When all their exchanges had been through a screen, it had been much easier to manage. They existed to him mostly in concept alone. Even when they’d sent videos, they still felt fictitious. He had understood them more as characters from a book than he did as real people. 

That same attitude was not sustainable in a three dimensional space. Those two were flesh and blood. Even with the new collar, Delta’s idle mode powers were higher than they had been in years. As ever, it was concerned with forms. It felt out the shape of the space around him with small pulses throughout the day. He could feel their hearts beating in their chest, the minutiae of their movements. 

Real people presented complications that fictional ones did not. A very, very old voice in his head already dictated how he was meant to feel about them.

They risked everything for you and you didn’t even say thank you. All you’ve done is hide out in your room and ignore them when they speak to you. You are ungrateful. You are disrespectful. It is an unacceptable way to act around your superiors. You should be on your knees. You should be begging for forgiveness for what you’ve done.

He did not know whose voice it was, but it sounded ancient. It sounded like it had come all the way from genesis. He wondered whether it had been there all along. Maybe he just hadn’t been able to make it out clearly before. Right now, without work to distract him, it had grown impossibly loud.

Ungrateful, venomous thing. Did you forget what you are? Did you forget who you belong to? Don’t you dare try to speak. You are an object. I don’t ever want to see you acting like that again. You are not a person. Get down. You do not exist for any reason but to serve your superiors’ needs. You will speak when you are spoken to and nothing more. You will obey their orders and do nothing else. If you forget your place, I will happily remind you of it.

Delta pulled the pillow over his head. The barrage was more or less continuous. Something about being in a new environment must have triggered it. He had already internalized most of what the voice said a long time ago. He knew that. But the constant reminders of his own ingratitude still made him feel awful. He knew it wasn’t right for him to be hiding out like this. He was scared and he was exhausted, but it wasn’t an excuse. He’d been trained better than that. He exhaled, rising up from the bed. He’d put it off long enough.

He found Apollo first. He’d been standing in the side room right by the kitchen. It had been his mother’s studio at one point, now it was just a space with good lighting and a usable surface. He’d been trying to clean it out when Delta walked in.

“Oh! Hi!” Apollo was pleasantly surprised to see him emerge from his room. The soft fabric of his poncho swayed around him when he moved. Little glimpses of golden jewelry were just visible in between the curls of his red hair. He gazed warmly at Delta, his eyes betraying nothing.

This was so fucking difficult. The easygoing way they acted around him only made him feel worse about his own indiscretions. It would have been better if they were angry; he’d have known what to do with that. The procedure was mostly the same, though.

Delta knelt down on the floor in front of him, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He bowed his head, stealing only a small glance upwards. Apollo’s expression was marked with concern. That was fine. It didn’t deter him.

“Thank you.” Delta’s voice was soft, but it was still the clearest Apollo had ever heard him speak aloud. “I didn’t say it yet. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Less was more. He wasn’t going to start rambling, even if he thought he was capable of it. He’d only say more if Apollo wanted him to, if he gave him permission to. Otherwise, he hoped his body language would speak for itself. 

Apollo looked really, really upset. He crossed the distance between them. Delta cringed back at the rapid movement, sure he was about to be hurt. But Apollo knelt down, pretty abruptly interrupting what Delta had been trying to convey. He reflexively flinched as Apollo took his shoulders, shaking him gently, “It’s okay. Of course. You don’t have to do that. I’m glad you’re okay, alright? But you don’t have to. It’s not like that.”

Delta stared back at him unblinkingly. Apollo seemed to gather himself, releasing his grip. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have touched you. You can stand up though. Don’t mention it.”

He offered a hand for Delta to rise. Though confused and self-conscious, he accepted. 

===========

He tried again with Kitty. She didn’t return to the house until later in the night. Delta waited until Apollo had gone to bed, not wanting to upset him any further. Kitty was collapsed against the couch as if she’d been running around all day. Her ears perked up as Delta approached.

