Finally, Harrison pushes his fingers through his hair. His usual unconscious-bordering-on-nervous tick inadvertently returns the escapee to its brethren. A place for everything and everything in its place. God, he really is losing his mind.

"And you seem less directional lately."

Harrison's lips thin. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know. It all used to be very, 'this is the first step' and 'one last procedure' blah blah blah." He uses air quotes even though Harrison would have to break eye contact to look at either one of his hands, stretched away from his body in the restraints.

It used to be amusing, watching Harrison try not to fidget and twitch impatiently in a pause. Trying to decide if he needs to fly off the handle or dish out some blood-spilling reminders of who's in charge. Harrison tries valiantly to hide it but even in his drowsy state, he catches Harrison shifting his feet well before he rakes his hand through his hair again.

Harrison's patience is a snake, sometimes content to bask on a rock all day long, waiting for the sun to warm its cold blood. Today, it's hungry.

"And?" Harrison grits.

He hums, imagines the possible words and syllables rolling over his tongue, around his mouth. Is he a little high? Maybe Harrison has been slowly drugging him into this stupor. He can't quite summon more than a feeling of emptiness at it, the same dull, sleepy void he's been inhabiting for a while. Should he be relieved? Sad or angry at the idea of Harrison phasing him out in such a way, if it's even true?

Harrison clicks his tongue.

"Do you even know what you're working towards anymore?" he snaps. At the start, impulsive because of the interruption to his thinking, which is a heavy act nowadays but his irritation wilts and crumples quickly.

He feels the shock of what he's done like a rush of cold air on his bare skin. This was not a thread he meant to pull. There's no backtracking here. Nothing to do but watch it all unravel. He bites his tongue to bleeding.

"Seems I was mistaken," Harrison says wryly, taking a step back. And another.

He feels something then. It takes him a minute to name the emotion.

Harrison spins on his heel and leaves. He wasn't even in the room for five minutes today. Did he bring a coffee with him? Was there any on his breath to signal that it's the start of the day and he would have time later to come back down? Of course, it could have been lunchtime coffee, mid-morning coffee, mid-afternoon coffee, end-of-shift coffee. He's grasping at straws. For all he knows, Harrison was here for hours and he slept through it. He can't remember if he woke up to Harrison arriving or just to Harrison speaking to him. How long will he be left here to fade in and out of his thoughts?

His throat aches.

Regret, he realizes. His body is leaden with it and empty all at once. He hopes sleep will claim him quickly.

Or something else more staying.

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August shakes his head as soon as Wyatt meets his eyes. 

“It’s all right.” He keeps his distance, pushes the chair a little closer to his desk. Straightens the papers hanging over the edge before looking back at August. “It’s just a bath.” 

The younger boy trembles. “P-please, sir—” He’s trying not to cry, swiping at his cheeks with the too-long sleeves of his borrowed shirt, pushing out his chin determinedly. “I’ll wash with the basin and cloth. Please—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Wyatt says, taking a small step to the side. Even though it puts him no closer to August, the boy cringes at the movement. “The doctor said a proper bath. We’ve already delayed two more days.” 

August eyes the tub over Wyatt’s shoulder. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Please, sir. I can’t…” 

“What would you have me do?” He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve already—oh, August. August, lad.” 

He cries in earnest now, hiccuping quiet sobs, and gives up wiping the tears away, arms wrapped around his middle instead. Holding himself as though he might fall to pieces. “I-I-I-can’t, I can’t, s-s-sir. I’m sorry—”

Wyatt tries to move closer and August yelps, sticking both hands out, palms forward in defense. With nowhere to go since he’s cornered himself, his sobs only grow more ragged. 

He’s no good at calming himself, not when Wyatt’s standing right there and could do it for him. He got by on his own many, many times but it’s different now he’s tasted the very warmth and comfort he spent all that time wanting, craving, needing. 

“August—” 

“Nnnonono—” Wyatt can’t get near him and he’s swiftly becoming hysterical, hands still outstretched, sobs racking through him so he shakes on the spot. His eyes are glued to the tub, barely even seeing Wyatt except as an extension of the threat. 

Wyatt steps aside to sit on the foot of his bed and the crying falters. In truth, he’s closer to August now, just an arm’s reach away, but the footboard between them like an iron fence is enough to lessen the threat. 

“C’mere. Come sit with me.” He holds out his hand and waits, doesn’t need to push. Bullying will only make August more desperate and wild. Patience finds the path of least resistance. He’s done it enough times, earned the trust of all the others, one by one, inch by inch.  

It takes another moment and then August’s cool fingers grasp his. He lets himself be reeled in to stand in front of Wyatt. His face is all ruddy, cheeks wet enough that Wyatt can’t catch sight of the new tears once they fall from his lower lashes. 

“All’s right, lad. All will be right,” Wyatt pulls him into his lap, settling the waif of a boy on one thigh. He couldn’t—nor would he ever—do this with any of the others but this one seems to find himself the exception in a steadily rising number of situations. 

