Eddie's lungs were burning.

He'd been running for blocks, maybe miles—his sense of distance had shattered somewhere around the third alley, the second wrong turn. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat, his temples, his shaking hands.

Behind him, nothing. Just the absence of whatever had started the chase, the thing he couldn't see but could feel at his heels, patient and inevitable.

He didn't look back anymore. Looking back had cost him speed, cost him breath, cost him the precious seconds that kept him ahead.

The ground shifted. He felt it first—a vibration through his soles, then a grinding, stone against stone. Then his foot came down on rising ground.

He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and fell hard on his hip. The pavement was moving. Cracking. Splitting. Something pale and rough pushed through the asphalt like a slow-growing tooth, widening, thickening—

A wall.

Eddie scrambled backward on his palms, staring. It rose to his knees, then his waist. He lunged at it, fingers scrabbling for purchase, but the surface was sheer, wet, impossible. He made a sound—frustration and terror twisted together—and dropped back down, chest heaving, and looked left, right.

Empty alley. Empty street. The wall stretched across the entire passage, seamless, new, and beyond it—

Nothing. No one. Just the dark and the rain and his own ragged breathing. Eddie turned to run the other way.

The man was already there.

He hadn't been there. Eddie was certain he hadn't been there, but now he stood ten feet away, dry despite the rain, hands loose at his sides, watching Eddie with an expression of mild curiosity. Like Eddie was a puzzle he'd already solved.

Eddie froze.

The man smiled. Then his arm swept out—wide, aggressive, a roar of motion that didn't match the silence of everything else—and Eddie felt the impact before he saw it. His feet left the ground. He flew backward, spine arching, and his head cracked against the wall—

Soft.

For one impossible second, the brick yielded like flesh, like foam, cradling his skull, cushioning the blow. Eddie's eyes flew wide, confusion cutting through terror, and then the wall hardened again, instant and absolute, and he was pinned against it, shoulders digging into unforgiving brick, the back of his head throbbing with the memory of that strange, brief gentleness.

"Look at you," the man said. He hadn't moved from his spot. Eddie tried to push off the wall. His palms met brick and scraped, raw. He tried to slide sideways and the pressure increased, something invisible pressing his chest, his shoulders, holding him in place like a specimen.

"I watched you run," the man continued. He stopped six feet away. Five. "All that panic. All that effort." He tilted his head. "Did you really think you could outrun something that wasn't chasing you?"

Eddie's breath hitched. He looked past the man, searching the alley, the street, anywhere—but there was no help, no witness, just the wet dark and the stranger's flat, patient eyes.

The man's hand rose. Fingers spread.

Eddie felt the pressure on his throat before the fingers moved—just a phantom weight, a promise. Then the man clenched, slowly, deliberately, and the weight became crushing, absolute, invisible fingers closing around Eddie's windpipe.

Eddie's hands flew to his neck, clawing at empty air, feeling the constriction from the inside, the denial, the suffocation. He made a sound—wretched, broken—and his legs kicked out, heels scraping brick, finding nothing.

The pressure on his chest increased, pushing him harder into the wall, and he felt brick crumbling behind him, dust and fragments falling, his ribs grinding against the uneven surface.

"Ry—" The name tore out of him, barely shaped, barely sound. "R-Ryan—" He choked, gagged, fingers digging at his own throat as if he could pry the invisible grip loose. "He-hel—help—"

The man stepped closer.

Eddie sobbed, open and ugly, tears blurring the alley into smeared light and darker dark. He could feel blood now—warm, wet, seeping through his shirt where the brick had scraped him raw, trickling down his spine, his side. His body was being pressed into the wall, brick dust coating his hair, his shoulders, and still the fingers closed, tighter, tighter—

Then the man spoke again, conversational, almost gentle.

"Did you know it takes three minutes to die from strangling, Eddie? Did you know that?"

Eddie's vision spotted. He couldn't answer, couldn't nod, could only hang there with his mouth open and his chest hitching uselessly.

The man took another step. Close enough to touch. Close enough that Eddie could see the rain sliding off his shoulders without wetting them, could smell something cold and metallic radiating from his skin.

"I could let you die. A few more seconds and you would." He smiled, small and private. "What do you say when someone doesn't?"

Eddie's fingers twitched against his throat. Nothing. No air. No thought except the roaring need to breathe, to live, to—

"I said," the man repeated, and his hand tensed, fingers curling into a claw, and the pressure on Eddie's neck spiked, bright and violent and personal, "what. Do. You. Say."

