there’s no getting out

"500?" the auctioneer yelled, and Whumpee opened their eyes. Nobody in the crowd was really paying them any mind. They were the last servant of the evening to be sold, and most of the guests already had a servant by their side that they'd purchased. The ones who didn't — well, they weren't interested in Whumpee either. "450!"

Great, they were lowering the price even further. Whumpee's legs were shaking from having been up and working all day, only to then be led to the auction where they had to stand for as long as the others were sold. They longed for the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the tavern.

"450?"

Whumpee glanced at their handler, and they got a glare in response. They would get the biggest cut of the sale, and the further the price went down, the less they would get. Whumpee looked away as quickly as they'd glanced at them, down at the floor. Their bare feet were bony and deformed from having spent so much of their time walking back and forth.

"400!"

They knew what happened to servants that didn't get sold. They'd never personally seen it before, but they knew. They'd seen their handler come back with patches of blood on their shirt, they'd heard the rumours, they knew they never saw someone from previous auctions ever again.

"300," someone finally yelled from the crowd. Whumpee risked a glance up at them. They were middle-aged, with hair down to their shoulders, in clothing that was quite unassuming. They didn't look cruel. If anything, it looked like they were trying to save Whumpee from the fate of an unwanted servant.

But would the auctioneer accept such a low bid?

When Whumpee looked at them, they looked a little taken aback. The whole night, the prices had only gone up, not down. The auctioneer exchanged a glance with Whumpee's handler, and when their handler nodded, they turned back towards the crowd. "300! Once, twice…" Whumpee held their breath. "Sold!"

Whumpee was grabbed by their handler and dragged off the stage, and they followed clumsily. "Lucky, aren't you?" their handler sneered.

"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, as though they had any power over the bidding process. They felt like they'd robbed their handler by being such a bad, useless servant.

"300 is still money, I suppose. Do not embarrass me. Do everything the way your master wants, be quiet, be docile. You know the rules. If they bring you back and ask for their money back, I will personally wring your neck."

Whumpee had no doubt about that. "I will do my best," they said quietly.

They finally arrived at the table where Whumpee's new master sat. "Whumpee, was it?" their master asked.

"Yes," they said meekly.

"My name is Carewhumper, I—"

"Money first, introductions later," Whumpee's handler cut in rudely. Carewhumper sighed and reached into their pocket, pulling out a purse with more than enough money to pay for Whumpee. They took out some coins, counting them carefully, not wanting to pay more for a no-good servant than they absolutely had to. Once they handed over the money, Whumpee's handler was gone. Not even a goodbye.

"I'm sorry you had to pay for me," Whumpee said, eyes downcast. "I will do everything I can to make your purchase worth it."

Collin jerked to attention. He must have dozed off, now Marshall was standing at the door, an amused expression playing on his face. Collin forced himself to stand. If that prick came within reach of his chains he'd have a fight on his hands. Blue enveloped his vision and black stars danced across his eyes, and he had to plant his feet to keep the dizziness from bowling him over.

``Woah there!'' said Marshall, ``You're looking a little unsteady on your feet, Chase. Maybe if you'd done what I asked earlier you'd be in better condition.'' The jab stung while Matt was in the room. Matt, who'd been strung up alongside Collin because of Marshall's mind games. I'm not your enemy. Collin wanted to say, he's our enemy. He's the one doing this to us. ``The good news is,'' Marshall continued, ``I'm giving you an opportunity to make it up to me. Are you gonna heel, or do I have to drag you?''

Collin put his fists up, eyes narrowing.

``So stubborn. I can't wait to see you break.''

Collin had expected Marshall to go straight for him, but at the last second he dived to the side, grabbing the chain that attached Collin loosely to the wall. Both hands were on the chain, with about a metre of slack between them. Before Marshall could use the tether to unbalance him, Collin sprang forward and hit him with a right hook. Marshall stumbled, blindsided, and Collin used the opportunity to tackle him to the ground. They wrestled, but Collin could feel himself losing the upper hand. He hadn't been hit, but the effort of the fight was making sparks dance before his eyes, his body weak and uncoordinated. Marshall ended up on Collin's back, the chain winding around his neck above the collar. Collin wheezed as it was pulled tight, desperately clawing at the unforgiving metal digging into his skin.

``Another bruise for your collection. You're gonna make a pretty picture, Chase. I might have to take some photos to show you off.''

