Leo cracks an eye open and the fluorescent lights overhead immediately make him want to close it again. A muted wave of panic cuts through his chest at the sight of his left arm in plaster. That’ll mean being half as useful at work for God knows how long. The cast runs up over his elbow and his fingers sticking out the other end are wrapped in gauze of their own. At least he can move them, blood-ringed fingernails twitching. 

At least his right side— 

Aiden. 

God, who called him? There is no situation that warrants dragging that poor kid into a hospital. Ever. 

He’s sitting in a chair by the curtain that separates Leo from the next patient. Back ramrod straight and knees pulled up to his chest, somehow managing to fit even the toes of his shoes on the plastic seat in front of him from how tightly he’s curled in on himself. He looks hollowed out, trying to disappear. 

A doctor in a white coat rushes past the seam in the curtains at the foot of the bed and Aiden tenses like any minute one of them will tear him out of his chair. His eyes are rimmed with red. 

“Hey, buddy.” 

Aiden jumps, gaze snapping to Leo’s only after he checks that no one has materialized on the other side of the curtain to snatch him. Once he determines the coast is clear, he hurries to close the short distance between them and hover at Leo’s side. 

“Are you—Is…uhm—” 

Another doctor or nurse walks by and Aiden stiffens, glancing back to the gap in the curtains. 

“Hey, look at me.” Leo holds out his good hand and Aiden latches onto it with both of his. His eyes fill and he bites his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. 

Leo resists the urge to demand he name whoever told him to come here. And the subsequent urge to send Aiden packing. Back to the house, back to the version of himself that looks at home most places. He hasn’t looked this haunted in months. Months and months. Leo hates to imagine how many fears and triggers he had to face head on to make it this far, to be sitting at Leo’s bedside. 

“I’m okay,” Leo tells him, squeezing his hands tight. “A little banged up but I’ll be fine. Yeah?” 

Aiden nods, eyes tracing Leo’s face. They settle above his left eyebrow, sticking there long enough that Leo slips his hand free to feel for himself. There’s a bandage, a rough line of stitches raised beneath it. He doesn’t need a mirror to imagine what the rest of his face looks like on that side, Aiden’s crumpling expression tells him it’s bad enough. 

The poor kid lifts a shaking, sleeve-hidden hand to cover his mouth, turning his head away to hide the fact that he’s crying now. Toward the seam in the curtain because he still has to glance that way every few seconds. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He reaches for Aiden again and this time pulls him down into a one armed hug, ignoring the pinch of the IVs in his arm. Aiden folds over the railing of the bed like he’s boneless to collapse onto Leo’s chest. He muffles a shuddering, wrecked sob against Leo’s shoulder. 

“What if— you could’ve—” He clutches fistfuls of Leo’s hospital gown, can’t even finish voicing the thought and Leo doesn’t want him to. 

“Shhh. Baby, I’m right here.” 

Aiden only sobs again at that so Leo tugs him closer until Aiden concedes and climbs into the bed next to him. The gangly kid tucks his limbs close, trying to make himself as small as possible, and it tugs at Leo’s chest. He can’t remember the last time they did this. Nowadays, an arm around his shoulders on the couch after a frustrating day or a tight hug after a sleepless night is enough to settle him. Leo presses a chaste kiss against the crown of Aiden’s head, hating that he smells more like the tang of fear than of home but he’s already calming down. He even closes his eyes, now that he’s bodily against Leo, and Leo can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at being granted something so precious. 

In a show of typical dumpster fire hospital administration, it feels like more than an hour passes where they’re undisturbed. How his sister can work in this system is beyond Leo. 

Aiden has his head tucked down so that he can press his ear to Leo’s ribcage, right above his heart like it’s not enough for him that Leo is awake—holding him no less—and he actually needs the basest evidence that Leo’s right here and alive. 

“What’s your assessment?” he asks, hoping Aiden can hear the lightness in his tone. 

Aiden lifts his head to look at him anyway. “Good. Steady. It doesn’t…hurt?” 

“No, I feel drugged to the gills though.” 

“Fentanyl,” Aiden says seriously, fluently like he practiced it. He pushes himself up and deftly lowers the railing of the bed so he can swing one leg over the side. The seam of his jeans is suddenly fascinating. He picks at it with both hands at his bent knee. Leo rubs his back, waits for whatever he’s gearing up to say. “Your, uhm, ribs are…bruised. Stitches. On your leg. Your head…”

“Did they say anything about the other driver?” 

He shakes his head. “You might uhm, might have, a, an uhm, a concussion.” His fingers curl into fists on his lap. 

“I don’t feel dizzy or anything,” he says, hoping Aiden takes that as a good sign. The kid is still tense under his hand. “Hon, look at me.” 

His eyes are filmed with tears again but his jaw is set like he’s determined not to let them fall this time. 

“How long have you been here?” 

He shrugs but has to break eye contact to keep selling the indifference that only he’s buying. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and lays it on his thigh to hide the shaking in his hands. “Six hours.” It comes out a whisper. 

Leo swallows an uncomfortable wave of regret. He doesn’t have to ask if Delia’s working. If she wasn’t she would already be here. “Who called you?” 

“Some guy.” He fumbles trying to slide the phone back into his pants pocket and gives up, dropping it into his hoodie instead. “Delia’s uhm, intern. She was…in surgery.” 

“Well—” 

“Your, your—” He swallows in a way that makes Leo want to ask him if his throat is hurting. “—doctor called her first. She didn’t, didn’t want me to come. She…wanted me to wait. At home.”

“You should have.” 

Aiden frowns at him. 

Leo tries to lift his brows and winces when that tugs the mess on the left side of his face. Thankfully, Aiden is back to watching the opening in the curtains. 

“I tried,” Aiden admits in a small voice, like it’s something to be ashamed of and not exactly what Leo would have preferred. “Delia said you were...okay. But. It was…worse. Alone. W-wondering.” 

Fuck. Of course it was. Leo swallows. “I’m proud of you.” 

Aiden rolls his eyes. “Same as…staying?” 

Leo reaches up to tug his earlobe and Aiden scrunches his face up, all the while leaning into Leo’s hand on his jaw. “Yes. It was going to be hard either way so I’m proud of you either way.”  

Aiden feigns a pout that doesn’t reach the warmth in his eyes. He takes Leo’s hand off his face, considers it in both of his. “I—” 

The curtains part and the sight of blue scrubs and a white coat makes Aiden freeze. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Delia says breezily. She levels Leo with a fierce glare. “You.” 

Leo ignores her poor bedside manner and squeezes Aiden’s hand. He’s not breathing. Not even blinking, like his brain hasn’t caught up yet and his body is just hoping to disappear again. 

Delia clues in immediately and shrugs out of her white coat, tossing it over the foot of the bed and coming to stand in front of Aiden. She lays a hand on his arm and he flinches, reanimating to gasp in a sharp breath and squeeze the shit out of Leo’s hand. 

“Aiden?” Delia chases his gaze, looking into one eye and then the other. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” he says, voice wavering unconvincingly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes.”