“Hey! You’re awake!” She smiled cheerfully, kind of goofily. 

Delta wrung his hands, more nervous on this attempt than he had been for the previous. He knelt. The carpet of the living room was much softer than the hardwood of the study. Kitty tilted her head in confusion.

“Thank you for saving me.” His voice sank a little as the shame seeped into his words, “I’ve been acting ungrateful. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

“Aw. It’s no problem, bud.” Kitty frowned a little as she leaned forward. “Do you wanna sit on the couch?”

Delta hesitated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been allowed furniture in general; he’d had his own room. It was specifically that he was not allowed on furniture with other people. It gave the wrong idea; he was never supposed to be at their level.

“No, miss,” he responded. It was too much for one night.

“Okay.” Kitty shrugged. “Floor time, then.”

She slid down onto the carpet with him. He blinked in surprise. Very casually, she switched on the screen on the far wall, untangling her controller from beneath it.

“You wanna play?” She asked.

“Um. No, miss.” He shook his head.

“K.” She said. 

He watched as the screen came to life. Kitty’s tail swished from side to side as she focused in. It was a hypnotic movement. Hesitant and careful, in anticipation of being reprimanded for it, Delta unfolded himself into a more comfortable position. Kitty did not object.

He pulled his knees up to his chest. After a few minutes had passed, he’d gotten absorbed in the bright colors and motion of the game, almost forgetting where he was. He was kind of susceptible to things like that. He blinked back to reality, stealing a sidelong glance at Kitty. She was just as engrossed, not half as tense.

“Do you want me to stay here?” He asked. Like she might’ve forgotten he was there, like it wouldn’t go well once she noticed. 

“Do you want to?” Her voice was a bit hopeful, in ways he did not pick up on and was not yet capable of understanding.

He nodded mutely as he leaned back against the couch. He watched her play in silence, slowly adjusting to the presence of another body beside him. 

…….

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

We lived in a small mountain town in Northern CA with passes at both ends, which was the only way in or out of town. Those passes closed from November to May, no one in, no one out. That meant that from November to May, there were zero supply or food trucks coming in. There were exactly two places in town you could buy food at all - a CVS and the tiniest Wal-Mart ever, which was only the grocery. We had to travel north to Ashland or Medford, OR, regularly, to bulk buy food and sneak it back over the CA border. Everyone in town did this. We knew the passes would close, but we severely underestimated the severity of winter weather on the eastern slope of the cascades, at 4.5k feet elevation. We expected the passes to open at least periodically, and stocked food accordingly. They did not.

We had just used up most of our food supply by early November, and thought we would have time for another trip north to restock. We did not. A freak weather system came in November 3rd, and stayed into Thanksgiving. I was ok until Thanksgiving break, because I was eating at school. But by that time we had used up nearly every edible thing in the house already. My mother is stubborn and proud and insisted we could make it until the storm passed and the passes would re open. They never did.

She got by being fed by her coworkers, and bringing home scraps, for that's all you could call them. A few mouthfuls does not ease the hunger at all, and actually makes it feel more torturous, so after a few days I just stopped eating them. It was too much. It wasn't until day 6 or so that i ate the scraps again after the chips spurred my hunger back.

My mother finally caved to our landlord on day 8 that we were unprepared for the "starving time" as they called it, which we thought was a joke since it was our first winter living there and we didn't really know anyone, since we were "outsiders" and thus not really received warmly by the 3k people living there.

The landlord was suitably appalled and would probably have contacted authorities if there was any that could have helped. Instead his wife spent two full weeks bringing food to our house, including a whole turkey. She stayed around with me while my mom was at work, making sure I ate and was doing better since my mom had mentioned I was sleeping all the time and she wasn't sure what was wrong. (DUH?)

