inactive

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

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@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

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

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

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

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

@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

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.

Kane took one out and bit down into the flexible plastic, sucking out the blood within. He could have an early breakfast if he wanted. He wasn’t waiting for Jim anymore. It was just unfeeling, uncaring plastic.

But the pit of dread inside him didn’t go away when he finished his meal, and it didn’t go away when he tore the packaging open and licked the inside clean so not a single drop remained. So he grabbed another. And another, and another, and another, and then his stomach ached with more than just dread, and he grabbed another and another still.

He kept going until twenty-seven torn-open, licked-clean pieces of packaging laid scattered on the floor beside him.

And then he threw up.

Kane had never vomited before, not once. It was a sign of illness, and vampires didn’t get ill, but his stupid fucking body decided to reject his precious gift anyway. He pursed his lips shut, slapped both hands over his mouth, pressing down with a force that threatened to crush his jaw, and swallowed down what blood and bile he could, the rest seeping between his fingers despite his best efforts.

He didn’t hesitate for a second before bending over and trying again.

-

Distant sobbing woke Jim from his slumber, though not as distant as usual. It always gave him a moment of panic before he remembered he’d freed Kane, who was well within his rights to have a 3 A.M. breakdown wherever in the damn house he pleased. Not like he couldn’t relate.

He groaned and dragged a hand up his face and through his hair, trying to wake himself up enough to be coherent before he went to see what that was all about.

“Kane?” he called blearily, heading downstairs. “You alright?”

“Don’t come in!” Kane shrieked.

Jim froze like Kane had total command over his body, his hand gripping the stair rail tight. Blood rushed in his ears, and he could feel his heart pounding hard in his chest, well-awake now.

He stood there and waited, the only thought that could form amid the terror being that it was night, Kane was unrestrained and stronger and faster, and there was nothing stopping him from doing anything he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” came Kane’s teary voice again, a few moments later. He wasn’t screaming this time. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–I’m sorry. Please do whatever you want. I-I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry, Jim. You’re safe, please don’t be scared.” He was silent for a bit, then added, “But, um, you… you might get scared if you come in the kitchen. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Jim strained out. He sat down on the steps, willing his racing heart to go back to normal. “Just–You alright? You’re not hurt or something?”

“I’m fine! And, um, I’ll clean up everything, so please don’t worry!” Kane stammered.

Well. That wasn’t promising.

Jim sucked in a breath through his teeth, and forced himself down the stairs and into the kitchen.

It was a total bloodbath. Kane looked like a rabid animal, on his hands and knees, eyes wide and frazzled, face streaked with tears and blood. Blood ran down his chin and shirt, he was fucking covered in it, but that was nothing compared to the floor, where a huge puddle of it laid.

Jim spun around with a gasp, hugging himself, eyes squeezed shut tight. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry!” Kane cried. “I’ll fix it! I’ll clean it up! I-I was in the middle of cleaning it up, I was going to have it ready by morning!”

“Whose–” Oh god, he couldn’t breathe, the whole room smelled like it. “Whose blood is that?”

“No one’s! It’s just my blood packs! From the fridge! I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!”

He couldn’t deal with this, not here, not with the stench. “Kane, come with me to the bathroom, we gotta get you cleaned up.”

Jim started up the stairs without turning around, but he could hear Kane’s little shuffle following after him, biting back a yes, sir. He grabbed a garbage bag from the closet on the way there, and only once he was in the bathroom did he dare to turn around.

Kane hiccupped with sobs behind him, hugging himself. “You’re going t-to throw my clothes away?” he whispered.

It was easier to breathe again, away from the bloodspill covering the kitchen, even when Kane was soaked in it. It was hard to be intimidated by him like this, crying his terrified eyes out. “No,” Jim assured softly. “Of course not. Just don’t wanna drip blood everywhere when we take ‘em to the washer, right? C’mon. You’re not… in trouble. We don’t do that here, remember? I’m helping you clean up.”

Kane nodded slowly and started disrobing, reluctantly placing his soiled shirt and pants in the bag. At least he hadn’t managed to get blood on his boxers. “The blood’s still good,” he said a little defensively.

“What? The puddle on the floor? Uh–”

Kane pointed to the bag. “That too! But also this. I can wring them out, I won’t make a mess, it’ll be different this time.”

“Oooookay.” Jim put down the bag. It was abundantly clear that him holding it was making Kane wildly uncomfortable. He grabbed one of Kane’s washcloths and wet it in the sink. “Let’s worry about that after. Can you tell me what happened? I promise I won’t be mad.”