“Good. So I can focus on killing Leo now.”

“I’m gonna need this back for defense.” He pulls at his hand, fingers starting to throb in Aiden’s death grip. 

Aiden lets go immediately, bringing his hands up to cover his mouth. “Ohshit. Sorry.” 

“You’re good.” 

“You on the other hand,” Delia cuts in. “Christ, Leo.” 

“It’s not like it was my fault.”

“You have a responsibility to both of us to be indestructible. Right, Aiden?” 

He nods adamantly. 

Leo grins. The two most important people in his life, gaining up on him. 

Delia huffs a laugh. “Look at that loopy smile. They aren’t messing around with the drugs here, huh? Let me find out when they’ll discharge you.” She ducks her head out of the curtain and asks someone to page Dr. Thompson. He’ll be down when he has time, ma’am. From the sound of it they didn’t even stop. Delia’s expression is soured when she turns around.  

“Oof. Not your kingdom, huh?” Leo teases. Aiden bites his lips together. 

She glares at Leo and roughly pulls her white coat back on, even digging her stethoscope out of the pocket to drape around her neck. It takes a minute of standing in the gap for her to find a new mark. This time she gets a right away, doctor. Apparently, the white coat is symbol enough. Embroidery naming a completely different hospital across town is just an insignificant detail. 

Aiden smirks. 

“That’s more like it,” she says, dropping into the chair. “You should get some rest, Leo.” 

“Right back at you. How long of a shift did you just come off?” 

“Seventeen hours. I got off early though, as soon as I could scrub out.” She stretches her legs in front of her and crosses her ankles. “I’ll be fine with some coffee. Seriously, close your eyes.” 

Aiden gives him an encouraging, if concerned, nod. 

“Fine, just for a minute…”

Unsurprisingly, given how much the ceiling had been spinning, Leo falls asleep right away.

He doesn’t know if Delia’s summons worked with any speed or at all. When he wakes again, there’s a stranger at his bedside and Aiden and Delia are in full crisis mode. 

Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

For the first time in as long as he can remember, he wakes up on his own. And not just because he’s trying not to be caught off guard like in the beginning. No Harrison slapping him or accosting him with an exam in place of an alarm. 

The head of the bed is still raised in a gentle recline. Harrison must have given him extra time to sleep, there’s no other explanation for how well-rested he feels. Harrison certainly has little, if any, life outside this place. That’s the only way he could hold down what must be a full-time job and manage to sneak down here for hours at a time. Did Harrison treat himself to a long breakfast? He can’t imagine Harrison sleeping in. Or sleeping at all for that matter. Is Harrison a perfunctory-only cook? He certainly has the precision to follow a recipe but there’s nothing creative about him. His Myers-Briggs is robot. 

(He’s doing it again, humanizing him.)

There was only one other time, at least that he can remember, when Harrison left him alone for what must have been days at a time. He actually started to worry the saline would run out. No explanation when Harrison returned and he was too afraid to ask in case it was a punishment. For all he knows, Harrison leaves him sedated for days or weeks at a time. The heart monitor picks up its pace at the thought and his palms start to sweat. 

By the time Harrison deigns to show up, he’s practically shaking. He pointedly ignores the opaque plastic bag Harrison drops between his bound ankles and tries to play his mounting nerves off as chills.

Harrison wastes no time pulling on a pair of gloves to stick a thermometer in his ear. “Finally,” he mutters, when it beeps that it’s finished without the added tones signaling a high temperature. 

“What did you have for breakfast?” he blurts, if only to distract himself. 

Harrison snorts. “What kind of question is that?”

His face heats but he tries to get off the back foot. “You don’t want to tell me?” 

“Open.” 

He swallows and obeys. Harrison clicks on his penlight and runs a gloved fingertip along his gumline until he finds the sore spot. It still hurts. The pressure makes him inhale sharply, but it’s not nearly as bad as yesterday. 

Satisfied, Harrison releases him and pockets the light. “I don’t care,” Harrison says, stepping back, out of his line of sight. “Eggs.” 

“Oh.” He’s not sure what he expects to get out of this. He eyes the bag at the foot of the bed and tries to hear what Harrison is preparing behind him. His heart starts to stutter. “What kind?” 

Silence. Then, “What are you doing?” 

“What? Nothing.” His panic makes him sound like he is guilty of something. He clears his throat. “You’re awfully defensive about your breakfast.” 

“Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?” 

“Right back at you.” 

Harrison returns, pulling the instrument tray along with him. He cranes the millimeter of leeway he has to check that all it holds is a surgical basin and the nozzled water bottle. “We’re not doing this,” Harrison says flatly. 

“Doing what? I just asked how you eat your eggs.” 

“You cannot possibly be that bored.” 

“Try me.” 

Harrison rolls his eyes and lowers the head of the bed so he’s lying flat. He reaches for the plastic bag. “This should entertain you plenty.” He pulls out a brand new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. 

“You’re kidding.” 

Harrison tears open the toothbrush. 

“No. No way.” He wishes he could shake his head, turn away. He balls his hands into fists and pulls at the restraints out of habit. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle,” Harrison mocks, unscrewing the toothpaste. 

His stomach twists. “Harrison.” 

“You’re acting like I’m trying to put a scalpel in your mouth. Look—” He turns the tube of toothpaste so he can see. “I even got mint for you.” 

“What? That’s the most universal flavor. Everyone uses mint.” 

“Exactly, I could have gotten you something disgusting, like children’s blue raspberry that’s safe to swallow, but I decided to be nice.” 

“Your sainthood must be in the mail.” 

Harrison snorts a laugh. “Alright, stop stalling.” He squeezes a line of green paste onto the pristine white brush. 

“Wait, wait.” The heart monitor blares and he pulls uselessly against the restraints. 

“Jesus,” Harrison says, eyes flicking to the screen. “There’s no way it still hurts that much and this is more for your other teeth anyway. Pretend you’re at the dentist.” 

“It doesn’t,” he agrees frantically. “Please, it’s just—”

He sits back on the stool. At least he’s not standing over him. “What?” 

“Please?” Tears well in his eyes. 

Harrison raises his eyebrows. 

He doesn’t say anything. He feels hot and sticky, his heart still racing. He wants to squirm, wrap his arms around himself, hold a hand out in defense. 

Time’s up. Harrison stands and reaches for his chin. 

“Please, I don’t—I can’t—” Harrison pauses above him, gloved hand midair. He swallows a sob, forces himself to take a deep breath. “Please, Harrison. Please let me do this by myself.” 

“Seriously?” 

He wishes he could nod instead of having to speak. “Yeah.” His voice cracks. 

“Why this?” 

“It’s just—” His mind unhelpfully recalls the sponge bath debacle. The heart monitor ticks up again. “I don’t know.”  

Harrison clicks his tongue. “Well try because I already don’t give a shit.” 

He bites his lip. It’s a risk but he’s pretty sure his chances of changing his fate are scalpel-thin anyway. “I don’t think that’s true at all.” 

Harrison does not look amused. 

“Just admit it,” he rushes to say before Harrison tries to garrote him with the toothbrush. 