Collin panicked as his body truly started giving in. Marshall was crushing him, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think anything more than RUN RUN RUN GET OUT I'M GONNA DIE IT HURTS I CAN'T BREATHE HELP ME! His thrashing was getting weaker. He could barely feel his fingers. He was falling into a long tunnel.

``Stop, you're gonna kill him!''

Blood rushed back to Collin's brain, the chain loosening, clinging to him like a silent threat. His head felt like it was full of bees. The world was swimming.

``Relax. I'm done. He'll be fine.''

``You could have killed him!'' Matt was terrified. But he was angry too. That was a novelty, Collin supposed, as he tried to get his bearings.

``Very easily.'' Marshall agreed. What was he agreeing to? Collin had lost track. ``Can you hear me, Chase?'' Marshall pulled on the chain. Collin bucked, making a muffled protest behind the muzzle. ``Good, good. I was telling Matt how easily I could have killed you.'' Collin felt his arms being tied together behind his back. ``Are you done wasting time?'' Collin refused to respond. He was hauled through the door, chains clanging as Marshall dragged him through the halls of the basement. Finally he was dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Marshall bustled around him while Collin regained enough strength to sit up and glare. He was in some kind of dining room. Unlike the whipping room, this one was furnished. The walls were cream plaster rather than concrete. The table and chairs were wood. Warm yellow light illuminated the scene. It was almost homey.

``You look hungry.'' Marshall said. Collin's head whipped around to glare at him, causing another wave of sparks and dizziness to come over him. Marshall laughed. ``Just sayin'. Looks like you could do with a pick-me-up.'' He reached into one of the cupboards and produced a steaming bowl of spaghetti. Canned, by the looks of it, but still, Collin's mouth watered. Marshall lowered it to Collin's eyeline, letting the smell waft over him, before withdrawing.

``There are some strings attached. In a moment, I'm going to grab Matt and bring him to another room. Remember how I said you two have to share everything? That includes food.'' Collin's stomach audibly growled. Marshall laughed. Collin's face heated. He glared harder, refusing to break eye contact.

``It's okay. You'll have a chance to win the whole bowl fair and square. Look up there.'' Collin refused to look where Marshall was pointing. Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid mind games. Collin noted with some satisfaction that his punch from earlier had left a mark, Marshall's cheekbone was pink and swollen. It would probably bruise. Marshall grabbed Collin by the hair and turned his head to a corner of the ceiling. There was a camera there. Collin wondered if there were cameras in every room of the basement.

``That thing is recording us right now. I'm going to leave the room, and you're going to get into some cute poses.'' He thought for a second. ``I wonder if the restraints are unfair… they'll restrict what you can do, but they make you look pretty pathetic on their own. If I take them off, you'd better go the extra mile to make it worth it.''

Collin shook his head.

``No? Your choice. Anyway, Matt's going to get the same instructions, and the one of you who gives me prettier pictures gets to eat.''

More mind games. More attempts to pitt Collin and Matt against each other. Only the stinging, throbbing pain in his neck stopped Collin from starting another fight.

``Well I'll leave you to it. You have five minutes, then it's Matt's turn. I'd try hard if I were you, you look like you need the food. And,'' He leaned in close, almost whispering in Collin's ear, ``Of the two of you he's my favourite.'' With that, he left, locking the door behind him.

***

A few minutes after Collin had been dragged away, Marshall returned alone. ``Follow me.''

The rest of the basement was in sharp contrast to the whipping room, with its concrete everything and hanging chains. It followed the same design scheme as the house above, cream plaster walls, warm lighting, occasional pictures hanging on the walls depicting the countryside and barn animals. Only the floor was concrete. There were metal rails embedded in it, which the end of Matt's chain lead had been slotted into. He could move sort of freely around the basement, but the rails ended at the stairs, so there was no way up and out. He was just glad he had enough slack to stand. He followed Marshall through the halls into a quaint kitchenette. Marshall pulled a chair out from the small table.

``Sit.''

Matt did. Marshall moved out of his line of sight, doing something in the kitchen.

``You're not going to eat me, because you would have cut me up in the other room.'' said Matt. Marshall laughed at his lame half-joke.

``That's not what I got you for.''

``What...'' Matt didn't want to repeat those words. ``Why am I here?''

``I was hoping we could have dinner together.'' said Marshall.

``Is that why you kidnapped me?''

``Partly.''

The hum of a microwave. When Matt heard the door open he was hit with the scent of spaghetti. It smelled like the most amazing thing in the world.

