opening started to run hot—and then started to hurt.

The warm prickle of a trail of blood running up and over the side of his neck. His cries, muffled, but still ringing loud in the small room. Sobs. Pathetic little mh, mh, mh sounds. Martin… was laughing. He was laughing at him.

Another cut, parallel to the first, stinging its way across his skin. And this one, this one, it fucking hurt, god, it was so much worse than the punch to the face, so much more measured, and Lev wanted to scream. And he did.

In for four, out for eight. Over, and over, and over.

The regimented, almost mechanical breathing was the only thing keeping Lev from having a fully-fledged panic attack, there and then. Probably a warranted one, granted, but he'd just managed to shake off most of the cloudiness of the drug, the dizziness giving way to something which felt more like a bad hangover. Not that any panic attack was really more justified, or voluntary, than another… he was just trying to keep it together as best as possible. The breathing helped.

He wasn't able to determine just how many cuts Martin had left on him, the blood having obscured any definition there. Several cuts in, Martin had grabbed him by the throat to try and push him into the floor, making it harder for him to squirm under the knife, and much harder for him to draw breath. When he'd been released, panting and shaking, his entire right pec stung, and throbbed awfully. The pain had lessened in the couple of hours since he'd been left alone in the room, but there was still a portion of his mind dedicated to it, aware of it, cataloguing differences in sensation. Another part of his mind was focused on maintaining the deep, even breaths. The rest, was wandering.

If anyone had heard his earlier screams, when Martin was hurting him, surely he'd know by now. He wasn't expecting a storming of the gates, or anything, but… at least a sign. Something. Not that he knew how big of a building the room was located in, at all—there was a word for that type of amnesia, but he'd forgotten it. God, maybe the cops had shown up, but this tiny room was too far away from the front door for him to have heard anything. Maybe he was being kept in the middle of nowhere.

There had to be a reason, for all of this. If he could just figure out what Martin wanted, what he was keeping him for, why he was doing this, then maybe he could… Lev gently bumped the back of his head against the tiles, a soft, chiding thump, and huffed a sigh. What? Do what, exactly? Continue to lie on the floor, wrapped up in tape and his own clothes like a bloodied sausage roll? He'd have to try something else. He looked around the bathroom.

Small, but relatively clean. Toilet, standard. Trash can. Shower. Grubby bar of soap in the holder. Sink. Couldn't see on top of the counter from this angle. Three drawers. Maybe… maybe there was something in them. Maybe he'd get really lucky, and Martin had left the knife up there.

Lev rolled onto his side, wincing as the movement caused one of the flaps of his ruined jumper to slap against his bleeding chest. He brought his knees up, and planted his hands against the floor, as firmly as he could. So far, so good...

Or maybe not. From there he was a little bit stuck, and this endeavour was starting to prove a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated it to be. He'd thought his hands being bound in front of him would be to his advantage, and that he'd be able to push himself up using his arms—but that was before the handful of minutes spent writhing around on the floor, shimmying like a seal on sand. Cute, sure, but terribly impractical. Before long he was huffing and trembling from the exertion, face hot with effort.

Eventually, Lev was forced to concede that it just wouldn't be possible, not with his elbows secured to his sides like this, and not as drained of strength as he was. The ring of tape around his torso was turning out to be the major obstacle, preventing him from gaining any kind of proper leverage with his arms. It didn't help that there were still slippery patches of his own blood smeared across the tiles.

Ah, okay—if he wanted to do this, he'd probably have to get some momentum, enough to roll sideways onto his knees without the use of his upper body at all.

He psyched himself up, and rolled—

A few unsteady moments—

And he was on his knees, finally, facing the sink.

Which was when he heard the footsteps, followed by the sound of the door unlocking behind him. A pause.

“You know what? I'm kind of impressed. However, it does mean I get to have the pleasure of doing this—”

A hand pushing on the front of his throat sent him sprawling, his back smacking flat against the ground, all of the air forced out of his lungs in one hit. As he wheezed, Lev decided that he hated the feeling of being on the floor, lying on his back, yet again. In a gesture that seemed to be just for good measure, Martin delivered a swift punch to his stomach. Lev would have cried out, if he had the capacity.

This time, no sordid photograph preceded the ringing of his phone. He answered it immediately with a gruff “Yes?”

“Graham Pierce!” Martin answered cheerfully. “Thank you for calling. Please hold.”

“But you called me—“

Pierce was cut off by a rustling noise, and a loud clack. The next time Martin spoke, his voice sounded further away, echoing slightly. “This is the group project portion of the assignment, so I had to put you on speaker. Say hi, Lev.”

“Mmm.”

Before Pierce could formulate a response, or ask Lev if he was ok, Martin was already pressing on in his typical, inane fashion. “You know how in school they always make you do a group project, but come the day of the presentation your group-mates either don't show up, or haven't done any of the work? This is like that—just, y'know, your partner's here, he just can't participate. Now there, don't look at me like that, Lev Alexander.” There was a clear grin in his stupid, grating, irritating voice. Pierce was choking down the impulse to tell him to shut up, just shut up.

“So, old chap, I hope you're ready to do enough talking for the both of you.”

“So, question one. How long do you think our little darling will last with my knife in his abdomen?”

Pierce's mouth ran dry. The image in his head—of his, of Lev's face, brown eyes wide and frantic, the gag that would still be between his teeth, the shallow, rapid breathing—was causing every last rational thought to slip through his fingers. The amount of pain he must be in. The amount of fear.

“Clock's ticking.” Martin's voice had deepened to a purr, and a soft whine filtered through the phone speaker.

“It depends,” Pierce ground out, through gritted teeth. His fingers were almost white where they clutched the side of the dining table.

“On what?”

“On where—on where you've stabbed him. Please, don't kill him. Please.”

He'd… never begged before like this in his entire life. He'd never scared so easy, or been so uncertain. He'd never had so much to lose. A handful of first's, today.

A long, chilling laugh from the other end of the line. “Oh, don't worry. I haven't gotten that far, yet. Like I said, needed to have a chat with you, first.”

“What do you want? I'll give you anything. I'll give you myself. We can talk about this.”

That had to be it, right? Martin wouldn't have any gripes with Lev, personally—this had to be all some kind of a grudge, and not something like a whim. That his—whatever they bloody were, his Lev—was not getting tortured on a whim. Because then he didn't have the first fucking idea what to do.

Martin seemed to delight in the whiplash created by throwing out non sequiturs at whomever he was talking to, because he followed up with yet another one. “Hang on, I'm gonna move the phone closer to his head so you can both hear each other properly.”

Now… now Pierce could hear every laboured exhale, every pained, feeble sound, every hitch in breath. Fuck.

“This one's different to the one you met earlier. It was custom made for me out of a very hard, very durable type of stainless steel, the kind they use for high-quality Japanese kitchen knives. Only four inches—less than what I'm used to working with, honestly. But size isn't everything.”

Pierce was familiar with the small folding knife being described. He'd seen it used before. On civilians and other members of the Mob, alike.

“Lev, babe, I'm gonna need you to stop squirming and lie still.” The sound of a slap, followed by a muffled shout. It horrified Pierce.

“So. Next question. How long have you been fucking him for?”

“We're not… we haven't.” He could actually respond honestly to that one. Not that he hadn't entertained the notion, hadn't wanted to—not, not sex, but ask him out, see if there could be anything between them, if they could be more than friends.

“Really? Huh. Well—oh, you should've seen his face, just then! Holy shit—you didn't know, Lev? That he was having dirty, depraved thoughts about you? Are you disgusted that he was thinking about you that way?”

“Please, tell me what you want.”

“Right now, I want you to apologise.”

At this point, Pierce was on autopilot. “What...”

“I want you to say 'Lev Alexander, boy of my dreams, I am so sorry for what I'm about to do to you'.”

Pierce blinked, and then he didn't know what happened. He must have had a lapse of consciousness while forcing himself to repeat the words, the movement of his lips going unregistered by his own brain—but he was sure that he'd been able to say them, somehow, because the next thing he was cognisant of was the sharp pain of his fingernails digging into his forearm, drawing half-crescent circles of blood, and the hiccuping, terrified sobs that sounded so close, yet so, so far away.