“I’m not the focus here,” Harrison says flatly. 

“You were worried yesterday. Genuinely worried.” 

“Only about losing someone who can actually handle this.” Harrison keeps his tone level but he shifts his weight between his feet. 

He stifles a smirk. “It’s more than that, you could sedate me way more than you do.” 

“It’s not about your personality.” 

“Prove it,” he challenges, maybe a little too confidently. 

Harrison thinks for a minute, a crease appearing between his blond brows. He wants to slap the smug look off his face the minute Harrison starts grinning. “I never named you.” 

He feels it like a sucker punch but scrambles to recover. “Yeah but you know all my names.” 

“That doesn’t count. Those are past lives. I know those people as well as any other stranger on the street.” 

He can’t quite fill his lungs. 

Harrison waits a minute to see if he’s done. “Honestly, I give it a B minus for effort. You’re capable of more.” Harrison pulls the overhead light into position and clicks it on. “Open up.” 

He swallows, blinking through tears. Even though he’s mostly just blinded, he tries to plead with his eyes. 

“God, you’re being so dramatic.” 

Harrison brushes one tooth at a time. Top, inside, outside, moving methodically from back to front. 

He locks every muscle, pulls against each restraint, grounding himself with anything other than the feeling of Harrison’s gloved finger holding his cheek to the side and…brushing his fucking teeth for him. He tries not to think about how few things he has left that make him feel like a person. 

“Are you going to cry the entire time?” Harrison groans. “Is it because of your unrequited dream to hold a toothbrush again or are you still upset about being nameless?” 

Harrison doesn’t stop brushing his teeth, so he must not expect an answer. 

“Don’t waste your tears on the last one, it’s not like we’re on a first-name basis anyway.” 

He forgets about the light and opens his eyes but of course he can’t see shit. He bites the toothbrush. 

“Hey, watch it,” Harrison warns. 

“What do you mean,” he grits through his locked jaw. 

Harrison pulls at the toothbrush. “Open your mouth.” 

He doesn’t like defying him when he can’t see his face but he does it anyway. “Answer the question.” 

Harrison sighs long-sufferingly. “I’m a doctor,” he says, like it answers everything.

He doesn’t let go of the brush .

“Dr. Harrison.” He clicks his tongue, irritated. “Harrison is my last name. I’m not going around introducing myself like some fucking pediatrician or Dr. Phil.” 

Dr. Harrison. 

“Can we finish this now?” 

Harrison grips the toothbrush again and he lets him have it, jaw a little slack anyway as he tries to wrap his head around the fact that he really doesn’t know the first thing about him. 

“Spit.”

“What?” 

Harrison taps the basin against his chin. “Spit.” 

He’s sitting up again. He does as he’s told. Harrison gives him a mouthful of water from the nozzle of the bottle, has him swish it around and spit again. Harrison disappears, the sound of the sink following. He doesn’t even care that he didn’t get an actual drink of water. 

He waits for the sink to shut off. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me this whole time, even after all your pious bullshit.” 

Harrison sighs behind him. “I’m not.” 

“Fine, lying by omission. Whatever.” 

Harrison rolls into view on the stool, pocketing his phone. “Are you going to be like this all day?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Harrison rolls his eyes. “Why do you care so much about my name? It’s not like we’re fucking, as you incessantly remind me.” 

The back of his neck prickles hotly. “Yeah, you’re just cutting me open and rearranging my nerves.” 

“Exactly. It’s completely different.” 

“Oh, get fucked.” He looks up, blinking away angry tears. 

“What?” Harrison asks, with all the trimmings of someone writing an AITA? post.

“You’ve had your hands inside my skull.” 

“So?” Harrison matches his volume. “That doesn’t entitle you to anything. This isn’t a partnership. I owe you nothing.” 

“Fuck you.” He’s crying now but he pushes on anyway. “This is a two way street and you know it. You rely on me not to croak just as much as I rely on you not to fucking kill me.” 

“And?” 

“Unbelieveable.” 

Harrison fiddles with the collar of his lab coat. “This is just work. You’re confused if you think my investment in not having to start from scratch has anything to do with you personally.” 

He laughs bitterly. “You’re blinded by your God complex.” 

Harrison seethes. For a split second he feels afraid. “And you clearly haven’t overcome all of your brainwashing if you’ve…imprinted on me like this.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” He scoffs. “How ridiculous you sound?” 

“Hey—” 

“You refuse to see it. You’re not just lying to me, you’re lying to yourself.” 

“I’m leaving.” Harrison spins on his heel. 

“Yeah, run away. That’ll prove me wrong.” 

Harrison keeps walking. 

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” 

“You’re impossible,” Harrison mutters. 

“You’re a fucking liar,” he shouts.  

“Enough.” He turns back and halves the distance between them in a blink, gloved finger raised in warning.

He tries to catch his breath, searching Harrison’s face. Harrison waits, unblinking, his own chest rising and falling faster than usual. 

Maybe it’s knowing Harrison could have killed him yesterday and didn’t that spurs him on. Or maybe he has a death wish afterall. 

“Or. What.”  

Harrison’s expression darkens. 

Every muscle in his body tenses as Harrison steps closer. He holds his breath and bites his tongue to stop himself from taking it back. But Harrison passes to the cabinets behind him. He hears the snap of a glass bottle being set down on the metal countertop and his heart stops. 

When he sees the needle, the tears come on their own but he still doesn’t back down. Second chances don’t exist in Harrison’s world anyway. 

Harrison injects it into his neck because he knows exactly how much he hates it. 

Because it is personal. 

He meets Harrison’s glare and waits for something, anything. Pain, hallucinations, hives all over his body until his throat closes, hours of vomiting. There’s no way Harrison would pick the euphoria one again but he wouldn’t put anything past him. 

It’s a sedative. 

The sound of the heart monitor grows distant, as does his awareness of his breath. He thinks a sob slips from his lips but he can’t hear it. 

Harrison doesn’t blink, doesn’t yield.  

“You’re still running away,” he slurs. 

Everything goes black. 

*** 

He’s face down on the table when he comes to. Of course he is. The awareness of how he secured his most recent medically-induced coma hits him like a train. 

“Can you read that?” Harrison sticks his phone into his eyeline. It’s the lock screen, the time and date over an abstract swirl of colors. “October 12th. I put you out three days ago.” Harrison pulls his phone back and sticks another needle into his neck. 

“You’re proving me right.” He’s not sure it comes out as words at all.  

Back to darkness. 

***

Face down, again. Or still. His head aches but he remembers. Unfortunately. 

Harrison holds out his phone for him to see. “October 17th,” he reads. 

His heart stutters. 

“That’s five more days, in case you can’t do the math.” 

“Is that the stock background?” he grits, his throat dry. “A liar and a psycho.”

Pinch.

Gone. 

*** 

The phone is blurred by his tears the third time. 

“October 26th.” Harrison’s voice sounds far away. “Nine more days.” Harrison pauses, clears his throat. “Seventeen in total.” 

He doesn’t want this, he wants to apologize. 