Kane stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I drank all the blood. I’m sorry.”

A month’s worth? Jim didn’t say. Kane didn’t need to hear it. “Okay. We can work on that. No one’s hurt, everything’s chill.” He sat Kane down on the lid of the toilet and wiped at his chin. “How’d it get all over the floor?”

“Vomited,” Kane mumbled.

Jim pursed his lips. “Kane,” he said slowly, “You have to know that blood’s no good anymore.”

“Yes it is!” Kane jumped to his feet, eyes suddenly wild again. “I don’t mind, I’m not picky, I’ll eat anything! Please!”

“It’s puke, man.” Jim tried his best to say it gently, wiping it from Kane’s neck. “We can do better than that.”

Kane shook his head vehemently. “I don’t need to! I’ve had way worse! The hunters made me eat dirt, and cigarettes, and my own eyeball, and silver, and so much more. This is mostly blood! I shouldn’t waste it! Please, Jim, please, I can’t go back to starving, please don’t make me, please!” he sobbed.

“Shh, you’re not gonna starve, that’s not an option.” Don’t think about the eyeball thing. Just don’t. “I won’t let that happen. We can get you new blood. We can call Bellamy, and if that doesn’t work you can go get it yourself, and if that somehow doesn’t work I’d feed you. That’s three plans deep and, hey, ‘starving’ and ‘eating vomit’ are nowhere on the list. You don’t have to do this.”

Kane rested his head in his hands, elbows perched on his thighs, and cried. Jim put the washcloth down and rubbed his back, the scars of starvation still evident months later, every notch of his spine and the backs of his ribs all jutting out beneath his hand. No wonder he was that desperate.

“What’s wrong with me?” Kane wept.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Jim said confidently, rubbing slow circles into his back. “You’re just scared. Sometimes we do stupid shit when we’re scared. Your brain’s just doing its best to survive, y’know?”

He kept going until Kane picked his head up out of his hands. He’d gotten the worst spots of blood, there was still more on his chest and knees, but his clothes had taken most of it.

“Take a nice shower,” Jim instructed, picking the bag up again. “I’ll put these through the wash. When you’re done, clean up the kitchen. With a mop. And trust me when I say you won’t go hungry for it. Can you try to trust me?”

Kane hesitated, but nodded. “I trust you,” he said firmly. And then, less so: “I’m really sorry I scared you.”

“It’s alright. I get scared easy too.” Jim elbowed him lightly. “We’ve got this.”

Somehow, that drew a little smile out of Kane, his fangs still stained red.

-

taglist part 1:

@a-crumb-of-whump

@annablogsposts

@apokolyps

@badluck990

@barebarb

-

@cc1010foxy

@crying-wings

@crystalquartzwhump

@cupcakes-and-pain

@cyberneticfire

-

@darlingwhump

@deluxewhump

@emcscared-whumps

@extemporary-whump

@grays-word-stuffs

-

@iamtheshriekingguineapig

@icyheart-and-friends

@ilasknives

@inpainandsuffering

@interdimensional-chaos

-

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lactose-intolerant-egg

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@littlespacecastle

@lost-in-labradorite-halls

-

@magziemakeswhatever

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@moons-cozy-corner

@morning-star-whump

@myhusbandsasemni

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@neverthelass

@nicolepascaline

@nine-tailed-whump

@not-a-space-alien

-

@nyoomstar

@octopus-reactivated

@oddsconvert

@onlybadendings

@pigeonwhumps

-

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@quietly-by-myself

@quirkykayleetam

@ramadiiiisme

@redwhump

-

@roblingoblin285

@scp-1296

@secretwhumplair

@stars-hide-our-fires

She waits. 

“Don’t give me that look. You have no way of being 100% sure, it’s not like there’s a name on the form.” 

“Is there a tiny chance this form belongs to someone else? Sure, I guess. But for all the no-longer-hypothetical hurt that would save Aiden, it would also mean we’re no closer to getting a legitimate status to protect him today. That’s what really matters.” 

Leo wrings his hands. 

“If we start with the number, we’ll know right away if it’s wrong and save him the—”

“No.” 

“Seriously? You need to chill the fuck out—”

“L-Leo?” 

Aiden stands at the bottom of the stairs. He’s already worried, fingers gripping the hem of his t-shirt tightly. This is going to put a dent in the considerable effort Leo has been making to help Aiden trust that not every step off plan is a bad thing. He notices Leo’s gaze on his hands and straightens them at his sides. A self-imposed correction that Leo hasn’t had the heart to tell him is even more concerning. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Delia says when words seem to fail her brother. 