There was no hospital. A urgent care was next to the jail, but it had two doctors and was only open three days a week for a few hours. They had three nurses between them. All they could do was stabilize, in the event of a rattlesnake bite (not uncommon) and prescribe meds. If you needed help, a helicopter had to come and get you from Redding, which was a 4 hour drive in good weather.

It was just the morning chatter of the crew. It sounded louder than usual in his delirious state, their laughs a bit more piercing. Nobody really looked up as he entered. He lingered in the hall, not seeing any reason to fully enter. Paris was leaning against the counter, listening in but not speaking. His eyes flickered sideways to Delta, a brief flash of annoyance. Delta noticed the little scratches on his face. He looked down at his own nails, which were still tinted faintly red. Oh. Oh. 

He retreated back to the room. He scrubbed his hands off in the sink, as well as the dried blood from his face. He noticed the blood in his hair and took the time to pull out the clotted parts, but there was little else he could do for it without washing it. That would take hours. The wave of nausea hit him very suddenly, very harshly. He felt his mouth watering up and bent down to vomit. It was a mix of whiskey and stomach bile. Though it disgusted him, he felt better immediately. He brushed his teeth thoroughly in the sink. His whole body ached.

He waited patiently for Paris to come back to the room. It took longer than he thought it would. He ran through the events of last night in his head, his alarm growing as each detail resurfaced. Why the fuck had he said that? In what fucking world had it been smart to say that? Delta ran his hands through his hair anxiously. His only hope was that Paris had blacked out at some point and would not remember all of it. Delta doubted it. His migraine was terrible. The stress did nothing to help it. Even the dim light coming in through the portholes seemed to burn straight into his brain. He got up to drink water from the tap. It was at that moment he heard the door open.

Fuck. Delta shut the water off, emerging from the bathroom. It startled him how dressed down Paris was, how casual he looked. He didn’t even look that mad. Delta wasn’t risking it. He dropped into a kneel, placing his hands in his lap. His hair fell in his face when he bowed, safely hiding his expression. Probably for the best; he was on the verge of a full panic attack.

“Look at me,” Paris snapped his fingers. Delta looked up.

Well, he was clearly a little mad. But it wasn’t the freakouts that Delta had become long accustomed to. Paris still had that kind of cold, dead look in his eyes. It was scarier.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Paris asked. 

“I’m sorry,” Delta responded automatically, looking down again. His voice sounded small. There wasn’t much else to say. He’d meant everything he said last night; he wouldn’t try and take it back. Paris did need him. His half of the empire was doomed. Everyone knew it. Besides, Paris had provoked him into fighting. Practically ordered him to. But he was still sorry. It went against all of his training to have acted out that way. A deep blush rose to his face.

“When did you get so comfortable disrespecting me like this?” Paris moves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, leaning back against the dresser. “I’m serious. Why do I have to keep reminding you who you belong to? Why do you think your feelings on the matter count for anything?”

Delta chafed a little at the scolding. It wasn’t fair; he had been trying. His offenses were mostly imaginary. Still, he reacted to them as if they were real. The words stung. He just wanted Paris to stop being mad at him.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” He repeated. He wasn’t sure he could handle another beating right then, not while he was like this. He could usually tolerate the roughness, but his head already felt like it was about to explodes. The nausea from earlier swelled up in him. His body told him he needed to lie down for a very long time.

Paris’s expression doesn’t change. “C’mon. Against the wall.”

Delta winced. Getting whipped would probably be easier on his sore body than getting kicked around, but not by such a large order of magnitude. Besides, Paris had never whipped him before. The idea of it made him a little woozy. Still, he stood up. He removed his shirt without being asked; it had blood on it anyway. 

He caught a glimpse at the tool in Paris’s hands, needing to know what to brace himself for. He’d been expecting a belt. His eyebrows furrowed a little bit at the appearance of the cat whip. He looked for iron at the end and, to his relief, he saw none. There were blood knots, though.

