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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 11 months

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Worst Day

Part 6 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car)

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Description: You're not sure what you'll do if Jake doesn't pull through. It's true - your relationship isn't that old - yet you can't help feeling like the connection between Jake and you is far deeper than a paltry fling. So seeing Jake, your Jake, prone and motionless in a hospital bed is more than you can bear. But you're a fighter, and so is Jake. Having some pleasant company while you wait, that's great too.

Disclaimer: Mentions of injury. Military Deployments. Long-distance relationships. A very eerie nightmare (mentions of blood)

Warnings: Female Reader

Word Count: 4288

Author Note: Here’s Part 6 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car). Jake finally makes his way stateside again, but as we know from the last episode, things don't look too good! But it'll get better... ish. Love ya! This chapter was wholly written by listening to the song Worst Day - MAX x Illenium on repeat. All of the bold + italicized parts are lyrics from the song!

AO3: Cross Posted Here!

My Masterlist

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

It’s been twenty-four hours since you found out Jake has been injured. You’ve been a nervous wreck, barely sleeping or eating as you wear a worn trail into your kitchen tile. You’re running on fumes of coffee and unadulterated spite, every pore in your body rebelling, when you get the call from Maverick saying that the medevac will be landing in half an hour and will be transporting Jake to Naval Medical Center shortly after. You're nervously grasping the steering wheel of Jake’s truck the entire way there. Soon enough, you’re propping up a corner of the Emergency Room waiting room. Just as you’re about to call Maverick again, a flurry of action erupts against the ambulance bay doors. Doctors and other medical personnel descend in droves. You’re on your feet the minute the doors open, walking towards the doors.

You look a mess. You’re wearing your rattiest pair of jeans and a torn, worn t-shirt that’s inside out. Your hair hasn’t seen a comb since you woke up at 3 in the morning, what feels like a lifetime ago. All you care about is Jake. Your first look at him in three months nearly sends you to your knees. He’s motionless lying in that hospital gurney. His skin is pale, but for the lurid bruises painting his skin. You’ve never seen Jake this motionless, this still. He’s the life of the party, at the center of every gathering, always moving and his energy is infectious. But like this? The sight burns like a blade, cutting you from neck to sternum, seeing him unmoving, letting things happen rather than doing . You don’t even notice your knees give out, only registering the sharp crack as they smack into the tiled flooring as you collapse. You watch vacantly as the team of medical professionals cart him right into an operating theater. But no matter how you try to move, you can’t get your legs to cooperate.

The hands that help you up are Maverick’s. You’re not sure when he reached the hospital, but you’re so glad he’s here. He hugs you as you cry, hopeless gut-wrenching, exhausted sobs that rack your entire body. You’re wrung out when you stagger to one of the chairs in the waiting area in front of the Operating Room. In truth, you’re not likely to get much information until a doctor comes out to speak to you. Each halting breath you draw cuts like a thousand knives as you sit hunched over with your elbows on your knees and stare unseeingly at your steepled fingers. Worry and shock and fear and pain cloud every sense.

As an hour turns into two, then three and four, you slump against the back of the chair. Your eyes are itchy, heavy, and swollen with the many tears you’ve shed over the past day. Sleep is practically clubbing you over the head, and you’re quickly losing the battle to stay awake. Maverick is still standing at attention, green eyes intently boring through the closed operating room doors. In the span of a few breaths, you must fall asleep because the next thing you see is Jake.

Closed my eyes and had a dream

About a lonely place

Where flowers only bloom in gray

All the magic turned to dust

Only memories left of us

It’s a place you’ve seen before, one you remember being before, in fact. A picnic out on Mission Bay, if you remember correctly. It was a date early on in your relationship, one back when you were still trying to figure Jake out. He’d driven you to the park and laid out the picnic along with a chilled bottle of wine. The two of you had talked and laughed the entire afternoon away. But while you're seeing everything as you remember, something's just ever so slightly off. All the colors are oversaturated and yet faded at the same time. It feels like it’s been so long since you’ve been that happy. You feel like you’re in a movie reel, seeing Jake’s smiling face after so long. He’s close enough that your fingers should be able to make contact with his skin, but every time you get close enough, he disintegrates the minute you touch him.

I'll never see that tree thе same

The one that we both carved our names

Into with razor blades

Then made out in the summer rain

It had started raining partway through the picnic, and you’d taken refuge with him under the boughs of a colossal willow tree. Sheltered under that tree he’d helped you carve your name and his into the aged wood before kissing you like you were everything he needed to breathe. You’re there now. But when you try to fall into the kiss, Jake’s face shatters into sand in your fingers. It’s sticky and warm and wet when you clench your hands into a fist.

But it’s not sand in your hands when you look. It’s blood, dripping from your fingers, splattered over your face, and staining your dress. The droplets are hot and cloyingly sticky as you try to fight your way to water to wash them away. Suddenly, the willow tree’s branches grip and tear at your dress, skin, and hair. The entire time you fight the grasping branches, you can hear Jake’s voice. But it sounds completely unlike how you’ve ever heard him before. His voice is pained and harsh, screaming your name for help, for assistance. Each word rips into you, tearing you apart because while you fight to reach him, you never seem to get any closer.

You jolt awake, tasting copper in your mouth to the sounds of more medical professionals running into the Operating Room and Maverick hovering in front of you.

“What happened, Mav?” You swallow uncomfortably, trying and failing to summon enough saliva to wash the traces of metal from your mouth.

“I..” He runs his hands through his hair before slumping into the chair next to you. “I dunno, kiddo. They were calling a code blue through the hospital PA.”

“D-did something go wrong with Jake’s surgery?” You can’t hide the fear in your voice.

But with his lack of response, you don’t know anything more than you had before. This time, as you settle down to wait again, there’s more fear filling your mind. Your mind is trapped again in that constant loop of ‘what ifs’, ‘what happeneds’, and ‘what nexts’ again. Please let the code blue not be for Jake. Please. But as you’ve discovered intimately over the past day, your prayers are rarely answered by the powers that be, if they exist at all. You’ve chewed your lips until they’ve bled, and every muscle aches when a doctor steps out of the operating room.

“Hello, are you here for Lieutenant Jacob Daniel Seresin?” You can see the exhaustion lining his face.

“Yes. I’m his emergency contact.” Your voice shakes as you stand up. “This is his CO, Rear Admiral Pete Maverick Mitchell.”

“It’s nice to meet you, miss.” He snaps off a quick salute to Maverick before turning back to you. “Lieutenant Seresin’s surgeries have been a success. We were able to reduce the swelling in his brain and set his tibia and collarbone. Partway through the procedure, Lieutenant Seresin went into cardiac arrest. Thankfully, we were able to stabilize his condition and get his heart beating again.”

You’ve got your hand over your mouth as his words hit you, wrapping an arm around yourself to keep from collapsing at his feet.

“What does this mean for his recovery, Doctor?” You need to know.

“We’ve placed Lieutenant Seresin in a medically induced coma. This is to allow his brain to heal further. We’ll keep an eye on his recovery the entire time he’s in the post-anesthesia care unit. Once we’ve determined his brain has healed enough, we’ll stop the medication and allow him to come out of the coma. Then we’ll assess his physical condition from there.”

You can’t hide your relief or how tears well up in your eyes at the words. Mav wraps an arm around your shoulders. “The doctor says he’s going to be just fine, kiddo. He’s going to be okay.”

You know what Mav means, but a part of you can’t believe it. Not until you see it. Sure enough, just as Mav said, it’s barely a quarter of an hour later that the hospital bed with Jake in it is wheeled out. It's with a considerable amount of relief that you watch eagle-eyed as the doctors and nurses settle Jake into the hospital bed in his post-anesthesia care unit room. If only you could recognize the man you see before your eyes. This stranger? You're having a hard time reconciling him with the impression of Jake in your head. Jake’s always been filled with a sort of uncontainable energy, like lightning whipping through clouds, gathering momentum to strike where you least expect it. It’s a part of your relationship with him that you enjoy the most. He’s never boring, and you never feel like you’re boring with him.