August is shaking, eyes unfocused like he has nothing to see now that he can’t watch the tub. He gasps and hiccups, trying to stop himself crying. 

“You must breathe, lamb. Evenly, in and out.” Wyatt places a hand on the center of his chest. “Come now or you’ll faint,” he chides. 

He manages a shaky exhale.

“That’s it.” Wyatt pushes some of the matted waves off his forehead. How might he react to the suggestion of a haircut to keep the hair from falling into his eyes so much? He tucks another tangled lock behind August’s ear and leaves his hand there, thumb stroking his temple. “There you go, in and out.” 

As soon as he recovers his breath, he starts apologising, gripping Wyatt’s forearm with both hands. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Hush. Hush, now.” He pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket. “Dry your tears. All’s right.”

August obeys, sniffling. His hands fall to his lap, twisting the square of fabric around one fingertip, avoiding Wyatt’s gaze. Uncertain what to do with himself when he isn’t permitted to grovel. 

Wyatt lifts his chin with a crooked finger and thumb. “The most favourable course is if you go willingly. For both our sakes.” 

He only blinks at him with those wide, shining eyes. All the fight gone.

“I’d much rather be proud of you than have to force you.” August bites his lip, like he’s thinking it over but Wyatt knows he found an in. The boy is as hungry for praise as he is for a gentle touch. “I believe you can manage it.” 

August flushes, even more swayed by the slightest confidence in his capabilities. “Yes, sir.” 

His next task will be coaxing August to drop the loathsome honorifics. 

“Come on. There’s a good lad.” He keeps an arm around August to lead him to the tub, which he hopes is holding its heat beside the fire. 

August goes rigid as soon as Wyatt steps forward, digging in his heels until his stocking feet slide on the hardwood. But he doesn’t twist away. He lets himself be pulled, trembling but with his mouth set in a determined line. At the edge of the carpet, he trips into Wyatt and stays there, pressing against his side, as he finally looks into the water. It’s milky white from the soap, little bubbles resting among the foam on the surface. 

Wyatt takes one of his hands and, with a gentle tug, lowers their entwined fingers to the water. August gasps and Wyatt lets him pull both of their hands away. “Sir, it’s warm.” 

“So it is.” 

“But…” He looks back and forth to the tub, brow furrowed.

“Certainly you’ve had a hot bath before.”

He shakes his head. 

“I would have thought a house like Elmwood had all the latest fittings even in the servant’s washroom.” 

“Of course, sir.” He drops his eyes, gaze circling the oval edge of the tub. His grip on Wyatt’s hand tightens subtly before relaxing again.“But I didn’t wish to take it from anyone else or be greedy.”

He can picture young August never asking for a second helping, taking cold baths. Quietly and diligently going about his work, constantly in fear of losing his place. Only to wind up with Keats. He had a reputation for being ruthless. How that might devolve when he had absolute power over someone, Wyatt didn’t like to imagine. August already demonstrated enough of its consequences to paint an abhorrent picture. 

Wyatt wishes to tell him he’s finally found a place he doesn’t have to earn, where he’ll be safe. Where he can stay as long as he chooses. Same as all the others, each needing it desperately in one way or another. He’d never be able to hear it now. 

He squeezes the younger boy’s shoulder. “You’re too good for your own good, lad.” August’s still too fixated on the looming task to give Wyatt more than an obedient hum of agreement. They had better get on before he abandons his stoic determination. 

August seems to lose himself as he undresses, movements slowing the further he gets. Wyatt assures him he can leave on his drawers but he only nods numbly, crossing his shaking arms over his bare torso. 

“Look at me.” He ducks his head to catch August’s eyes. “I’ll not hurt you, I mean to keep that promise.”

“I—” He bites his lip and nods.

“All right?” 

The boy dips his head again.  

“Shall I help you?” 

He nods, though Wyatt wonders how much of that is just a reflex. He lifts him under the arms gently to lower him—

August cries out before he even touches water, twisting and flailing until his hands and feet find purchase. Wyatt bears the assault, afraid of causing injury if he simply drops him like a stone, until August eventually manages to wrap himself around him. 

It takes a moment to find his voice. “Are you quite finished?” 

They must look a sight. August clings to him so tightly, he doesn't need to be held, leaving Wyatt’s arms free to hold away from his sides if only to reduce their contact by some modicum. After all the prior upsets, he doesn’t give a damn about having Wyatt between his legs at this moment. 

August buries his face in Wyatt’s neck. “I’m s-sorry—I don’t—I’m sorry,” he whispers breathlessly. Wyatt feels his tears beginning to dampen the points of contact between their skin. 

He lies a hand on August’s bare back, rubbing circles once the boy stops holding his breath like he’s expecting a blow. “Need I remind you how capable you are of facing this?” He can feel August’s heart hammering against his chest so he keeps his voice low. “I’ve witnessed you staring down a whole room, with your hands tied no less.” He holds August under one thigh and reaches behind his back to uncross the opposite foot. “I was impressed by the fight in you, the fire in your eyes.” 