Aiden barely takes his eyes off Leo to acknowledge her. “Hi…Delia.” 

She waits another beat in case Leo reanimates. He doesn’t. “Why don’t we sit down and talk a bit?”

Nothing ever sounds casual in the presence of a recovering companion, even to her ears. Aiden’s swallow is practically audible as he slides into a chair at the table. Tucked on the far side with his back to the wall, directly across from Leo. A defensive position more than anything, though it’s a wonder he doesn’t also feel cornered. 

She waits a beat for Leo to take the lead, which of course he doesn’t. 

“So, we may have made some progress with finding your number,” Delia starts carefully, trying not to slip too much into her medical professional talking to laypeople tone. She slides the slightly crumpled paper across the table. Leo’s actually holding his breath. This whole endeavor is doomed. 

Aiden tries valiantly but can’t hide the fact that his hands are shaking as he presses his fingertips against the paper to center it in front of him. 

“I—it’s the-the… mmm’handwriting. It’s too—” He shakes his head. “I can’t.” 

That and the fact that he can’t tear his eyes away from Leo for more than a second at a time. 

“It’s okay,” Delia says gently, pulling the paper back over. 

Aiden looks momentarily relieved to be able to bury his hands in his pockets again. 

“Our contact pulled this because it has your date of birth and seems to fit your timeline. May 17th, right?”

Aiden nods with zero confidence. 

“Millions of people have the same birthday,” Leo says stubbornly. 

Delia ignores him. “So, we can either—”

“Read it.” Leo keeps his eyes fixed on the table. 

Aiden looks at her, concern creasing his brow. 

“Leo…” She tries to catch his gaze. 

“Trust me, it’s not going to be him.” He pushes the form at her. “Read it.” 

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “We don’t have to,” she tells Aiden. 

He chews his lip, watching Leo study the woodgrain. “It’s…okay.” 

How did she get dragged into this again? She sighs. “This says you were assigned domestic designation under handler Archer.” 

Aiden freezes, even stops looking at Leo as he seems to retreat into himself. It takes a few seconds and then he pulls in a shaky breath. “That-that…was me.” 

“Okay—”

“It’s still not enough,” Leo interrupts. “There are over a hundred thousand people in the System.”

Aiden shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

Nice fact, Leo. She tries to glare at him but he’s still committed to avoiding any eye contact. 

“Keep reading, it can’t be him.” 

“Leo.” She looks at Aiden apologetically but he nods for her to keep going. 

These two are idiots. 

“Uhm. This says you were…uh, committed…” Aiden’s still staring at Leo, willing him to look at him, while Leo just keeps staring at the damn table. “Sorry,” she apologizes to Aiden, then turns to Leo. “There is no reason to drag this out. You’re being—”

“Fine.” He snatches the paper from her hands. Aiden tenses. “I’ll read it then.” 

“Subject was committed by his parents due to concerns about deviant compulsions…”

Aiden visibly flinches but Leo isn’t looking at him. 

Delia crosses her arms and tries to be subtle as she gauges Aiden’s reactions. She is not above taking him out of this room to save him from her pig headed brother. 

“They have always generally struggled to control his defiant, delinquent personality…”

Aiden lifts his chin a fraction. Is it her imagination or are there tears in his eyes? “That… was me.” 

“Leo, that has to be enough.” 

He doesn’t take his eyes off the paper. “You said yourself these were common entry points. This isn’t his form.”

She wants to raise her voice but Aiden’s already freaked out enough. And it would do no good to insist they talk alone, which might not even do any good. It seems better not to draw attention to the fact that Aiden’s losing a hold of himself, it will feel like a criticism against showing emotion. Fuck, Leo. 

He’s onto the background details. 

“Subject is a student. Plays lacrosse and is an accomplished swimmer...”

“That… was me.” A tear slips down Aiden’s cheek and he doesn’t bother to swipe it away, like he’s begging for Leo to just look up and notice. 

“Hon, you don’t have to sit through this,” Delia says. 

Leo doesn’t look up.“Trust me, something in here isn’t going to match.”  

“Aiden?” 

He doesn’t look over as he shakes his head, like he can’t risk glancing away or he might miss the chance to catch Leo’s gaze. 

Leo drags him through the entire rest of the document, pausing after each section to wait for Aiden to verbally confirm so he doesn’t have to look at him. By the end, Aiden is full on crying and it’s all Delia can do just to keep a supportive hand on his shoulder and not pull him from the room. 

“Subiect became more relaxed and cooperative once parents left…” 

Delia stares daggers at Leo. 

Aiden has to clear his throat to speak. “L —” His voice cracks. “That…was…me.” 

