#fincharticulates

I decided to write a full fanfic on my hc Raymond and Desmond meeting situation so... yeah

His breaths came in pained gasps. His lungs were far too big to comfortably fit within his broken ribs; with every inhale, a pain hit him so strong it felt as though a grenade went off inside his chest. He wanted help. For the first time since… he couldn’t even remember how long ago, he wanted someone to save him. He wanted Raymond to come help him, but he was dead. Shot at point blank right in front of him. Who else did he have?

Raymond had been the only one to stay by his side all these years. He had never left once, never questioned him or even thought of betraying him. And now, because his master was careless, he was dead.

And now Des was alone, with no one who cared about him.

The corrective lenses in his damn mask were fogged from the tears and the heavy rainfall; he longed to take it off, but he couldn’t. Who was he without it? Desmond Sycamore died a long time ago. He was buried with his family. Jean Descole is supposed to be gone, supposed to have disappeared after Targent was taken down and Bronev was arrested. But this façade, this madman, stuck around after he was meant to. He felt like a monster.

He couldn’t be Desmond Sycamore, but he shouldn’t be Jean Descole.

With each staggering step, each heaving, hissing breath, every drop of blood that stained his clothes, he came to the reality that he had no one to help him. He was alone, and he would die that way.

He knew he deserved it.

It was a miracle that he escaped. Well, not really a miracle, per se, seeing as how Raymond gave his life to make sure that his master got out of there.

Gun pointed at his forehead. Old eyes watching the inside of the barrel, greeting what he ultimately knew was his doom.

“Master,” Raymond said, his voice barely wavering. “The rest are far away. You can escape.”

“R-Raymond—” Descole whispered in a hoarse, cracked voice. Everything was happening so fast, he thought they were getting out, when did his arm break or ribs snap or legs scream to give out—

“Get out of here.” Raymond’s voice was sure and steady. “You’ll still live. Don’t let this go to waste. Take care of yourself, boy.”

Raymond’s eyes met his, and with at his old friend’s nod, Descole turned and ran, his ears ringing with the sound of a gunshot.

He didn’t feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, or the lacerations crossing his torso, or the screams in his legs. He was going numb. He didn’t know if he was walking still; his vision was blurring out, going staticky at the edges like the end of a movie. A shitty movie he didn’t want anyone to see.

The alley wall he found himself against was the most comfortable bed he could’ve wished for. His ragged breathing slowed, his senses dulling as the blood loss caught up with him. He only vaguely registered a cry and the sound of rushed footfalls. He was fading when he felt something jostling him, didn’t hear the pitiful whine that escaped him when his already battered body was picked up.

Everything went out.

++++

His head was pounding. He groaned as he woke up, his body surrounded by an asphyxiating heat, only serving to worsen the burning he felt any time he even twitched. He felt disgusting; the blankets around him were trapping the heat with him, not granting any respite from the incessant burn he so desperately wanted to escape from.

He gritted his teeth and tried to move. His first instinct was to assess the damage he felt: left arm seems to be broken, put into a little sling; possible pulled muscle in right leg; moving his torso resulted in several burning pains shooting up his spine… lacerations, maybe?

As the fog cleared from his mind, he tried to open his heavy eyes, greeted with…

Why couldn’t he see? The world around him was blurry and obscured; he tried to blink the fog away, but it stuck around. He knew he had bad eyesight naturally, but surely the lenses in his mask—

Where was his mask? He couldn’t have taken it off in his state. Someone had deliberately taken his one comfort. Someone now knew who he was and had him vulnerable.

His breathing grew rapid as panic began to set in. He thrashed his limbs in an attempt to get up, cries of pain going unnoticed in his frenzy to escape wherever this was. He had woken up in captivity too often, too many bad memories and far too much pain correlating to situations like these – he needed to get out, needed to fight, needed to run away before anyone had an opportunity to hurt him. His already blurry vision spun as a panicked haze overtook his mind, smothering the pain that came from every part of his body screaming in protest in his fight to get up and out of that heat.

He fell on the floor onto unsteady hands and knees, trying in desperation to get up only resulting in stumbling and falling as he vaguely registered a door opening and a shout. He felt a hand on his back, right on an injury, making him hiss and try to fight the person off.

“Descole!” The voice was familiar. “Descole, calm down!”

He fell onto his back, a low whine he would be embarrassed to know came from his own mouth escaping him. His heaving chest shot pain through his system with each breath. Hyperventilation was clouding over his already hazy mind; blacking out sounded very appealing to him right now, but there was a gentle hand on the side of his face and a soft voice urging him to breathe. He felt his breath slowing and settling into a reasonable pace, taking around a minute to finally be able to think a coherent sentence.

He realized in relief he had his eyes shut this entire time, so he placed his right arm over that half of his face so they had no chance of seeing him.

“Mask,” he croaked, his throat sore.

There was a pause, then rustling, and finally cold ceramic touched his hand covering his eyes. Taking as much care as he could muster, he placed the mask onto his face and let out a deep sigh of relief. He took a moment to gather himself before opening his eyes.

One of the faces that greeted him was a shock. Luke Triton watched him with wary eyes, laced with worry. He almost swore; he let him see him weak. Shoot him now.

The other was one he didn’t know. It was a girl, around Luke’s age (maybe older?), with long, pale brown hair and sparkling eyes. Who…?

“Are you okay?” Luke asked.

Descole groaned. “I’m fine,” he forced through gritted teeth. “Where the hell am I?” He asked this, hoping to all that’s holy his guess wasn’t right.