Harrison doesn’t give him the chance.

The darkness chokes him into silence. He didn’t even feel it this time. 

***

Something is different. 

He’s on his back and the head of the bed is raised. There are scans on the light box that weren’t there before.  

“We’re testing a new set of electrodes today,” Harrison says quietly, looking down as he types something on the tablet. 

He can’t see Harrison’s face to know how to respond. He doesn’t have it in him to keep fighting, not if it means being exiled into a coma again. If Harrison’s still furious, silence might be better than an apology. He waits. 

A handful of minutes pass. Harrison puts away the tablet and comes to stand at his side. He just looks tired. From his expression to his eyes and the way he carries himself, hands hanging limp at his sides. 

“Okay?” Harrison asks softly. 

He tries to nod until the restraint reminds him he can’t. He swallows. “Okay.” It comes out a whisper. Fitting for how precarious and fragile everything feels.

Harrison wouldn’t lie about it again, he thinks. 

He doesn’t bring it up.

Masterlist 

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

The book has a red clearance sticker on the back. $2.99 down from $9.99. He flips it over. On the cover, in ballpoint pen, Harrison scrawled: "stop being a" over Baby and "just pick a damn" over Name.

Harrison looks too pleased with himself. "Just don't pick something stupid."

"What if I accidentally pick your name?"

"Nice try."

Later, he looks up the one real name ever given to him. Brandon. From the name Brandan. Similar to Brayden, the book tells him. There's nothing about etymology or meaning. It's the most Harrison version of a baby name book, just names and more names. He flips to the front. Skims halfway through the A's before sleep finds him.

In the morning, Harrison looks at him expectantly over breakfast.

"What?"

Harrison keeps staring.

"I don't know." He looks down, pushes around his slowly sogging cornflakes in his bowl with the back of his spoon.

"I promise to be nice."

He glares at Harrison, who makes an exaggerated show of crossing his heart. He rolls his eyes. Even though he believes Harrison, he's still nervous. He doesn't know if it's some dusty conditioning or just the significance of choosing one. He would bet his life that there will be no do-overs. There almost never are with Harrison. Maybe he should read past the first page but a part of him feels like he doesn't need to.

He wipes his sweating palms on his pants and takes a deep breath.

He falls like a stone back to reality at the sound of the key in the door, his stomach dropping with equal velocity. His breathing is already too fast. Everything has been so, so much worse since Keats stuffed him into this new livery. He doesn’t have to war over whether or not to risk a glance up to see what he might be in for, because the man immediately speaks. 

“For a moment, I thought I stepped into the wrong room,” the man says, faint amusement in his tone. 

August stifles a gasp, heart sprinting in his chest. It’s his caller. 

No part of him is relieved, knowing this visit won’t be violent. He wants to die. Has since Keats advanced his damnation to an unspeakable new depth. His cheeks and even his ears redden under the man’s gaze. Keats tightened the ties so August can’t even lift his hands off the mattress, so he wouldn’t try to loosen any of the laces. There’s no hiding his face, or any part of himself. His caller hasn’t even taken one step into the room. 

August burns. Now, and for eternity. 

What feels like a lifetime later, the caller crosses to the armchair. August can't bring himself to look up to see if he’s wearing a jacket and if, like so many times before, he’ll drape it over August’s shoulders in one of his bewildering acts of charity. August is in no position to hope for anything. 

Minutes pass and there’s no click of his tobacco case or the snap of a match to light his cigarette. August’s breath continues, fast and shallow, as he commits his gaze to a spot on the floor. 

He jumps when his caller finally sighs. “You’re quite miserable in that, aren’t you?” 

The grain of the wood blurs as he blinks back the tears that spring to his eyes. 

“Come now, ‘tis only I. Nothing you say is wrong to my ears.”

His chest hurts, his soul aches. 

The man sighs again. “If it’s any consolation, I think you look quite fetching.” 

August bursts into tears, sobs cutting through his chest with nowhere else to go. 

“Oh, dear boy. Oh, August.” His caller ambles to his side. “Come now.” He wraps an arm around him.

August cries out anew because he can’t even be held properly, not with his wrists practically pinned to the edges of the mattress. He tries to squirm closer, struggling just for the illusion of inches gained. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” the man chides, sidling closer. August wants to cling to him.  “Still, dear boy.” He shepherds August’s head to rest on his shoulder, carding his hands through his tangled curls. “There, there.” 

August buries his face in his shirt and cries. He cries all of the tears he struggled to keep at bay over the endless hours because even worse than being made to wear this would be crying in it. The more he cries, the thinner his sobs become until he’s gasping for air. 

“Breathe, sweet thing. Right here.” His caller releases him and taps two fingertips gently at the top of his sternum. “Put your attention here.” 

He does as he’s told, watching the man’s eyes as he does. A swirl of muddy grey green, holding all the lights and shadows of a secret lake, hidden somewhere in the remote heights of an imposing range of mountains. 

His caller rubs gentle circles on the back of his neck, his other arm wrapped lightly around him so as not to constrict his breathing further. “Tell me, was it a punishment?” 

August bites his lip, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits in a whisper. 

“Poor lad. That’s not fair at all.” 

He sniffles, tears running down his cheeks. 

The man brushes them away. “I only meant it as a compliment earlier, but you’ve had enough eulogizing. No one’s treated you as a man today, have they?” 

He shakes his head, throat aching. When has anyone ever treated him as more than a thrall anyway? He starts crying again, softly. 

The caller trailers his fingers up and down his arm. “I think you have a perfect figure all on your own.” He traces down the front of the corset.

August holds his breath but the man’s hand skips over the ruffle and instead finds his thigh, right above the stocking and its condemning garter. 

“A case might be made for these.” His thumb traces the edge of the fabric. “They don’t alter a thing about you.”

He blinks at him, tears catching in his eyelashes. 

His caller slips off the bed to kneel. 

August’s heart races and his face flushes anew. “S-sir?” 

The man pulls August's hips to the edge of the bed. 

He sobs, shaking his head. 

“Don’t fret, I’ll keep you as a man.” 

August can scarcely breathe as he presses his lips in a chaste kiss to the inside of his thigh. His caller looks back up with a reverence in his eyes, stopping August’s heart and lighting a fire in his belly that rushes all the way to his tear-ruddied cheeks. 

Not many kiss him. Even when they do, it serves more as a means to control. To dominate yet another vulnerability, his breath and ability to speak. Most are quicker to do it by fucking him there. Kisses elsewhere are even rarer. 

Only Fionn has communed here and only because it was Keats’ will.

The man’s kisses grow hungrier, wetter, longer as he crosses from one thigh to the other and finally moves up to the crease at the top of August’s leg, the rise of his hip, just beneath the corset. 

The room spins and August whimpers. 

“Tell me if you prefer I take my leave.” 

 He quivers under the man’s touch and his half-lidded gaze. The way he bites his lip as if holding himself back, eyes dropping between August’s legs. 

It’s all he can do to shake his head. Every inch of him tingles, lighter than air as he floats in the balance, waiting for the finality of the start. 