“He can't respond, obviously, but I want you to know that he's shaking his head. I guess he doesn't forgive you.”

“Damn you.”

Martin hummed, a short, steady noise. “So. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to choose between one of two things. I'm going to slide this knife right into his belly, right about here,” a sharp, startled cry, “maybe a few times. Maybe—let's say five or so. And then I'll let you listen to him bleed out, and die. That's Option A.

“Option B; I take him, and hold him, fuck him in all the ways I know you've fantasised about, but were clearly too much of a coward to go and do. And I'll probably still stab him once or twice, let's be honest. But then, I'll leave him alone, and let him live a long and happy life. That is, unless he goes and offs himself from shame, or whatever. Who knows.”

The escalation. The final nail. Despair crept on all fours into Pierce's chest and burrowed itself a home, deep, deep within in his wretched soul. He wouldn't survive this. There was no way.

Seconds passed. He… had to say something.

“Lev,” he choked, “I—”

The deafening gunshot startled Pierce so badly that he almost dropped the phone. He recovered, reeling, not able to recognise the disjointed sounds coming from the other end of the line, “Lev?”

“It's fine—he's fine. Fucker stabbed me, though, and ran. My aim's not what it used to be, apparently.” A woman's voice.

Pierce rested his forehead against the table, lightheaded. When he spoke his voice shook, pathetically, but he couldn't summon the energy to give a shit. “Stenberg. Thank—thank fuck.” One of the Mob folk, a remnant of the old guard, one that he could still trust. He could have kissed her. “Please, let me speak to him.”

“'Course. Hang on.”

After a few moments of shuffling, he heard the hoarse, slightly awkward voice.

“I'm good, I'm fine. He's gone.”

Lev didn't expect the leap in his chest, the wave of relief and genuine elation when he spotted the tall, fair-haired former mob, a bottle of water in each hand, eyes scanning the airport mezzanine for his two arrivals.

He bounced down the last two steps of the escalator as it approached the floor, straight into Pierce's outstretched arms—and then was instantly welcomed by a surge of regret as the still fresh cuts across his chest were jostled on impact, to the jumbled tune of 'ah, ow, shit' and 'sorry, sorry'. The padded adhesive bandage was enough to contain the blood and guard against infection, but wasn't capable of doing anything to ward off his own stupidity, or his capacity for immediately forgetting that he was injured.

Pierce was well kept, as usual, but the exhaustion in his face was hard to mask. His hair was thrown back into a loose bun, beard grown out to a casual smattering of stubble. Stenberg ambled over to them, supported by a crutch under one arm, and accepted one of the bottles of water, downing it almost in one go. The two exchanged a formal nod and a handshake that Lev couldn't decipher the exact meaning behind, but assumed it was some kind of associate thing.

Stenberg was incredibly cool, Lev had decided. Being stabbed in the thigh seemed to phase her surprisingly little, if at all. She'd told Lev to go and lock the front door, and by the time he came back she had found a tea towel and a half-used roll of duct tape from somewhere in the hotel room, and was “fixing” herself on the floor of the kitchenette. She'd looked up at him, bloody hands still wrapping the tape around her thigh, and said “Hope you can drive. I'm under strict orders to kill a certain motherfucker if I see him—need both hands for that.”

Lev had laughed outright when he saw the exterior of the bathroom that he'd been tied up in for the past forty-eight hours. The hotel room was relatively well furnished, a double bed and a vanity, and when he got a glimpse out the window the room appeared to be pretty high up. The place looked to be just the right amount of seedy luxury that he wouldn't be surprised if all of the walls were soundproofed. They'd waited for a while, but when neither cop nor homicidal maniac showed, Stenberg had just shrugged and led him out the door.

That was what Lev decided to focus on, in the car trip home, on the details after he had been rescued. On the scenery of his home city whooshing past in a blur, on the feeling of the breeze on his face, on the fact that he was finally able to move his wrists independently of one another. Not on Martin's hands on him, on his chest, on his throat. Anything but the threat of a knife in his stomach at any given moment. The feeling of his back pressed up against the cold tiles. Not—

Well, he tried to. A work in progress.

Pierce was focused on the road, but looked as if he was struggling to say something. He was chewing his lip, shoulders tense, fingers tapping on the steering wheel idly with the song on the radio.

Lev hazarded a guess. “Hey… he was forcing you to say those things as much as he was forcing me to hear them. Right? I don't hold you to any of it.”

Pierce let out an exhale, head tilting to one side, eyebrows raised. “It was… effective. I'm still sorry, though. He was trying to use you to get to me, to get under my skin.” The sentences were calculated carefully, but still wavering, uncertain. “I'm worried that this has ruined any chance we had together. That you won't… that you're not safe with me, any more.”

Lev couldn't help the smile that worked its way across his lips. Together. So it was true, then.

“What do you want for toppings, love? Grab any veg from the fridge that looks good.”

One word in the casual question caught Lev's attention, and held it. All of the other words fell away, dropping to the floor like discarded things, except for that one throwaway endearment.

His face must have betrayed some of his thoughts, as Pierce stopped kneading for a couple of seconds to look up at him, realisation and concern dawning in his eyes. “Shit, sorry. Didn't realise, just kind of slipped out. Won't happen again.”

Lev shook his head, unable think clearly with the buzz of whatever primal instinct had switched on under his skin, sequential arrays lighting up in tandem, activated by such a short and simple word. “No, it's fine, it's just… yeah. I don't know.”

Whatever it was, it was making him particularly inarticulate. Lev put his face in his hands, groaning.

It was the second time today. The thanks, sweetheart from a tiny, totally harmless elderly woman, when he'd retrieved her dropped receipt at the grocery store earlier in the morning, had instantly twisted his throat into a knot. He'd had to rush off to the bathroom to hide his trembling hands, his burning hot face. Clutching at his own arms in a toilet stall.

But that had been outside, in a public space. Lev knew he was safe, in here, making pizzas in Pierce's home, his house cat Rosie weaving through his legs and purring intermittently. The green-eyed calico was a bundle of love, ecstatic at having the attention of two whole humans for the better part of a week. Graham had suggested the two of them stay at his house until his contacts got a bead on Martin, wherever the man had fled to—Lev had gratefully accepted the offer, not wanting to be alone in his apartment for longer than it took to pack a duffel bag and check his mail.

He knew that he was safe now. He wasn't afraid, damn it—but, honestly, the teasing voice ringing in his ears, the echo intimate touches, the pet names? Fuck them, and fuck that man for ruining such soft words as love and sweetheart.

“Sorry,” Lev mumbled to no-one in particular, slipping off the stool to go rummage through the fridge. Tomatoes, and peppers, basil, ham, mushrooms.

Graham rolled the stray chunks of dough off his fingers, patting them gently back into the ball. The way his floury hands pushed and pulled at the dough, forward and back, in a half-circle, was relaxing to watch. Meditative. He pulled out a glass bowl from one of the kitchen cupboards, scooping the ball into it and covering it with a cloth, leaving it on the windowsill to rise in the warmth of the afternoon sun. He picked up his half-glass of merlot, the other hand leaving white fingerprints where he reached up to absently massage at his neck.

“I know I'm not all that great at talking, but… if you want, or need to talk, I'm happy to listen. Or, if not me, then I could help find someone you could talk to. It's, uh… not great to have certain things rolling around in your head for too long.”

Lev was ripping the basil apart in angry little motions. “I just feel so… so stupid. He didn't even do anything to me, and I'm still all jumpy like this? How does that make any sense?” When Lev looked up to gage the other man's response, Graham was staring at him, slack-jawed.

“Lev… what happened to you, what he did to you... wasn't nothing."

Growing increasingly frustrated at the kitchen counter separating the two of them, Lev threw the sprig of herb down on the surface and wrap his arms around the man. He felt hands softly smooth down the back of his shirt.