Eddie's body convulsed against the wall. His legs kicked once, twice, finding only empty air. The word tore out of him, shredded, desperate—"Thank you! I'm sorry—ah—argh—th-thank you—"

The man held the pressure for one second longer. Two.

Then his fingers relaxed. The crushing weight on Eddie's throat vanished. Air rushed in, harsh and desperate, and Eddie sucked it in with a ragged, broken sound, his whole body shuddering with the relief of it. He coughed, gasped, tears streaming down his face, his hands still clawed at his neck as if the phantom grip lingered.

The man watched him. Silent. Patient.

Eddie dragged in another breath, then another, his chest hitching, his vision slowly clearing from the edges—

"Disappointing." The word cut through the alley, flat and cold. Eddie's eyes snapped open.

The man stepped closer, into the space where Eddie could smell him, where he could see every pore, every casual indifference in his expression.

"All that build-up," he said, soft, almost wondering. "All that fear. And you crumple at the first touch." He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against Eddie's tear-wet cheek. "I expected more from you."

He reached up.

His fingers touched Eddie's cheek, gentle, almost tender, tracing the path of a tear. Eddie flinched, tried to turn away, but the invisible pressure on his chest still held him pinned.

His hand continued down, fingers light against Eddie's throat, finding the bruise already darkening there. Eddie jerked at the touch, a whimper escaping him, every nerve screaming. The man's thumb pressed into the centre of the bruise, testing, and Eddie choked, his body jolting against the wall.

"God," the man breathed, almost laughing. "Listen to you. Sounds like a broken thing." His palm spread wide, feeling Eddie's pulse hammer against his hand. "You make noise like that for this? For a little pressure?" He leaned in, mouth near Eddie's ear, and whispered, "What would you sound like if I actually tried?"

Eddie shook his head, small and helpless.

The man pulled back just enough to see his face, smiling. His hand slid lower, pressing flat against Eddie's chest, right over his heart. "Listen to that," he whispered. "Racing." He pressed harder, feeling the frantic beat against his palm. "Like a bird in a cage. Do you think it knows it's trapped?"

Eddie's breath hitched. A sob caught, and the man's eyes crinkled, almost delighted.

"There it is again. That noise." He leaned in and murmured, "You know what? I think you need this. Being held down. Being told what you are. You don't even fight anymore, you just—" he made a soft sound, mimicking Eddie's whimper, "—make noise and hope someone stops."

He pulled back, smiling, and his hand came up to cup Eddie's jaw, forcing his eyes up.

"You're not a runner, Eddie. You're not even a survivor. You're just the thing that makes noise when it's squeezed." He wiped another tear away with his thumb, almost gentle. "And I haven't even squeezed hard yet."

Eddie's face crumpled. More tears spilled, and the man watched them, thumb brushing them away. "Don't cry," he said softly. "I'm not even done with you."

The man held his gaze. Savouring. Memorising.

Then his arm dropped.

The pressure on Eddie's chest vanished instantly, completely, and Eddie's body simply failed. His knees buckled, his spine slid down the brick, and he dropped like a ragdoll into the rubble, slumping sideways against the wall, his shoulder hitting broken mortar, his head lolling, his legs splayed graceless and limp in the wet.

He didn't feel the hands that caught him under the arms before his face hit the concrete.

He didn't feel himself being lifted, folded, held against a chest that didn't breathe, didn't warm, didn't live like anything human should.

He only knew, dimly, that he was moving, that the alley was receding, that the rain had stopped touching his face.

And that the arms around him tightened, just slightly, as if he belonged there now.

Eddie wakes to the smell of rain on stone, but the stone is wrong—too smooth, too warm, like skin that never breathed. He opens his eyes and the ceiling is too high, vaulted, lost in shadow. But he's not in the alley. Not anywhere he knows.

He tries to move and realises he can't.

His wrists are bound above him, not with rope or chain but with something that holds—invisible pressure, constant, humming against his skin like a held note. His shoulders burn. His feet barely touch the floor, toes scraping for purchase on cold tile.

"You're awake."

The voice comes from the dark. Eddie's head snaps toward it, vision swimming, and he sees the man seated in a chair that wasn't there before, legs crossed, watching him with the same mild curiosity as the alley.

"Good," the man says. "I was getting bored."

He stands. The chair vanishes—not folds, not moves, just stops—and Eddie flinches so hard his shoulders scream. The man walks toward him, slow, unhurried, and Eddie thrashes against the bonds, wrists twisting, legs kicking out, the invisible pressure humming louder with his panic.

"Stop."