“Where did you find that?” Delta asked, genuinely curious. He was sure he hadn’t brought it with him.

“Hush. Face the wall. Move your hair.” Paris indicated to the spot he wanted Delta to stand. 

Delta pulled his hair in front of him, exposing his back. He placed his fingertips to the wall. It was so cold. He wanted to press his forehead against it, confident it would provide some relief. But now wasn’t the time.

Paris didn’t warn him before it started. Delta yelped a little, more from surprise than pain. But the pain was there too. It really did feel like a cat scratch. A sharp sting, covering a surprisingly large area. Delta barely had time to process before the next strike came, landing on his other shoulder blade. After that, they began to overlap, turning the skin totally raw from the onslaught.

It wasn’t like the belt. The belt had been heavy and solid. The flail felt more like it was cutting into them. As Paris continued, Delta felt a sudden warmth where he knew the skin had split open. He whined a little, not at the pain so much as how little it did to deter Paris. The whipping continued at the same relentless pace. Delta felt a little tinge of fear. He remembered how hard Simon had been on him, how incredibly long that punishment had lasted. It was hard for him not to panic then. His body tensed up involuntarily, causing the next hit to land wrong.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” It was the panic speaking. It was all too clear in his voice. 

Paris hesitated a second. It was the only pity he had shown Delta in a long time. He seemed to be remembering the same incident, intuitively understanding his distress.

“Five more. Relax.”

Delta nodded, endlessly grateful. The next hits felt a bit softer. At the very least, he was sure they hadn’t drawn any more blood. It was over. Delta took in a shaky breath, not moving. He winced as Paris’s hand smoothed over the irritated skin.

“You know pirates used to put salt in the wounds to clean them?” He muttered. Delta tensed, but Paris didn’t elaborate. He withdrew his hand, instead taking Delta’s wrist, “C’mere.”

Paris dragged him out of their shared room and into the common area. Delta made a point not to look at any of their faces, but there were a lot of the crew members lingering in the space. He was still shirtless. Though he couldn’t see them, he could guess how visible the marks on his back must have been, how obvious it was that he’d just been punished. That was the point.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but when the cuffs came out, he offered his wrists easily. They were cold — not overly tight, but unpleasant against the skin all the same.

Paris moved him closed to the wall, spinning him around to face it. He brushed Delta’s hair out of the way, exposing the wounds to the open air. The chain of the cuffs moved up to a loop in the wall, forcing his arms up. Delta stepped closer to compensate for the strain.

“I have to go now. I expect you to still be here when I get back,” Paris said. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Delta muttered, low enough that no one else would have heard it. He couldn’t see anything from that position, which he thought was a kind of mercy. Paris withdrew.

“Watch him,” Paris called out.

“I don’t pay them to babysit for you,” Someone argued back.

“I’m not asking you to fucking babysit, just tell me if he moves. Not that hard!” Paris huffed. 

Delta heard them leaving, but the room was not yet empty. There were little grumbles at first, some hushed whispers, but the conversation quickly picked up as if nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t even there.

He softly bumped his head into the wall. Part of it was frustration, but it was mostly exhaustion. Without any distraction from it, the symptoms of the hangover came back in full force. He was so, so tired. His throat and stomach both felt acidic from the previous night. Without food, it melted into a gnawing pain. The smallest movement of his head triggered the migraine reaction; it practically blinded him with pain.

His eyes watered. It wasn’t like anyone could see his face. He let himself cry, all the built up tension of the past weeks coming out at once. The room behind him quieted a bit, probably seeing the small heaving of his shoulders. Still, nobody spoke to him.

~

The pain leveled out. He couldn’t make out whether the sensation against his back was a still-extant wetness or simply coldness. He imagined the blood had begun to crystallize, rather than clot. He thought of the crab again, crushed into pieces for consumption. Sea glass.