August lets him straighten the leg and ease it into the water. He tightens his arms around Wyatt’s neck and stops breathing but doesn't struggle. Wyatt follows suit with the next so August is more or less standing in the tub. 

“I know you to be brave...” 

August yelps when his wounded hip meets the water, panting against Wyatt’s neck, arms still like iron to keep himself there. Wyatt doesn’t stop until he’s up to his chest in the water, following to kneel beside him on the canvas sheet Midge laid to protect the carpet. 

“As brave as any of those wolves downstairs. Maybe you’re not a lamb after all…” August huffs against his neck and Wyatt smiles. He dips a cloth into the soapy water and runs it across August’s back, eliciting a shiver.

Wyatt washes most of what he can reach with the younger boy still clinging to him before August lifts his head. He straightens slowly, as though a sudden movement might change everything. His face is flushed and his hands shake fiercely when he releases them from behind Wyatt’s neck. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with them, fears touching the very water he sits in.

“All right. All’s right.” Wyatt cups the side of his face as his breath starts to quicken. “Just look at me, August. There you go, that’s it.” He presses the cloth into one of August’s hands, closing his fingers around it for him. “Come now, you’ve done this before.” 

He bites his lips together as he submerges his hand while the other still hovers, trembling above the water. Wyatt catches his fingers and brings them to rest on the edge of the tub. August grips it immediately, knuckles turning white.

“You already smell like a rose,” Wyatt tells him, wiping a smudge off the side of his neck. 

August huffs again, flushing even redder than he already is in the warm bath. He doubles down on biting his lip in a way that makes Wyatt wonder if it might be to hide a smile. A prize for another time.   

“All that’s left is your hair.”  

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows. 

“You can hold onto me and lean your head back.” When August only blinks at him, he adds, “unless you want to go under.”

He shakes his head, expression crumpling at the mere mention. “Please—”

“You’re all right.” Wyatt steels himself and takes both of his hands, bringing them back to his shoulders. “Just hold onto me.” As expected, August does so in a way that would make it nearly impossible for Wyatt not to submerge himself as well as August if that was what he intended. They’re nose to nose, again in contest with the intimacy August fears above all else. Excepting a bath, Wyatt is learning. 

He has to bend over the tub to manage the angle. August hangs on his neck, alternately searching his eyes as though he might see the threat before it happens, and avoiding them completely like he doesn’t want to. 

August gasps when the back of his head meets the water. 

“It’s all right, you’re doing well.”

His eyelids flutter as Wyatt rubs at his scalp under the water. When Wyatt lifts him out and adds more soap, working it into a silky lather, August lets his eyes fall shut completely. As Wyatt's fingers card slowly but surely through the tangles, the knot of the boy’s arms around his neck loosens as well. By the time Wyatt tips him back to rinse the suds, it seems some of his unease has washed away too.

Next...

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

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

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

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

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 * * * * * 

The shadow in the doorway left as quickly as it had appeared— so silently, that once the door shut and there was no longer proof before his eyes, Sonny was not confident he had not merely hallucinated it. 

His head fell back onto the pillow. Drifting in and out, he kept seeing gut-twisting things he did not want to put names to out of the corners of his eyes, disappearing at the flutter of his eyelids. He felt the mattress dip under him. He himself being bent until he might stretch and warp and snap. He felt five distinct points of pressure gripping his neck, his bicep, his thigh. He feared he might find shadows of bruises on his skin as evidence, if he looked.

He did not know if these sensations plagued him for minutes or hours, but at some point he must have fallen into a deep, genuine, dreamless sleep. He pried his eyes open, gazed at the ceiling, and realized he was lucid. 

He clenched and unclenched his fists. At the unfamiliar, scratching sensation, he remembered the bandage wrapped around one hand. The cut on his palm did not really sting, anymore. He pulled up at the edge with his fingertips, unraveling it. The wound, less than a centimeter long and settled into one of the wrinkles, was pink and raw. It was still shiny with the ointment Rida had tenderly applied to it with a finger.

Every swallow was like a razor blade slicing the track of his esophagus. When he finally collected the will and the strength to sit up, he noticed the cup on the bedside table, one of the acrylic ones with texture like a chiseled stone. His arm was heavy when he raised the water to his lips. It hurt sliding down his throat, but it activated his thirst, and then it was gone.

He coughed into his elbow, hating the rattle in his lungs. He hoped it would not stick around. He ran his fingers through his hair, which felt limp and greasy, clinging together and sticking up in strange ways in the back. He wondered how long he had been out. When he tried to remember his last moment of clarity, what came to mind was waking up in the middle of the night with terrible nausea and stumbling to the bathroom to curl over the toilet bowl. He remembered the way his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Who was it who had pressed a grounding hand between his shoulder blades? Rida, right? Why was Port’s face floating to the front of his mind? And why had he been… wet? And naked…? 

It trickled back slowly. 

He sat in the memory for some time. A nausea crept back into him. 