“You should use whatever pet name you want to call me, just to spite him.”

He felt the rumble and jump of Graham's chest as he laughed. “My stepmum used to call my dad chicken, or chook—would that work? Only if you want to.”

Lev looked up, eyes still tight with unease, but the spark of a challenge in them nonetheless. “You can call me chook, if I can call you Gray. Then it's even.”

“Deal. But I think we should have some more wine to celebrate our new aliases.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Martin was in a mood.

The bullet wound on his upper back was making it difficult to do anything physical, most movements telegraphing don't do that again signals to his brain. The weight of his own body was working against him, leaving him almost embarrassingly sluggish and uncoordinated. The room was cheap and it showed, and the only thing saving it from being a total shithole was the mini-bar in the corner.

And getting someone who could remove the bullet and also not ask any questions? That had been a total bitch. He'd only been able to find a person capable of the former, but the latter was something he'd had to manage himself, before collapsing on the scratchy single bed. Another mess he'd have to clean up later, added to the list.

And yet.

He hummed. He whistled. He laughed.

He was in an incredibly good mood.

Martin didn't know exactly how he would get what he wanted. But he knew he would get it. He was owed it, after all. More importantly, he had permission.

But right now he needed to eat, and to rest, and to gather his strength. Which was just exceptionally boring, so Martin indulged himself in daydream.

He thought about Lev, and all the cute little moans he'd made on the floor, squirming, underneath him. Threatening to fuck him had been merely a whim, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea cemented itself in his brain. He'd only wanted to hurt him, but that was before he realised how pretty he was when he cried. The way those brown eyes had been searching his own, tears welling up and spilling over, irises blown wide. Still struggling to find any scrap of truth, or mercy. Full of hope.

But then they'd been rudely interrupted. Too bad.

He thought about Pierce, and how he'd love to help the ex-mob remember the value in deference. He must have forgotten it since leaving the Galloway family, amongst other things. Martin smirked at the thought of Graham trying to be normal, trying to forget his past life, and all the things he'd done. The racketeering, the violence, the murder. The man had been as fucked up as him, once upon a time.

He'd help him remember.

Martin rose, pushing aside the scream of protest his body gave as he did, making it to the tiny desk with only a small amount of dark spots in his vision.

He picked up the pen.

Series Two - Isolation

“You either sing, or you scream. Your choice.”

Martin raised the cane, tapping it against Lev's cheek, running it along the underside of his chin.

“No, please,” said Lev. He raised his hands slightly, in gentle surrender, trying to placate the man. Attempting to broadcast the right amount of subservience, despite already being on the concrete, on his knees.

It was better when he faced him, talked to him, played along. The man seemed to revel in his nervous obedience. And Lev was happy to give it, if there was any chance of being spared a beating.

“I don't know what, what, uh, which song. What do you want me to sing?”

The look of disappointment that fell across Martin's face was strange, as if he couldn't believe Lev would let him down like this.

“Come on, now. I can't do all the work for you.”

Lev hated that he was like this. Twenty-five, a fully-fledged, tax paying adult— to whom the begging, the kowtowing, the prostration came embarrassingly easily. Coming to heel at the first mention of a firm hand, a stern voice.

He didn't want to please the other man. He didn't. He just didn't want to be hurt. That was it.

He closed his eyes, and searched for the right note. Going with the first song that came to mind, one deep within his psyche. A favourite.

His voice shook at first, before he schooled it into something sturdier. He got through the first chorus with barely a waver, and then Lev could only cower, and curl, and try to shield himself with his arms as the rattan cane was brought down on him again, and again, and again, and again. The whistle and crack of it hitting a shoulder blade. The heavier thud as it hit a meatier part.

And then he could only lie on the floor, and bleed, and bruise.

“You said, nhh… you said you wouldn't...”

“Wouldn't what?”

“Promised...”

Martin tutted. “I made no promises, darling. Besides,” he said, wiping the blood from the cane with a cloth. “How can you expect me to resist, when you sing so sweetly...”

He stooped, and Lev would have been afraid, if he had the energy. Martin pressed a kiss to Lev's temple.

“...but your screams are like music to my ears?”

He probably deserved this. It had been a long time coming, and he'd pissed off a lot of people. A lot of people.

Pierce hacked out a wet cough, spitting blood and phlegm into his own lap. Most of his suit was already soaked in his own sweat and body fluids, so whatever else he added to it didn't really make a difference. His glasses were fogging with the warmth of his breath, in the cold of the room.

It was a standard holding room—dim, brick-walled, one small skylight in the ceiling. One he'd have used himself for conversations, back in the day. Though this time he was the one in the chair, sitting pretty in metal cuffs and rope. Each leg secured individually, immobilised.

He lifted his head at the sound of the door unlocking, and a person entering the room.

“Pierce.”

“Winters.”

“It's good to see you.”

Pierce quirked an eyebrow. “Really,” he deadpanned.

Winters looked at the ground, timid. They had been a soldier when Pierce had been in the family, the lowest echelon within the Galloway Mob. Used to following orders, but not giving any.

As Winters approached, Pierce spotted the roll of tape in their hands. “Come near me with that, and I'll bite your fucking fingers off,” he warned, baring his teeth.

“Try it and you'll regret it,” they said, their voice equally calm, but halting in the advance.

A surge of dangerous bravado filled him. “Oh, you're gonna threaten me now? Get your jollies from this little power trip?”

“I've got orders. You know how it goes.”

He knew, but right now, Pierce was feeling petty. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I know how you always liked playing at being one of the big boys. Tell me—did your parents not want a girl, or is all of this just penis envy?”

Their reply came in the form of a fist to Pierce's face, the punch snapping his head backwards. As he rolled his neck to the side, slowly, his glasses clattered to the floor. They were broken, bent out of shape. A few drops of blood trickled off the tip of his nose, splattering against the shattered lenses.

He was immediately grateful to have the shards of glass away from his eyes, as otherwise the next punch would probably have left him blind. The chair rocked back slightly with the force of each impact.

And any pithy comments were steadily beaten out of him. One, by one, by one.

When they were finally done, Winters shook out their hand, sending a small bloody cascade arcing outwards. They stepped back, panting from the exertion.

“God, I've been waiting years to do that.”

The strike of a match, followed by the smell of a cigarette. Pierce groaned, barely able to turn his head from the smoke blown in his face, further stinging his bleary eyes.

“I can deal with you misgendering me, if that's what you were going for. I've heard worse from better men.”

Winters had undone the top button of their shirt and rolled up their sleeves. As they raised the cigarette to their lips, holding it there while they pressed a piece of the tape to Pierce's mouth, he noticed the official tattoo on the inner forearm. The Galloway crown, three dots sitting in the centre. Not a soldier, then, anymore.

“But Martin was right. You never respected me. And you still don't.”

They circled around behind the chair, and Pierce violently tried to twist his right arm away from the searing pain that he knew was about to be inflicted on it, to no success. The cigarette found his forearm, sizzling against the skin there for several agonising seconds, until the sensation gradually gave way to cold numbness.

He watched Winters move to the door, flicking the crushed butt into the corner of the room as they left him, there, with nothing but his pettiness—and a smouldering, circular burn.

How long would it be before he went insane? Lev gave himself maybe two more days, tops, before he lost his damn mind in here.

The only real contact he'd had with another human being was with Martin—so the bar was already pretty fucking low, seeing as he had been beating the shit out of him at the time—and that had been at least three days ago. At first he'd been relieved to see no trace of the man, but then twenty-four hours had passed, and then more, and now he was just bored.

Lev couldn't decide whether it was better or worse that he knew the impacts of extended solitary confinement on prisoners—the depression, the self-harm, the hallucinations, the cognitive impairment. He chalked it up to the same kind of elusive irony there was in him having both a psych degree, and an anxiety disorder. The element of physician, heal thyself.

The grunts that had been bringing a tray of food twice a day weren't really the chatty sort. Apparently he was supposedto eat, though, as they would stay and watch until he was done with the meagre platter, or they'd slap him around until he was. Which had happened one time, only once, when he had felt far too queasy to touch the bread and powdered eggs pushed in his direction that evening. He'd instantly been made to regret it.