So when you droop into the chair by the bed and take in the sudden hush inhabiting the room now that it’s just you and him, a part of your brain feels like it’s stuck. It’s a constant feedback loop of worry and pain and terror ruling your brain right now. Despite the consistent tinny beeping emanating from the heart rate monitor, you can’t believe that Jake’s going to be okay. Each breath you force into your lungs stinks of that special hospital smell of disinfectant and cleaning products and sickness. You grip his hand, gasping at how cold the fingers are, how the strength seems to have drained out of them. You can still see the bruises peeking out from beneath the hospital gown. His head is shorn close to his skull, and you can just make out where they had to cut into his skull to reduce the swelling in his brain through the bandages swathing his skull. You love this man. So why is it that you can’t stand to see him like this? With a ventilator helping him breathe and drugged up in a coma while his body heals?

Worse still, you can’t help but wonder what this means for what Jake loves to do the most in the world. Will he ever be able to fly again? Jake flies like it’s in his blood, like he’s made to do it. He adores it. Did this incident, be it accident or deliberate, just strip him of the capacity to do the one thing he’d always dreamed of doing? Then there’s the thought of Jake’s family in your mind. How do you get in touch with Jake’s brothers and sisters? You know Jake’s not close with his dad. But his mom and siblings should know, right? But if Jake wanted one of his family to know, wouldn’t one of them have been his emergency contact? The thoughts have you kissing the palm of his cool limp hand and dragging the chair closer to the bed. Your voice is barely there as you finally speak after hours of silence.

“J-Jake.” Your voice hitches on a sob as you glance over his face. "What happened, handsome? This was supposed to be a routine rotation on board. You weren't supposed to get hurt."

A part of you can’t help but wait for a response. But one doesn’t come. Jake’s still and silent with a ventilator over his mouth, and his eyes closed. If you’d known any differently, you would have happily assumed Jake was just sleeping. But he’s not. You want nothing more than to hear his voice again.

“Jake, Oh, I almost lost you like that” Your voice is soft as you cup his jaw, leaning over his still form, tracing your way gently over the stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. “Oh, don't wanna think about that, Oh, don't wanna think about that, The thought of you never comin' back”

You’re still clutching at his hand a few hours later when a couple of nurses stop into his room to take his vital signs and subsequently chase you out as visiting hours end. It leaves you out in the parking lot in Jake’s truck longing for the days when you could have just picked up the phone and called Jake when you missed him. The two of you have had so many conversations like that, spilling secrets in the dead of night, and it’s one particular conversation that you remember the most.

It was late and well into the witching hour. You’d been out with Jake once again, and once again, time had gotten away from both of you. You'd been lying in the bed of his pick-up truck, star-gazing yet again. But you weren't near North Island, not this time. You'd driven north and west, leaving San Diego in the rear-view as Jake's truck ate up the miles between you and the Mojave Desert.

In a small camping area just off the desert, Jake had parked the car and helped you into the truck’s bed via the tailgate. He'd pulled out two paper cups and a bottle of champagne.

"What're we doing now?" Your voice had been questioning as he'd proffered the cup to you with the biggest grin.

"This, gorgeous, is because I missed you. It's been a long week, my darling girl. What better way to spend time with each other than you, me, some good alcohol and dinner under the stars?"

You'd sipped a mouthful of alcohol from the cup before setting it down on a stable bit along with the bottle and Jake's own before levering yourself into his lap. The kisses you'd shared with him that night had tasted like champagne bubbles and pure joy.

"Not that I mind, pretty girl, but d'you want to tell me what that was for?" You can still remember how his voice sounded.

"It’s been,” You’d peppered another few kisses across his lips and cheeks, “a completely harrowing, disgusting week. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. The worst part is that it felt like no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. You’ve described it once, you know? The feeling when you’re up in the sky flying supersonic when you go into a turn and the whole world seems to be sitting on your chest? That’s what this week has been like for me. And I can’t. I can’t tell you that it was just one thing weighing on me, because it’s not. It feels like a perfect storm.” You’d buried your face into the crook of his neck after you’d finished speaking, taking in the scent of his detergent, cologne and the ever-present light whiff of jet-fuel embedded in his skin.

“What about now, baby doll?” His big hands feel so good against your back as he massages the tense muscles running down your back. You’re plastered so completely against him that you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest as he speaks. You shrug, infinitesimally, burrowing even closer to him. Your voice is muffled in the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “It’s always better with you, Jay. Always. Love you.”

Jake had finally coaxed you out of his arms and into eating some of the food he’d packed. The night had ended with the two of you lying side by side in the bed of the truck looking up at the stars. This far from the city and its light pollution, you can see thousands of pinpricks of light shining in the sky above. You’ve been pointing out the stars for a while when Jake tugs you close. He intertwines your fingers with his before pulling your hand to his mouth. You can feel the prickling tug of his stubble against the soft skin and the dampness of his lips. He kisses your digits carefully before tugging you in until you’re curled into his chest.

“Gorgeous girl, you changed my life the day I met you.” Your resulting huff is disbelieving.

“I’m serious! When we met, I wouldn’t say that I was at a low in my life, not necessarily, but I did feel like something was missing. That missing piece, that was you. Baby Doll, I knew I was going to fall for you completely the first word you spoke. One day, one day soon, I’m going to take you home. To Texas. I want you to meet my mama, my brothers and sisters. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”

Jake was going to say something more that night, but in truth, you’d been so blown away by him that all you’d been able to think of was making him feel your love. That’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to an indecent exposure charge, fucking Jake in the bed of his truck and waking up in the early morning light completely naked in his arms.

It’s silent in the house as you walk in, not bothering to turn on any lights. As you fall into bed just wearing one of Jake’s old tees and a pair of panties, you make a fervent promise to yourself and anyone who’s listening. You’re going to see Jake’s smile again, hear his voice again. When you do, you’re going to let him take you home, because you love him, and he needs to know how much you do.

The next three weeks you spend in Jake’s hospital room. The doctors and nurses in the post-anaesthesia care unit get to know you intimately. It helps that for much of the day while you’re there, you’re mostly quiet, typing away on your laptop while attending the occasional meeting, allowing the doctors to do their thing unimpeded. Jake’s condition doesn’t change. The doctors check on him every day, monitoring his brain waves and ensuring that none of the surgical sites are becoming infected. But no matter what they do, he stays lost in a dream world that nobody can pull him from.

The doctors ensure you over and over again that he’ll wake up when he’s ready. You can see the immense amount of sympathy in their eyes each day when they can’t offer you anything but empty platitudes. Three days after Jake’s admittance to the hospital you finally break down and call his mom. It hadn’t felt right, keeping such big, potentially life-altering news from her.

Georgia Marie Seresin is just as Jake had described her. She’d descended on San Diego with all of the force of a Category 5 hurricane not even a day after you’d called her. If you’d had the presence of mind to notice the resemblance you’d have giggled at how much Jake reminds you of her. You’re not sure what you’d expected when you’d called her but it definitely had not been to face the brunt of her mothering. She’d hugged you tight and thanked you for taking care of her son for so long by yourself.

“It’s alright now, sweet thing. Mama Georgie’s here.” She’d held you tight as the tears had welled in your eyes. “We’re going to take care of our boy. Now that I’m here, we’re going to get you taken care of as well.”

Her first order of business had been to take you home, leaving Jake’s eldest brother Will to sit in the room with him while she got you into a shower and some home-cooked food to eat. She brings your house to life in minutes. You haven’t been all too terrible in taking care of yourself. In fact whenever you’d felt yourself slipping, you’d been hearing Jake’s voice chiding you into doing better. You’d give anything to hear it again in person, perhaps with the addition of a six foot tall aviator draping himself over your back while muscling you out of the kitchen with a kiss or two or five.