Having had enough of replaying the way he had shamelessly pressed himself against Port’s collarbone, and the way Port’s pinched face and hardened hands had morphed into someone else entirely— someone he could not name or even remember— Sonny swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, faltering a little at the sudden light-headedness. 

He pulled the curtain aside on the window facing the street. Hardly any light entered the room— the sky was dark. Street lamps cast golden cones on the pavement. A stranger passed through one, like stepping into a spotlight, walking a dog connected to her by the leash hooked on its collar. Sonny wondered if she might be able to see him there, standing in the window, if she looked. If she might be able to see the collar around his own throat. Her eyes were too far and shadowed to tell. He drew the curtain shut.

 * * * * *

Port never left the room before dawn. It was not allowed. This rung through Sonny’s mind as his fingers hovered over the doorknob. Not allowed, not allowed, not allowed.

He could almost feel an electric buzz coming off it, connecting to the pads of his fingers with invisible cords that would surely burn him if he drew closer. The thrumming traveling from his chest down his arm pushed his hand forward. There was no pain. The metal was cool to the touch.

He opened the door silently, twisting and holding the knob so that latch wouldn’t stick or click. The hallway was dark except for the faint glow emanating from downstairs.

The door to Mr. Oz’s room was ajar.

 * * * * * 

As soon as Sonny emerged from the bedroom, Port noticed him. The flash of his brown eyes as he turned over his shoulder. They disappeared when Port turned back a second later, hardly landing on Sonny for a second. 

God, Port must hate him. Sonny bleakly wished that he had drowned in the tub so he wouldn’t have to think about how he had tried to kiss Port’s neck. 

Embarrassingly, the rejection still managed to sting, even if it was at least partly due to Sonny being sick and not in his right mind. He never really thought Port would reciprocate in the first place— and that was probably for the best— but in that state he had thought Port was someone that wanted him, too. All the confusing, illicit sensations. Wires crossed. He wondered if Port would push him away all the same if Sonny were to try it in a state of perfect lucidity. He would not actually attempt it, of course. Port would probably be less nice about it. 

Sonny forced himself back to the present. Tal was there, too, sitting across the kitchen table from Port. Playing cards were spread over the surface, and they each held a fan of them in their hands. It struck Sonny as odd to see Port not busying himself with something— engaging in leisure with his master.

“Yo, the Son has risen!” Tal exclaimed. “How ya feeling?”

Sonny blinked away the disparate image of Mr. Oz’s face, focusing on Tal’s unique qualities. Recalibrating master from Mr. Oz to this boy. 

“I…” Sonny cleared his throat, sound not coming out right. “I think the fever is gone, sir.”

“Still sick, though?”

“Getting better.”

“That’s good,” Tal said. “Wanna play cards with us? We can deal you in.”

“Uh…” He was distracted by the way Port was refusing to turn around and face him. Sonny stared at the wavy hair falling over his nape.

“Wait!” Tal threw his hands up. A card slipped out from under his thumb and landed face-up on the table. Ace of spades. He hastily flipped it over to hide it from Port’s view. “You should eat. Rida got some crackers for you.” With the guidance of Tal’s pointing finger, Sonny noticed the conspicuous box of wheat crackers sitting by the kitchen sink. He went to grab them, and they rattled around inside.

Sonny turned around at the scrape of chair legs on tile and reeled back against the counter, alarmed, when he saw Tal leaping towards him. But he was aiming for the cupboard, not for Sonny— he produced a cup and filled it with water, kicking the cupboard door shut with his toe. Bang. He held the cup out. “Here.”

Eyes flicking from Tal’s expectant face to the cup of water, Sonny grabbed it cautiously. “Thank you,” he said. 

“No problem-o. Hydration is important.” As Sonny drank, relishing the cool water sliding over his tongue, Tal returned to his chair and swept his abandoned cards back into his hand. “Rida’s on the patio, if you were wondering. It’s really nice out. Sure would be nice to sit out there… if she wasn’t smoking,” he said pointedly, eyeing the back door like he could x-ray his disapproving look to her.

Sonny was struck with the sudden and overwhelming urge to escape the stifling house. Out there, Port’s refusal to meet his eyes wouldn’t be so obvious. “May I go outside?” he blurted.

“Sure, bro. No one’s stopping you.”

Tal could, if he wanted to. But Sonny appreciated that he wasn’t.

 * * * * *

Every sensible part of him urged Sonny to simply shut himself back in his room, lay down, and go back to sleep. If Port and Mr. Oz were downstairs together, at this hour, doing god knows what, it was in his best interest not to get involved.

But something felt off. Really off. It was quiet downstairs— not even hushed voices. The silence rung in his ears, a pressure against his eardrums just short of tangible. 

 * * * * *

The breeze against his face was heavenly. Somewhere, wind chimes tinkled gently. Rida was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the patio cobblestones, pushed up against the adobe wall. Her head swung towards Sonny, who was hovering in the doorway, surprise playing across her face. Her elbow rested on one of the chair arms, cigarette perched delicately between two fingers. The soft wind blew the thin plumes of smoke, dancing in the air like silk threads.