``Where's...'' Matt didn't want to call Collin by the name Marshall had given him. He didn't want to get whipped again either. ``Is he okay?''

``Who, Chase? He's fine.'' Matt startled as a hand landed on his head, but it didn't hurt him, just carded possessively through his hair. The spaghetti was placed in front of him. ``Are you hungry?''

``Yeah. Thanks.'' said Matt. He reached for the bowl, but it was pulled away across the table before he could grab it.

``You'll get to eat, but first you need to do something for me.'' said Marshall. ``You see that camera in the corner? Yeah, that one. It's recording us right now. I'm going to leave the room, and you'll have five minutes to give the camera some cute poses I can put on my wall. Say… five of them? If you can do that, I'll let you eat.''

Matt bit his lip. Of course it wouldn't be for free. He glanced at the camera, then back at Marshall. He was so hungry.

``You're asking for… sexual poses.''

``It's cute that's where your mind went. They don't have to be sexual. Humiliating, maybe? Something you think I'd like. Get creative.''

Marshall left. There was no clock on the wall to indicate time passing. Five minutes. Five poses. Fuck. His heart was beating out of his chest. He knelt down, putting his hands behind his back. His head tilted down slightly, but looking up through his lashes at the camera. That was one. Marshall had said he didn't want sexual poses, but… that was clearly a lie. It was the same thing he'd done with Collin while they were being whipped. He'd made the whip less painful, making sure the compliance came from Collin, not just from an involuntary reaction. How much time had passed? Matt needed to keep going.

***

Collin had, of course, not done as Marshall had asked. Marshall had huffed in amusement when he entered the room to see Collin, still gagged and bound, lounging on one of the chairs, feet resting on the dining table. It was uncomfortable, especially on his bound arms and whipped back, so he had been hoping for a bit more. A rage. A flicker of annoyance at the sight of Collin's running sneakers dirtying the table.

``You've made your choice, then,'' said Marshall, taking a seat next to him. He casually pushed Collin's feet off the table. Collin decided not to care. ``I guess the win will go to Matt by default. Unless he also just sits on his ass, acting like I don't literally own his life.''

Collin rolled his eyes.

``Let's have a look, shall we?'' Marshall pulled out his phone. It showed the video feed in another room of the basement. Matt was in there. He had the collar locked around his neck, but was otherwise free. He was bent over the small table, hands on the back of his head. Collin could see the pixelated stripes of pink and red that covered his naked back. As they watched, Matt got up from the position, ringing his hands, as if wondering what to do next. Marshall took the phone away before he could decide.

``Looks like your cellmate doesn't share your convictions. Do you want to see more? I've got three other poses on video, and he's really going for it. I guess he was hungry.''

Collin scowled. Inwardly, he kicked himself for feeling this way. For feeling betrayed. Of course, Matt had no reason to believe that Collin wasn't also giving it his all in this competition. But he'd hoped, for a second, that they'd both refuse to eat at the expense of the other. He'd hoped that Matt, who seemed so distraught when Marshall had been choking him, wouldn't so eagerly debase himself for a game so obviously unfair. He'd hoped he wasn't alone. He was hungry, cold, exposed, silenced, and his one potential ally was weak willed enough to humiliate himself and starve Collin for a bowl of fucking spaghetti.

``Sorry it wasn't what you were hoping for. I chose Matt specially. I know he's never going to be of use to you. Only to me.''

***

Marshall stopped just before a new door, and grabbed Matt's arm with bruising strength. ``One more rule. Chase refused to earn his dinner, so he doesn't get to eat. If you say one word to him while we're in this room, I will beat him until he can't move and chain him outside for the night. Do you understand?''

Matt shuddered. Of course Collin hadn't followed his orders. His will was so strong. The bowl of spaghetti felt heavy in Matt's hands. Proof of how weak he was. He couldn't let Collin be punished further. ``Yeah. I understand.''

``Good.''

Marshall unlocked the door and pushed Matt through first with a heavy hand on the back of his neck, locking the door behind them. Collin was sitting in one of the chairs, his hands still restrained behind his back. Fresh red bruises ringed his neck, ugly and obvious. He looked up abruptly when Matt was pushed into the room, eyes catching on the bowl of spaghetti. He looked up to Matt's eyes, emotions flashing across his face. Surprise, hurt, anger, disgust. Matt couldn't meet his gaze.