Leo tries to flip over the form, still convinced he can save Aiden. “But—”

“It’s—it is…me.” He puts his hand on the table, offering more than reaching. He must think it appears plausibly deniable but in reality, it’s heartbreaking to watch him hang there, waiting, raw. Doubly so with everything the form laid bare and Leo unable to accept it. Leo can’t even look at him. 

Another minute passes of Aiden crying silently and Leo staring down at the form. The muscles in Aiden’s cheek twitch under the tension of his jaw. Her brother looks like he’s made of stone. 

So different from the night they should be having. When she first came in, the kitchen still smelled like Leo's tomato sauce from earlier. He was probably just about to cajole Aiden into some over-the-top dessert for Friday night. Ice cream covered in whipped cream, m&ms and mini marshmallows. A tradition he started when it was just the two of them but back then it was usually just buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar. If Aiden was up for a boardgame they’d play at the table or just put something easy on the TV. One or both of them falling asleep by ten. 

When she can’t take it anymore she stands. Aiden pulls his hand back into his lap. “Listen, I think we should just—”

“Finish it,” Aiden says. 

“What?” Delia hopes he’s not suggesting what she thinks he is. 

He wipes his face with his sleeve and stands. “The number…my-my number…say it.” 

“Aiden, come on…” He’s too busy daring Leo to engage to look at her. “Leo, seriously, this isn’t a good idea.”

The seconds stretch into a minute and she starts to think Leo might finally be returning to the land of logic. “I don’t think any of us want to revisit this a second time,” he says to the table.  

Are you off your meds? She almost asks but that wouldn’t be very doctorly. She can’t really blame him for overreacting like this but part of her does wonder if it’s a little above and beyond the call of anxious duty. Either way, her dumb brother might have a point about wrapping this up once and for all. 

She takes a deep breath. “You’re sure you want to do this?” 

Aiden nods, a little too resigned to this outcome for her liking.  

“Wait—” Leo holds up his hand. Finally.

But it’s too little too late. Aiden refuses to look at him. Not an easy feat, the kid is holding his breath, fingers balled into fists at his sides. He grips his flannel pajama pants, probably to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. 

“Never mind,” Leo mumbles. Where was this defeatist attitude earlier? 

“Are you sure—”

“Delia,” Aiden says at the same time Leo tells her, “Just do it.”

A clean break is easier to set. One final cut. 

“75419359.”

Aiden doesn’t move, doesn’t react in the slightest. 

“Aiden?” Leo takes a half step forward. 

She catches his sleeve. “Wait—”

The absence of recognition is their answer. Either because Aiden’s consciously fighting the conditioning or it’s just buried too deep to surface. They have his number. 

Leo pulls out of her grip. “Hon, are you alright?” 

For some reason, the void of reaction makes her think of a star collapsing in on itself. 

“I think—”

Leo’s panic rises to fill the vacuum. “Aiden, look at me.” He reaches for his arm. 

“Wait—”

Leo grips Aiden’s shoulder. She holds her breath. “Talk to me, kiddo.” 

For a split second, there’s a flash of what might be recognition across his face. But it disappears as fast as it came. And then everything implodes. 

Aiden’s knees hit the floor and Leo follows like they’re connected by an invisible tether. 

“Aiden!” Leo catches him by the tops of the arms before he can fall further, presumably to press his forehead to the ground. Yup, they got his number alright. Yipee. 

“Leo, you shouldn’t—”

“W-where—where am’I, s-s-s—”

“What? Aiden—” 

He looks right through Leo, eyes filmed with tears. “Where-where’s…mmm’Archer?” 

“Aiden—”

“H-handler…mmm’Archer?” 

“Listen to me—”

Aiden lifts a shaking hand to his neck. “W-what-what did’I’do?” 

“Oh, shit. Leo—”

“What?” Leo looks back at her in a panic.

“Give him some space.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Please-please, w-w-what did I do?” He gropes at his throat. 

“What’s happening?” 

“He’s looking for his collar, they take them off for the worst punishments…” His eyes are wide with panic as he scans the room unseeing, fingers clawing at his neck. 

“What? No, Aiden, no.” Leo catches his hands and Aiden whimpers. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

He nods, gaze never lifting higher than Leo’s jaw. He pulls his hands back and doesn’t go straight for his own throat. 

Instead, he starts undoing Leo’s belt.

“No!” Leo’s on his feet, stumbling away. “What the hell are you doing?!” 