They also wrested the tray from him every time, which Lev guessed could count as social interaction, if he squinted.

“Christ,” he muttered, scratching carefully at the hot, itchy lacerations on his back and shoulders. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Great—already talking to himself. Halfway there already. Lev couldn't stop the delirious giggle that escaped him, putting his head in his hands.

What would his therapist have said? He could visualise her, sitting on one of the yellow couches in the cozy studio apartment turned psychologist's office. She would tap her pen against her pursed lips, and she'd say… that insanity was a perfectly valid response to a situation like this, probably.

She'd actually encouraged him to talk to his own thoughts as a way to distance himself from them. Defusing, she'd called it. Thank his anxious brain, and let the thought go.

You're going to die in here.

Thanks, brain.

You're an idiot.

Thanks brain, and also, rude.

Martin will probably be back soon. At least that's less boring.

Holy shit, brain.

Maybe the insanity wasn't setting in quick enough.

At least he hadn't been tied up, or tied down to anything this time. He could stretch, and pace, and fidget however much his weary, weak body and the tiny room allowed. A mercy he never thought he'd appreciate.

Gray would be looking for him. Surely, someone would find him. He just needed to hold out until then.

Lev was going to die in here.

Not from boredom, but because of the fingers wrapped tight around his throat, and getting tighter.

The press of the man on top of him—one of the guards, the big one with the undercut, the same one he'd called a dickhead only seconds ago—using his full weight, both hands, squeezing so hard, quite literally crushing the life from him, and then—

He needed—

Please—

No—

Lev felt the last movements his body would ever make, in the form of a violent spasm in his legs, and a gentle rake of fingernails against skin.

Then, release, and the way air rushed into his starving lungs all at once, and out again in several, convulsing sobs. Clutching his neck protectively. Taking one breath, another, as if stealing something he wasn't supposed to have.

The firm hands that took him by the shoulders caused him to seize in terror, frantically mouthing his apologies, lacking the sound to make them. The man didn't say anything, he didn't need to, the message in his eyes uncomplicated—next time.

Lev nodded his understanding, between poorly suppressed coughs. He dimly registered the guard picking up the tray from the floor, leaving the mess of cold pasta where it had splattered, and exiting the room.

The room quickly grew too big, too bright, too loud. He crawled to the corner, facing the crisp white line, slotting as neatly as a human body could fold itself down. Pressing two cupped hands to his mouth. All of him shaking, shaking.

He had forgotten himself, and been reminded.

He'd remember next time.

He'd have to.

The room was nine steps wide, and ten-and-a-half steps long, heel to toe, so a complete lap was thirty eight and two half-paces, one half at each corner. The days went like this—lights on. Powdered eggs and a stale bagel, a cup of water. Bathroom. Pacing. Cold pasta, with chunks of chicken in it, a cup of milk. Bathroom. Pacing. Lights off. Sleep, whatever came. Lights on.

The big guard didn't lay hands on him again, except on the arm to lead him to the toilet down the hallway. It was the only time he was touched, one large hand firmly on his biceps, half-dragging him there and back again.

He looked forward to it. He hated himself.

He'd been reciting poems, song lyrics, movie dialogue, whatever he could recall. He was running out of things to talk to himself about, but it was the only thing that made him feel any better. Not great, but all he had.

Whenever the door opened he looked up, hoping to see Gray's face, saying it's okay, chook. I've got you.

His heart was beating way too fast, and hadn't stopped, not for a while now, and that was a problem, right? A heart only has so many beats in it until it gives out, right? The conversation in his head had turned to pleading with his body to relax, please, just give him a break. Stop feeling things. The breathing exercises should work, they usually worked, but they weren't working.

The guards had to know—he banged on the door until the hand started to bruise, and then he used the other. The guards had to know, because Martin wouldn't want him to die in here, right? He'd been entertaining, he'd been accommodating, he'd sung and screamed so sweetly. Martin would want to hear him. He couldn't hear him if he wasn't here.

When the door opened he looked up, hoping to see Martin, saying right, love. Time for another round.

It was just the guard, again.

His throat was still aching from the strangling, and it must have been weeks since that. He thought about provoking the guard again, just to feel something, to have something to blame, but even thinking about it caused his body to seize so hard it made him dizzy. So, he went quietly. Not well enough to bite the hand that fed.

There was no point in words, as no one would hear them. They bounced back at him from several directions, loud, and hoarse, and achieving nothing. So he stopped. He still had to pace, though—he had to move his body, or else it would stop existing. The borders on him would fade, and whatever was inside would escape into the atmosphere.

He would disappear, and no one would know.

He wasn't sure what made him him, any more. He was a person, but he was also a series of electrical pulses in a shell. A container of blood and meat and bone. A dot floating in space.

When the door opened he saw himself, pacing up, and across, and down, and back, and up again.

It had been a long six weeks, and Martin was exhausted. The job he was asked to take had dragged on far longer than expected, and it was mostly just negotiation. Long, insipid, and just incredibly dull. Loosening his tie and hanging up his suit jacket in the main lobby, he wound his way through the long corridors of the warehouse complex, stopping at the holding rooms.

What he found behind the first door was very interesting. He stood in the doorway for a few minutes, leaning against the frame, and watched.

Oh, this hadn't taken long at all.

Martin guided Lev out of his room and down the hall, four doors down, to where the blond ex-mob lived. As Martin opened the door, Lev slowly resumed walking heel to toe, along the north wall of the cell.

When the fluorescent light from the hallway crossed his face, Pierce squinted up from where he was slouched. He still tied down to the chair, bearded and scowling. His eyes widened in shock when he realised who was currently making his way about the perimeter of the room.

When Pierce finally found his voice, he sounded shattered.

“What... did you do to him?”

Martin smiled, tilting his head.

“Nothing,” he admitted. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Don't,” said Pierce, voice weak. “Don't touch him. He's clearly not well.”

Lev was onto his third lap of the room, walking carefully, as if measuring the distance with each step. Barefoot, shirtless, plain grey briefs with a black waistband. Pierce thought he could see greenish echoes of bruises stretched across his neck and back, but he couldn't be sure from this distance.

He wasn't responding to any bids to get his attention, which was... concerning. To put it so mildly.

“It's quite fascinating, isn't it? What a small cage can do to a wild creature... I could just leave you both here for a while, you know. I'm willing to bet that this,” Martin gestured, “for long enough, would just drive you insane.”

“Get fucked,” Pierce spat, the rage frothing forth with a snarl despite himself. Hands clenched and straining at the cuffs, painful. Unnoticed.

Martin's eyes narrowed. “Luckily for you, I'm just here to blow off some steam.” He caught Lev with one gloved hand at the small of his back, steering him away from the wall, saying, “Let's make this easier on your loverboy's myopic ass, hmm?”

Then, Lev was only inches away, moved to stand in between his splayed legs, and now he could see that yes, the bruises were real, and yes, his eyes were glazed over, unfocused. He seemed to be in the throes of a severe mental break.

Pierce struggled to maintain focus through the rush of oxytocin that flooded his system, triggered by the proximity of another person, almost flush with him now. Closeness that he hadn't felt in so long.

He tried again to talk to him. “Lev, I'm, I'm right here… I'm right here.”

Dark eyes found his, a spark of recognition in them, a furrowed brow, and that was when Pierce realised he'd made a mistake.

As Lev started to regain his grasp on reality, his instinct was to lift himself from Pierce's lap, pushing against his chest and away—he was prevented from doing so by the large hands forcing his own behind his back, leaving him with no choice but to lean against the man in front of him. Martin held him still with one hand, pulling off his tie with the other.

Pierce's stomach dropped. Pressed together like this, he could hear the hitch in breathing, and the quiet no, no, no as Lev's hands were tied with the length of silk.

Pierce cursed himself to hell, and back. It would have been better—he couldn't do anything, but it would have been better—if he hadn't just coaxed Lev back from wherever his mind had retreated to. If he was still out of it.