“Devil you know?” he teases with a wink. “There’s a good boy.” 

He cries aloud when his caller takes him into his mouth. With no spare focus to hold them back, his tears fall freely. He curls his fingers around the edges of the mattress. 

The man lifts one of August’s knees onto his shoulder and part of him is grateful for the grounding feeling of his back against his calf. He grips the top of August’s thigh to hold him in place. His other hand wanders, tracing the crest of his hip, the curve of his waste, flattening over his chest. 

August wishes he could grip his arm, his waist, his—

He holds his breath when his caller suddenly pulls off, his lips slick with saliva. August wants to avert his eyes from the vulgarity of it. “You’re still crying? Do you wish for me to stop?” 

He shakes his head, sniffling. If only he could wipe his face, hold himself, he might control his emotions. 

His caller waits. 

“No, sir,” he says quietly, fighting shy of eye contact resolutely now.

“Return the favor,” the man challenges. “Indulge me as I do you.” 

His cheeks heat. He shakes his head. “Please, sir.”

“It won’t change anything,” he says gently. 

August sobs anew. “I…like it, sir.” 

He grins wolfishly and August feels as though he’s sunken his teeth into his very core. “Don’t cry, I won’t stop again.” 

He’s wound so tight that he gasps when his caller starts again. The man is so soft with him, his mouth wet and warm. August sobs. He sobs because it’s the best thing he’s felt in weeks, maybe months. And he does like it and it’s unthinkable what he’s allowed himself to become. 

His self-loathing becomes harder to grasp, everything does. The longer the caller venerates him. He loses sight of why he was crying at all, loses the feeling in his hands and feet, as all sensation concentrates itself, swirling, building, surging between the caller’s lips as he takes August further than he ever dared to imagine.

Too soon, the escalation takes on a sense of urgency. 

His head spins when he lifts it, even as he pinches his eyes closed. “Sir—sir,” August gasps. “I—can’t—” His chest aches. He tips his head back, as if more space in his throat might allow more air into his bound lungs, and pulls uselessly at the restraints. 

The man doesn’t hear him over the grotesque sounds as he picks up speed, interpreting August’s twitching for eagerness. He slips a slick fingertip inside him, crooking it just so, and  August wastes the last of his air gasping through it. 

Black spots crowd his vision as he reaches the peak of his ecstasy, teetering on the precipice. “Sir—sir—” 

It’s too late, he’s falling. Bursts of light all around him, sparks through his core. 

Swirling into darkness. 

.

.

.

“August, August?” The way his caller speaks his name, makes it feel all the more like a dream. August wishes he didn’t have to open his eyes and dispel the illusion. His caller leans over him, one hand cupping his cheek. “You flatter me so.” 

He tries to fill his lungs, crying out in a panic when he finds them still pinned. 

“Keep calm, let me help you sit up.” The man brushes the hair off his face and again rests two fingers on the crest of his sternum. “Here, just breathe here.” 

August does his best to pull air into the tops of his lungs. 

“That’s it, there. A little free space amidst all the confinement.” 

He tips his head against the man’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt one last time. 

“I’m afraid I’ve already overstayed my allotment.” He takes August’s chin between his fingers, tilting his head back to look at him. “I hope you feel a little less despondent.” 

August flushes, averting his eyes when his caller prevents him from hiding his face. As much as he hates himself for allowing it in the first place, he has to grant the memory will serve as a vivid distraction over the rest of his sentence in this cursed costume. 

“Mmm.” He presses a chaste kiss to August’s forehead before standing. “I think it was worth it.” 

No coat today after all. Maybe it’s finally summer starting. His caller pauses with the key in the lock, turning to face him. 

“You’ll forgive me one last look?” 

August’s face heats. He wants to sink into the floor.

His caller sighs dreamily, shaking his head. “I lied twice. In truth, I think it’s that waist I shan’t forget anytime soon.” August stifles a gasp and the man winks at him as he leaves. 

Alone again, August lies back down and stares up at the ceiling, a heaviness about his limbs that wasn’t there before. At least he doesn't cry.

Prev — Masterlist

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine

@wolfeyedwitch @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

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@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

The heart monitor announces his mounting panic. At least that’s right. 

It’s a drug, it has to be. A weird hallucination. 

But he doesn’t want to dispel it yet. The imagined sun actually feels warm on his skin, his neck, his chest. His breathing gets faster, the monitor blaring. The more he focuses on the novel sensations, the more impossible they feel. 

There’s a click as Harrison switches off the sound.

“No,” he grits. 

“What?” 

“You don’t get to decide when it’s over.” 

“I—” A pause. “What?” 

“Just leave me alone.” 

Silence. Then, “Okay.” 

What? His eyes fly open and he stops breathing at all. 

There’s a window. A fucking window with a spindly, leafless sapling on the edge a winter-yellowed lawn. Clumps of melting snow slouch in the shadow of a weathered fence. 

The walls of the room are a pale green. There’s trim. A door in the corner, another on the opposite side opening to a hallway. 

“What the fuck did you give me?”

Harrison’s wearing a black t-shirt and sweatpants. Sweatpants. “Nothing…?” 

There are sheets, a blanket, the goddamn pillow. He lifts his hands because there are no restraints because he’s not on the table, he’s lying in a fucking bed. 

He can’t breathe. “Harrison, seriously, don’t fuck with me.” 

“I’m not. Listen—” 

“No, no. This—” He waves his arms around. “This isn’t real. This isn’t—” He runs out of air and stops to wheeze. 

Harrison stands, donning his stethoscope and slipping the cold chest piece into the neck of his shirt. 

“Try to breathe.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” He swats Harrison away. His heart is beating a million miles a minute. Harrison keeps looking over to the monitor. “Tell me what I’m on.” 

“Nothing, I swear.” Even Harrison’s voice sounds different, softer, hollow. He stands in front of a dining chair, wringing his hands. He hasn’t shaved in days and looks like he hasn’t slept in as long either. His eyes are bloodshot, skirted by dark circles. There’s a graveyard of coffee on the nightstand, some in matching grey mugs, others in disposable cups that aren’t the ones he brings back when he goes upstairs. “Listen—”

“Are they here? Do they know I’m here?” The hallway stands empty but he can’t hear anything over his own ragged breathing anyway. “Where am I?” He presses his fist to his chest. 

Harrison reaches for him but hesitates. “Try to calm down. I can explain everything but not if you make yourself pass out.” 

He glares at him. 

“Okay, okay.” Harrison raises his hands in surrender and drops into the chair. “No one knows you’re here. You’re safe. We’re at my house.” 

He chokes on thin air. “Those things seem mutually exclusive.” 

Harrison rolls his eyes. 

“Wait. You’re not trying to… I’m not here to…?”

“God. Fuck, no.” 

He should be relieved, though he probably would choose house pet over surgical guinea pig any day. 

“What do you keep looking at?” he snaps. 

Harrison looks caught out, ashamed even, but the hallway past the bed is still empty. 

“What’s going on? Why did you bring me here?” 