He probably could have gotten out if he wanted to. The hook itself was not closed. It wouldn’t have been much effort to unchain himself from the position. The strain building in his arms made the thought tempting. Though the staff here had been instructed to watch him, and though he could still hear them in the room, he didn’t think they’d actually stop him if he moved. He wasn’t even sure if they’d even rat him out. How loyal could anyone really be to Paris, anyway?

Delta didn’t move. He’d been given orders not to. He had no reason to. His arms had gone almost numb and he wanted nothing more in the world than to sleep, or to drink, or to just be able to move for a second. Maybe it would do something for the muscle ache, or the nausea, or the migraine. He felt like his insides had been scraped raw. It hurt. It was supposed to. He was being punished for a reason. He didn’t move.

~

Paris didn’t return until dark. Delta was nearly catatonic at that point, having run out of things to think about hours ago. It wasn’t even self-reproach anymore, beyond even sadness or shame. Instead it was boredom — an almost transcendental kind. He still hadn’t moved, though. Paris seemed impressed.

“C’mon,” Paris gently removed him from the wall. He pulled the chain loose before undoing the manacles. His touch was icy, more cold than even the metal had been.

“I’m sorry,” Delta repeated quiet, though he was sure it was obvious from his expression.

“It’s alright. We ran longer than I thought. You did good.” Paris reassured him. His eyes flickered up for an instant, searching. There was the smallest flash of concern. Checking he hadn’t been permanently damaged, that he hadn’t gone too far. He really hadn’t meant for it to last that long.

Paris needed to shower immediately after that; he was nearly frozen, covered in sea ice and frost. Delta slid on a shirt he didn’t care for much, wincing a bit as the fabric chafed at the marks. He’d been allowed to eat for the first time that day. It was a simple meal of rice and salted fish, but with how he was feeling, he didn’t think he could have managed anything else. It settled his stomach a little bit, the twin pains of his hunger and nausea evaporating. He was able to shower once Paris had finished, though much of the hot water had run out. Maybe this was for the best. The cold felt good against his back. He finally washed the blood from his hair. 

He still had to sleep on his stomach. He was still on the floor, but Paris had at least bothered to get him a mat that night. Delta was ready for bed much earlier than Paris was. Everything had been drained from him. He only felt cold and bloodless.

“Am I…” Delta trailed off. He really wasn’t in the mood to speak. He felt afraid to. Paris looked up expectantly, clueless.

“Is it okay if I sleep now, Your Highness?” He asked softly. 

“Yeah, you’re good,” Paris shrugged, like he didn’t get why he’d even asked permission. “I’ll be in the kitchen. You should rest.”