Thankfully, Mama Georgie, as she’s insisted you call her despite your protests, pretends not to notice how you fall apart in your bedroom every night. Or how your eyes go all misty and faraway whenever you catch Will’s silhouette out of the corner of your eyes. It’s a relief having them here. They give you hope that Jake’s going to wake up. Maybe you did it backwards, meeting his mom and brother before you were ready, and definitely before he was. But if there is anybody who deserves to be surrounded with the people he loves when he’s hurting, it’s Jake. Having Mama Georgie and Will in San Diego helps, especially when work upticks and all of a sudden you’re spending more time trapped in your home office working on what feels like everything under the sun when you’d rather be with Jake.

You’re at the end of your rope the day Jake wakes up. You’d been on calls working since about 3 AM. You’d been so frazzled that you hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Mama Georgie and Will when they left at about 10 in the morning. When you get the call at 4 in the afternoon, you nearly don’t pick up. But you’re so thankful you do, because even as Mama Georgie tells you Jake is awake, you can hear Jake in the background. His voice is hoarse and barely there, but you can recognize it from a mile away.

It takes you an inhuman amount of control to finish the last hour of work you have and run to the hospital. You’re white-knuckling the steering wheel of your car, forcing yourself not to speed the entire way there. You park the car in what is the sloppiest parking job you’ve done since you were first learning to drive and run into the hospital. You can’t prevent the way your body sags against the door frame when you see Jake propped up in the hospital bed. He’s pale and covered in bandages, but he’s the best sight you’ve seen in months. Mama Georgie’s fluttering around him, fluffing up his pillows and making sure he’s comfortable.

It's Jake who notices you first, smiling that gorgeous grin you missed so much at you.

"Hey, my gorgeous girl! Four months and the first time you see me and I don't even get a kiss and a hug?" His voice is teasing even as you can hear the hoarseness from where he'd been intubated not long ago.

You don't even register Mama Georgie or Will walking past, you're that fixated on Jake. His eyes haven't left your face once, not even when you're sitting in the chair by his bed. You're inexplicably afraid to touch Jake right now. Over the past weeks you've had many nightmares, most of which ended with Jake disappearing at your touch. As with most things in your relationship, Jake takes the lead by carefully dragging his knuckles across your cheek. At the first tender touch, your eyes well and you can't help your sobs as you take his hand. His eyes widen as tears spill in hot trails down your cheeks.

"Aww, hey Gorgeous. I'm alright. I'm going to be okay." His words just make you sob harder. He brushes your tears away before tugging you up, despite your protests, to perch on the side of his hospital bed.

"What're you doing, Jay?" Your voice is stuffy and confused as you look down into his face. From your new vantage point you can see the exhaustion weighing on him as well as the stiff way he's moving as he looks at you.

"Give me your hand?" You place your hand in his and relish in the heat of his skin as he splays your fingers over his heart. You can feel his warmth even through the hospital gown. "D'you feel that gorgeous? That's my heart, beating for you. I'm still here. I hurt like I got run over by a herd of the cattle we have at the ranch, but I'm here. I'm going to heal up and be as good as new in no time at all, okay?"

His voice goes soft and gentle as he cups your cheek. "So no more crying, baby doll. Now why don't you get over here and give me a kiss, hmm? I've been on a ship in the middle of nowhere with only dreams of you for company for months. You're not going to let a sailor live in these conditions while eating hospital food, now are ya?"

Your resulting giggle is strangled as you carefully press your lips to his. You can’t help kissing him over and over again. You keep the kisses feather-light before drawing back and resting your forehead gently against his. Your voice is a whisper as you murmur, "I love you, Jake. So much. Don't you ever, ever do this again, Jake. Finding out you'd been hurt was the worst day of my life."

"I know, baby doll. I'm sorry. I didn't intend on getting hurt. Forget getting hurt so badly. Can you ever forgive me?" His words make you gasp and shake your head. As if he were to blame.

It's as you settle back into the chair by his bedside that you respond with one word. "Always."

His smile is tired and soft as he murmurs back, "I love you." You sit in that chair watching as his face smooths, the lines fading as he drifts off to sleep. You press another kiss against his lips and settle in to watch over him. Jake's safe and home. There’ll be rough times ahead as he heals, but you can rest now.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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🚙 @love2write2626

🚙 @little-wiseone

🚙 @eli2447

🚙 @f1maverick

🚙 @desert-fern

🚙 @daphne-turner

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🚙 @kmc1989

🚙 @dempy

🚙 @mamaskillerqueen

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haro-whumps · 4 years

Text

Box Boy Photoshoot

(CW: slavery, brainwashing, dehumanization, creepy+intimate whumper)

Tag list: @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr @spiffythespook

Masterlist

“Hello, ma’am?”

Ren was blithely ignoring Soren’s second week of lyric dancing, their laptop out in front of them and a mug of cider steaming softly nearby. Soren was sweaty and panting hard on the other side of the glass, the sole student of this particular dance instructor, and thus, the recipient of her undivided attention.

Across from them, a man in a suit was sitting down. The table was built for one.

“Hello, ma’am!” he tried again, and again Ren did not lift their eyes from their computer screen. But they supposed he wouldn’t leave if they only ignored him.

“Not a ma’am,” they said blandly.

“Ah, hello sir?”

“Not a sir,” they said with a sip from their mug, eyes still on their laptop.

“Valued customer!” the man said brightly. They lifted their eyes and paused their music, but their headphones remained in. “I am a representative of Whumpee’s-R-Us’s marketing team, Jon Dillan!” he said brightly, extending his hand over the top of Ren’s laptop. Ren shook the outstretched hand, then immediately pulled out their bottle of travel hand sanitizer and did not care that he could see them squirt out a bit and coat their hands. They knew the statistics about men and public bathrooms. Filthy things, men’s hands.

“A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” Ren said flatly, still not sure why their Monday evening was being interrupted, but curious enough to scrounge up some manners. After all, if this man proved valuable, they could definitely use him.

“We here at Whumpee’s-R-Us are releasing a new advertising campaign, encouraging the destitute and desperate to exchange their lives for comfort and splendor, and perhaps sparking a little good-natured competition among valued customers like yourself to buy our more lavish products,” Jon said with a wink that might have been sly and conspiratory if he weren’t holding himself so stiffly. Ren did have to give him points for his facial expressions, though, if only his spine weren’t… like that.

“I see,” Ren prompted, removing one earbud. Jon did not miss it, and took the cue as Ren had intended it.

“We’ve noticed that your pet is very well cared for, as well as quite attractive, in a perfectly objective sense,” Jon rushed on the last part, holding up a hand in easy submission. Ren’s possessive flare of emotion sputtered in their chest, unshown and largely unfelt. Yes, Soren was attractive, and yes, Ren did like flaunting that fact, and they appreciated that the man quelled their other concerns so they could simply enjoy showing off their lovely, lovely boy. “Would you have any interest in allowing us to feature him in our campaign?”

“That depends,” Ren said, removing their other earbud. “What would featuring him entail?”

“Largely just photographs, ideally within your home so as to illustrate the lavish life available to those who sign up for the program. A brief interview would be conducted, mostly just to mine for quotable material, and you will, of course, be compensated for the use of your pet. A standardized rate is, quite naturally, more than available to you, however, we also noticed that you bring your box boy here frequently for classes, and my supervisor has approved offering you unlimited free classes for all and any of your Whumpee’s-R-Us brand pets, present and future, should you so desire it.”

Ren tapped their index fingers in front of their chin, the rest of their fingers steepled, and then asked, “Would you be negotiable towards adding harpist courses, if I choose the second arrangement?” Soren had dance on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so, “On Sundays, specifically.” Their angel playing a harp on Sunday. Perfect.

“I can certainly look into it!” Jon said amicably, and Ren shut their laptop, lacing their fingers and resting their chin on the backs, staring vacantly at Soren. The lyric dance instructor had taken two warnings not to touch property that wasn’t hers, but had remained hands-off since.