“Listen, something…” Harrison clears his throat. “What I mean is, I… Well—” 

“Oh my God. Spit it out.” 

Harrison grinds his teeth, face reddening. “Fine, you know what? I tried to do this ‘gently’ but if you’re just going to have an attitude, here you go: You’re paralyzed. I fucked up and now you’re paralyzed.” 

“What…what are you talking about?” It comes out a breathless whisper. 

Harrison avoids his eyes. “It’s been a few weeks, you shouldn’t have any more pain. It took…well, it took a while to get you out of there.” 

“Harrison.” 

He won’t look at him. “I’m not fucking with you. Try to move your feet, your legs, anything below the waist.” 

Dread sits heavy on his chest. “No.” 

“Alright.” He stands. “I’ll just—” 

“No, fuck you.” He swipes angrily at the tears falling from his eyes. This is not the time for crying. “You don’t get to just run away.” 

Harrison sighs and crosses his arms. 

“What did you— How could you—” He tries to hold tightly to his anger, pointing an accusatory finger because he can. “You promised. You promised that if you fucked up—” 

“No. No.” Harrison raises his voice to match his volume, stepping right up to the bed. “I only ever promised to euthanize you if you were a vegetable. You have no idea what I’ve been through the last few weeks, what I risked to get you here. You better be fucking grateful—” 

“Grateful? Grateful? Fuck you.” His hand flies out and slaps Harrison before he even realizes he had the impulse.  

Harrison raises his eyebrows. “You want to try hitting me again?”  

“I could strangle you,” he spits. 

“You don’t have the grip strength.” 

He wants to scream. “Give me something sharp then.” 

Harrison turns away. 

“So, what? Did it just turn out that you were too much of a pussy to kill me?” 

“I hate that word.” Harrison keeps digging through the top drawer of the dresser. 

“Or are you just using my life to appease your guilt? Because you can get fucked. I’ll kill us both the first fucking chance I get.” 

Harrison turns, holding out a scalpel. “Is that a promise?” 

“I—” 

“Here. Take it.” Harrison picks up his hand and curls his fingers around the handle for him. “No reason to waste time with all these pleasantries.” 

“Harrison.” He means it to sound like a warning but it comes out a whisper. 

“So?” Harrison leans down so the blade lines up with his neck, staring into his eyes unblinking. Somewhere, in the hall or the next room, a clock is ticking. “Hmm, ‘too much of a pussy to kill me?’”

“Go to hell.” 

“I’m already there,” Harrison whispers, holding his gaze for another heartbeat before straightening. 

He stares at Harrison, then looks down at the scalpel in his hand. “I hate you.” 

“Do you think I want this?” Harrison shouts, gathering fistfuls of hair at his temples. 

“What about what I want?” He yells back, tears building in his eyes again. “This is exactly what I meant when I made you promise to kill me.” 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

He lifts the scalpel to his own throat. 

“Here we go.” Harrison rolls his eyes. “You know, I’ll give you a lethal injection if that’s really your decision but please, spare me the pint of your blood on a brand new mattress.” 

“You…you bought a fucking mattress for me?”

Harrison sits again, taking a sip out of a coffee cup with a grimace. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I did not have a guest room set up.” 

He looks at the scalpel. The bedspread is light blue gingham.  

“I’m serious. If you want to stop living, that’s your choice. I can bring home more pentobarbital tomorrow. But, in my humble opinion, I think you should give it a month.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Harrison scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, I got it.” 

He looks down at his legs under the blanket. They look so normal, though of course that means nothing. He’s so used to not being able to move them in the restraints, he didn’t even notice anything was wrong. His eyes fill with tears. 

“Can I hold onto that?” Harrison asks softly, holding his hand out. 

He doesn’t look at him as he hands back the scalpel. He wishes this were a hallucination but he’s not even hooked up to an IV anymore. There’s no central line, no feeding tube. More tears fill his eyes and he can’t blink them back fast enough. 

“I’ll be in the next room.” 

He doesn’t watch Harrison leave, shutting the door softly behind him. 

Outside, the little tree’s branches shake in the wind. 

He lays his hand on his thigh and sobs. 

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

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Leo sighs and sets down the tote bags he lugged from the kitchen, one with an entire crockpot full of his locally-famous chili and the other all the fixings. His contribution to Tony’s annual potluck for everyone on the crew and about thirty cousins Leo can never remember the names of, even after all these years. 

Aiden waits at the bottom of the steps, toeing the edge of the shoveled walkway in the glow of the lamppost. He tries to start walking when he hears Leo behind him.

“Hon, wait.” Leo catches his sleeve but he doesn’t turn. “Are you sure you’re—” 

“Please, let’s go.”  

“Hey, come on. Look at me.” He lets Leo turn him around. 

Aiden frowns when he sees Leo’s not wearing a coat. “We’re-we’re leaving.” 

“Why won’t you let me finish a question?” 

He huffs but it sounds more shaky than annoyed. “If you keep… I-I can’t…” 

Leo tilts his head.

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?” Leo holds up both hands. “Listening to you?” 

That earns him a genuine sigh of irritation and nearly an eyeroll. “You know.” 

He raises his eyebrows in mock innocence. “No idea.” 

There it is. 

Leo bites back a smirk. He can’t remember when he started collecting Aiden’s moments of belated-teenage petulance like merit badges but they never get old. “Hmm okay. I think I see the problem.”

Aiden narrows his eyes. “You—” 

He might be a year of Leo’s cooking and manual labor stronger but Leo can still flip him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. Aiden yelps and scrambles to grip fistfuls of the back of Leo’s shirt. 

“N-no, what—” Leo carries him inside and drops him into a seat on the couch. “We’re leaving," he still tries. 

Leo kneels and swipes Aiden’s beanie off his head. “I’m leaving. You’re staying here.” 

“What?” He grabs for his hat but Leo switches it to his other hand and holds it out of reach. “I’m g-going.” 

While he’s focused on the hat, Leo grabs one of his boots. Aiden never ties them if he can avoid it, so it slides right off. 

“Whatthehell?” 

“I’m afraid you’re too sick to go to the party,” Leo says dramatically, throwing his hat and boot into the entryway. 

Aiden scowls at him but it doesn't reach his eyes. “No, I’m—”

Leo pulls his other boot off, pausing to make sure Aiden’s biting back a smile before he throws it to join the rest. “Fork over the jacket, you must be boiling. What with the fever you’re running.” 

Aiden bites his lip, suddenly serious. “Leo…” 

“There will be other parties, hon.”  

He studies Leo’s face. “But—”

“You already know what I’m going to say.” 

Aiden huffs and unzips his coat, pushing it into Leo’s arms as he flops back against the couch in defeat. 

Leo shakes out Aiden’s favorite blanket and lays it over his lap, adding the remotes on top. When he returns with a mug of hot chocolate and the tin of cookies they baked together, Aiden’s moved into Leo’s spot, legs stretched out on the chaise part of the couch. 

Leo smiles. “Pick something cheesy.”  

Aiden shakes his head, trying to hide his sheepish smile. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours. You call me if you need anything.” 