The word isn't loud but Eddie feels it in his chest, a vibration that stills his limbs against his will. He freezes, breathing hard, tears already gathering at the corners of his eyes, and the man keeps walking closer, close enough that Eddie can smell him now, rain and metal and something underneath that has no name.

The man raises his arm. Slowly. Fingers spreading like he's conducting an orchestra only he can hear. Eddie thrashes again, desperate, making a sound frustrated and animal and trapped, because he can't help it, because his body won't accept what his mind knows.

"Stop."

Eddie's body goes rigid. Every muscle locks at once, his jaw snapping shut so hard his teeth click, his eyes wide and wet and fixed on the man's face while his lungs keep working, too fast, too shallow, the only part of him still his own.

"Better," the man murmurs. He stops in front of Eddie, close enough that his breath ghosts against Eddie's cheek, warm where everything else is cold. "Now. Who's that person you were calling out to? Ryan, was it?" He tilts his head, considering, and his fingers stop an inch from Eddie's temple. "I wonder who he is."

Eddie feels the pressure anyway, warm and probing and searching, fingers rifling through drawers in his mind that he didn't know were unlocked. He tries to pull away and can't, his body frozen, only his eyes moving, frantic, pleading, tears spilling over and tracking down his cheeks because he can't even wipe them, can't even turn his face away.

"Oh." The man breathes the word, soft and delighted. "Oh, he's pretty."

Eddie's stomach drops. He knows. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows—the shape of Ryan in his mind, the sound of his voice, the way his hands felt in the alley, in the kitchen, in every moment Eddie needed him.

"No wonder you're so scared," the man says, looking down at him, pinned and weeping and utterly helpless, and his smile widens into something almost tender. "He must be kind. Gentle." His thumb almost brushes Eddie's temple, almost touches, the warmth of it radiating through that impossible inch. "It'll be fun breaking him too."

The pressure vanishes. Eddie's body goes loose so suddenly that he slumps, knees buckling, weight tearing at his shoulders before the bonds catch him, and he hangs there gasping, tears streaming, his whole body trembling so hard the invisible bonds hum with it like they're singing to his fear.

The man steps back. Watches him with clinical interest, head tilted, as if Eddie is a puzzle he's already solved but enjoys watching fall apart anyway.

"Does he know how broken you are?" he asks, conversational, like they're discussing weather, like Eddie isn't crying open and ugly against his will. "Does he know you thank the people who hurt you?"

Eddie shakes his head, small and desperate, sobbing now, snot on his upper lip, his whole face crumpled and exposed because he can't hide it, can't perform, can't do anything but hang there and weep. "Stop," he chokes out. "Please, stop—"

"Please," the man repeats, mocking, high-pitched, a cruel imitation of Eddie's voice. "Please, stop. Please, don't. Please, thank you." He leans in, his breath cold against Eddie's wet cheek. "You say please so easily. Like you were born saying it."

The man chuckles, soft and breathy and genuinely amused, and then he pushes—not physically, something else, something that reaches into Eddie's mind and—

Silence. There are no walls. No ceiling. No corners to anchor the space. It feels enormous and empty at the same time. A place without edges.

Then echoes. Faint at first, then louder, surrounding him, pressing in from all sides until they're all he is, all he has.

A scream. His own. Raw and broken and utterly involuntary, the sound of someone who has reached the limit of what they can endure silently. Sobbing. His own. Choked, desperate, please thank you I'm sorry.

A voice, soft and close and unbearably familiar. Good. Very good.

Eddie knows what they are. Memories. His and the man's, intertwined, played back like a recording he can't stop or escape or even close his eyes against because these are just the sounds of his own degradation echoing endlessly into silence.

Then—a door.

It appears in front of him. Not gradually. Just there, a shape inside the nothing, faintly visible, darker than the dark around it.

He knows it's a trap.

He knows he knows he knows.

But there is nowhere else to go.

So he steps forward.

Arms wrap around his stomach, solid and cold, pulling him backward into a chest that doesn't rise nor fall, calm and unhurried as though Whumper was standing in the quiet room with him.

A second arm slides upward, tracking the line of his throat, the curve of his jaw, until it finds the hollow beneath his chin. The hand cups there, fingers spreading wide, and tilts his head back slowly, slowly, until his throat is exposed to the dark like an offering.

Eddie struggles. Eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, his whole body rigid with the effort of fighting something that holds him without force, without pain, just absolute gentle denial that feels worse than any blow because he can't name it, can't fight it, can't even hate it properly.

"Pathetic."

The word breathes against his ear, soft as static, and suddenly Eddie hears a scream— raw, animal, the same scream from the echoes, the same scream he always makes, the same scream that never saves him.