``I don't know what you were finding so hard, Chase. Matt managed just fine.'' said Marshall. Matt's face burned with shame as Marshall brought him to a stop at the head of the table.

``You can put that down now, Matt.'' Still refusing to look at Collin, Matt set the bowl down on the table.

``That's an interesting choice.'' said Marshall. His hand was still on the back of Matt's neck, pressing with just a bit of force. Fingers resting on his pulse. ``Chase seems to think he deserves to sit at the table. You know better, don't you?''

Matt stilled. He knew what Marshall was implying. He waited, hoping to be proven wrong. Marshall's voice was quiet and intense in his ear.

``You know what you are. You know where you belong. Eat or don't, you've already given me the pictures to prove it.''

Matt drew breath. ``What do you want?'' Please not this. Marshall's tone was hard, mocking.

``Are you stupid? I want you to eat off the floor.''

Matt turned to meet his gaze, hoping it was a joke. Marshall was deadly serious. He could feel Chase--Collin, don't forget--Collin's eyes boring into him as he picked up the bowl and went to his knees, placing it on the ground with a quiet `clink' that seemed to echo off the concrete floor. He looked up at Marshall, who's gaze was appraising. He lifted one eyebrow. Hesitantly, Matt lowered his face to the steaming bowl. The smell of spaghetti was hot as it overwhelmed his senses. He was so desperate to eat.

He thought back to the night he'd been kidnapped. It would be so much easier if Collin hadn't interrupted, if he could suffer this humiliation without the judgement of someone with a stronger will. It would be so much easier. Why couldn't Collin have just walked away when he had the chance?

After so many hours of empty hunger, it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. It was difficult to eat, the collar was tight enough to choke him slightly when he bent over, and it was hard to get his lips to the food without sticking his nose in too. Nonetheless, he managed to finish the bowl. At some point, Marshall had sat down in the seat Matt had tried to take, making casual, one sided conversation with Collin.

``Finally. It looked like you needed that.'' said Marshall. ``See, Chase? It's not that hard. Maybe you'll get fed next time. I hope you learn before you starve.''

Matt was yanked to standing by his hair. Stumbling, he caught himself, too late to avoid Collin's eye. The look on his face made him feel sick, the food now threatening to resurface. It was a look of horror, fury, betrayal. It wasn't directed at Marshall; it was directed at Matt. How dare you be what he wants. How dare you be so weak. How dare you make me watch.

``I'm sorry.'' Matt gasped. He froze. He'd just spoken. Was it obvious he'd been talking to Collin? Luckily, Marshall seemed to take the apology for himself.

``Don't apologise,'' said Marshall, ``You're both learning, aren't you? You've set such a good example.''

Matt squeezed his eyes shut against tears. He didn't deserve to cry.

***

They were back in the whipping room. Collin's collar had been chained to the back wall, his arms still restrained behind him. Matt was attached to the rails in the floor, hands free. Before Marshall left, he chucked a set of keys on the ground. They clattered and slid, stopping at Matt's feet.

``You can give Chase a break from the muzzle if you want. I'm not treating any bites, though.''

``Okay.'' said Matt, softly.

Marshall tilted his head slightly. ``Let's have a bit of class, Matt. When a child has to clean his room he says `okay'. When your owner,'' --The word sent a shiver down Matt's spine-- ``Gives you an opportunity, you say…?''

``Yes, Marshall.''

``Better. I'll see you in the morning.''

Matt picked up the keys. Collin glared at him as he approached.

``Is it okay if I…'' asked Matt. Collin gave a short nod, and let Matt gently guide his head down, exposing the back of his neck and the lock of the muzzle. He brushed the blond hair out of the way of the lock, feeling Collin suppress a shiver, and slid the key in. The muzzle was tugged off Collin's face, and he gasped in relief as the rubber bit came out of his mouth, followed by a trail of saliva. Footsteps echoed as Matt took several steps back, giving him space to breathe. A tense silence followed. Matt broke it.

``I'm really sorry. I didn't know it would be like that.''

``You didn't know I'd have to watch?'' Collin's voice was clumsy from misuse. He stretched his jaw.

``No.'' said Matt. ``I didn't. I guess I should have expected you to… not do what he wanted.''

``I'm not gonna roll over and take it.'' said Collin, sharply. Shame heated Matt's face.

``I just-'' Matt didn't know how to finish the sentence. ``I didn't want to starve.''