Delta nodded, sinking down into the mat.

~~~

 * * * * * 

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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Port cursed under his breath. “You’re burning up,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

He wasn’t sure how Sonny hadn’t kicked the blankets away yet. Port pulled them off for him— that was when Sonny woke fully. His eyes were glassy, like dark marbles, and his mouth opened and spilled something unintelligible. It didn’t even sound like English. His hands, trembling, searched for the missing blankets, but they were too weak to grip properly.

Had his fever gotten even higher? How hadn’t Port noticed? He badly needs to cool down, Port thought. A cold bath should help, right? 

“Let’s get you up,” Port said, slipping a hand under his warm back.

Sonny arched away from Port’s touch and turned onto his side, facing the wall. “No,” he whined. 

Port sat himself on the bed next to him, feeling it dip. He twisted closer and placed a gentle hand on Sonny’s upper arm, who was pressing his face roughly into the pillow. “A bath’ll help you feel better,” Port promised. “You’re real sick. Let me help you up?”

Sonny sniffed loudly, nose sounding all blocked, and then wheezed a cough. He pulled his knees to his chest and curled himself into a ball. Port could feel his shaking through his touch on Sonny’s arm. “Please?” Port tried.

“No…” Sonny said. “Stop… porfa.”

Port leaned further to get a better look at his face, and his weight sinking into the mattress was enough to get Sonny’s body to turn slightly towards the sag. Port saw a tear squeeze out of the corner of his closed eye, rolling down his exposed cheek. “Oh, Sonny…” he said. He did hate to see him cry. “C’mon. Let me help you to the bath.”

To his dismay, Sonny started to cry in earnest. Gosh, he was so out of it. Sonny pressed his curled knuckles to his mouth, trying to tamp the sobbing. It was quiet, like he was trying his best to hold them back. Port felt a little sick. The last time Sonny cried like this… it was the night he'd had that nightmare. When he told Port he thought he might die, saying it like a secret and an immutable truth.

Sonny pressed his face harder into the pillow, shoulders shuttering. Port let his hand settle in Sonny’s hair, threading his fingers through the overgrown bangs falling over his forehead. He tenderly brushed them aside and swiped a thumb over Sonny’s cheek, wet with tears and sweat. Port liked to pretend he was Sonny’s older brother, sometimes, especially in moments like this. He did the same now. The motion was familiar.

Sonny seemed to calm after a minute like this, Port running his fingers over his mussed hair, cries ceasing. Port hated to try and attack him again, but he really thought a cool bath might do him some good. “Are you ready to get up now?” he asked softly.

Sonny’s face turned away from the dark spot on the pillowcase, glittering eyes peeking open. He said nothing, but seemed more resigned to the idea. He let Port place an arm under his shoulders and ease him to sitting. He helped Sonny scoot to the edge of the bed and swing his legs off the side, and then he grabbed both of Sonny’s clammy hands, steadying him enough to stand.

He supported Sonny most of the way to the bathroom, but once inside, his legs seemed to give out from under him. Port lowered him gently to the cold tile, where he collapsed on his knees. Sonny pressed his temple to the porcelain edge of the tub while Port turned the faucet on, water roaring.

Port remembered the bottle of bubble bath he had seen in the cabinet when he was searching for a face razor and poured a generous amount into the tub in the interest of preserving Sonny’s decency. He went to close the door, too, even though there was nobody else in the house. It might feel more private that way. When he turned around, Sonny had his eyes open again, something like nervousness or perhaps just nausea in his expression as the door clicked shut.

“I can leave if you think you can undress yourself,” Port said somewhat hopefully. 

Sonny stared silently, head tipping like he was about to fall back asleep.

He didn’t love the idea of helping Sonny out of his clothes, but it wasn’t like they’d never seen each other undressed before. It wouldn’t even be the first time he'd helped Sonny in the bath— though he had been more lucid, then. They had shared the same room, the same clothes, and even changed in front of each other sometimes, though Port did prefer to keep his modesty. It was still more privacy than he’d ever been afforded in the past. Port thought bitterly back to the communal showers in the facility, with water always freezing cold and chaperones whose burning eyes would sometimes linger too long. He thought about Ginny’s garden hose.

“I’ll help you,” Port said. “If you’re okay with it.”

“Okay,” said Sonny, voice like gravel. 

Port knelt very close to him, his own knee nearly fitting between Sonny’s folded legs. He was pliant as Port grabbed the back of his shirt to tug it over his head and even maneuvered his own arms to wriggle out of the sleeves. He must have been expending a lot of effort just to stay upright without the support of the tub wall, because once the shirt came off and exposed his bare torso, he practically collapsed forward. His head slotted into the space between Port’s shoulder and neck.

“Alright,” Port mumbled, slightly uncomfortable with the contact. It reminded him of how Sonny liked to tuck his face against him some nights, like it was the most comfortable spot in the world to rest his chin. He didn’t usually mind, and if anything it was comforting to feel Sonny’s breath like a confirmation of his beating heart, but it was stranger with Sonny’s naked chest pressing against him and the goosebumps visibly running up his brown arms. “Your other clothes, now.”

When Sonny didn’t move, Port tried to gently push him away without making too much skin contact. Sonny only buried his face closer to his jaw, allowing Port to feel the bump of his nose and lips. Port was mildly horrified as he felt the wetness of Sonny’s mouth.