Ren weighed the pros and cons. They liked showing off; a lot. They liked the idea of other people knowing that Soren was theirs, that he was their precious, beautiful pet. They liked the idea of free classes, and since emailing the company hadn’t worked, strong-arming them into adding harp lessons was just as well, as long as Ren’s goal was accomplished in the end. Their home would be the setting, secure, their domain. There was nothing that came immediately to mind in way of downsides.

“Draft up a contract and email it to me; I’d prefer to look over it before forwarding it to my lawyer,” Ren said, digging out a business card and handing it to Jon. “In the contract, ensure that there is a statute that all photographers, interviewers, and assorted Whumpee’s-R-Us staff will not touch the pet in question, and that they will remove their shoes and any coats or jackets in the entryway or foyer.” They didn’t want dirt and germs getting tracked all over their carpets.

Jon seemed a little taken aback by the second point, though perfectly expectant of the first.

“If harp lessons can be provided, I would prefer the option of free classes. If not, I am negotiable on the fee, but will largely be leaving that to the discretion of my lawyer.” Well, their mama’s lawyer, but she’d been their lawyer for as long as they’d needed one, so she could certainly be counted as theirs.

“Marvelous,” Jon said with a bright smile, and extended his hand again, before thinking the better of it.

“Agreed,” Ren said, lifting their mug with a tilt of their head, and then took a sip. They’d spent enough time contemplating the offer that the class was now over, Soren coming into the viewing area on shaking legs and sinking to his knees at Ren’s feet. On reflex, they carded their fingers through his (damp, sweaty) hair.

“Well, I’d better get on that then. I’ll send you the contract as soon as it’s drafted, and it was a pleasure speaking with you…” Jon glanced at the business card. “Ren.”

“Likewise. I look forward to our arrangement.”

Soren glanced up at Jon’s retreating back, then turned his big, doe-eyes on Ren. “Exalted?”

Ren smiled down at him. “You just might be a model, Soren,” Ren said, “In all likelihood, you will be. Whumpee’s-R-Us need pretty little Box Boys in their new homes for a campaign they’re running, and you’re terribly pretty, and I have a very lovely home. They’re going to come take your picture and ask you a couple questions, sometime sooner or later.”

Soren’s hand lifted to his collar, gripping it gently, and Ren smiled at the sight. “And, you’ll be there?”

“The whole time, angel,” Ren said. Like they’d ever allow strangers to wander about their home unsupervised, and like they’d ever leave Soren alone with any of them.

Soren smiled up with relief, with devotion, and Ren kissed their sweaty hairline. “Come, pet, let’s get you home and in the shower.”

“Yes, Ren,” Soren said with a contented sigh.

The next evening, Ren received an email containing the contract, which they read over. They did have a degree in law, a minor, but still, so they largely understood it and approved of its contents, but forwarded it to their lawyer anyway to double check. She had one suggested revision, which Ren took, and the Whumpee’s-R-Us legal department accepted it without fuss. Wednesday, Soren had ballet classes, so it was Thursday that a modest crew appeared on Ren’s front doorstep.

“Welcome, please remove your shoes,” they greeted, holding the door open. They’d taken great pleasure in dressing Soren up just so, that day, and he struck a particularly beautiful figure, hanging nervously behind Ren. His hair was long again, long enough that Ren wasn’t going to buy any more of the specialized products for growth, now focusing on maintenance and hair health, and the color was that perfect gold. All the time spent on the balcony had left his skin honeyed and deeply freckled once more. He was wearing fluttering white and off-white clothing, the sleeves rippling bells around his wrists, the pants loose with a skirt cape trailing the carpet behind him. And all over him was gold, golden jewelry, golden makeup, gold nails, a gold belt.

They snapped a couple photos of Soren in the living room, perched in the kitchen, but Ren suspected those were just warm up shots. Soren’s room was obviously the location for the photos, more to the point, and better suited to Soren’s appearance. They took many photos in Soren’s bedroom, some of him settled on the settee, some with him snuggled comfortably, though lavishly, on his overly plush bed, the cushions and the duvet half-hiding his face, golden hair giving him a curtain that added intrigue. The balcony shots were particularly appealing, the wind was really working with them that day, and when a particularly strong gust blew a lock of hair into Soren’s face and he instinctively reached up to push it back, the camera shutter sounded like a quiet machine gun, it was going off so fast.

He was so candid, so genuinely sweet and precious, so beautiful, the photographers hardly had to do more than vaguely direct him and they were provided with more material than they had likely anticipated.

“If we may interview the pet, now?” the woman in charge asked Ren, and they nodded their head with a sweep of their hand as though to say “go ahead.”

“And I will, naturally, be receiving every one of those photos, as per our arrangement,” Ren mentioned to the photographer, who was flipping through the camera, skimming through the selection. He gave them a good natured chuckle and a quick thumbs-up.

The interview really was just a mine for quotes, and Soren spent a large portion of it with his hand on his collar, smoothing his thumb over the plate that bore his name. Soren. The name that Ren had given him, the inscription proof that they owned every inch of him, from his body to his mind down to his very identity.

“Soren,” Ren called when they were done, “Heel.”

Soren was at their feet in and instant, pressed up against their leg, his body singing with relief. “Well done, darling.” Ren turned their eyes to the photographer. “One more?” Ren suggested, before squatting down, hand on the curve of Soren’s neck, and pressed a kiss to his temple. The camera shutter clicked.

“And yes, you may use that in your campaign if you want,” Ren said airily, standing back up. Soren looked up at them with an adoring smile, and followed after as Ren saw the crew out.

“Do you really think they’ll use me, Exalted?” Soren asked quietly after the door had closed, watching their cars and van turning on through the panel windows.

Ren tweaked his nose between two fingers, jiggling his head a little. “Of course, darling, they’d be fools not to.”

Ren went to pour themself a drink, and then mentioned, off-handedly. “Oh, and you’re enrolled in harp classes on Sundays, now.”

#whump #slavery #dehumanization #pet #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #possessive behavior #this chapter is mostly just a setup for future events #brainwashing #ren #soren #mine #writing #box boy #bbu #slave #dependency

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mushroomminded · 5 years

Text

Mend Until You’re Whole

The Aftermath of Bend Until You Break

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Written by @fundeadasylum, illustrated by myself.

Warning for light medical gore.

Dan and Jake had thought the worst was behind them once they’d walked out the doors with Milo in their arms. It should have been smooth sailing from then on—take Milo home, help him recover, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Naivety to think that way, maybe, but it was a hopeful naivety born out of love and the wish for safety.

It never occurred to them that taking Milo straight home wouldn’t be a viable option.

Their armed escort herded them to the back of an ambulance and they climbed in without question. Milo, almost asleep with exhaustion and warm in Dan’s arms, didn’t stir at all until the doors slammed shut with a bang, jolting him out of his half-sleep state. His wide eyes darted across the interior of the ambulance as it rumbled to life and set off down the street, sirens quiet so as not to draw more attention. The chemical smell made his heart race, the stretcher sending his brain into fight or flight, and he squirmed in Dan’s arms, tiny noises of fright escaping him as he bumped the top of his head against Jake’s shoulder.

“Milo, Milo, hey, sshh, Milo, it’s okay, it’s okay, I promise,” Dan gave the teenager a gentle squeeze and then immediately loosened his grip when Milo bucked against him, “Milo, buddy, ssshhh, shh, it’s okay. Hey. Hey, Milo, look at me. Milo. Up here, kiddo.”

Frightened eyes darted up to meet Dan’s worried gaze, glazed in confusion for a moment before clarity settled in and he tucked his face into Dan’s shoulder with a shuddering sigh. Jake’s shaking fingers carded gently through Milo’s hair, trepidation and fear and relief dancing across his features in equal measure.

This was not going to be the pleasant reunion they had been expecting.

———

It wasn’t.

Though Milo had calmed down by the time they reached the hospital, he refused to let the EMTs near him and would only curl deeper into Dan’s arms, glaring at them with his jaw clenched as if resisting the urge to bite them. Tremors shook his thin frame from time to time and he kept twisting around to make sure Dan and Jake were still there.