“Heyyy,” Rida said. It was soft, like a coo, the same way she had murmured to him when she bandaged his hand. She’d had him sit on the closed toilet lid, kneeling before him with the first-aid kit by her knee, and saying to him, softly, “Hey, hey, you're okay.”

“Hi,” Sonny replied, still gripping his box of crackers.

“Did you need something, babe?” Her voice was strangely sweet, though she was not smiling— maybe it was just his lingering sickness or sentimentality. Maybe the way she called him babe. 

He forced himself to speak, suddenly clutched by timidity. “May I sit out here?” he asked quietly.

She gestured to the open chair beside her, sweeping lazily with her smoking hand. It drew the swirling plume through the air. “Be my guest,” she said. “I can put this out.”

Before she could stub it in the ash tray resting atop the little table on her other side, Sonny stopped her. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He shut the door behind him and sat in the twin chair, placing the box of crackers between his thighs. “I don’t care about smoke.”

“You found the crackers,” Rida said.

“Tal told me to eat them.”

“Good. Eat them.”

A command was familiar. Sonny obediently opened the box, prying up the cardboard tab on the top. It ripped uncleanly, forcing him to pick at it with his fingernails. Before he could get to the bag inside, a scratch crawled its way up his throat, and he coughed into his elbow. He buried his face deeper in the crook of his arm when he noticed Rida’s attention on him.

“Are you sure I don’t need to put this out?” Her brow was furrowed in concern. “I really shouldn’t be having it, anyway.”

“It’s fine,” Sonny wheezed, cough petering out. “It’s just the sickness. I used to smoke myself.” He didn’t know why he bothered to admit that. To connect with her, he supposed.

She tilted her head. “Really?”

He pinched the plastic bag of crackers on either side. “I mean— it’s been a while,” he said. “But yes. Though I prefer vaping. Um…” The bag sort of squeaked as he peeled it open. The salty, wheaty smell filled his nostrils. “Not that it matters. It’s been a few months,” he finished lamely. Not since before Mr. Oz. He still got the itch for it, sometimes.

She hummed, raising the cigarette. The cherry glowed red as she took a drag. “Me too, but vaping fucks with my sinuses,” she mused, smoke blowing from her lips. She held it over the ash tray and tapped it with her thumb, a clump falling off the end. 

“That sucks,” Sonny said, and placed a cracker on his tongue. It was delightfully salty.

“Yeah. I keep trying to kick it, especially since Tal can’t be around the smoke. He’s got bad lungs.” She idly nudged the ash tray and it scraped across the table. “Fuck, my mother would kill me.”

Sonny wondered, grimly, what had happened to her. No surviving spouse, Beau had said.

Rida threw her hands up. “But it’s easier said than done. I only really smoke when I drink, anyway. And I only drink when I’m stressed, these days.” It was then that Sonny noticed on the table the heavy-bottomed glass, halfway full of dark liquid, rippling minutely at the vibration.

* * * * *

He crept towards the top of the staircase and carefully lowered his toes to the first step. Then, gripping the handrail like a lifeline, the next. And then the next. Then the next. On the fifth step— creak. He froze.

“Sonny?” That was Port’s voice. It was hissed, like he wanted to keep his voice low, but it cut through the dead silence. 

 * * * * *

“I’m sorry,” Sonny said, stomach flipping. He was the reason for her stress, no doubt. She probably regretted taking them in already, especially with the trouble he’d caused.

Her eyes widened, landing on him. “Oh, don’t be. I didn’t mean it like that, babe.” She pressed her fingers against her temple, black nails pushing up into her hair. “I’m always putting my damn foot in my mouth. It’s just the whole… uh… situation.”

Sonny did not know what else to say. He ate two more crackers, taking his time to chew and savor the texture, as Rida wrapped her hand around the glass and took a sip. Sonny felt another unwelcome wheeze in his lungs and broke into another bout of coughing. 

Rida clicked her tongue. “Your poor thing,” she said. “That cough is persistent.”

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“Whiskey cure?”

Sonny blinked through watering eyes at the glass in her hand. She was sort of holding it out, and grinning a little goofily, teeth peeking out between her dark painted lips. He realized she might be a little more tipsy than she'd let on. “Um…” The thought of a drink sounded strangely appealing, though he doubted it would actually help his cough.

Her smile faded, registering his expression. “That was meant to be a joke, but if you actually want some…”

He hadn’t had any alcohol in a long time, just like nicotine or any other substance— not since he lived with the Hans. He liked the way it made him looser, less anxious, though that came with its drawbacks around his masters. With their daughter, though… he had found it funny how it made Alice’s cheeks flush, and the way her touch on his hip burned like the bourbon down his throat, even through clothes. But Alice was long gone, a thousand miles away. 

Too many thoughts crowding his head. “If you’re offering…”

“What the hell, sure. Here.” She held out the glass, but then withdrew it just as fast, liquid splashing into itself. “Actually, I can get you your own.”