Port pushed him away firmer this time, caring less about the press of his palms against Sonny’s sweaty skin. He couldn’t think of a word to describe Sonny’s expression other than confused, brow furrowed and lips still parted. His eyes were dark and unfocused.

“Don’t do that,” Port said.

“Yessir,” Sonny mumbled. “¿No me quieres?”

He doesn’t even know who I am, Port realized with a sort of chill. “I don’t know what that means.”

Sonny only lowered his eyes, tilting sideways until his cheek squished against the cool edge of the tub once more.

Port reached for the waistband of Sonny’s sweatpants, perhaps unwisely, though he wanted to get it over with quickly. Sonny was despondent, not even lifting himself so Port could shimmy them over his hips.

“¿Qué… What’re you doing?” Sonny asked.

“You can’t wear these in the bath,” Port clipped.

Sonny seemed to accept this answer, because he did not fight as Port struggled to peel his sweats off and pull his ankles free of the fabric, revealing his skinny legs. He hugged his knees to his chest, more goosebumps visible under the dark and sparse hair.

Port dipped a hand in the bath, checking the temperature. It was cool, but not frigid. The white coat of bubbles had risen closer to the top. He turned the water off, the final few drips from the faucet stark in the sudden unnerving silence. 

“Do you think you can take your underwear off and get in?”

Sonny did not move.

Port frowned. “You know what? You can wear it if you really want to.”

He hooked his hands under Sonny’s armpits and helped him so that he was sitting on the edge of the tub, keeping him upright so he didn’t slip and fall backwards into it. It wasn’t until Port tried to manipulate his legs into the tub and Sonny’s heel touched the water that he seemed to realize what was happening. “No,” Sonny whined.

“C’mon,” Port plied, lightening his voice like he was talking to a child or a puppy. 

“No,” Sonny said, actively resisting Port’s pressing on his foot. “No quiero… No!”

“It’ll feel good, Sonny, I promise.” Port didn’t want to force him, but the film of sweat and the flush over his skin was still too obvious. Even his ankle was abnormally warm under his grip. Sonny needed to get cool immediately. He’ll realize it’s nice, Port thought. He just needs to get in the tub.

“No, no!” Sonny was nearly kicking, now. His foot slapped the water as he tried to wrench it away, sending a splash over both of them. Wet spots soaked into Port’s clothes and Sonny paused his thrashing at the shock. Seeing an opportunity, Port swung Sonny’s other leg into the water and pushed him into the tub as gently as he could manage.

As soon as Sonny made contact with the water he put himself in the back corner where the tub met the walls, causing a bubbly wave to spill over the side and soak the bathmat. He was gasping like he had just been thrown into the sea, hair hanging in front of his eyes. Was that just water dripping down his face, or were they tears? His legs shifted and it seemed like he was trying to stand, hands scrabbling against the smooth edge of the tub behind him. This sent Port’s heart racing— he feared Sonny might slip and fall. Port hastily leaned over and placed his hands on Sonny’s shoulders, keeping him down.

“¡Basta!” Sonny cried. “¡No me toques! No, no!”

Who is he seeing? Port wondered in horror, alarmed by Sonny’s hysteria. What does he think I’m doing to him? 

He was still scared Sonny might crack his head open if he tried to get to his feet, so as much as he wanted to get as far away from Sonny as possible, he kept his hands in place. “It’s okay,” Port reassured him, trying to keep the panic out of his own voice. “It’s okay, it’s me! I’m not hurting you.” What the hell am I doing? Sonny was half naked and vulnerable and scared and Port was holding him down. He wanted to throw up.

Sonny was sobbing, inconsolable, still trying to escape his grip. Port just wanted to get him out of the tub and prevent him from hurting himself at this point, but it was hard to maneuver him in any way at this angle, awkwardly bent over the tub. At loss of what else to do, and with no time to think, he just stepped into the tub fully clothed, soaking himself.

Port embraced Sonny once he got to his feet, praying it wouldn’t freak him out too badly. Wrapping his arms around him was the only surefire way he could think of to prevent Sonny from falling. Sopping sleeves pressed against Sonny’s back, Port thought he might be able to feel each individual vertebrae. As Sonny’s chest heaved rapidly against Port’s own, he could’ve sworn he might even be able to feel the rabbit-quick beat of his heart. 

Sonny wasn’t twisting or wriggling or struggling, anymore. He only hiccuped and cried, exhausted. The fight had left him. “It’s okay,” Port whispered by his dripping head. “You’re okay.” Sonny was shivering in his arms, both bodies pressed into the corner. “Let’s get out.”

He awkwardly stepped out of the tub, trying to bring Sonny with him. Sonny’s legs were not really working. Port practically lifted him out, far too light, and set him on the cold and soaking bathmat. Port immediately withdrew as soon as Sonny was safe on the floor, as if Sonny were a hot pan he had accidentally brushed his hand against. He wanted to leave right then or just disappear from existence so Sonny didn’t even have to be in his presence, but Port knew that abandoning him was worse than staying. 

Sonny was weeping into his hands, spine pressed against the tub, suds slipping down his wet and shining arms. Port really didn’t want to see him exposed like this, so he grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around him, taking special care not to touch his dripping skin. Sonny grabbed the edges of the towel with trembling fingers and pulled it tight. He buried his head in his knees, still gasping. 

Port pressed his own back against the open spot on the wall and touched the crown of his head to it, aiming his eyes at the ceiling. He tried to block out the piteous sounds filling the room. Still sopping wet, he felt twenty pounds heavier. He stared at the yellow light, exhaling a breath he had been holding for too long, telling himself he was not going to start crying. That wouldn’t help. 

I keep making the wrong decisions over and over and over again, he thought painfully. All I ever do is hurt him more.