His eyes fly open.

He's back in the room. The vaulted ceiling. The cold tile. The man standing exactly where he was, fingers still spread, watching him with clinical interest as if no time has passed, as if Eddie never left, as if the arms and the door and the silence were just another thing he did to him, just another way to open him up and look inside.

"Back already?" The man smiles, small and private. "That was barely thirty seconds. I thought you'd last longer."

Eddie hangs there, gasping, tears streaming, phantom arms still wrapped around him, phantom breath still warm against his ear, phantom hand still tilting his head back to expose his throat. He can still feel it all, layered over the real bonds and the real burning shoulders and the real cold tile, and he doesn't know which is worse, which is real, which will still be there when the man finally lets him go or kills him or whatever comes next.

The man steps closer. His fingers brush Eddie's cheek, thumb wiping away tears almost tenderly, and Eddie flinches but can't move away, can't do anything but feel it, accept it, endure it.

"Do you know what I could do?" the man asks, conversational, like they're discussing what to have for dinner, like Eddie isn't broken and weeping and held together only by invisible pressure and the memory of arms in the dark. "I could make you live there. In the silence. In the arms." His thumb traces the line of Eddie's eyebrow, gentle, almost loving. "You'd never know when you'd wake up. When you'd be allowed to wake up."

Eddie's breath hitches, sharp and broken, and he sobs again because he knows, he knows, he can still feel the arms around him, can still feel the breath against his ear, and the man is smiling like he knows too, like he put it there on purpose, like it's a gift.

"Or," the man continues, ignoring him, because Eddie's responses don't matter, only his reactions, only his fear, only the way he breaks, "I could make you forget him. Ryan. Reach in and pull him out like a weed. You'd wake up tomorrow knowing something was missing, something important, something that made you safe—and you'd never know what." He smiles, and it's worse than his blankness, worse than his curiosity, worse than everything because it's almost kind. "You'd still cry. You just wouldn't know why."

Eddie sobs harder, his whole body convulsing against the bonds, the invisible pressure humming louder, holding him still, spreading him open, making sure he can't hide any of it, can't perform, can't do anything but hang there and weep while the man watches.

The man pulls back, still smiling, and the pressure in Eddie's chest vanishes so suddenly that Eddie chokes, coughs, gasps for air that tastes like stone and rain and his own tears, and he sags against the bonds, exhausted, broken, too empty to even cry properly anymore.

"But he will come," the man says. He turns, walks back toward the chair that reappears as he reaches it, sits, crosses his legs like they're having a pleasant conversation, like Eddie isn't hanging in front of him with tear tracks and snot and blood where the bonds have worn his wrists raw. "They always do. The ones who love you."

He steeples his fingers, watching Eddie with that same mild curiosity, that same patient interest. "And when he does, I'll show him what you look like when you're truly helpless." He smiles, small and private, and the chair hums like the bonds, like the room, like everything in this place is part of him, is him, is waiting for whatever he wants. "The real thing."

Everything burns, and Eddie can't even find the edges of himself anymore, can't tell where he ends and the room begins, where the memory of arms ends and the real bonds begin.

"Don't cry," the man says softly, almost gentle, almost sorry, and it's worse than everything else because it sounds like he means it, like he cares, like this is something he's doing for Eddie's own good. "Save some for him."

The bonds tighten once, sharp, then they relax. Eddie's feet touch the floor. Properly, fully, his full weight settling onto legs that tremble and threaten to fold. The invisible pressure around his wrists softens, lowers his arms until his hands hang at his sides, blood rushing back in a hot ache that makes him gasp.

He sways, catches himself, stands there swaying anyway because standing is a choice now and he doesn't know how to make it, doesn't remember what freedom felt like, what it meant to have a body that moved when he told it to.

The man watches him. Patient. Curious. Like he's waiting to see what Eddie will do with this small mercy, whether he'll run or collapse or beg or simply stand there, crying, which is what he's doing, tears still falling silent and steady down his face because he can't stop, because the man hasn't told him to stop, because his body keeps going even when everything else has given up.

"You're still crying," the man murmurs. He steps closer, close enough that Eddie can smell him again, and he reaches up, thumb brushing Eddie's cheek, catching a tear and holding it up to the light like he's examining a gem. "I thought standing would help. I thought you'd feel better."

Eddie flinches. He can't help it. The thumb that wiped his tear is the same thumb that pressed into his bruise, that tested how much pressure he could take before he broke, and he doesn't know which gesture is real, which man is real, whether the one who cushioned his head against the brick is the same one who strangled him or a different person entirely or just another trick, another way to open him up.