Aiden shrinks back, hands coming up defensively as he makes himself smaller in that special way that comes from being brainwashed to believe you don't deserve to take up space. “S-s-s-s…m’sorry…m’sorry—” He gasps between sobs, shaking his head. He starts raking at his neck again. 

Leo takes a half-step forward but seems to think better of it. “Delia, do something.” 

She kneels next to Aiden. The poor kid is starting to draw blood but his breathing is so thin and panicked, she wonders if it’s not about the collar anymore. 

Delia catches his hands, squeezing them gently to try to bring him back to awareness. “Aiden, can you look at me?” 

His breathing is even more strained. Probably because even this is enough to feel like he’s restrained. 

“He can’t breathe!” Leo’s back at her side, one hand pressed to his sternum like he can feel it himself. 

“Aiden, can you squeeze my hands?”

“Delia!” 

“Leo, relax. You’re not helping.” 

He sits back on his heels and crosses his arms. 

“Aiden, hey, you’re good. You’re a good boy. You’re—”

The strangled sound that comes out of Aiden sends a chill down her spine. Worse than the screams and groans of physical pain she’s used to, this is different. A sound she wouldn’t wish on anyone, not only because it’s beyond imagination. Made worse by the fact that he sounds like he collapsed a lung. She almost wants to check but doesn’t want to add oil to the fire. 

“Give me your belt, we can—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” 

Aiden continues to choke on thin air right in front of them. 

“That’s all I can think of! It’s just a pressure thing—”

“No.” 

Like they haven’t all suffered enough because of his obstinance. 

“Then it’s going to be a while,” she grits.  

“No, it’s not. He shouldn’t have to deal with this.” 

“Leo, enough. Just because—”

Aiden’s eyes widen a fraction when Leo stands over them but he doesn’t cower back, his hands still limp in her grip. At least he’s not completely gone to the world. And her brother just walks away. Stubborn idiot.

Maybe it’s time to just hold the kid for as long as it takes. Grounding pressure to reset his central nervous system, right? Not the worst idea. 

“Move.” 

“What?” 

Leo brushes her aside as he wraps a blanket around Aiden’s shoulders. Finally, something. 

“Let’s go,” he says, mostly to Aiden as he hauls him to his feet. Aiden rasps a whine. 

She scrambles to follow. “Where?” 

“Outside. Come on, hon.” 

“Leo, it’s raining.”

“All the better.”

She shakes her head, hoping he’s right as she hurries to get the door. 

Leo half-carries the shaking, wheezing bundle that is Aiden out of the house and down the three steps to the walkway. He makes him stand on his own two feet, one arm holding him close. 

“Come on, you’re okay. Let’s walk it off, yeah?” 

By some miracle, her brother gets a semblance of a nod out of Aiden. 

Leo leads him along at a surprisingly clipped pace, Delia following behind with her heart in her throat. By the time they round the first corner of the parking lot, she can’t hear Aiden’s panicked breathing over the rain anymore. The blanket is soaked through, dragging along the pavement. No longer a shelter, it only serves to burden. Weighing on his shoulders, a second skin sapping his warmth.

At the far end, under the streetlight, they turn back. Aiden plants his feet and Leo almost trips, trying not to drag him forwad.

“Aiden?” Leo snaps right back to panic as he turns to face him. Obviously, this was his single life line. 

Aiden finally meets his eyes. His eyelashes are full of tears or raindrops. He clings to the sodden blanket, shaking hard from the combination of the cold and the crash. 

“I…I’mmm’sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Leo shakes his head. “Hon, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m sorry for getting so—”

“N-n-no,” Aiden sniffles and swipes the back of his hand under his nose. “Not-not…for th-that.”

Maybe Delia should have let them take this walk alone. 

“I don’t—”

A car passes on the main road, headlights flashing through the trees and reflecting off all the wet surfaces like a lightning strike. 

“I…I should’ve—” His voice breaks and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t-didn’t mmm’try hard…enough.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I mmm’should’ve…f-f-fought harder,” he cries. “I went-I went too…mmm’easily.”

“God. Aiden, no—”

He steps back like it was a blow.

Leo repairs the distance between them. “Wait, listen to me—” He puts his hands on Aiden’s shoulders. “Jesus, you’re freezing, come here.” He pulls Aiden under his arm. “Let’s get you inside.” 

Aiden lets himself be led back to the house, peeking up at Leo’s face every few steps, his brow creased. 

God, these two. 

Leo shepherds them all straight upstairs, wet clothes into the laundry. Everyone gets a pair of Leo’s pajamas even though she knows Aiden has his own now. She steps into the bathroom to change.

“You think you’re up for a hot shower?” Leo asks in the hall, voice slightly muffled by the door. 