Luke opened his mouth, no doubt aiming to scold him for cursing, when the girl spoke.

“You’re in Professor Layton’s house.”

Descole’s jaw dropped a little, then his face twisted into a grimace. “Why?”

“You’re severely injured,” the girl said. “If he had left you there, you would be dead.”

“All the more reason for him to have just walked away,” Descole muttered. The two children were silent for a few moments, before he began to heave himself upright. They both moved to stop him.

“You need to stay down, Descole—you’ll really hurt yourself if you try to move!” Luke said.

“No way in hell I’m staying here. Thank you for helping me this much, but I’m afraid I must take my leave.” Descole managed to get himself onto his knees, beginning to stand when a pain in his right leg caused him to cry out. He toppled over again, catching himself on his unbroken arm. The broken one, however, screamed in protest as it was continually jostled in what he now noticed was a little sling. Descole grit his teeth to prevent from wailing in pain.

The children were obviously at a loss for what to do. The girl looked absolutely taken aback by his actions, but Luke just seemed… sad? Who the hell gave him the right to be sad for Descole? Descole glared at Luke, who didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. Descole’s ragged breathing was the only sound in the room, and for a few moments it stayed that way. It was then that Descole had an urge to swear for real; he was stuck.

With his injured leg curled under him, his left arm useless in a sling, and his two other limbs holding him up with barely enough strength to support him that much, he couldn’t possibly lower himself to the ground without falling and causing even more pain. He gritted his teeth to prevent a cry of agony as his ribs felt like they were going to collapse. What did he do? He couldn’t ask for help from these two brats.

It was then that footsteps were heard coming from downstairs. The children looked towards the door as it swung open, Descole intently avoiding the sight of the individuals he might see. His hearing was obscured by the blood rushing through his head, but he heard… something, before someone picked him up. He caught himself whining before biting it off, and instead snarled, “Keep your hands off of me.” He kicked his legs and thrashed and almost succeeded in letting himself loose before he landed on the bed with a little ‘oof.’

“For a grown man, you have a stunning track record of throwing tantrums.”

Descole groaned and turned to face his younger brother. “For a gentleman, you have a stunning track record of being a sassy jerk. Why are you doing this?” Although his voice was still hoarse and weak, he was evidently still able to express resentment at his usual level.

Descole was getting sick of the incessant clinking of the chains. Though he tried his best to relax his arms, letting them hang limply in their shackles without moving them to disturb the chains, they kept twitching however hard he tried to resist.

His head hung low. He had been in this muggy little dungeon for… how long? Two, three months? When he had first arrived here, he kicked and bit his assailants until they left him alone. They didn’t feed him at all; it’s easier to deal with captives when they’re too weak to resist. He remained steadfast, ignoring the pain in his stomach for longer than anyone should. He was relieved when they allowed him solitude, but he soon realized that this wasn’t just a way to keep him from harming the goons he had been captured by; this was torture of its own. He didn’t have any water in his body other than the barest amount they gave him when he was almost dead, and even though he would have had it without complaint, they still forced it down his throat and didn’t let him breathe until he drained the bottle. The bottle itself was tiny, but the little nozzle was stuck so it took ages for the water to come out. The oafs who ‘fed’ him wouldn’t stop making disgusting, lecherous comments while he was unable to speak. He wanted to rip out their throats.

Funny thing about captivity: a person’s mind can be torn apart while kept on the brink of death for an extended period of time. He tried not to open his eyes; the images dancing on the edges of his vision - the forms of his daughter and wife, laughing and smiling, only for their throats to be slit the next moment – were too much. Their smiles never left, their hollow eyes boring into his own, stuck in their twisted cheer. He would close his eyes, panting and gasping at the sharp pain of his stomach, only to hear their horrible, bloodcurdling screams for longer than it took for them to die in reality. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but his throat was dry and he didn’t have enough water in him to make tears. His mind was foggy, constantly clouded by the stifling silence that his memories didn’t allow. After a while of this, his body felt disconnected from him, like clothes of a sort. He had lost touch. He felt hollow.

Eventually, after they had noticed his weakness, they began tormenting him in close quarters without the excuse of giving him food or water. Those sleazy pieces of shit wouldn’t stop mocking him and making disgusting comments about his body, ones he’d rather not hear. What he wouldn’t give to just get a shirt on – they let him keep his pants, at least. He kept that shred of his pride. They kept him weak, barely able to speak and less able to form insults in his mind. He was finding it difficult keeping his thoughts straight, though he did wish he could keep those intrusive memories out of his head.

When those filthy-minded goons came in again, led by a large man with broad shoulders and a black ponytail, they came closer than the wall to torture him. There were three this time.

The leader knelt by him, putting out his hand to ruffle Descole’s hair. Laughing as his captive grit his teeth, he took Descole’s chin in his hand, turning his head to look at him with less effort than he would have used if Descole had been at full strength. Gazing at his hooded eyes, clouded from so long in solitude and starvation, he chuckled. “You’re almost gone, huh?”

Descole narrowed his eyes, trying to turn his head away from the man’s hand. The man could’ve easily stopped him, kept him in his grip, but decided to let his head fall over his chest. “Poor guy,” the man cooed, his voice reminiscent of someone who just found an injured bird. “You’re too pretty; we can’t let you die yet.” The leader carded his fingers through Descole’s hair, earning him a noncommittal growl. “Down, boy,” he commanded like a master to his dog.