"I—" Eddie's voice cracks, barely there, barely sound. "I don't—"

"Shh." The man's hand settles on his shoulder, heavy, grounding, and Eddie's knees buckle but the hand holds him up, fingers pressing into the muscle just hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to remind him. "You don't have to speak. You don't have to thank me." He smiles, small and private, and his other hand comes up to cup Eddie's jaw, tilting his face up, forcing his eyes to meet the man's. "But you will. You always do."

Eddie's breath hitches. He tries to look away and can't, held there by the hand on his jaw, by the eyes that look almost kind, almost sorry, almost like they care about the answer to the question he's about to ask.

"Why?" Eddie whispers. The word tears out of him, raw, desperate, the only question he has left, the only one that matters. "Why did you— the wall, it was soft, you—" He chokes, can't finish, because the memory rises unbidden—the brick yielding like flesh, like foam, cradling his skull, and then the hardening, the pinning, the everything that came after.

The man's expression doesn't change. His thumb brushes Eddie's cheekbone, gentle, almost tender, and he leans in until his forehead almost touches Eddie's, until his breath ghosts against Eddie's lips, warm where everything else is cold.

"Because broken things are more interesting than dead things," he murmurs. "Because you can't cry if you're unconscious. Can't beg. Can't thank me." He pulls back just enough to see Eddie's face crumple, to see the tears gather faster, to see the confusion and the fear and the horrible, pathetic hope that maybe this means something, maybe this means he cares, maybe this means he's safe. "And because," the man continues, his voice dropping lower, softer, almost intimate, "I wanted to feel what it was like. To be gentle. To be kind." His fingers tighten on Eddie's jaw, just slightly, just enough to hurt. "It was nice. I might do it again. Before the end."

Eddie sobs. Open. Ugly. His whole body shudders with it, and the man's hands hold him through it, one on his shoulder pressing bruises into bruises, one on his jaw keeping his face turned up, exposed, witness to his own breakdown.

"There," the man whispers, and he sounds almost proud, almost pleased, like Eddie is performing exactly as expected, giving him exactly what he wanted. "There it is. The real thing." He wipes another tear away with his thumb, then presses the thumb against Eddie's lower lip, smearing salt there, leaving it. "Save some for him. For Ryan." He smiles, and it's worse than his blankness, worse than his curiosity, worse than everything because it reaches inside Eddie and finds the hope he didn't know he still had, and twists it. "When he comes. When he sees you like this. When he realises he was too late." He leans in, lips brushing Eddie's ear, and murmurs, soft and warm and inevitable, "I want him to know I was kind first. I want him to know you thanked me for it."

Eddie's legs fold. The man's arms catch him, lower him to the floor slow and controlled, arranging him against the cold tile like he's placing a doll, positioning his legs, his arms, his head tilted just so.

"Sleep now," the man says, and his hand strokes once through Eddie's hair, gentle, almost loving, the same hand that rifled through his mind, that pressed into his bruise, that held him in the dark and called him pathetic. "He'll come. And I'll be ready."

Something covers Eddie, warm and heavy and wrong, and he doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, to wonder if this is another trick, another dream, another door that leads only to arms that hold him still while he's called pathetic and can't even disagree because it's true, it's all true, he's broken and weeping and thanking people who hurt him and crying for someone who isn't here who can't save him who never could.

He only knows that the hand on his hair stills, withdraws, and the last thing he feels before consciousness slips away is a finger tracing once down his cheek, collecting the last tear, and a voice murmuring against his ear—soft, patient, inevitable, almost gentle, almost sorry, almost kind—

"Good boy. Very good."

@whumblr @stars-hide-our-fires @styx-n-st0nes @defiantmonolithvessel @for-the-ouchies @janetm74 @wolfeyedwitch @castell-da-near

If you’d rather I don’t tag you in future Whump posts please tell me!

Ryan had been walking for hours.

He stops at an intersection he recognised twenty minutes ago. The same broken streetlamp. A tree with dull red leaves.

"Eddie," he calls, and his voice sounds small, swallowed by the street, by the dark, by the presence he can feel watching him from somewhere he can't name.

Nothing answers.

He turns left, then right, and the streetlamp is there instead, and the old tree. The magic was trying to play mind games, but he keeps walking because the alternative is stopping, is giving up, is leaving Eddie wherever he is with whoever has him.

The alley narrows. The walls press closer, brick wet despite the dry night, and then—

Then he sees the wall.

