cw: flashbacks, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse
A nod of his head, and a couple kicks of his foot. Graham bobbed along with the rhythm of the music flooding his ears, the string of the earbuds tapping against his chest as he moved, humming to the tune.
The clothes were soft to the touch, still hot from the dryer, perfectly perfect as they folded nicely into each little square. Not a single stain or rip in sight, and it was almost scary to think about. How could he manage to keep it that way? In what world would he be able to keep them better than how he found them, as he thought Edith would want?
Doing what he’d been instructed to, he focused back on the music, letting it roll over his shoulders and wash all the way down to his toes, steamrolling right over his nerves. It was scarily easy to lose himself in, to discard his keen senses and constant attention on the world around him in favor of the song.
Another shirt, tucked under his chin as he gently placed the sleeves into the middle and flipped the bottom to the top. The task was monotonous, but ten times better with music.
Graham’s feet tapped and circled himself as he stepped to his feet, hoisting the entire pile of laundry along with him. He couldn’t help but move with the beat of the drums, loudly thumping and encompassing in his ears. Stumbling to the drawer across the room, he grunted along with the words bumping into his head.
The song, one of his favorites, slowly rolled out into a distant heartbeat kind of sound, as the sound of the next came humming in as he shrugged open the top drawer.
It was a new song - most of them were, he was listening to Isaac’s playlist - but this one didn’t feel new. As soon as it began he was singing a hum exactly as it went, like he’d heard it a million times before.
He knew the words. They started up, the vocals growling and scratchy, and he could mouth them as soon as they came crashing into his mind.
He snapped to attention, nearly dropping to a kneel, but in a mere second he recognized that the voice wasn’t master’s. It wasn’t angry, commanding, or master’s, and it was right beside him. It still made him flinch, shook him up, although it was more feminine - sharp still - but juvenile.
You’re going to spill the milk if you keep doing that.
He was holding his breath. Taking a quick sip in, he was hit with the smell of a kitchen, of ingredients. Particularly sugary smelling ones, kind and warm, not at all like his master’s place. Apprehension flooded his senses next, freezing him still.
You can dance if you put the measuring cup down.
The instructions didn’t make sense - a measuring cup - yet he followed them to his best ability, dropping the laundry into the spot of the open drawer below him.
Ever so carefully, practically disobeying because he wasn’t explicitly ordered to, he craned his neck to the source.
It’s okay, I will do it myself!
There was a woman, one who wasn't supposed to be there, though he didn’t make any move to back off. Her hair was short but full, shaking along with her laugh, bangs home cut and caught in her eyelashes. She stood beside him, a smidge shorter but still tall with his button nose and his downturned eyes and his little lips. She seemed a bit older, but around his age as he was seeing her.
She giggled, her whole body moving with the noise, low and gravely. Come, do it with me! She was dancing to the music, harder, faster, better, letting it puppet her movements. It is fun, I promise!
Instead of doing as she told, he stayed still. She didn’t seem to notice.
Shifting back to a glimpse of the drawer, it was gone, finding only a bowl of goopy looking batter, a little distorted and fake looking, like it wasn’t really there at all. At the same time it was there, and so was she.
What if I cracked this egg on your head right now? She said, and that time she was holding a single egg - white - reaching out to plop it right over his face. Instinctively, he leaned away. What would you do?
“Who…?” He questioned, the piercing ache of his head stopping him from getting any farther in the sentence.
Do not give me that look, She tisked playfully, as if he hadn’t said anything at all, now put the sugar in. We have to be done before Mom gets back.
The white blotted out her face by half then, eating up her image to nothing. It hurt more by the second, the longer he stared the worse it got, the white picking at his mind until the music drifted off once more, and his mind was fully and painfully empty.
Barely recognizing the thump of his knees to the rug, he sucked in a slick hiss at the stab of affliction seeping through the white, just as the bass began to thrum.
This one was new again, not at all familiar, and as he listened it felt more and more like hearing through a fish bowl. Even with the song filling him to the brim, he could barely hear it over the seething pain.
I’m not gonna hurt’cha, pal, not as long as you’re a good boy. No need to look so scared.
This he recognized in an instant, even through the blinding brightness. 520 cowered below his handler, no matter how many reassurances he was given.
Don’t tell anyone, boy. It’ll be our little secret that I’m letting you listen.
That was odd. His handler was kind enough to allow him to dirty an earbud, something so terribly off limits he couldn’t believe it. And the music was blaring, blasting his eardrums, but still it felt good. It was horribly muffled and tacky, but he savored it.
You like it? The handler laughed, bitter and sharp, before knocking the pet upside the head, I can tell you do. Don’t lie to me, ‘520, makes’ me wanna hurt you.
He felt the smack, crisp and clean, slick with sweat and sending him further keeled over. Spit pooled out from his slack lips, gathering in a puddle on the white below him. He was surely out of it, blinded by the burning and the possibility of drugs coursing his system.
Stop your whimpering and get over it. You should be able to handle a little wack like that by now.
Huffing a shaking breath, he rested his head to what he thought was the dresser, a dark wash of wood, as he blinked ever so carefully. It didn’t make much sense for one to be there when the facility was only ever white. As his eyelids opened once again, it was instead the white painted wood of his master’s bedroom door.
The song was no longer recognizable, a contorted sound of words and instruments thick with sickness. He could feel his fingers curl through rug, yet see them flat on shining white tile.
He wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop, especially not on Master and Prince, but he could barely contain himself. The noise was louder than it should’ve been, confusing him, but the song was too good to worry himself over. A shift from the sickly buzz churning his mind in circles, a lighthearted pop sound.
That wasn’t right though, because his master didn’t enjoy that type of song, and never let Prince pick. The lady liked it, but she was never really there, and he couldn’t remember her name even if he wanted to, it’s all white and that’s all it will ever be-
He coughed, hacking out juicy spittle, and a hand was pressed to his back. The instinct was there to slap it away like it would hurt him, but the white was too strong and it didn’t hurt him anyway.
“Graham, can you please look at me?”
It took him a moment to recognize that was his name, that he had a name at all, before he nodded.
She wasn’t there any longer, the lady with his face, nor was his handler. The voice was different, the hair orange, the eyes green and concerned.
“Otis?” Graham croaked, drool dribbling down his chin. The pain subsided to a throb, still there but less overwhelming.
“You are not okay.” They stated, and it wasn’t a question, they both know he wasn’t.
He lied anyway. “No. I am fine.” Trying to catch his breath, he couldn’t help the gather of sweat collected at his temple.
“No you are not.” They shook their head. “I will get Isaac-,”
“No, please, I am fine.” He curled his hand over theres, pressing his forehead to the chill of their knuckles. “Just a headache.”
They bit their lip, glancing toward the door. “You are sure? I can go get her-,”
The music was a little murmur of a song from the earbuds, having fallen out during his commotion. “Fine. ‘M fine.”
Already was the memory of what had just happened nearly gone, save for the affliction and the brightness of the white stinging a burn into the back of his mind.
To him the woman would remain nameless, and she did not exist, and was never even there.
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