“Mhm.” 

Leo will be counting the minutes until he’s stealing that spot back and pulling Aiden under his arm. He spends most of his tenure at these things holed up in the kitchen, helping with whatever needs doing or standing outside with the smokers just for some air. Biding his time sipping Coke until he can make a perfectly timed exit. Late enough for all the social currency reasons but before anyone is too drunk to feel embarrassed the next day about what the boss saw. 

He grabs his coat and hangs Aiden’s in its place, beanie tucked into the pocket. He pairs Aiden’s boots together on the mat before pulling on his own. 

Jesse’s been leaving after less than an hour for years because of his daughter. It’s about time Leo had an excuse of his own but the only way Aiden is comparable to an actual child is if he’s sick. Maybe this is selfish after all. 

Except Leo heard him get up five times last night, going outside twice when he couldn’t settle back down without the help of no walls. There’s nothing particularly different about today. He was fine when they went to Riley's last month. Sometimes these things just land wrong. 

“Leo?” 

“Yeah?”

“Uhm…”

He crouches beside the couch. 

Aiden avoids his eyes. “Can you—will you…say it anyway…?”

Leo rubs his crooked finger under Aiden’s chin until he looks up. “No one’s keepin' score, baby.” He kisses him on the forehead. “You good?”

He nods, sniffling. They both pretend his eyes aren’t filmed with tears. “Yeah, thanks.” 

“Love you, hon.” 

“Love you too.” 

Leo barely lasts thirty minutes at the party, back at Aiden’s side within the hour like he really is sick. They fall asleep after a marathon of Christmas claymation classics and Aiden sleeps soundly all night, curled up under Leo’s arm.

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

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@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

Except in the seventh circle of Hell, I have a boiling river of blood waiting for me. If the Italian is to be believed. I’m not innocent of wallowing in it, about it. All for it, that’s for sure. Alas, neither one of us is there yet, which is exactly why I am sitting here suffering. 

I should just go get a coffee. Sitting here for hours does absolutely nothing. 

No matter how many times I make up my mind, I can’t seem to stand. Can’t make any moves to leave. Chalk it up to completionism. I hate an open loop, a hanging uncertainty. 

This particular question weighs enough to pin me in this purgatory. What if…? 

I sigh and drop my head into my hands. 

I have to stop thinking, I have to do something. I’m—

There’s a strangled gasp from the table. 

My tension washes clean away. 

He starts choking and I’m on my feet. “You’re going to want to not do that.” 

He blinks frantically, doubly blinded by the lights and his panic. Probably realizing he has no feeling below the neck. He’s still choking, whimpering and gasping. 

“Look at me.” His eyes only focus for half a second. I’ve never seen him so scared. “Stop. Stop.” I slap him. 

As expected, he holds his breath, waiting for another strike. After a second, his eyes widen and he strains to look down. Hard to say how much he can see flat on his back, head strapped down. He starts panicking again, pulling short gasps in through his nose and he’s choking all over again. 

“Stop,” I say, drawing out the vowel in my irritation. “Don’t fight the vent.” 

He tries to look at me but he can’t stop trying to look down to try to see it. Maybe he can see a bit of the tube. “Just let it do the work for you. I know you feel like you can breathe on your own but it’s not enough to keep you alive.” 

He blinks up at me, brown eyes filling with tears. 

“It’s just a bit of swelling in a less than ideal area.” I don’t know why I can’t seem to get the words out fast enough. 

His eyebrows knit together and he gaps around the tube again. 

“You’ll be fine.” 

A few tears slip out. He blinks them away and levels me with a look. It’s probably meant to be more harrowing than it is with his tear-wet lashes sticking together and his frown obscured. 

“It must have been too much for you back to back.” 

He manages to kick it up to a glare. 

I raise my hands. “Hey, it’s not like I cut something I shouldn’t have. It’s not my fault if your body couldn’t handle it.”

He doesn’t blink. 

“Whatever,” I snap, face heating. “I’ve seen enough to know you’re fine now. If you’re oging to be a brat, I’ll just sedate you.” 

He starts choking again, blinking up at me desperately. 

“Well, I definitely have to sedate you if you keep throttling yourself. You’ll tear your trachea doing that.” 

He whines but makes an effort to let the ventilator take over. His eyes are filmed with tears again when he looks up at me, always so desperate to stay conscious. I’ve tried to get him to tell me what it is he finds so terrifying about being sedated. It’s not that he wants all the pain, or that he’s always plagued by painful memories or nightmares of his reckoning. We didn’t get very far unpacking it. He’s not that good at explaining these things. 

I’m about to tell him it’s better but is it? Now I definitely can’t go get a coffee. 

It doesn’t matter anyway because he lasts all of forty seconds before he’s choking again. I lift the corner of the instrument tray an inch and drop it so he stiffens, the vent taking over again. 

There are tears falling down his temples when I return to his side. He doesn’t expect a second chance. Good. They’re stupid and a waste of time. 

“It feels unnatural, you’re not used to thinking about it and now you have to think about not thinking about it.”

I can picture the way he’d bite his lip in concentration if he could. He searches my face.

“You can do it if you focus.”

I wait while he tries. He does, he really does but he can’t. He’s back to fighting the vent almost immediately, tears running down his face. 

“Seriously? Crying will make it worse,” I chide. He tries to blink away the tears, struggling and gasping. “Look, it’s harder because you can’t feel it filling and emptying your lungs for you.” 

His brows knit together. 

“Listen to the machine. Pretend you can feel it. If you didn’t need to be flat, I’d raise the bed so you could see the movement in your chest. Here—” I put two gloved fingers on his throat, tracing up and down in time to his chest rising and falling. “Feel that?” 

He blinks at me in panic, eyes wide. 

“Chill out. The border can be fuzzy, it’s not like I can see it down to the cell.” I move to his cheek and his eyelashes flutter. 

“Air in.” I draw my fingers up. 

“Air out.” I trace them back down to his jaw. 

He watches my hand out of the corner of his eye. Up, down. Up, down. 

I keep pace for a minute until he relaxes into the rhythm. I drop my hand. 

He pinches his eyes shut. 

“What? Why are you crying? You got it.” 

He won’t look at me but the heart monitor ticks up seven, twelve beats. If I had known how much counseling this endeavor would entail at the outset, I never would have started. 

Yet here I am, like some flagellant asking, “Seriously, what’s wrong now? You’re not still being dramatic. I said it was temporary.” 

He looks at me, indignant. 

“What—Oh.” 

He doubles down on crying, choking and sobbing around the tube. 

“Ugh, come on,” I groan. “Really. Stop or I will have to sedate you.” 

He blinks through his tears to look at me wretchedly, face a gross mess of snot and tears. 

I hesitate, hands locked at my sides. It’s just cause and effect, right? 

“Fine. Jesus, don’t shred your trachea.” I go back to stroking his face. 

He settles right back down and even closes his eyes once he lets himself believe I’m not going to stop. Most of the time, I completely forget he was conditioned. Thank God. 