It stretches across the alley's end, seamless, new, mortar still weeping between seams. And at its base, half-hidden in shadow, a shoe. Scuffed. Leading straight to the brick and not away.

Eddie's shoe. Eddie's size. It has to be. Ryan touches the wall. His hand comes away damp, warm, wrong, and he presses his palm flat against the brick and calls again, louder, desperate—

"Eddie—"

The wall shifts. The brick turned into a door where there wasn't one, a dark rectangle opening into the dark behind it. Ryan doesn't hesitate. He steps through.

The room is wrong. Too high, too smooth, too warm. His footsteps make no sound on the tile. He walks forward, faster now, and sees something on the floor—a shape under something that looks like a blanket.

He drops to his knees and pulls the covering back.

Eddie's face is swollen with tears and bruises, pale with exhaustion, wrists raw where something held him. His eyes are closed, breathing shallow, and when Ryan touches his shoulder he doesn't wake, just makes a sound—small, broken, animal—and turns his face away.

"Eddie." Ryan keeps his voice low, gentle, the way he's practised, the way that never works when Eddie needs it most. "Eddie, it's me."

Eddie's eyes flutter open. They find Ryan's face, and for one moment there's nothing—no recognition, no relief, just the blank, exhausted stare of someone who has stopped expecting anything good.

Then something cracks open.

Eddie lunges. His whole body surges forward, arms wrapping around Ryan's neck, face pressing into his collar, and he's sobbing, great ragged gasps that shake them both, his fingers clawing into Ryan's shirt like he's trying to hold on to something that might vanish.

"Ryan," he chokes out, the name barely shaped, barely sound. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan—"

"I've got you." Ryan's arms come up, tight, grounding, one hand cupping the back of Eddie's head, feeling the damp of sweat and tears, the tremor that runs through him like a current. "I've got you, I'm here, I found you—"

He opens his mouth to say more. I missed you. I thought I'd lost you. I love you, I love you, I'm sorry I wasn't faster—

And then he can't feel his tongue.

Can't feel his jaw. Can't feel anything below his eyes, like his body has become a room he's locked inside, watching through windows that won't open. He can still see Eddie's face pressed against his shoulder, can still feel the warmth of him, but distantly, like it's happening to someone else, like he's been pushed to the back of his own skull and the door has slammed shut.

No. He tries to shout it and nothing happens. His mouth doesn't move. His throat doesn't work. He's screaming inside, battering against the walls of himself, and his body sits there, arms still around Eddie, perfectly still, perfectly calm.

A laugh echoes inside his head. Not his. Warm, amused, patient.

Wow, the voice says, soft and delighted, rifling through his thoughts like they're drawers left unlocked. You really thought I'd just… give him to you?

Ryan fights. Throws himself against the inside of his own skin, clawing for purchase, for control, for anything. His body doesn't twitch. Doesn't flinch. Just sits there, holding Eddie, while inside he's screaming, no, no, let me go, let me—

His arms move.

Not his choice. Not his will. His hands slide up to Eddie's shoulders and push, hard enough that Eddie stumbles back, gasping, his tear-wet eyes flying wide with confusion, with hurt, with the sudden terrible wrongness of being rejected by the person he just clung to like salvation.

Ryan watches from somewhere distant, helpless, as his own mouth opens and his own voice speaks words that aren't his, that taste like metal and rain and the man's cold breath.

"Get off me," his voice says, flat and cruel and perfectly calm. "God, you're pathetic. Did you really think I'd come for you? That I'd risk anything for this?"

Eddie shakes his head, small and desperate, backing away, and Ryan screams inside, no, no, Eddie, please, that's not me, that's not—

His body stands. Smooth, unhurried, and takes a step toward Eddie, who flinches, hard, whole body jerking back against the wall, making that sound again, small and broken and animal. "Ryan," Eddie whispers, and his voice is raw, stripped, barely there. "Ryan, please, stop—"

Please, Ryan echoes inside, please, Eddie, please don't believe it, please—

His body keeps walking. Stops in front of Eddie, close enough to touch, and raises a hand—not to comfort, not to soothe, but to grip Eddie's jaw, tilting his face up, fingers pressing into bruises that are already there, making Eddie wince, making tears gather faster.

"Please," his voice repeats, mocking, high-pitched, a cruel imitation of Eddie's own plea. "You say that so easily." The thumb that wipes Eddie's tear is Ryan's thumb, his own skin, his own muscle, and he can't stop it, can't pull back, can only watch as his body smears salt on Eddie's lip and smiles with his mouth. "I shouldn't have bothered. You're not worth the trouble. You're not worth anything."