It would have been so much better, if Lev had never met him.

The words left him in a long, anguished string. “Martin don't, please don't don't do this, he hasn't done anything to deserve this—he hasn't done anything to you, he doesn't know anything. Please. Please.”

In response, Martin smiled. Saccharine. He lowered his hands to Lev's hips, hooking his thumbs at the waistband of the briefs, and slowly, slowly pulled them down. Lev let out a distressed keen at the feeling of being exposed, and buried his face in Pierce's neck.

“Do you feel that?” said Martin, voice filling with awe. “He's shivering all over.”

Pierce's throat was closing up, every swallow an effort, thick with regret. “I'm so, so sorry,” he muttered into Lev's temple.

He felt the shaking cease, and the full-body tension that took place. He felt the smooth pressure of the first thrust, and the sharp jolt of the second. He heard the scream. He heard the sobs.

“Fuck,” Martin hissed. “That's tight.”

Pierce focused on the smell of Lev's hair, his skin. He closed his eyes, and mourned for a relationship that was killed before it had a chance to grow.

Series Three - Reluctance

Pierce rolled his neck side to side, cracking it, feeling some of the tension along his spine dissipate. He picked up the knife—no, the tire iron. Tested its weight with a few experimental swings. A low whine sounded from the corner of the room.

He'd been led into the cell with a single instruction—make him cry. No specifications, just the ever-present implication of what would happen if he didn't comply. The terms of the deal. A guard at the door to make sure it happened.

He'd never enjoyed this sort of thing, not the way some of the other Mob folk did, but he had never exactly gone out of his way to avoid it, either. Considered it just part of the job, though he knew that didn't make him any better. At best, complicit—at worst, even more of a monster.

The kid chained to the wall looked like he hadn't been left there long. Red hair, young—early twenties at most.

Just a kid. Still just a fucking kid.

Maybe Pierce could get through this with a bit of smoke and mirrors. Maybe he could find a fear, a phobia, something to exploit. Maybe the kid was an easy crier. If they were both lucky.

He advanced, slow and deliberate in each movement, twirling the metal rod in his hands. Letting the captive look him over, read the threat in the posturing, and the way Pierce had stripped—been stripped—down to just his singlet, exposing his bare arms and the tattoo running up and down the full length of one of them. Like some sort of awful, loutish display of dominance. Power. Violence.

There was one person who liked that look, eyes lighting up at the casual danger there, but god damn it, god damn it, Pierce was trying so hard not to think about him right now. He wasn't allowed to think about him, at all, any more. He wasn't worthy.

But he knew how he looked. He could use that to his advantage. And by the way the anger in the kid's eyes was already waning, starting to give way to something uncertain…

Pierce slapped him as hard as he could, hoping the sudden, humiliating shock would provoke what he needed, but no dice—a couple of stunned blinks, and that was it. Fine—he grabbed him by the throat, digging a cruel thumb into the windpipe, earning a wince. Better, but it still wasn't enough.

He could do it. He was just another thug, sent in to torture a captive.

He could do it. He tapped the tire iron against the captive's rosy, sweaty cheek.

He needed to do it—God, he really couldn't deliberate like this for much longer.

Pierce gripped the iron with both hands and swung, aiming for soft tissue at the waist, but the kid immediately tried to twist out of the way—the resulting impact was way too high, catching the bottom of the ribcage with a horrifying crunch. And that, of course, that made the kid scream.

It took most of what Pierce had left, to smother the instinct to drop the iron and apologise, or panic, or run from the room. It took more still to press the unexpected advantage, crowding in on the kid, pressing fingers into the site of the trauma, hoping, hoping, teeth clenched against the unending wail of agony.

Come on, come on, come on, come on—

There.

He gestured for the guard to come over and verify. They grabbed the kid by the chin, tilting it this way and that, before letting go with an affirmative grunt. Finally he was dismissed, which was fucking fantastic, because couldn't stand being in the cell for one second longer.

He threw the tire iron down on the table on the way out. Headed straight back to his own cell. Curled up on the comparative luxury of the shitty mattress, and wooden pallet. And wept.

tw: suicidal ideation

He'd begged for it.

“Please, just let me kill him.”

Graham clutched the knife with a trembling fist. It was the final thing, the only thing, he could think of doing. Be the one to beg.

“I'll do it, chook, but I need you to make the decision. I need permission.”

He had no right, no right to make that call, but surely… surely it was better for him to die here, than to be forced to exist one more day in this hell.

He'd do it. He'd do it, and then even if Lev resisted, even if he still had the will to go on, it wouldn't matter—he'd do it, and then he'd turn the knife on himself. And then he wouldn't have to live with the weight of this. And they could both be free.

For the first time in far, far too long, Lev stirred. He looked up, with that depth and love in his brown eyes, and he smiled.

“Always knew… you'd be the death... of me. Love. Love.”

Despite everything, he was still joking. Feeble, fading, but there, still there.

And Graham, selfish enough to beg for his lover's death, but not enough to go through with it, bowed his head, before waking with a start. Crying. Calling his name.

He recognised one of the guards, this time around. Jacobs. All macho swagger in an absurdly tight shirt. Despite the neck tattoos he was a real traditionalist, if Pierce remembered right. He nodded a greeting when Jacobs showed up to let him out of his holding room, and got a reserved nod in return, along with today's instructions.

“Same as yesterday.” So, he'd be allowed to stop once the tears were flowing. For whatever reason.

“Can I ask—"

“Nah,” the other guard grunted.

Fine. He just wanted to get this over with, before the headache sitting just in along the sides of his nose escalated any further. As it was already making him want to beat his head against a wall.

As soon as the three of them entered the room, the kid straightened, the short metal chain at his wrists clinking with the movement. Eyeing them warily. That tracked. Pierce wouldn't expect anything less.

The bruise had spread across the kid's torso, blossoming from underneath a stark, pale line through the centre where the tire iron had kissed skin. He peeked out from underneath red bangs, hanging low in the shackles, breathing slow, shallow. Having his arms above his head like that, for such long periods of time must have been uncomfortable, if not downright dangerous. Nerve damage, blood clots… Pierce wondered if there was a sneaky way he could check the kid's capillary refill, under the guise of messing around with his fingernails.

Pierce headed for the table, reaching for—

His hand faltered, eyes widening as he realised that he had been left a different selection of tools, today. A pair of pliers… and a small, kitchen-grade blowtorch.

An incredulous laugh threatened to escape him. They expected him to mutilate the kid? No way. No fucking way.

Pierce turned back towards the door, reaching out to Jacobs with one calloused, upturned palm. “Belt?” He asked, praying that his reputation still held any amount of weight around here. Not missing the way the both of the guards twitched towards their holsters.

“Why?”

“Testing a theory.”

Jacobs fixed him with a calculating look, but then reached down to undo the buckle and slip his belt from its loops.

Pierce took the thick faux leather and folded it, unhurried, small flakes of black springing free with the flex of the material. Sticking to the sweat on his palms.

“This'll do.” A jingle, and a foreboding snap echoed out across the room as the strap was pulled taut. The sound, that cruel sound, was just… everything Pierce hated, in men like him.

For a brief second Pierce could see the gears turning, but then, like a flicked switch, all muscles in his body started to tighten.

“N-hh, n-oh, no, no, pl-uh, pl-ease, please, nh, please,” the kid stammered, chest heaving, shaking his head. The defiance from yesterday had crumbled so quickly, it was almost as if the man on the wall had been replaced with a completely different person. He was twisting from side to side and pulling down in the cuffs, straining, tears welling up in those panicked green eyes, and long blonde eyelashes fluttering.

As it turned out, two lashes with the belt got the job done fast. Real fast.

To the sounds of quiet sobs, he wiped the blood from the leather on his slacks, handing it back to the stunned guard.

“Shit, man,” Jacobs muttered. He was leaning against a wall, regarding the captive ex-mob with something that bordered on disquiet. “How'd you know he'd react like that?”