There’s a weighted pause. 

“Do you…mmm’want-want me to?” 

“Hon…”

“Mmm…” The floor creaks. “N-no…shower, please.” A sniffle. “S-sorry.” 

“Baby.” 

“I know,” Aiden says, voice quieter. 

“Come here.” 

“Leo—” 

“Nope. Come here.” 

“Mmm.” 

Delia waits a few extra minutes. And then a few more. Still, when she finally opens the door, it’s too soon.

Leo keeps one arm around Aiden for the rest of the night.

Even when they fall asleep on the couch ten minutes into an episode of some HGTV show. She smiles and heads upstairs to take her stubborn brother's bed.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@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

~ 

Paris laid on the floor of Jay’s living room, finding comfort in the familiar sound of synths. Equipment was sprawled out on the floor around him. Jay himself was perched in the center of it, both knees and wings folded up close to his body. His expression was one of total immersion. Flow State. His headphones hung a little crooked off his ears, until he pushed them down all the way to his neck. For a brief second, Paris saw an uncanny resemblance in how the metal hung there.

Paris got the urge to reach out to him, but his hands were busied with the keyboard. And besides, it was clingy. Paris probably owed it to him to be less annoying.

He rolled over onto his stomach, trying to turn his attention back to the drawing. Paris did not like drawing, really. He liked painting, but he wasn’t fully in the headspace for it, and didn’t feel like getting out the material. Sketching out the preliminary stages seemed more doable now. Baby steps.

He found himself drawing a lot of machinery. The machinery was most of what he could remember.

A few isolated notes kept piping up from the synth, before Jay seemed to finally found a progression he liked. Paris recognized it as ii-V-I, probably. It was pleasant and ambient enough that the beat itself soon faded into the room’s background noise. The only thing that stood out to him after that was the melody, or the places where the beat stuttered. 

“Why do you let me stay here?” Paris asked.

Jay moved a slider up on the synth, adjusting the frequency. When he looked up at Paris, it was through the side of his eyes, but it was not unkind.

“Why?” Jay repeated back. “I like you. I want you to stay.”

No. That wasn’t good enough. Jay needed to justify it, in a real way. Explain yourself.

Paris looked back down. Not even at the paper. It was at the carpet. He needed as little stimulation as possible right now.

“I’m not a good person,” Paris said. “I know everyone will like, get on me about saying that, that it’s defeatist or whatever. But it’s true. I’m not. I don’t know why you trust me at all, or why you were willing to give me anything. I’m…bad.”

He was tired. If Paris couldn’t find some way to shut his own thoughts off soon, he didn’t know what he’d do. This was, in itself, a dangerous thought. He knew damn well where it led. That only exhausted him more. He felt pathetic; he suspected that was Jay’s real reason for keeping him. It had to be pity.

“You’re not bad,” Jay said gently, but urgently. “You’ve been good for as long as you’ve been here. I can tell how hard you’re trying. You’re not bad, okay? Don’t be so hard on yourself. Who told you that you were bad?”

“Nobody told me. I just know it because I was there.”

“Did your parents hit you?” Jay asked.

Paris stopped dead.

“…What? I, yeah? Yeah. Why?” He blinked. “…Everyone did. It’s, like, a cultural problem. I thought you knew that already.”

“You never talk about it.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Paris asked, quite genuinely.

Jay stared at him without reply. Paris lost his nerve, returning his attention back to the drawing.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbled. “I told you, it was everyone. I fucking deserved it more than most of the kids it happened to. I was a really annoying kid. I was a bully by then as well, too. I don’t know. I deserved it.”

“How old were you?”

“Dude.” Paris narrowed his eyes. “Stop. It doesn’t matter. It’s not an excuse. They were worse with him. I got beat, fine, but they were…getting tortured.“

He thought of Johanna briefly, and frowned.

“Anyway, yeah. No. I had a bad childhood, sure, but so did he. His was worse. I knew that, and I still fucking- I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

The frustration mounted again. Jay held onto hand out to him, which he took, then brought by his face. He muttered a soft apology.

“Stop saying you deserved it. Stop thinking it,” Jay suggested. “It’s making me sad.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve always been like this.”

A hand ran through his hair. Because all his thoughts were still on violence, he almost recoiled. Jay kissed the top of his head, an act that nearly melted him. Paris gave a discontented, miserable sigh as he hid his face in his arms.

“You’re good,” Jay repeated, like a mantra. “You’re good, I promise.”