For some reason, he did not want her to go inside and leave him there alone, even for a moment. And he didn’t want the other two to see her search through the cupboard and take an empty glass. “I don’t need my own,” he said. “If you don’t mind. I don’t care if you don’t.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure? Okay. I don’t care.”

He reached to meet her extended arm halfway, connecting himself to her through their shared press of prints to glass. The skin of their fingertips nearly brushed, but did not touch, and then her hand was gone and the glass was his.

He rotated it in his grip, the scant amber swirling at the bottom. His eyes caught on the dark print of lipstick on the rim. He was mindful not to press his mouth to it— he oriented the kiss across from his own, so that as he tilted the glass to let the last vestiges of whiskey slip into his mouth, the wax wrinkled blurred before his eyes.

It burned terribly, as expected. His nose scrunched involuntarily, coughing again into his elbow. The sore throat was momentarily made a thousand times worse, but he relished in the feeling of warmth blooming in his chest as the whiskey made its way down.

Rida took the glass back from him. “That wasn’t your first drink, was it? I would feel bad.”

“No, no,” he said. “I promise it wasn’t.” The breeze returned then, moving his hair. It made him shiver, though he wasn’t cold at all. The weather had warmed significantly since his frigid journey from Texas. He heard those wind chimes again. He looked above Rida’s head and saw them, hanging from the logs spanning over the patio, spinning gently in the air. A glass bird hung down from the center on a string, its crystalline facets catching the light, winking at him like a precious gemstone.

* * * * *

Sonny’s voice stuck in his throat, terrified to speak aloud. “It’s me,” he whispered.

“Don’t come down here,” Port said after a moment, voice shaking. His tone made something tighten in Sonny's chest.

 * * * * *

Rida leaned down to reach for something by the leg of her chair— the bottle of whiskey, he realized. Refilling the empty glass. Not a drop was spilled— she twisted and lifted her wrist at the end of the pour. “You are definitely not 21,” she murmured, twisting the cap and setting the bottle back on the ground.

Sonny didn’t bother to comment on that, thinking bitterly about his redacted file. But he knew it was true— they only would have blacked out his birth date if they had something to hide, and it didn’t take a detective to figure out what that was. So-fucking-what.

Regardless of the circumstances of his acquisition, regardless of whether he had been illegally underage or not, he decided it was irrelevant. He had pondered, more than once, the question that would often rise to his mind unbidden, especially in his darkest moments— a question that, back in the facility, handlers would answer before it was even asked. You chose this. 

Faced with circumstance, faced with scarcely concealed truth, faced with the things he had seen in the throes of mind-warping fever, he decided he was done asking. It didn’t matter. In some subconscious sense, in memories of impression buried deep within the recesses of his mind, the answer had always been with him. Maybe this is always what he was meant to be. Maybe he chose this for good reason. Maybe it was best not to remember.

Some things were not worth thinking deeply about. (Whoever he used to be was dead, now.)

 * * * * *

Sonny knew he probably shouldn’t ask. Still, he could not resist. “Why not?”

Silence.

He was too scared to move. “Porter?”

 * * * * *

Or maybe it was just the alcohol talking. He realized, perhaps too late, that his tolerance was nonexistent and his stomach was practically empty. When he turned his head, the world took a few seconds to stop spinning.

He had to ask: “Is it true Tal had to convince you to take us?”

Rida sighed, staring into her swirling drink. “He was on board from the beginning. I’ll admit I had my reservations… but I would’ve made the same decision, anyway,” she said. She never really opened her mouth all the way, especially with her tipsy slurring. She spoke softly. “I want you to know that. I just hope you won’t hate it here.” She sipped at the whiskey, lips landing on the waxy mark, and swallowed. “It has to be better than living with my dad, at least, right?”

Rida was not looking directly at him, but her dark eyes were aimed towards his face out of her peripheral. Gauging his reaction. Sonny sunk deeper into his chair, quietly running his nail over the waxy cardboard box. “You think he didn’t treat us well?”

She raised a shaved eyebrow, finally allowing herself to twist in his direction. “Am I wrong?”

He only shook his head, eyes on his lap. He meant it as a denial to answer, but she seemed to take it as confirmation. He supposed they were effectively the same thing, anyway.

“I figured,” she sighed. “I didn’t expect anything better.” Her hand rose to her chest. There, bellow her collar, hanging from a thin chain necklace, was a ring like one might wear on a finger. She twisted it over and over, a comforting motion, thumb running over the delicate solitaire diamond. “I think him killing himself was inevitable. I wasn’t that surprised. Some part of him always knew he was a piece of shit.” She took a final puff from her cigarette. It was burnt nearly to the filter by now. She stubbed it into the ash tray. “Can I ask something?”

Somehow, despite the subject matter, Sonny found himself lulled by her words. She lisped like there were cotton balls stuffed under her tongue, giving her voice a muffled, dreamlike quality he could not help but like. “Yes,” he replied automatically, complacent and pacified.