He clung to Dan when they tried to convince him to get on the stretcher, eyes misting with frightened and angry tears he stubbornly tried to keep from falling. With an apologetic glance at the EMTs, Dan carefully followed Jake out of the ambulance and in through the emergency room doors to the hospital proper.

Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise what happened, all things considered. But relief had a way of draping a blanket of security over rational; they’d dropped their guard once they’d left the Facility grounds.

Milo got one whiff of chemical cleaner, of chalky medicine, of faded blood, saw the flash of scrubs and heard the murmur of medical terms, and he screamed.

He thrashed in Dan’s arms and it was all the man could do to keep the boy from falling to the floor. He and Jake desperately tried to calm Milo down as his screams broke into heaving sobs and begging. His choked words tore cold fear through the men as the pleas tumbled out of Milo’s mouth,

“P-please, no, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise! N-not the—no! Please, I don’t want—not the chair! Don’t cut me—don’t take them out—please! I’ll be a good boy! I’ll be good! Please, please!”

———

He had to be sedated, of course. And that went about as well as they could expect. More thrashing, more screaming, more tears.

Jake had his face in his hands at Milo’s bedside, looking more drawn and exhausted than he had earlier. The tension had yet to leave him, the ridges of his spine harsh through the back of his dress shirt where he was doubled over his lap, reading misery in every line of his body. Dan was slouched in the chair next to him, staring vacantly at the shallow rise and fall of Milo’s chest in the hospital bed. The beeping of the heart monitor was too loud.

There were a lot of tests that needed to be done, a lot of injuries to heal, a lot of pain to undo. It would take a long time. It would have taken a lot of money if the government wasn’t paying for everything as penance for their facility’s errors. Small fucking penance that it was.

“When did our lives turn into this?” Dan said hoarsely, something lost and not a little hopeless in his expression, “What happened to us?”

Jake raised his head, gaze falling on the body of the teenager that used to be their friend,

“Who the hell knows. Some kind of karmic bullshi—stuff?” He cast a glance at Dan, dark humor steepled in his voice, “You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?”

Dan blinked and the ghost of an angry smirk twisted the corner of his mouth, something feral and angry and unfamiliar,

“No. But in that place…kinda wish I had.”

Jake knew what he meant.

———

Milo did not like the hospital. That went both without saying and was to be expected. But it didn’t make things any easier.

When Dan and Jake weren’t around, he cried and kicked and made things generally difficult for everyone, refusing to cooperate with unfamiliar adults. If any of them grew frustrated or displayed signs of anger around him, he shrank away in terror, holding his arms over his head or begging not to be hurt. Even when his dads were around, he still struggled, keening in distress if he saw a needle or if someone moved too quickly. He clung to them, curling up in the safety of Dan’s big arms or tucking his head under Jake’s chin and snuggling into his lap. It was an ordeal to separate him from either one of them and no one was keen to do it. With enough reassurances and gentle coaxing, he would cooperate but it was a delicate and careful thing.

Milo was scared, on edge, and panicked easily. He clung to the big stuffed shark his dads had brought him on one of their visits and wouldn’t let it go, not for a second. He screamed in the middle of the night, waking other patients and sending nurses into a frenzy. When the doctors brought up moving him into a psychiatric ward, the thundercloud that Daniel Fuller became filled the room with a swelling rage and a look of such ferocity that the doctor immediately changed the subject and never brought it up again.

A psychiatrist was brought in to talk with both men and Milo himself. It took several weeks of careful nudging but Milo eventually talked. And when he talked, he broke down into gasping sobs and clutched his plush shark to his chest as if he could keep it all from spilling out the horrid scars in his skin.

———

The staples had to come out eventually.

Milo didn’t want to go under, didn’t want to be knocked out, and hyperventilated at the suggestion. It took him hours to calm down and even after he would snap at any doctors or nurses who came too close.

“How much will it hurt him?” Jake asked while Dan sat in the background, rocking Milo gently to soothe him, “If he’s awake for it, I mean. How much will it hurt?”

The attending physician rubbed the back of his neck, looking disgruntled but not angry, “Honestly, taking the staples out probably won’t hurt all that much. The problem is…after they come out. We’ll need to assess the damages, check his organs, lots of fun poking around. Then he’ll have to be properly sewed up and bandaged.” The doctor sighed, offering an apologetic, one-shouldered shrug, “Given the way he’s reacting to everything, I can’t imagine he’d be very keen on letting us do any of that.”

Jake but his lip, glanced over his shoulder at where Dan was murmuring softly into Milo’s hair. It made his heart ache, seeing what was left of the bright and brilliant Milo, seeing the shell of an empty firecracker tossed to the side of road. God, but it made him hurt in a way he hadn’t hurt since he’d had his heart broken during his teenage years.

No, it hurt even more than that.

“Fuck…” He groaned, “I—I mean, sorry, it’s—shoot.”

The doctor chuckled weakly, “It’s all right, I’ve heard worse. Look, um, I’ll talk to the kid’s psychiatrist and see what he recommends. See if you and your partner can’t talk some sense into the boy. This needs to happen; sooner, rather than later.”

“My—no, Dan’s not—nh…” Jake’s reaching hand dropped to his side, his shoulders slumping. He stared at the closed door of the hospital room for a moment and then turned to face the room’s two other occupants.

This was going to be one hell of a conversation.

———

In the end, the kept Milo awake but so high on numbing agents and gases he could hardly process anything around him. And as long as he stayed out of the way, Jake was allowed to stand by Milo’s head and offer him gentle reassurances through a medical mask and latex gloves.

Dan kept crying and so he was regulated to the observation room of the operating theatre. If Jake looked up he could see the larger man’s hands pressed against the glass, his cheeks wet with tears as he tried to see what was going on. Once in a while, he would meet Jake’s eyes and mouth something that might have been “how’s he doing”. And Jake would look down at the little boy whose head was cupped gently between his hands, eyes dull and lidded with drugs, occasionally twitching his head back and forth against the feel of the rubber mask over his face. Then he’d look up again and give Dan a shaky thumbs up, forcing a wide enough smile to make his eyes crinkle even if he didn’t mean it.

Milo was terrifyingly still during the operation, his breathing shallow, his comprehension minimal. But when he blinked himself awake enough to realize where he was, he’d begin to fret and struggle against the drugs weighing down his mind and body.

In those moments, Jake would lean down, brushing Milo’s hair or massaging his temples, and murmur softly to him. Most of the time it was promises that everything would be okay or the temptations of sweet treats when they finally made it home. Sometimes it was stories of his days in a band, things he wouldn’t normally talk about.

Once, and only once, it was almost a confession of the truth.

———

“MILO!”

The teenager jumped and looked up in time to get an armful of his best friend as Cody threw himself into Milo’s hospital bed.

It was far enough into Milo’s recovery that he’d gained back nearly all the weight and muscle mass he’d lost, but he still looked pale and drawn. The heavy bags under his eyes still clung like grim reminders of his ordeal and his chest was a lacework of bandages and tender stitches. But he still laughed when he saw Cody, laughed until he cried, and hugged the other boy as tightly as he could. It was only the twinge of pain from his chest that made him release his friend with a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, sorry! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Cody wiped the tears from his face, his hands fluttering over Milo as if he could do something to help.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Milo’s voice was choked and he curled his fingers into Cody’s shirt, “I’m just…so happy you’re here. I missed you, dude.”

“I missed you too.”

———

Cody told him how his story had been all over the news, how everyone had been talking about it, how there was a lot of yelling back and forth from people in power. The government had shut down the Facility and apparently the staff were all in prison while everybody fought over what had happened.

“What’s school been like?” Milo asked quietly and Cody’s demeanor shifted, looking away to watch his fingers twirl into the hospital sheets.