“Could see it in his eyes,” Pierce lied, heading for the door.

Thank God the kid had caught on quick, and was a convincing actor. Because, really? A blowtorch?

Before he could leave, Pierce was stopped by a large hand.

“You're not done.”

“What?”

“You're not leaving, until you're done,” the nameless guard reiterated.

“I'm done. I did what you wanted.”

No further response.

Pierce listened to the rain falling on the roof of his cell, and thought about murder.

Specifically, he was in the middle of picturing Martin's neck under his hands, and how he'd look as he suffocated, slowly, or quickly, if Pierce willed it... whether his eyes would bulge, all trace of smug superiority extinguished. Whether they'd roll back in his head. Whether Pierce could supply enough pressure to crush, feel the cartilage crack, before collapsing in on itself.

Or maybe it'd feel good to put his mouth to Martin's throat, right over his pulse, the same spot Martin had sucked the bruise onto Lev's. Whisper a soft you should have left us be, before catching his teeth on the tight skin there, and ripping. Not stopping until he came away with gristle.

He wasn't sure if the visceral, pathological fantasies stemmed from a deeply traumatised psyche, or a yearning for retribution, or simply from a need to channel his pent-up energy somewhere, anywhere. Three birds, one stone, in any case.

As far as justifications for killing someone went, it was a slippery, blood-soaked slope for a person to head down. But he wasn't a person, not any more—he was a feral dog, and his mottled and flea-bitten snout was already so dirty that it would never, ever be clean again. How much could one rapist's dying screams weigh on an already laden conscience?

And it was better to get this all out now, before he was called into the other cell, again. He'd already accidentally shattered a couple of bones on the kid, and that was while he had been completely lucid. Didn't need to add whatever fucked up rage-fog this was to the mix. Unwise.

With the wind and the rain worsening to a howl, Pierce settled in to another one of his favourites—in this one Martin was thrusting, rhythmically, but instead of inside, this time it was upward. On the crest of each jostle, ones that sent the other man's head lolling backward, the knife in his solar plexus would pull free, and then slide home again with a squelch. Teaching him the only meaning of the word penetration he deserved.

Pierce would be lying if he denied getting a kick out of imagining it as one of Martin's own knives, the little folding one. With that one, he'd really be able to carve, and gut, from stomach to sternum. Get his hands nice and wet.

He just needed one opportunity. Just one.

If the guards found him afterward, wrists-deep in the mess he'd made, they'd just put Pierce down—probably right here, in this cell. Put a bullet in his brain. Dump his body somewhere. They wouldn't bother going after Lev. No point, if he was already taken care of.

If that didn't happen, and he made it out alive, he'd check on Lev only once. Just to make sure he was safe.

And if his love never wanted to see him again after that, didn't want him after he'd seen the rabid creature, the less-than-human he'd become?

Then that would be fine. Just fine.

Until then, he just had to wait for the right moment.

Every dog has its day, after all.

“Off,” said the guard, gesturing to Pierce's torso. He fixed him with a spiteful stare in return.

“Off.”

This whole thing, insane as it was already, had just teetered over into absurdity—they wanted to force him to hurt this kid, but by now the kid definitely knew his heart wasn't in it. They didn't seem to want information, they just wanted him to make him suffer. Specifically with the tools they'd laid out. Which they were now going to use on him for failing to comply. Reasserting the fact that he wasn't here by choice.

So what was the point, here? What was the fucking point?

Lifting his arms up, Pierce pulled at the back of his singlet, obediently slipping it up and over his head. Before he could complete the motion, a steel-capped boot kicked him down to one knee.

Genuflecting. Not to gods, but maybe to god complexes.

The black singlet hanging loose across his elbows, Pierce watched as the guard picked up the blowtorch, adjusted the nozzle, pulled the trigger. He couldn't suppress the shudder that ricocheted through his body when the blue flame sprung to life in the man's grip, the low, even, rushing sound of it almost scarier in its lack of intensity.

Forced forward by Jacobs' hands, his bare, scarred back was exposed to the ceiling.

The first pass of the torch was light, quick, but it ripped a scream from him nonetheless. A second pass, diagonal to the first, excruciating, and he whited out.

He came to on the floor, on his elbows, the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and a boot nudging his side.

“Now get up, and try again.”

Pierce raised a single, trembling finger, requesting a few moments, a tremor shooting down his other arm as it struggled to support his weight. He was granted only a few, before the foot nudged him again, harder this time.

He stood, shakily, carefully, swaying on his feet, the singlet falling from his arms and to the floor. Collecting the pair of pliers from the table. Feeling something in him snap, the threads of it dissolving away.

The kid's face was alight with strong, bright terror. Pierce swayed a second time, eyes dropping to the kid's mouth.

As he pressed his lips over the kid's, he felt the questioning hum of startled confusion as it reverberated across their teeth. An indignant gurgle of a shout rang out from behind the pair of them, followed by hurried footfalls as Jacobs rushed over.

Pierce smiled weakly against the kid's lips. He'd remembered that particular foible correctly, then. Blunder one.

No sooner had Jacobs laid a hand on him than Pierce swung his fist in an arc, punching the pliers high into the man's neck. Jacobs stumbled, choking, clutching at the plastic handles sticking out of him. Pierce spun around, reaching for the gun pointed at his head, still within his range—blunder two—grabbing it on top, moving it to one side as the shot was fired. Going deaf with the noise of it. Hitting at the inside of the guard's wrist, a snap of the index finger as it was wrenched by the trigger guard. He turned the gun around, aimed, shot twice.

Jacobs was fumbling with his own holster, his fingers slick with blood, but a bullet to his chest brought him down—and Pierce followed him, getting in close. Running on nothing but adrenaline and hate.

“I just wanted to walk away,” he hissed, pressing the pliers in further, watching the man convulse. “I just wanted to retire and live quietly, with my boyfriend, and my cat—but you fuckers had to come and tear our lives apart and drag me back here. Well, guess what? Now you've got my full. Fucking. Attention.”

Pierce, slowly coming to the realisation that Jacobs had stopped moving long ago, released the man's shirt collar—when had that happened?—and let him fall to the floor.

“Dude,” came the scratchy, slightly hoarse voice. “That shit was metal as fuck.”

“Sorry.” Pierce wiped at his face, absently. Smearing hot blood across his chin.

“Any keys on 'em?”

He searched the bodies, sighing in relief when he heard a jingle. Quickly freeing the kid from the cuffs, aware of the speed at which his strength was starting to drain from him, Pierce was just able to keep them both steady as the kid regained feeling to his extremities.

He counted his lucky stars—lucky he didn't get shot in the face anyway when he took the gun. Lucky he hadn't gone into shock after being burned like that. Lucky the kid was willing to help him limp out of there, after everything.

So very, incredibly lucky he was able to pull of a stupid, reckless stunt like that, and still be breathing. The both of them. Alive.

The kid's name was Hugh, and he was actually twenty-one, and a little bit of a brat. He had bid them goodbye with a parting message to Lev:

“Take care of him. I'm straight, but your boyfriend's a really good kisser.”

Pierce—Graham, god, he never wanted to go by his last name ever again—felt the heat cascade down his neck and over his chest, and he buried his face further into his partner's Henley with a groan.

He still knew he shouldn't, he didn't deserve to—but his love was right here, holding him close, careful not to touch the burns on his back. He smelled so good, and he was so warm, and Graham was so tired.

“I know,” Lev had said, his voice rumbling and full. “Thanks again, Hugh.”

“Don't mention it. Any time.”

“Cocky fucker,” Graham mumbled, relishing the laugh that Lev gave in response.

He was home. He was safe. He was home.