Eddie's face crumples. He tries to pull away and can't, held there by the grip on his jaw, and he's shaking his head, saying "no, no, no," over and over, the word breaking apart, and Ryan is screaming inside, please, Eddie, please, I'm here, I'm right here, that's not me—

His body leans in. Close enough that his breath ghosts against Eddie's ear, warm where everything else is cold, and his voice drops lower, softer, almost intimate.

"You're not a victim, Eddie," his voice says, soft, almost tender, almost sorry, and it's worse than everything else because it sounds like he means it, like he cares, like this is something he's doing for Eddie's own good. "You're just convenient. Easy to hurt. Easy to leave." He wipes another tear away with his thumb, then presses it against Eddie's lower lip, smearing salt there again. "I only came back because I felt guilty. Because I'm weak like that. But looking at you now?" He smiles, small and private, and Ryan feels his own mouth curve, feels his own eyes crinkle with something almost delighted. "I don't feel guilty anymore."

He watches as his hands move from Eddie's jaw to his hair, and jerks it, a sharp, punishing yank that forces Eddie’s head back. Eddie lets out a choked, broken sound, his eyes wide and wet and Ryan feels his heart drop.

No no no no no Eddie please, I love you I love you I love—

Hmm, the voice says inside his head, amused, satisfied, I've had my fun.

And then—

Release.

Like a door unlocking, like air rushing into a vacuum, Ryan feels his body snap back into his control so suddenly that he lurches forward, gasping, his hand falling from Eddie's hair, his legs stumbling, and he almost lunges at Eddie, arms reaching, mouth open to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that wasn't me—

Eddie shrinks back. Hard. His shoulder hits the wall behind him, his head cracking against the stone, and he makes a sound—sharp, surprised, hurt—and slides down, cowering, hands coming up to ward off a blow that isn't coming, eyes fixed on Ryan's face with terror that Ryan put there, that Ryan's body earned, that Ryan can't take back.

"Eddie—" Ryan's voice is his own again, broken, desperate, but Eddie flinches at the sound of it, presses harder against the wall, and Ryan freezes, hand hovering, because Eddie is looking at him like he's the monster, like he's the thing that wore his face and spoke cruelty with his mouth, and he was, he is, and he doesn't know how to explain that he was screaming the whole time.

"Eddie, I'm sorry," he breathes, and his hands are shaking, his whole body shaking, and he doesn't know what to do, where to stand, how to be in the same room as the person he just hurt without choosing to. "That wasn't— I didn't— God, I wouldn't— he was inside me, he was—"

Eddie stares at him. Wide-eyed. Wet-faced. His hand comes up to touch the back of his head where it hit the wall, and his fingers come away red, and he looks at the blood like he doesn't understand what it is, where it came from, why the person he trusted is standing over him with shaking hands and tear tracks on his own face.

Ryan wants to reach out. Wants to close the distance, wants to pull Eddie in, wants to promise that he'll never let anyone wear his face again, that he'll never let anyone hurt him, that he's safe now, he's found, the nightmare is over.

But Eddie is pressed against the wall like he's trying to disappear into it, and Ryan's hands are the hands that pushed him, that gripped his jaw, that called him pathetic, and he doesn't know if reaching out is comfort or threat anymore, doesn't know what his own body might do.

"Ryan," Eddie whispers, and the name sounds like a question, like a test, like he's not sure who he's talking to.

"Yeah." Ryan's voice cracks. He stays where he is, hands up, palms out, giving Eddie every chance to see that he's himself, that he's real, that the cruelty was borrowed, not his. "Yeah, Eddie, it's me. I'm here. I'm—"

The air shifts.

Ryan feels it first—a pressure against his eardrums, a wrongness in the warmth of the room—and then the man is simply there, ten feet away, dry despite the rain that shouldn't be inside, hands loose at his sides, watching them with the same mild curiosity as before.

"Oh," the man says, soft and delighted. "This is Ryan. I've heard so much about you."

Eddie's first instinct is to move. To put himself between Ryan and the man, to shield him, so he starts to stand, legs trembling, and—

Ryan's arm shoots out. Blocks him. Pushes Eddie behind him, and Ryan steps forward, putting himself between Eddie and the man, and his voice is low and dangerous and his, fully his, nothing borrowed, nothing cruel.

"Stay away from him."

The man smiles. "Or what? You'll hurt me?" He tilts his head, considering. "You couldn't even stop me from using your mouth. Your hands. Your voice." He looks past Ryan to Eddie, bleeding and terrified. "Eddie was so much fun to play with. Did you know he thanks people who hurt him? Did you know he begs so beautifully?"