“Honestly, not great,” Cody said, “There’s a lot of rumors and stuff going around. Other kids have been asking me a lot of questions. Sometimes the press would sneak onto the school grounds, try and interview people. It’s been awful.” He looked up again, a wane smile on his face, “But you’re back so everything will be okay again…!”

Milo hummed, turning to face the only window in his private hospital room, watching the dust motes swirl in the sunlight spilling onto the cold tile floor. There was a contemplative look on his face, brow furrowed. The bright lights of the hospital made him look worse than he was; drawing out the still heavy bags under his eyes, sharpening the shallow jut of his cheekbones, and caving in the dip of his clavicle peeking through the top of his hospital gown. He looked older, exhausted and drained and still teetering towards the corpse-like side of pale. “Milo…?” Cody murmured, soft, wary, worried. His hand stretched out, tentative and maybe a little frightened, and he tucked his fingers into Milo’s palm, clasping his friend’s hand in his own. Milo turned to look at him again, lips twitched in a tired imitation of a smile, but his eyes warm. “’S gonna be different from now on, huh?” “Yeah,” Cody said, “Maybe.” There was another stretch of silence, filled only with the background buzz of hospital activity outside the door and the steady beat of the heart monitor. Cody sucked in a breath, let it out again, hesitated before words haltingly tumbled out of his mouth, “Will you…tell me? Someday? Not now, I mean, but someday, will you tell me what happened? What really happened? Just—you don’t have to—but just…if I can help…” Milo’s hand tightened around Cody’s and he slumped forward, bumping his head into his friend’s shoulder, hiding his face in the other boy’s jacket. His spine was a jagged ridge down his back. The curve of something black poked out from the edge of his gown, harsh and dark against his pale skin. Cody brought a hand up and curled it gently into the short hair at the back of Milo’s head, comforting, supportive, reassuring. “Maybe,” Milo’s voice whispered into the quiet, breath hot against the soft fabric of his best friend’s jacket, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you. But right now, I just want to forget.”

———

Milo didn’t want to look at himself when they removed the bandages from his chest.

But he did.

His heart stuttered against his ribs and he bit his lip hard, blinking to keep the tears inside because he refused—refused—to cry anymore.

The staples were gone but the memory on his flesh would remain. Pink and tender and held together by stitches that they told him would naturally dissolve when he’d healed. There were damages that could not be repaired, though; severed nerves and split muscles that would leave him weakened for the rest of his life. Pain would be frequent throughout the healing process and possibly still haunt him afterwards, phantom twinges that would taunt him with memories he sorely wished to forget.

Milo swallowed a shaky breath and raised a trembling hand. His fingertips rested gently on the line of stitches down his sternum. They tingled like live wires, stinging slightly against the palm of his hand as he ran his hand down to his stomach,

It didn’t feel like his body anymore.

And the thought made the pain all the worse.

——— Leaving the hospital sucked. Not as much as being in the hospital sucked, but it still sucked. It sucked because they wouldn’t let Milo walk out on his own two feet, insisting that he be pushed out in a wheelchair. It sucked because Jake had a bag of pills and a stack of papers for diet and exercise and therapy sessions. It sucked because the press had been hovering like vultures trying to get a glimpse of Milo since he’d been freed from the Facility. It sucked because Milo should have been excited about finally being able to go home. He should have been thrilled, overjoyed, grinning with happiness. But instead he was scared. As much as he hated being there, the hospital was familiar, it was routine, it was almost horribly normal with its white walls and fluttering machines. Home should have seemed normal too. But to Milo it felt like a massive chasm stretching down into infinite blackness in front of him while someone shouted from the sidelines that there really was a bridge it was just invisible and all he had to step out over that vast emptiness. Nothing could ever be the same, not after the Facility, not after what he’d been through. Not after what they’d all been through. ——— Settling Milo in was difficult. He crept tentatively through the house as if he was in a stranger’s home and was afraid of going somewhere he shouldn’t. Silence made him fidgety and strangers knocking on the door made him bolt. He didn’t really cry if Dan or Jake left the room, but the whimpering noise Milo would make when one of them was out of his sight was an animalistic sound of fear and distress that wrenched their hearts. He trailed after one or both of them like a lost duckling, plucking at the hems of their shirts and squashing himself against their backs or sides, soaking in their warmth.

“Milo, sweetheart, you gotta eat,” Jake murmured, brushing his hand through the boy’s hair. Milo was staring at the plate of cooked rice and softened vegetables in front of him, his nose wrinkled and his hands in his lap. “M’ not hungry,” Milo told the plate of food. “Just a few bites?” Jake ventured hopefully, “For me?” No response, “If not for me then for Dan? You know he’s going to get all mushy and wear that kicked puppy look the rest of day if he finds out you didn’t eat.” Milo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried not to smile, “Are you using Dan to guilt trip me?” “Me? Guilt trip? Never.” Jake scoffed, unable to keep the smile off his own face, “But…between you and me, I know where Dan hid the ice cream in the freezer. So if guilt tripping doesn’t work, there’s always bribery.” Milo laughed. He laughed and even though it tugged painfully at the mutilated skin on his chest and made him a little bit dizzy, it felt good. He cleaned up his entire plate of food. Then he laughed again when Dan whined at them both for taking his ice cream.

#art tag #bummers #bend until you break #fics #mico #milo #dan #jake

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xeina-channel · 5 years

Text

Church Kids Proper (Short Story)

The building was dilapidated and eaten away in a way that made it seem to sag under its own weight. Even the stained glass had been eroded to the extent that it didn’t seem to depict anything in particular, only serving to show off bright multi-colored blobs of half-dissolved glass. At the head of the church, the windows were in better shape, and one preserved figure could be seen leaning down towards the steeple. Someone had thrown a rock through it and so it was missing its face.

Suzie leaned low against the side of a church bench, setting her backpack down next to her as she slid to the floor. A moment later, her two companions joined her in a similar fashion, sitting across the aisle from her so that their bodies formed a lopsided triangle.

“It wasn’t so hard to find, really,” said the smaller of the two boys as he unfolded a thin blanket from his pack. “I mean you were able to take your car most of the way out here, and the rest was pretty much just walking in a straight line.” The words echoed in the rusting acoustics of the building, creating the odd feeling that a number of other voices had taken up the habit of repeating the boy’s phrase.

Instead of responding, Suzie hunched backward over her backpack. Unzipping it, she produced two dusty glass bottles, one was half-full, the other completely so. Instead of placing them on the floor, she placed the two containers near the elbow of her right arm and let them roll down towards the ground. They were angled such that they stopped at roughly the group’s center point.

Somewhat reluctantly, the smaller boy reached towards the half-full bottle. As he was about to touch it, he reconsidered, and instead took the unopened one. Instead of screwing the top off, he placed the container so that its bottom dug into the rotted wood of the church floor. “It is a bit creepy though, I guess. I think it managed to hold onto that weird ‘judging’ feeling churches give off.” He swirled his head in a lazy arc. “Nice though.” Noting the repeated lack of a response, he finally decided to open the bottle.

Suzie looked up at him, her somewhat sunken eyes seeming almost disappointed. “Need the bottle opener?” Noah nodded and she threw the tool across the aisle to him. Leaning so that he was putting his weight unnecessarily onto the bottle’s neck, he snapped the lid off, sending some of the bottle’s contents spilling with the sudden downwards motion. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Almost theatrically, Noah raised the bottle to his lips with both hands. He threw it back. As he swallowed, his face contorted into a sort-of partially hidden grimace. “It tastes great!” He chirped up regardless.

Where his voice had been high and melodic, Suzie’s came out as an almost toneless rasp. “No, it doesn’t.” She raised her own bottle to her lips and swallowed. “I don’t know how people drink the stuff.”

Speaking up for the first time, the second boy turned towards Noah. “Don’t drink any more of that., “ he said. Noah quickly passed the object over the blanket and placed it next to the other boy. Lifting up the corner of the blanket, the second boy scooted under, quickly covering himself. Above the blanket, the pair knitted their fingers at the point where their legs were pressed together.