~

Delta bounced his leg idly where he was sat up by the window. Kali had pointed out to him that he always tried to get to a higher elevation when he was in conversations lately; he kept climbing up onto counters and railings, standing when other people were seated. 

Did you know that before, the only way I was even allowed to speak was from my knees? He didn’t say it to her. He figured she already knew, somehow, and that was why she was ribbing him about it. He got the sense Kali knew way more about him than she ever let on. 

She was perennially absent from the meetings anyway, by his own request. While she took sacrament with some desert cult, Delta was several hundred miles away, getting used to walking alone. 

It was less of a confrontation each time. He tried so hard to remember what he even wanted from Paris. It was tempting to just torture him, in the way he knew he could. It was a fantasy that brought him comfort, but not one that ever played out how he wanted. It didn’t make him feel any better when Paris cried. It only made his chest hurt.

Delta was hardly seeking closure anymore, either. He didn’t know if he’d ever find it. Closure in his mind was awfully close to home. It was something borderline mythological. It was a place he could never be. Utopia. It did not exist.

Left with this, he had no better explanation for why he kept seeking out Paris other than simply wanting to be near him. 

Lorelai had been lovely throughout the entire process, the way she always was. He sensed some of the fear was bleeding out of her as well, which made him very happy. As a consequence, the meeting points grew less remote. This time they were set out somewhere that felt a bit less like the end of the world. There were even other people in the room, sometimes.

It was still CTRL’s. Delta recognized some faces as they passed by. Recognized Antony, who both Paris and Lorelai seemed to know already. Recognized Vi, who they both seemed to know really well. Even though they were mostly strangers to Delta himself, their presence helped to make the whole experience less alien.

Still, Delta was seated up by the window, because he liked to be close to the exit. 

“…What are you working on?” he asked Paris conversationally, cautiously. The other was seated at the adjacent counter, absorbed in his tablet. Not unlike he’d been back then.

“Giving counsel.” Paris shrugged. “It’s just double-checking plans before they go through. I caught a lot more issues in the beginning. Not so much now. They’re getting better. Or I’m getting worse.”

“The Empire changed a lot of their shorthand notation,” Delta pointed out.

“Yes, to confuse everyone. It’s causing problems for them internally too.“

“Nobody can guess your plan if even you don’t know what it is.”

“Exactly.”

Delta almost said something that revealed everything, and had to stop himself. He could think of nothing else to say for a while.

“Do you like it?” he asked Paris.

“Yeah? No one’s forcing me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Delta admitted. He looked up nervously for permission to go on, or a warning not to. “Legally, you’re considered their hostage.”

“I probably shouldn’t speak to that. But you know how it works.” A pause. Paris asked: “What did Galatea consider you?”

Whistleblower immunity.

“The same, I think, sir,” Delta answered. He brushed his hair out of his face as he moved closer to the counter.

If Paris knew he was lying, he didn’t let onto it. His attention was somewhere else.

“Can I ask you something?” Paris voiced lightly. He said it low enough that it wouldn’t echo, and the others in the room wouldn’t hear.

Delta nodded, mouthing the “Yes, sir” rather than fully vocalizing it. Progress.

“Did your wrist heal okay?” Paris asked. 

Oh. Delta held it up, then out in offering. By the time he’d realized he’d done it, he was already within the danger zone. He could break it again. Delta was giving him the power to, if he chose.

Paris took the offered wrist gingerly, examining the bone and its connections. He was looking at it like he was trying to remember something.

“It healed,” Delta volunteered nervously.

He realized with a start he had let Paris touch him, for what must have been the first time in years.

“…You broke it cleanly,” Delta spoke in low tones, so that no one else in the room could hear. His tone was almost — almost — grateful.

Paris gently smoothed his thumb over the unbroken skin. 

“I’m so sorry, Delta.” He let go. “Seriously, I-“

~

A few key memories came to mind. Lorelai’s eyes, kaleidoscopic and half-crinkled in disgust. The first time he’d gotten so drunk that he literally couldn’t see. Hands around his neck and beneath his armpits, having to physically pry him off of Delta so that he would not beat him to death in his excitement.

He’d broken his own rule. That was the key thing. He’d never meant to hurt Delta like that, even when hurting him was a reality he was ready to accept.

“I’m sorry. That was. I can’t imagine.” He inhaled softly. “I’m glad it healed. Is everything else okay? Do you still get the migraines?”

Delta blinked. “…Yeah, those are chronic. No other scarring, though, besides on my neck. Um. Nothing you’re responsible for.”

It hurt to have his concerns be laid out so transparently, as if he was concerned with nothing but his own guilt. He wanted to care for Delta in a real way, divorced from his own contribution. He could, if he tried. But it circled back to blame more often than not.