“How did he do it?”

* * * * *

“He’s…” Port’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Oh, God…” he whispered, not meant to be heard. “I don’t know how to explain this. Please, just go back to bed.”

 * * * * *

“Gun,” Sonny answered.

“Checks out,” Rida said brusquely. “Sounds messy.”

“It was.”

Rida’s head snapped towards him, though because he was not looking, he did not know what sort of look she had on her face. “Shit, did you see it? I’m sorry.”

He shook his head again. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I didn’t see it, but…” Porter did. He wasn’t supposed to say that, though. Port asked him not to tell anybody. “I can assume,” Sonny finished. He had smelled it, even underneath the white sheet.

Rida did not respond. When his eyes flicked back to her, she had produced another cigarette, which was sticking out of her mouth. She was lighting it awkwardly with a needlessly long lighter, like one he might use to light a gas stove if he was scared to get too close. The end caught the flame, and she took a draw. She noticed his stare and released the trigger, flame disappearing. She pulled a little smoke into her mouth. “Don’t make fun of me,” she said, smoke swirling. She placed the lighter on the table. “I can’t find my Zippo. I don’t know where it went.” 

Sonny could not suppress his urge to grin. “I wasn’t going to make fun of you.”

“Sure,” Rida intoned. Her eyes narrowed at his face— then she broke into a smile. It looked nice on her, when it wasn’t forced. “You have dimples,” she said, delighted. 

Suddenly shy, and feeling his cheeks go warm, he resisted the desire to hide behind his hands. He could not tamp the grin entirely, and dropped his eyes. “I guess I do,” he said. How funny it was, for her to be so enchanted by such an innocuous feature of his face.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile before.”

“Maybe I’ll smile more often,” Sonny said. “If I have reason to. Can I have another drink?”

“I suppose,” Rida said. “But not too much more.” 

She passed it to him, and he took a reasonable sip. It went down easier the second time. Something occurred to him, staring into glass. “Is this halal?” he asked.

Rida made a weird face at him, halfway between incredulity and amusement. “Do I look Muslim to you?”

“I— I don’t know,” Sonny stuttered, fearing to have offended her. “A Muslim can look like anything, can’t they?”

Rida broke into a laugh, tilting her head so that her bob fell closer against her cheek. Her bright face sent some relief through him. “You know what? You’re right. You shouldn’t judge based off looks.”

“I’m open-minded,” Sonny proclaimed, giving the glass back to her.

“You’re sweet,” Rida said. “But I’m not Muslim. You’re thinking of Tal.” She was fidgeting with that ring looped on her necklace again. On the tiny diamond, a tinier facet caught the light and twinkled in his eye. “He takes after our mom. She was always the religious one.” The cigarette hovered by her mouth, but she did not put her lips on it. “I guess in that sense, I take after Dad.”

 * * * * *

Port did not come upstairs for hours. Sonny laid awake the entire time. 

When he finally stepped through the door, he had a wild look in his eyes. Sonny had always thought his thousand-yard stare was one of his most striking traits. Now, Sonny realized he had never even seen how unsettling it could really look.

 * * * * *

“When did she die?” Sonny asked, before he could stop himself.

Nothing changed in her face. Her eyes were lidded, gazing across the dark yard to the wooden fence, like she was deeply considering a long crack splitting the rot. She continued to twist the ring in her fingers. “Last year. May.”

Sonny thought back to that fateful evening, the night Mr. Han lost that card game. The night he gave Sonny up to Mr. Oz’s clutches. Sonny knew he was lying when he tried to convince himself that the game was the extent of it. It was merely the culmination. The tension had been building long before that.

Before he got into Mr. Oz’s car, he remembered taking a final look at the brick house he had come to know, windows glowing from within. The evening had been warm. Something sick settled in his stomach— not the alcohol. “He took me in June,” Sonny said. 

Rida pursed her lips, nodding. “I know. I saw that in your file.”

 * * * * *

Port’s hardened hands shook as he cupped Sonny’s in his own. They were cold, and slightly wet, like he had just washed them and did not bother to dry them all the way. Sonny stared down at them, at the shadows of the bones pressing against his skin, at the missing fingers, and the misshapen nails. There were dark threads of earth under the white tips, like little crescent moons.

 * * * * *

Sonny could not really remember how he had reacted, when Port told him the news. He could barely even remember the day after, by this point— it was all getting buried away, like countless other moments, many of which he was sure he had already forgotten and did not want to remember or even think about in passing. (For the best.)

Port had waited to call the police until morning. He’s already gone, he’d explained to Sonny. Might as well wait until daybreak.

Sonny, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, had accepted this. He had been terrified of what would happen to them next. If Port wanted to delay it for as long as possible, he was okay with that. As long as he got to spend the rest of the night by him, savoring it, in case he would never get the chance again.

Seems like it all worked out, Sonny thought. Now if only we could stay off the topic of Mr. Oz, forever.