Suzie shifted a bone-thin arm so that the held bottle hung loosely from her fingertips. “Gay,” she rasped out. When the taller boy glared across the blanket at her, she continued. “It’s fine though.”

A little to the side of him, Noah piped up again, keeping his voice only a little above a whisper. “Is this really okay?” He swiveled his head around the room again. “Theo?”

The boy to his left nodded again, and, unsure that the message had gotten across, scooted a bit closer. The silence hung for a second, just long enough to be uncomfortable. Suzie spoke up again and in the tense quiet of the church, her voice sounded like it was close to shouting. “I’ve got work in an hour.” she spat. “I’m supposed to get Thursday and Friday off, but they’re short-staffed. No weekend for little Suzie, it would seem.”

She paused for a minute, then began laughing gruffly under her breath. “I’m surprised they still want me, I get about as much work done for them as I would unemployed.” She angled her head a bit more towards Theo. “You’ve had me for a group project before, you know as good as anyone that I’m pretty much worthless when it comes to actually doing things.”

Theo was about to respond when Noah abruptly cut him off. As he stared accusatorily into Suzie, Noah’s voice came out high and protesting. “Please don’t say such mean things about yourself.” He paused for emphasis. “That’s my friend you’re talking about.”

Facial features seemingly materializing from behind his thick wreath of hair, Theo broke out into an uncharacteristically boyish smile. “Holy shit, Noah.”

Suzie was similarly taken aback. “Oh my God, Theo!” As she spoke, her voice crescendoed up so that it almost cracked. “I don’t think you can even kiss him! I don’t even think he can even know what kissing is!”

Theo was still smiling, “I think you’re right, I think I’d be like, legally penalized or something.”

Noah had opened his mouth to offer a protest when he was cut short by a sudden shrieking noise. It sounded like metal-on-metal, an ear-piercing screeching that leaped into the church with a suddenness that made fractured glass shake. For a seemingly prolonged second, the whole church seemed to tremble. In the shock of the moment, Noah felt his words die irreversibly before they could even make it past his lips.

As the sound ricocheted through the dilapidated church, Theo straightened. He sat seemingly oblivious as Noah squeezed himself into him, under the blanket. As soon as the sound had died out, his deep voice was all too happy to fill the void. “I’ve heard it’s logging or something.” He said, staring vacantly through one of the church’s many gaps. “Apparently there hasn’t been any sort-of construction permit to excuse it though. One of my teachers was saying that she thought it was some sort of unsanctioned land removal project one of the neighboring cities was carrying out.”

The sound was repeated, and somewhere near the church, Theo could hear a flock of birds take off in a sudden burst of shrieking and fluttering. Across the aisle, Suzie was having similar ideas. She checked her phone and hissed.

“We’d better be gettin’ back,” said Suzie, as she reluctantly rose to her feet. “Sorry to interrupt you two, but unless you plan on walking home, I’m guessing you’re gonna have to move.” She extended a hand and Noah took it, letting the larger girl pull him to his feet. Theo moved slower, standing as if he were a sleeping bear recently woke. He gathered the blanket and stuffed it into his bag.

As the trio moved out of the church, Theo and Noah began trailing a bit behind. Suzie pushed open the wet and rotted door they’d entered through. Behind her, she could hear the young couple talking in muttered voices.

Noah was turned worriedly towards his boyfriend, when he spoke his voice came out in a way that made it seem as if it belonged to someone far younger than him. “Is this really okay?” He asked for the second time that day.

When Theo spoke, his voice was deep and husky. Suzie couldn’t quite make out what he said as he leaned into his partner. The two of them straightened and followed Suzie through the rotted door. The metal noise sounded again and that was about all that happened that day.

#short story #writing #lgbt fiction #fiction #creative writing #critique appreciated

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girlwithlove7 · 6 years

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THE CLOAKED PIANIST

Genre: Magic realism

Characters: Bangtan Sonyeondan

Word count: 2372

AUTHORS NOTE

Hey, guys, I am finally back. Now I know you guys really want to read the “IT’S OFFICIAL’ series and I promise I will write it, but right now i wanted to write this first. its been stuck in my head since very long. i hope you guys like it! [Also, i might be working on a Taehyung Fanfic. All i can tell you about that fic is that Tae has tattoos]

Frustration has once again begun to uncoil and claw its way up to his chest. The rage was evident as his stubborn body has finally surrendered and let the tears trail down his face. The helplessness seemed to have wrapped itself around him like a python.

Yoongi felt lost.

When every fiber of his nerves began to scream, he slammed the pen on his littered desk. He stood up with such force that his leather chair flipped and fell backward. An inhuman shriek escaped his trembling lips, pushing everything on his table, angrily. He waited and watched as his hard work pooled around his feet in disarray.

Behind him, he heard the faint click of his studio door unlocking. Yoongi wanted to turn around and look at them. He tongues’ burning, ready to scream out his agony. But his body was giving up. Today was the third day since his insomnia struck him once again.

His legs had begun to tremble and as soon as his body gave up and his knees came in contact with the linoleum flooring, two hands wrapped around his midsection, holding him in a death grip.

Yoongi didn't have to look at the person to know who it was. Hoseok's grip was tight, almost bone crushing. But for Yoongi, it was the only thing stopping him from fading into the depths of insanity.

Yoongi hiccupped, and unknowingly his tongue began to address his agony. But Yoongi wasn't wailing or yelling. Rather he was whispering.

A faint helpless whisper.

"I can't...I can't...," He begged just like a sinner pleading for the Lord's mercy.

"Shh..." Hoseok responded as he cradled Yoongi's inert body.

For how long he sat in Hoseok's embrace, Yoongi wasn't aware. But the only thing he remembers was the darkness. Chasing him like the boogeyman chases the little ones. And when the boogeyman did get his claws on him, he finally surrendered to the darkness.

Hoseok and Jin were greeted with five worried faces as they stepped out of Yoongi's bedroom. The restlessness was tangible in every breath, every anxious eye-contact.

"He is asleep," Hoseok declared exhausted. He collapsed on the huge couch next to Namjoon, his head leaning on the headrest. Eyes tightly shut as bright violet blossomed under his own eyes.

"He will be fine, right hyung?" Jimin inquired in a low voice. The silence was overwhelming, yet none of them ignored the quiver in his voice.

Seokjin heaved a deep sigh, "He is fine. It's just that," He poured himself a glass of water and sat down next to a quiet Jungkook, "...He is a bit exhausted."

"I don't think so..." it was Jimin again. Before all the eyes turn to Jimin questioningly, Namjoon cleared his throat, "He is more frustrated than exhausted."

Now all eyes were trained on Namjoon. Hoseok sat up and nodded in agreement.

"He hasn't written a word or produced a single melody in three whole weeks. I think that's what is eating him up."

"Well, did he speak to any one of you?" Seokjin questioned.

Both the rappers shook their head in negation. After a moment Hoseok added, "It's the party. He has been acting strange since the party last month."

"I don't understand how a simple get together effects someone's ability to produce music," Seokjin added astonished.

"It wasn't the party, hyung," Taehyung spoke dreamily, "It was the performance..." He looked up steadily at Seokjin, "...that one particular performance."

It was a grand structure molded in the center left of the stage; all shiny, pitch black until the pianist lifts the fall. The row of pure white keys falls into view.

Yoongi's eyes roved the grand piano. It shimmered in the sparkling stage light, bright, beautiful and breath-taking. Along the wood that lines the top of each key, he recognized the curling golden letters that spell, "STEINWAY AND SONS." The beautiful name itself highlighted its elegance, excellence, and expensiveness.

"One of a kind," Yoongi whispers as his eyes landed on the pianist. A female pianist. From where he stood, nothing more was visible but her side profile. He sips his wine and observes the pianist. She suavely raises her left hand to fix her mask of ornate red, black and gold leather. Now, if he glanced around everybody was draped in elegant, floor-length evening gowns and well-tailored suits. He himself had genuinely put an effort to appear presentable.