Delta eyed Paris’s hand as he detached. There were shallow scars running up his forearm, and one large one right through his palm. Delta stared, and seemed to space out upon viewing them.

The shallow scars on Paris’s arm were gained the same night Delta’s wrist had been broken, of course. Delta had given them to him as a parting gift. He’d given them to him while his head was being forced underwater, the kind of water Paris knew he could not breathe in, the kind he’d known would hurt him. Great symbolism had been attached to this, in Paris’s mind. The symbolism was so great that it’d allowed him to completely ignore the ways Delta had been crying, and begging for him to stop.

The nausea hit him so sharply he thought he might die right then and there. He felt like he’d been poisoned.

He wanted to hide the scars, but what good would that do? Delta had already seen them; and was looking straight at them.

“That one’s new,” Delta said, pointing to the wound on Paris’s palm. 

Paris failed to suppress the shudder.

“…Yeah,” he confirmed.

Delta was looking at him, still waiting for him to go on. Which seemed just the slightest bit cruel. But maybe it wasn’t. Paris knew all of his. Maybe it was only fair that Delta should know, too.

“Imperials,” he said simply. “Nezu’s people. Um. Maybe Lorelai told you, or maybe you just know already, but it took us like a full year to get over the border undetected. Had a couple run-ins in the meantime. Knife wound. This was the worst of it, honestly. They meant to drive it through my fucking eye, I honestly got really lucky, I-“

He was rambling. He thought he could have gone on for much, much longer. Maybe he’d never be able to say enough about that day.

Delta just looked sad. He was staring at Paris with those huge, doe eyes. It was strange. What had he done to deserve that? 

“Sorry,” Delta said. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Paris said, beginning to get concerned again. “…It’s fine. I lived. I fucking needed it, honestly. Ugh.”

Not quite true, and his expression probably showed it. Truth was, he still had nightmares most nights. He felt incredibly grateful for Jay for a second as he tried to imagine what it’d be like to have those dreams alone.

~

Delta’s mouth shut abruptly.

Not your fault.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Sorry,” Delta repeated. He couldn’t help himself. 

He meant it. He was sorry whenever Paris got hurt. Part of that was sympathy. The other was responsibility. He was supposed to guard him, wasn’t he? What other use did a weapon have? 

But he’d failed at that, clearly. He’d failed a long time ago.

“I’m glad you made it,” Delta said softly. “…I wish it hadn’t been so difficult.”

“Yeah. I also wish it was not so fucking difficult.”

Delta noticed the other scars about his body. All new. He’d struggled. Delta could have guessed that, but to see the evidence in person was another thing entirely.

“You made it, though,” Paris said. It sounded like an accusation. Delta nodded bashfully.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Paris asked.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Delta.”

He was getting bossy, almost. Irritating, and comfortable in its familiarity. But what could he criticize him for? Had that been a warning?

“Yes, sir?” Delta asked, pushing it.

Paris didn’t answer, looking back down at the screen. Delta sat down on the stool across from him, resting folded arms and then chin against the counter. The long, dark length of his hair pooled in soft whorls around him.

“Is there anything I can do?” Paris asked, after an extended silence. “Anything that would help?”

“I don’t need help,” Delta answered. 

What would’ve helped, Delta thought, is if you’d cared back when it mattered.

He didn’t say it. Paris wasn’t an idiot. He must have known that too. He deserved to feel the string of it. Better than the sting of a belt, or whatever fucking torture devices he’d been so fond of.

“What do you want from me, then?” 

Internally, Delta jolted. It was a fair question, but he hadn’t thought Paris bold enough to ask it. Audacious, even. He blinked.

“I don’t know,” Delta admitted. Whatever it was, he couldn’t put it into words.

“I thought you were dead,” Paris provided. “The novelty of that, uh, not being the case is still pretty fresh. Is it like that for you?”

Delta nodded.

“I’ve known you for a really long time, Paris. Longer than anyone else still living. It feels more natural to be with you than to not be. Even.” He hesitated. “I like it when you are nice to me. Thank you for trying to be.”

That was the real novelty of it. Delta wondered if he’d still come back, even if Paris had been just as cruel as he was capable of being. He liked to think he wouldn’t. There was simply appreciation for the will to amend things, and a morbid curiosity at what might have inspired that. The scars along his body lead to some clues.

Paris looked at him sadly, with a palpable exhaustion. He tapped at his cheek, where the eldest scar was, his own making.

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

Delta nodded mutely. That was okay. It was here now, which still meant a lot.

~~~

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