The moon shone through a tear in the clouds. Sonny turned to the horizon. It was too dark to see clearly, especially beyond the rotting fence, but he imagined he could see the shadow of the distant mountain range if he just focused hard enough.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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But Sonny was nowhere to be seen. Not sleeping beside him, not kneeling over him… in fact, something was off, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Squinting at dust bunnies beneath the bed, it struck him as odd that there was furniture in here at all. 

It would come to him soon, probably. Sometimes it even took him a few minutes to remember his own name. Thoughts tended not to stick. 

He never even knew he was hazing seizures until Sonny told him so. Once he did, a lot of things suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Those foggy, walled-off memories of waking up in the night, confused, in pain, before drifting back off to sleep and feeling like he’d been tortured come morning. In his less lucid moments he was convinced that a real, actual ghost had come back to haunt him, in a more physical way than simply lurking in the corner of his mind or his eye, always just out of sight.

Did something blink at him from underneath the bed? He closed his eyes, heart pounding. His chest shuttered. The very air around him was almost too thick to enter his lungs. When inhaled, it was heavy, weighing him down from the inside. 

Ginny was sitting on his chest, suffocating him. Her sharp nails dug divots into his cheeks. Her unforgiving grip hurt his jaw. She was putting something in his mouth— a finger? No… she poured some burning drink over his lips, electrifying. It mingled with the blood.

Port’s eyes snapped open, and the specter disappeared, though he could swear he still felt the foul liquid creeping down his throat and dribbling out the corners of his mouth. He hated these strange flashes, so fleeting and disjointed and tangled he could not be entirely sure he did not simply dream them up. Loose threads pulled from the patchwork.

He righted his head, gazing up at the ceiling fan. It was a great effort to raise his eyelids. The fan was still, air stagnant. He knew if he were to run a finger along the blade, it would come away clean. No dust. Soft light of dawn seeped through the split in the curtains.

When he closed his eyes again, someone else crawled on top of him, straddled him, jabbed a playful finger into his shoulder. The limb twinged and spasmed, knocking against the floor. The tension ran up his collarbone like plucking a taut cable. Her soft hair tickled his face, scent of strawberry shampoo artificial and cloying. It snuck up his nose and got stuck on his tongue. It masked the smoke, which clung to her hair and fingers no matter how hard she tried to wash it away. And it clung to Ginny’s breath, and her teeth, and her clothes and her hair and her fingers which ran over the wheel of her lighter which clicked and clicked and burned and burned and burned—

Enough.

Enough. Into his ear, someone whispered: Wake up. 

~~~

For a moment he thought he had locked eyes with a ghost again, just for a single split second, before his sense caught up to his instinct. Port wondered how long it would take him to get used to this boy wearing a warped version of his master’s face— how long it would take for it not to set off the hair-raising, urgent reaction: You’re supposed to be dead.

Talha was looking at him weirdly. “You okay?” His head was poking out over the back of the sofa, an episode of Looney Tunes playing on the TV perched on the console against the wall.

“Yes, sir,” Port said automatically. 

Based on his expression, Tal was dubious, but he accepted this answer. “How’s Son-Dawg?” he asked.

When Port last checked on him, Sonny was out cold. Port had found himself suddenly paranoid that Sonny had died in the middle of the night and hovered the back of his hand over Sonny’s mouth, just to feel the faint draft of his breath and make sure he was still alive. “Sleeping,” Port said. “No school today, sir?”

Tal’s mouth quirked like he wanted to make fun of him. “It’s Saturday.”

“Oh. Right.” He had lost track of what day of the week it was… well, days ago. 

Tal swung his sharp elbow over the back of the sofa and rested his chin on his hand, beholding Port with round eyes. “Rida picked up a shift, so unless SunnyD wakes up, it’s just you and me today.” His impish smile made Port kind of scared to move. “Do you know algebra?” 

“Um… no.”

Tal frowned. “Dammit. I was gonna try to get you to do my homework for me.” 

Port couldn’t help the gut-sick feeling at his master’s disapproval. “Sonny could probably help you,” he said, wanting to mitigate the damage. “Once he’s feeling better.”

Tal’s eyes brightened. “Is he good at math?”

Better than me, at least. “I think so.”

Tal leaped off the sofa and made some wild movement with his body, throwing his arm up— dunking an imaginary basketball? “Let’s go!” he exclaimed. Then a thunk— something had fallen off the couch and hit the floor. Tal looked to his feet. “Oh, fuck! My Froot Loops!” His lips pulled away from his teeth as he cringed, exposing his braces.

Port rounded the sofa (not overlooking the way Tal took a few steps back as he approached) and laid eyes on the grey puddle of milk soaking into the Persian carpet, right next to the overturned bowl.

“Oopsie...” Tal said, eyes flicking over to him. “Don’t tell Rida."

~~~~~~

taglist:

@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi

@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @jumpywhumpywriter

@justanotherchangeling @masterofdumbassery @ohagany @oldspruceinn @paingoes

@painwithoutplot @palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire @sir-fenris

@string-of-broken-hearts @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox @weibun-art