#whump #noncon tw #murder tw #kidnapping tw #drugging tw #fuck me it's been a long time since ive had to tag a thing tw #lgm writing #lowkey thinking of writing an extension to the end of the isolation one...#if you saw me post this to the wrong blog no you didn't

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evermetnotforgotten · 8 months

Text

technically a follow on from this piece. could probably stand alone. this piece has been 80% done in my google docs for three years so if you see any big holes in it uhhh. no you didn't.

if you've ever wanted some vague exposition on cass' powers or choices, then this is for you

content warning: mentions of death, victim blaming, aftermath of violence/assault, referenced dubcon/noncon, brief mind control

The common room at Bergen Estate gets quiet at night. Most of the charges prefer their own rooms as it gets dark. Hiding from the bogeyman.

But Harley liked the large, dark emptiness of the common room.

The curved chairs, the pillars, the rows of books and video games lined up along the shelves. The big oak tables. Bean bags in the corner. Rugs here and there. The whole place had the energy of some sort of bizarre combination between a kid’s playroom and a university library. But Harley wanted a space to think, and this was the easiest one.

Their intuition had been right and wrong in equal amounts tonight. They’d known they would be called to Christopher’s lounge tonight. And they were. And they knew that they would be fine after. And they are. But… if they were so fine why do they feel so God fucking awful?

“Harley can go, right? It’s not like we need them.”

Every time they try to push the memory from their head, it bobs to the surface again like an apple in water.

“I have to say, Harley… I really am so disappointed in you.”

They stare out the large bay window, at the leafless trees silhouetted in the mix of light from the garden and from the moon. The whole thing looks ghostly. Gothic. The dark through the glass makes the whole window reflective; a giant mirror just waiting to show them their face. But it’s dark in here too. It’s a dark room reflected on a dark night. That’s why it’s so obvious when there’s a shuffling flash of light behind them, making their heart skip.

The door opens, someone steps through, and then it closes. Dark again. Harley stiffens, freezes, trying to catch another glimpse of who it is in the reflection of the window but it's back to shadows on shadows on shadows.

They listen as the person shuffles to one of the cushioned seats. Shuffles. Like it hurts to move. They sit so carefully that Harley can barely hear them. Then there's quiet. Stillness. An exhale.

Harley doesn’t move. They know stillness. They know silence. Have known it for longer than they’ve been here.

But then there’s another exhale.

And another.

Any hitch of breath that might be happening in between is more or less silent. Which means, usually… crying.

Harley feels themself cringe. The Bergen Boys don't cry. Those are the rules. Not Christopher's rules but the deeper, unspoken ones between the lot of them. You don’t complain, you don’t ask for help, you don’t cry. Or if you did, it got beaten out of you quicksmart. Everything else was a free for all as far as Harley has ever been able to tell.

So the shadow person has come to the common room in the middle of the night. Assuming, like Harley had, that it would be empty. That it would be safe.

Guilt washes over them all at once, guttural and nauseating and they realise all of a sudden that intentionally or not just by sitting here, listening, they're imposing. Intruding. Doing the wrong thing. And then the fear beneath that, on top of that, around that, that if they wait too long and the shadow person notices them, they may well end up on the wrong side of thrown fists. Again.

Harley shifts on the couch where they sit, exaggerating the whisper scrape of fabric on fabric, and leans back on the left side where they know the leg creaks.

The shadow person's breathing stops immediately and Harley hears them stand.

"Who's there?"

Harley freezes again, regretting making their presence known. Cassius.

"I can see you. On the couch. Get over here." His voice is sharp and violent. Deeper than usual. There's a childish part of Harley, not as far beneath the surface as they’d like, that wishes desperately they’d just stay silent and hidden. Safe.

But, like they were told, they uncurl their legs. Stand. Turn. Start to walk.

Harley can see the moment that the light from the window must catch their face. Cassius' face softens, eyes fluttering closed and body sagging with what was maybe relief.

“Harls,” he says, running a hand over his face as he sits back down. Harley doesn’t miss the wince. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” The apology flies out of them like a verbal flinch. “I’ll leave.”

“No, ple-” Cassius stops himself, eyes shuttering closed. Harley watches him take a deep breath, brow furrowing briefly. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. “You can stay. If you want. I don't mind.”

Harley hesitates for a moment, glancing around half-uselessly, before choosing a seat across from the other charge and folding into it.

“What are you doing up so late?” Cassius asks, as though they’ve bumped into each other at a truck stop. At a bar. Fancy seeing you here.

Harley shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I kept…” thinking about what you were doing. They bite down on their tongue to keep themselves from saying more. It’s stupid.

They trail off as Cassius looks up at them and the dull light from the window catches the shape of his brow. At the blood smeared along his temple. The bruising already flaring up along his cheek. “Did… did Beauche do that to you?”

Cassius huffs out a half laugh, running his tongue between his teeth and the obviously bruised tissue of his cheek. He drags his hand up, knuckle brushing softly against his brow. “Yep. What a gentleman, huh?”

“But Christopher said he wouldn’t be violent.”

Cassius scoffs, “Yeah and Christopher’s such a shining beacon of truth, huh?”

Cassius sits back in his chair, eyes hard, and Harley holds their breath. With the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face, the shading of the bruises and the swelling there, Cassius looks half monster.

Then his expression softens, his body relaxes. “Nah, it was my fault." He lets out a sigh, hand running back through his hair. "The guy wanted me to cry.”

“And did you?” Cassius’ glare is immediate. Has Harley slamming their jaw shut so quickly their teeth click together. “Sorry.”

Cassius shrugs a shoulder in acceptance of the apology and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes and all at once it’s like some mask comes down. He looks exhausted and hurt and… young, actually. Harley always forgets that. He’s younger than them. About a three year gap between them.

“Why are you up?” Harley says, after the silence gets unbearably fragile. “Here, I mean. I thought you’d be…” They struggle for a tactful way to put it. “In the other wing.”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to stay, thank fuck. And Christopher doesn’t like me coming in af-... Um. He doesn’t like me coming in too late,” Cassius says, picking non-existent dirt out from under his finger nails. He clears his throat a little as his face flinches in and out of a frown. “Plus, the sooner I see him, the sooner I have to… you know…”

He gestures loosely at his face and Harley frowns. The sooner he’d have to do what? Get rid of the bruises? Get rid of the pain that keeps making him flinch and close his eyes? None of them talked about it but they’d all seen it. Bruises fading on Cassius just to bloom on his brother in minutes. Always after a visit to Christopher. Always without a word spoken.

Harley can’t help their own contempt, “Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Cassius looks at them with an expression Harley can’t place, dark eyes flicking between both of Harley’s, as though searching for something. He looks angry. Murderous. Violent. Then he snorts and it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure.”

He drops his head, hands fidgeting between his knees. With the angle and the shadows, Harley can only just make out the shape of his nose, his eyes half hidden behind his hair. It sticks out at awkward angles around his head like a terrible crown. Frizzy waves in some parts, kinked curls in others.

It'll suit him more when he leaves and he grows it longer.

The thought comes unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. Like the predictions always do. Just a slice of truth falling into the head with the right prompt. An understanding that that's just… how things will be.

It's not the first time Harley's thought something like it. That Cassius will do much better once he leaves. The notion of it is almost horrifying. Cassius has been here longer than they have. It’s hard to imagine Bergen Estate without its golden boy.

Harley chews on their cheek and “If I ask you something, will you answer truthfully?”

Cassius shrugs. Smirks. “Probably not.”

Harley rolls their eyes and looks away, annoyance settling in their gut. They don’t even know why they bother with Cassius. He’s always the exact same. They're about to stand up to leave when Cassius clears his throat and-

“I’ll trade you for it,” he says softly, dark eyes shining with something unnameable in the dim light. “You ask me something, I ask you something. No lies.”

“Promise?”

Cassius just shrugs. Which is probably as good a promise as Harley’s going to get, really. They sigh and trace the patterning of the rug with their eyes before pursing their lips together and looking back up at Cassius with a focussed sincerity.

They swallow. Inhale. Hands grip the arms of the chair. "You hate it here.”

Cass’ eyes skitter to the side and back. "That's… not a question."

"Why don't you leave?"

“Same as you, dumbass. Legally binding contract.”

“No, I mean-” Harley bites down on their cheek and tries to figure out the right words to say what they mean. “You can make him do whatever you want, right? You can make anyone do what you want. So why don’t you just… make him get rid of you."