His pulse slows incrementally, dips down to sixty. I realize I’m breathing in time to the machine too, longer and deeper than normal. My earlier irritation feels distant. The soft friction of my touch against his cheek warms my fingertips, even with the glove between. Something twinges at the base of my throat. 

I pull my hand away. 

He opens his eyes and the desolation in them is the last nail in the coffin I didn’t know I backed myself into. 

I take the dose of pentobarbital out of my pocket. He whimpers when I pick up the port. At first, he desperately tries to catch my gaze as he lets the vent breathe for him smoothly. He quickly realizes it’s a lost cause and lets out a wail, crying angrily and choking on all the curses he’s trying to voice around the tube. 

I can’t seem to find something to say as I put him under. Even as he stills, I just feel empty. I turn away to watch his vitals on the monitor. When they remain stable, I leave without another glance. 

I need a coffee. 

…

“Hey,” I say, eyes locked on my phone when he starts to stir. I resist the urge to look up when he’s silent for a few minutes. 

“Hey,” he finally says in a whisper and even then his voice is all gravely from being intubated and the swelling from fighting it. His eyes trace the room now that the head of the table is raised.

He’s silently cooperative as I test his nerves and reflexes, probably because he is interested in the confirmation for once. Everything checks out. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like it will be satisfying to point out I was right. 

I grab the water I brought down after my coffee. 

“Wow. Is it my birthday?” He rasps. 

“Christmas actually.” 

I wait for him to spar back but he only nods. He must know I was kidding, he started it. Whatever. I give him a few sips of water from the straw. He doesn’t say anything, even once he’s swallowed. 

I sit back on the stool. Since he’s decided to be boring, I pull out my phone. 

“Harrison?” 

I look up but he’s avoiding my gaze. “Yeah?”

“Uhm…”

“What?” I try not to sound terse. I want him to explain himself. 

“About yesterday—” 

I stand. “No.” 

He finally looks at me, a little too smugly. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

I start to grumble something about rearranging his face but he does it all on his own.  

“You’re weirdly obsessed with honesty, right?” He asks seriously. 

“What?” 

He furrows his brow. “You don’t lie?” 

I don’t like where this is going. “Uh…”

He looks down. “If it’s ever…that bad for real, like permanent, can you—would you…?” 

I sigh, not sure if I’m relieved enough to outweigh my boredom. “This again?”

“Harrison.” 

“What?” I hold my hands up. “I thought we covered this.” 

“Not explicitly.” 

“Fine.” 

“So?” 

I shake my head. “Yeah, fine.” 

“Promise?” His eyes are filmed with tears. 

I swallow. “Yes.” 

He searches my face. I resist the urge to step away to do something, anything. What does he see? Why do I even care? I don’t. 

“Shake on it.” 

I raise my eyebrows. “What?” 

“Please?” He waits expectantly. Like he’s actually extending his hand and not strapped to a table and completely shameless. 

“Jesus.” For no reason other than boredom, I walk around the table to his right hand, twisting my arm awkwardly to grip his. “Happy?” 

“Christmas morning.” He smiles when that earns him a laugh. 

I need a coffee. 

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

One of them had managed a daring escape, against difficult odds. Erik commended them. Another, his favorite, had died of an infection sustained in her time with the coven, who were often not hygienic enough with their shared bloodbags. The other male bloodbag had eventually been tortured to death, for lack of a better description. The coven was easily excited and quick to take offense. The bloodbad had apparently never learned to bite his tongue, or how to pick his battles.

The last of their human captives was less mouthy. He was a tall, slender thing, with watchful black eyes that gave the dark of his hair a run for its money. His more reserved demeanor was, in part, why he was still alive. It helped that Erik had taken him away from the general population of the coven to recoup. He’d needed very little from Erik in that department. A bath and a warm bed, and to be left alone long enough to get his strength back.

Then as a gift to himself, Erik kept him in his private rooms a week longer to feed from alone. The dead girl’s things were still in his bedroom— a silver hair pin, a peridot chiffon scarf that smelled of violet perfume and old blood. The boy eyed them knowingly. He’d likely seen her in them before Erik took her upstairs for himself. He’d also likely watched his other compatriot’s grisly death.

“A sickly thing,” he told the boy, whose dark eyes turned on him like scrying mirrors. “She didn’t die from my hand or her own. It was an infection of the blood.” He touched his new bloogbag’s healing puncture wounds lightly, knowing his fingertips still felt like the cold touch of a headstone to the mortal. Streaks of red had crept from one of the girl’s puncture wounds and up her arm, turning her hot and delirious and claiming her quickly.

“Your lives are so precarious. Brief as the mayfly.”

Dark lashes brushed the bloodbag’s cheeks as he looked down at his arm where vampire was touching him. These particular punctures would be closed in another day or so. Erik had applied a salve that would keep them from infection and scarring, though there were already other sites of repeated abuse that would scar no matter what he did now. They truly were like paper dolls. More for looking than for touching, though the scent of their blood was heady, irresistible.

“Do you know why we are so loathe to feed from animals, or the dead?” Erik asked.

“Because it’s not just blood you need,” said the boy. His voice was raspy with disuse and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “It’s something else you get from the blood. Animals are alive, but not the same. The dead are even worse.”

“Yes,” he replied, pleasantly bemused. “That’s it. For the life of all flesh is in the blood…It is the blood that makes atonement for the life.”

“I would have thought quoting scripture would bother you, or something,” said the boy with a mixture of dull resentment and irrepressible curiosity.

Erik couldn’t help but grin, a habit that carefully concealed his eyeteeth. “You’d think.”

“Would she have lived if she’d gone to a hospital?” he asked in such a way that avoided a direct accusation.

Erik had noticed most of the remaining bloodbag’s bruising was on his wrists and forearms, not on his cheeks and jaw like the other male had sustained. He likely bit his tongue better than this downstairs, and as a result was not struck in the face. But he must have sensed Erik’s desire to preserve him. Every time Erik did not reprimand or backhand him for speaking, it made him bolder.

“The infection was advanced by the time I was aware of it. But I was a businessman in life, not a physician. I can’t say if a hospital could have saved her.”

“Would you have taken her to one, if you’d noticed sooner? Since she was your favorite?” the boy asked in a faint voice, the inflection suggesting he did not quite dare to hope but was hoping anyway, in the way that mortals do.

“No.”

His gaze dropped to the floor and he gave a short nod of understanding.

“But you, little mayfly,” Erik turned over his hand and smoothed a thumb over the soft underside of his wrist. The mortal suppressed a shudder. “Are healthy and strong. And I will clean any and all breaks that are made to your skin, because I like the way you taste.”

He struggled like a prey animal when Erik drew his wrist to his mouth. He had to pull him in tight to immobilize him. No matter how listless or composed they were in the moments before, the second before a bite always drew some fight from them. He knew it was instinctual. He didn’t hold it against them.

The puncture was a deliciously simple moment. He had long considered it one of the few true pleasures in the long twilight of afterlife. The moment his fangs penetrated warm, living flesh was often more satisfying than the satiety that came from the blood.