But the pianist's attire was entirely distinct. It was theatrical but voguish, a cloak like a magician with a flash of red silk beneath the collar. And the more he looked at her, the more he was reminded of a brilliant burst of blazing fire.

The others were lost somewhere in the crowd, leaving Yoongi leaning against one of the gigantic carved pillars with his fancy glass of Pinot Noir.

Music fills the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around every person in the room. Some react to the beat, others continue in chatter.

And instantly Yoongi no longer feels lonely.

The melody that the pianist produced was heavenly. Her eyes were not visible, but from the slight shadows of the hollow space for the eyes, Yoongi could see her closed eyelids. Sparks emitting as her fingertips came in contact with the ivory keys. Yoongi could feel the sudden birth of enthusiasm in the pit of his stomach. He felt every lift and press on the keys in his very pores. As if for him the surrounding had almost ceased to exist. The melody was soulful and the way the Pianist's hands glided over the ivory keys was nothing less than the whoosh of a magicians wand. And though Yoongi was a non-believer in Magic, he started to doubt his own beliefs.

He felt the warmth and the chill, both simultaneously.

He wanted to close his eyes, but he had somehow lost the ability. In an instant, he felt himself sailing through his memory lane.

He was no longer a twenty-five-year-old man, but a thirteen-year-old boy. He recollects how he used to balance a stick on the back of his hands, just along the knuckles while he played, ensuring proper posture. And that was one thing that he completely detested. He was a restless teen but nonetheless, determined. So, every time the stick slipped between his fingers, he would simply stare at it for a second, take a deep breath and begin again.

As a child, he had a short attention span. Maybe because he never truly developed a keen interest in anything. That is until the mellow, even harmony of the piano infiltrated his ears and entranced his very soul.

The coaxing, impossibly soothing melody pulled him back to reality. The extended decrescendo ending is as breath-taking as the built-up. Instantly, Yoongi could feel his flesh erupting in tiny gooseflesh. Mesmerized was an understatement, he could feel his very bones vibrating with thrill and pleasure.

Only when the hall erupted with loud applaud and appreciative remarks, did Yoongi realize that hot tears had sprung to his eyes.

"This is the second time this week," Namjoon said as he and Hoseok sat in Bang PD's polished, enclosed office.

The CEO grunted followed by profound silence. "Is he awake?" The CEO managed.

"No. He slept through ten hours straight" There was a nervous hint in Hoseok's voice.

"And what does the doctor say about his health? I hope he is not -"

"NO." Both the rappers declined at the same time. Hoseok continued, "...It's just exhaustion. He is over-burdening himself."

"You know how stubborn Yoongi hyung can be" Namjoon added uncomfortably.

Bang PD pushed aside the documents lying in front of him and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Fifteen days in Jeju island. I will have your tickets booked. Lock all your work and worries in this building and go have fun."

Both the rapper's eyes now resembled huge, round saucers. "PD nim," Namjoon began as he scooted on the edge of his chair, "...we really can't afford a break -"

"Listen to me Namjoon," The CEO interrupted him with determination, "I myself had conducted the auditions and selected Yoongi out of hundred odd participants. So now I simply refuse to believe that his abilities have just vanished in thin air. If his doctor says he is exhausted than he is exhausted and he will rest. Whether he approves of it or no."

Both the boys just kept staring at their CEO.

"Your physical and mental well-being is more valuable to me. Fifteen days on Jeju island. No further argument regarding this matter."

Yoongi stared at his ceiling vacantly, his body resting on the soft duet lifelessly. It's almost a month since the last production. He was sure that it was not just some 'Artist block' kind of thing. This was on the much deeper level. Forget about the flow of creative juices, his brain felt like dried cement.

He clearly remembers the pre-debut days. At the age of sixteen, he had left his home with nothing but few stolen cash money and ability and hope in his music. He humorously described it as the dark age of his life. Struggling even to have a proper meal.

The only thing that kept him going at that time was his belief, that no matter how rich or how poor he becomes, nobody can steal away his talent from him.

That was his magic.

But now, it’s as if everything is fading. He started playing the piano when he was just a teenager and yet now when he sits down to play, his fingers fail him. He just stares at the keys dumbly, as if seeing them for the first time.

His deepest concern was that his art has stopped speaking to him.

As his eyes began to sting, he heard the doorknob turn and he could see a tiny head with cotton candy hair peeking in.

"Hyung" Jimin called out his name softly and entered closing the door quietly.

Yoongi could see how restless the boy was. His hair was tousled and his eyes a bit too puffy. Even his attire was not very clean, a loose flannel shirt and khaki shorts. Yoongi felt his heart constrict in pain.

I am the reason for your restlessness, Jiminie.

But the boy stood there with a genuine smile on his face, giving Yoongi all the more reason for self-loathing.

"I see you are finally awake, hyung"

Yoongi averted his gaze and fixed it on the cream ceiling. He was well aware that his lacrimal gland will act up if he had eye-contact with the younger. He gulps in an attempt to clear his throat but it stings. And suddenly he was parched. He struggles to get up and manages to whisper out his confusion, "What time is it?"

Jimin made his way to his bedside while he was sitting up. The younger placed his warm palm on Yoongi's knee as he responded, "Its eleven...a.m"

There were heavy creases now lining Yoongi's forehead, "Wait, does that mean -"

"Yes," the younger interrupted calmly but left it to that. His thumb began to move in smooth comforting motion.

"What the hell!" Yoongi felt a slight pain in his head. Yes, he was known for his laziness and lethargic behavior but ten hours? Ten freaking hours? How in the name of God did he sleep for that long!

"Hyung!" the younger called out as Yoongi made his way out of the room. As soon as he stepped out he met with Jungkook and Jin - Jungkook immersed in his video game whereas Jin's eyes were roving through some documents. Upon looking up, Jin let out a delighted sound which captured Jungkook's attention as well.

"Oh, Yoongi! How are you -?"

"TEN FUCKING HOURS!" color had begun to rise up his pale cheeks. What terrified him most was his uncertainty. If he was angry with his brothers for letting him rest for this long or if he was angry with himself for losing himself in such a vulnerable manner was his utmost misery. "I..." the lump in his throat had taken a shape of a huge, smooth pebble.

Seokjin took a cautious step as if Yoongi was a time-bomb. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Yoongi" The elder called as if talking to an infant. If felt like mockery to Yoongi, made him feel like a tantrum-throwing teenager, who is trying to deal with his temper and peer pressure.

Namjoon and Hoseok had just entered the dorm room. They now stood frozen in their place. The moment Yoongi laid eyes on Hoseok, his agony once again began to flow through his eyes. Yoongi never let open his vulnerable side in front of anyone; anyone except Hoseok. Hoseok has seen it all. In fact, it is right to say that he had endured it all with Yoongi. There is no shying away, not from Hoseok.

"Hyung" Hoseok began. Yoongi could now feel tiny fingers wrap around his wrist. And soon warm, wet cheeks were resting against his trembling shoulder. Yoongi breathed in and looked around for a moment. Four pitiful eyes stared back at him. But his heart constricted when he noticed that more than pity, it was concern lacing their soft gazes.

"We have good news" Namjoon chirped in beamingly. Now all their attentions were on the two. When no one spoke, Namjoon continued, "We are going on a vacation" For a moment everyone just stared at him blankly. But when Hoseok joined in with his blinding smile, everybody started chattering excitedly.

But all excitement came to a halt when Yoongi whispered, "I can't take a break now"

"Hyung, come on its just - " Jimin was harshly interrupted by Yoongi.

"NO! I can’t. Not now. I haven't done anything since past one month. I... I can't just take a break from -"

"It’s PD nim's instructions" Hoseok added firmly.

"NO! I - "

"Hyung, this is not just about you. I think we all should take a break. In fact, we deserve a break" Hoseok stated. "So, whether you approve or not, we are going to Jeju island for a good, long, liberating vacation.”

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