Cassius exhales in a way that could almost be a laugh. But probably isn’t. “It’s… complicated.”

“Because of Henri?”

He shrugs, looking bored as he meets their gaze. “Sure.”

“No lies.”

Cassius sighs, leaning back slouched in the chair. He shrugs. “Just because I can make someone want to do something, it doesn’t mean they’ll do it.”

“Like… he’d resist you?”

“No.” Cassius pulls a face. “I mean yes, maybe. But no… It’s like…” He makes a sound hallway between a sigh and a groan. He rolls his neck, eyes roaming around the room like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans his chin on his hand, fingers skirting over his lips before looking back to Harley. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

Harley stands instantly. They turn on their foot and move to the door and for the first time in their life everything is certain. Everything is clear. Everything makes so much sense and all they have to do is… Is to…

“Um…”

Cass half smiles. There's something vicious and cruel behind his eyes. “Dᴏ ɪᴛ, Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ. Sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

They step forward, compulsively, and for some bizarre reason they start raising their arms in front of them, as though their body can’t figure out a way to solve the issue even though they want to and as soon as that thought hits them the frantic desire starts to dissipate, filling instead with deep dread and panic.

They turn their head towards him, eyes wide. Frozen. "I…"

Cassius’ gaze is dark and heavy. Hungry and calculating. His jaw sets. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, ɢᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ Cʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ.”

The feeling that floods them is white hot and immediate. Desire and rage running through them like lava. They’re not sure they’ve ever moved so fast, wheeling on a foot, making it to the door, but no sooner are they reaching for the handle then-

“Nah, ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. Cᴏᴍᴇ sɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.”

All at once the desire dissipates, and the panic sets in like shame. Like failure. They come back over. They sit back down. Then their thoughts catch up and they look at Cassius with fury. How dare he do that? How dare he go into their head and make them feel that?

Cassius just smiles. Shrugs. “Sorry. Figured I’d show not tell.”

‘’I could’ve killed him.”

Cassius shrugs, unshaded and unconvinced. “Nah. You would’ve got halfway down the hall and changed your mind.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“Then you would’ve gotten to his room and realised you didn’t know how. You wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I might’ve,” they protest, still indignant.

Cass shrugs, smile lazy and tired, “But you didn’t.”

They try, for a few moments, to hold on to the anger. The indignation. It’s so, so easy to hate him when he’s far away. When they can’t see him or only see him at a distance. It’s much much harder three feet away from him, where the moonlight show the bags under his eyes as dark as the bruise blossoming above his temple.

“He takes you away from here sometimes,” they say eventually. “You could… when you were away from here. You could leave. Make him let you leave. That’s not that hard.”

Cassius just looks at them, chin resting on his hand, fingers covering his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at them expectantly, foot bouncing like a motor. He’s probably trying to look annoyed. Sarcastic. But he just looks like a sad little boy.

Understanding clicks in.

“But Henri…” Harley voices for him.

Cassius shrugs a shoulder. A tear manages to make it all the way to his cheekbone before he swipes it away with the side of his fist. The Bergen Boys don’t cry. “Told you. Complicated.”

This isn’t how things are meant to be. Cassius is meant to stay in the other wing, up on his damn pedestal and away in Christopher’s bedroom. He’s not meant to cry in the common room. He’s meant to be the golden boy in his golden room. It’s meant to be easy to hate him. He’s meant to be arrogant and selfish and mean and rude and-

“Your French isn’t better than mine,” they say suddenly. They can’t quite say where the compulsion to say it comes from.

Cassius blinks, “What?”

“In the office before, you said your French was better than mine. It’s not.”

He looks at them for a moment, frowning and annoyed and then suddenly he’s laughing, eyebrows shooting up in exhausted amusement, “You’re weird as fuck, you know that?”

“What? No I’m not,” Harley spits, suddenly self-conscious and antsy.

“Yes you are,” Cassius says. “I did you a fucking favour and a half tonight-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“And you know what, you’re welcome by the way.”

“I never asked you to-”

“Oh, save it. Yes you fucking did. You know what I can do. You know what I can feel. You were basically fucking screaming at me.”

And that, they do remember. Closing their eyes. Drowning Christopher’s voice out in their head. The huge loud static of I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this.

The air stills. The atmosphere between them settles like dust in the shadows and darkens again. Guilt creeps over Harley's shoulders and rests with heavy claws. They shouldn’t have said anything.

“My French is more usable than yours,” Cass mutters.

They’re truly unsure if he’s being genuine or just trying to break the ice that’s frosted over. They try for the latter, “Your grammar sucks.”

“Yeah, well we didn’t get much further than ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’, so I don’t think I did fine,” he gives them a dead-eyed smile that they assume is meant to cast the comment in humour. They don’t really find it very funny.

After a few awkward beats, Cassius gives up the ghost. He clears his throat, “Alright. My turn,”

Harley readjusts in their seat, straightening their spine, tucking their hair behind their ears to listen for the question. They wait one moment. And then two. The whole time the golden boy seems to scrutinise them, looking into their eyes as he sizes them up, makes some sort of assessment.

Cassius’ voice is low and jarringly sad as he finally lands on a question, “Why do you hate me so much?”

If it was possible for Harley to feel every cell in their body crystallise… that was what this feeling was. “I don’t hate you.”

Cassius smiles. Tilts his head. The blood along his temple catches in the light. “No lies.”

Harley frowns and looks away, turning their head to look out the window across the other side of the room. They wonder if he remembers the day they met as well as they do. It was in this room. Just a few feet from where they were sitting now. He’d been sitting on the arm of the couch making some smart mouth comment to someone and they’d thought he looked friendly. And then his eyes had met theirs and prediction hit like an epiphany:

You’re going to kill me one day.

Unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. A slice of truth falling into their head.

You’re going to kill me one day to save yourself.

They knit their fingers together in their lap, pressing knuckle to knuckle. They press their lips into a thin line. Something with wings — a bird or a bat, they can’t tell — takes flight from one of the trees outside the window. Darkness reflects darkness back.

After it becomes clear they’re not going to answer, Cassius prompts again, “Was it something I did?”

They shrug one shoulder. Like he does. Look down at their hands. The shadows across the room dance and shimmer.

“Is it because of…” out of the corner of their eye, Harley sees him wave a hand at himself. “You know. What I do.” A pause. They see his Adam’s apple bob. “The way I do it.”

Harley frowns, ducks their head lower so they don’t have to look at him, even in periphery. They manage to shake their head this time.

“Is it…” Cassius stops and starts. Stalls. Clears his throat. “Is it something I’m going to do?”

Harley finds themself looking up, despite themself.

They meet his eyes. Time stops for a second.

Cass looks so full of grief for a moment that Harley’s certain the rest of the world must’ve been robbed of it. All shoved into one person to hold for a second. His voice sounds wrecked, “I’m sorry.”

They almost believe him, too. And they hate him all the more for it.

Did he have to be so perfect at this, too? Did he have to be forgivable for this, too? Can’t they just hate him? Can’t they just hate his guts and let him get whadt he’s owed for the things that he’s done, does, is going to do? They want to ask him. They want to tell him. All of it. They want to see his face as he tries to figure out how to respond. They want to know how he feels when he finds out he’s gonna be a murderer.

“It’s okay,” is what tumbles out of their mouth instead.

“Yeah,” Cass laughs and another tear makes it out of him. They hate him for it. He swipes at it with the side of a closed fist. “No it isn’t.”

They hate him as he stands up.

They hate him as he cuts the conversation short.

They hate him as he passes and gives the back of their chair a pat.

“See you around, Harls.”

They watch the window for the flash of light as the door opens, a yellow glow spilling into the room for a moment like blood from a cut. And then the door shuts with a click. And the room is back to its inky darkness. And the golden boy is gone. And Harley isn’t.

And their hatred is an unspooled ball of yarn in the middle of the floor.

#augh its so #so #delicious #hhhhh #did he have to be perfect at this too? FUCK

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