Ryan's jaw tightens. His hands fist at his sides, and he takes another step forward, close enough to smell the man, rain and metal and something underneath that has no name.

"You got inside me," Ryan says, and his voice is steady, stripped, nothing left but the truth of it. "You made me say things. Made me hurt him." He leans in, close enough to touch, and his voice drops lower, fiercer. "But you didn't make me mean them. You didn't make me want them. And that means you didn't win."

The man's smile doesn't falter. But something shifts in his eyes—a flicker, a reassessment, like he's seeing Ryan for the first time, like the puzzle just got more interesting.

"Interesting," he murmurs. He looks at Eddie, at Ryan, at the space between them that is full of fear and blood and the memory of borrowed cruelty. "I'll remember that."

He steps back. The air shimmers, and then he's simply gone, not fading, not walking—just stopping, like the chair, like the door, like everything in this place that exists only when he wants it to.

The room waits. The silence is huge, pressing, full of everything that just happened and everything that still needs to be said.

Ryan doesn't turn around. Not yet. He stays where he is, facing the empty space where the man was, breathing hard, his whole body trembling with the aftermath of being used, of being helpless, of watching himself hurt the person he came to save.

Then he turns.

Eddie is still standing against the wall, still bleeding, still looking at him with eyes that don't know what they're seeing. Ryan walks toward him slow, slower than before, giving him every chance to flinch, every chance to say no, every chance to choose.

He stops in front of him and drops to his knees. "Don't look at me," Ryan whispers looking at the floor, and his voice is raw, stripped, barely there. "I'm sorry—"

He feels the tears before he knows he's crying—hot, sudden, spilling down his face without permission, without noise, without anything but the slow collapse of his shoulders and the tremor in his jaw that he can't stop.

He keeps his head down. Keeps his eyes on the tile between his knees because looking up means seeing Eddie's face and seeing the fear still there, the wariness, the way his body angled away even as his eyes stayed fixed, waiting for the moment it changes again, waiting for the cruelty to come back because it was real, it happened, it was his hands and his voice and his fucking mouth shaping words that cut and held and called him pathetic.

He feels movement. Feels Eddie drop to his knees too, close enough that Ryan can smell him—rain and sweat and fear and Eddie, still Eddie, still here, still real despite everything.

Eddie reaches out. His hand is hesitant, hovering in the air for a second as if he’s afraid he might touch a ghost, before his fingers hook loosely around Ryan’s wrist. Ryan's head snaps up, and he watches, eyes wide and fixed on his own hand as Eddie slowly, shakily guides it upward.

Eddie leans into it. His eyes close, his face tilting into Ryan's palm like it's the only solid thing in the world, and he makes a sound—small, broken, relieved—and Ryan's heart cracks open, heals, cracks again.

"I'm sorry," Ryan whispers, through sobs. "I'm so sorry, Eddie. I couldn't stop him. I tried, I tried so hard—"

"I know," Eddie breathes, and his eyes open, finding Ryan's face, searching it, reading it, and something in him settles, something that recognises the person behind the borrowed cruelty, the scream behind the silence. "I know it was him. I know it wasn't—"

His voice breaks, and more tears spill, and Ryan wipes them away with his thumb, gentle, grounding, the same thumb that smeared salt on Eddie's lip but now it's his, it's them, it's the only language they have left.

Ryan pulls him in.

His arms wrap around Eddie's back, careful of the bruises, careful of the blood, careful of everything, and Eddie folds into him, face pressing into Ryan's shoulder, hands fisting in his shirt, sobbing again but differently now, relief and terror and the slow, shaky belief that maybe this is real, maybe this is safe, maybe the arms around him are the right arms this time.

"I've got you," Ryan murmurs against his hair, hand stroking down his back, feeling the tremors, the damp, the reality of him, solid and warm and here. "I've got you, Eddie. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going anywhere."

Eddie's fingers tighten in Ryan's shirt. His breath hitches, steadies, hitches again.

"Promise?" he whispers, barely audible, barely there.

Ryan holds him tighter. Presses his face into Eddie's hair, smelling rain and sweat and the metallic absence of the man, and he promises, against Eddie's temple, against his own shaking hands, against everything that just tried to break them both—

"Promise."

🎶 This is the endd 🎶 I am aware that Magic Whumper still hasn't been taken care of... but maybe that's what makes him so interesting. He could've just killed Eddie or Ryan (or at least seriously harmed them) but instead, he just goes, "I'll remember that." And disappears. Does he come back? Does he choose another victim? Who knows?

Thanks for reading!!