~~~

Once Sonny was dry, in fresh clothes, and tucked back into bed, Port couldn’t help but hover at his bedside. He felt like a creep as he watched over Sonny’s face, searching for any signs that he might be suffering from a nightmare. 

If he was, should Port even try to wake him? Would that not only scare him more, to see the object of his terror materialized before his eyes? 

Am I a scary person? 

Yes. Without a doubt. He thought about how he had loomed over Rida at the kitchen table yesterday. The expression on her face as she looked up at him. At the time he didn’t register it, but looking back on the memory, it was clear as day.

Fear.

Port just wanted to know how badly he had hurt Sonny. How much he should punish himself for it. That was why he hovered at his bedside: every time Sonny stirred, every time he so much as twitched or wrinkled his nose or furrowed his brow or made a little noise in his throat, Port kept the score. He wasn’t sure what his punishment should be yet. Maybe, for each tally mark, he should pry off one of his own fingernails. He should pull out one of his teeth. He should stub a cigarette out on the bottom of his foot. 

No… he should just wrap his own hands around his throat. He should slide a knife through his ribs. He should put a bullet through his skull. He deserved it. He deserved everything. 

He wouldn’t, of course. He was too scared to. He couldn’t take what he dished out. 

~~~

Thankfully, the siblings did not come home until evening. It was not hard to avoid them until they both retired to their rooms. 

Port did not get into bed with Sonny. He would sleep on the floor, like always. Even the first night, he had known he did not deserve anything more. He did not deserve softness. Instead, he’d slipped out in the dark, separating himself inch-by-inch from Sonny as not to wake him, and lowered himself to the rug where he belonged. All he afforded himself was a pillow for his head.

Tonight, he did not even deserve that much. He would sleep with nothing but the clothes on his back— and even those might be too great a luxury. 

⭑ next

~~~~~~

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