``Neither did I.'' said Collin.

Matt didn't say anything. Collin was so angry at him, just for trying to survive. Like it was him and not Marshall forcing them to make these choices.

``I don't want to be your enemy,'' Matt attempted, ``Obviously we're different people. Your way is great, like, heroic even, maybe. I just don't know if I can handle it. If I have to- to act like how he sees me to get through the day, I'll get through the day. I can unpack it in therapy once I'm out of here or something. That doesn't make me his pet forever.''

``That's exactly how he wants you to think.'' said Collin, ``If you give him an inch he'll take a mile. The only way we can fight against him is by showing him we won't break. That his methods won't work on us. That's the only power we have.''

``Or the power to pick our battles,'' muttered Matt.

``Whatever. He's obviously trying to make us hate each other. If you keep fucking talking it's gonna work.''

Collin turned his head away from Matt, which was as close as he could get to storming out of the room while being tied to the wall. Matt walked to the other side of the cell and slumped against the wall. Even with food in his stomach, he could tell it was gonna be another cold night.

Previous - Masterlist - Next Author's note: Thank you all for reading and waiting! This was a big one which is probably why it took so long, but I was soooo excited for this idea I had to do it. Thanks for sticking around. Let me know if you see any errors. Tumblr hates my weird formatting and often will make my writing illegible but I think I caught everything before publish this time. Yay! Tag list: @notlikeothernurses @hiddencowboybarbarian @chaotic-orphan

“You’re just so cute when you’re out of it!” she cooed. “Aren’t you, baby boyy…” She was leaning in mere inches from his face, her short skirt pooling over his thin waist and pinning Seven in place with her thighs. 

She leaned up for a moment, perhaps to assess his expression properly, and Marquez could see the way she pinched at Seven’s cheeks when she spoke to him, as though he were a cute little puppy dog she’d met on the street. Seven whined at the treatment, weakly batting at her waist with his hands. He groaned in painful protest when she lowered her hand to press down on the bruises that littered his bare torso. 

“What’d you do to get all these, hmm?” She teased, pressing down harder at the purpled skin on his ribs and stomach. Seven cried out, weakly trying to push her away, and the sound seemed to snap Marquez out of his shocked daze.

“Get the fuck off him, Brie,” Marquez hissed, as menacingly as he could. He couldn’t exactly shout and shove her off of Seven—he knew that it would not go over well with Wes, if Marquez ‘mistreated’ one of his closest friends, but Marquez crossed his muscled arms and made a point to sound as irritated as possible to try and intimidate her off of him.

“Aww c’monnnn,” she chided in mocking protest, turning her head to look at him, her red hair cascading like a sunset-lit waterfall as she tossed it over her shoulder. “What’s the problem? He clearly likes it...” The snicker in her voice would be audible even if Marquez were not able to witness her expression firsthand. 

“He does not. Like it.” Marquez forced out through gritted teeth. “He’s sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of him,” he oozed authority now, knowing his purpose here was backed by Wes’ own desires—something even Brie wasn’t in a position to argue with. “Now buzz the fuck off.” He ordered. “Seriously.” 

“Aww, he does though!” She protested, challenging the certainty in his voice as she pressed down on a particularly awful bruise on Seven’s ribcage. “He does! Seven likes it.. Don't you baby?” Her voice dripped even further into nauseating condescension when she said it, and she squeezed both of Seven’s flushed cheeks tightly between her manicured fingertips, forcing another pained whine out of the boy. She smiled brightly and leaned in closer to his face, her pink glossy lips hovering inches above his own.

Seven blinked up at her with bleary eyes, “I… I.. um…” he was frozen in fear—he was never allowed to refuse them, especially Brie of all people. She could make his life hell for daring to speak against her—for resisting in the slightest. 

Marquez dropped a heavy hand to Brie’s shoulder. “Off him. Now,” he growled, and Brie turned her shoulder away and scoffed in mock disgust. 

“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. “I just wanted to come say hi to him!” Marquez stepped even closer to her, looming down over her straddled form, his biceps flexing as his arms twitched in their position. 

“Get. Off.” Marquez growled, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.” It was perhaps a bluff, mostly, but it seemed to work. Brie chuffed under her breath and climbed off of Seven. “Alright, fine! Fucking Jesus! You don’t have to be so fucking dramatic.” 

Brie huffed as she climbed off the bed and stormed out of the room in a whirl of fiery red hair, her flowy miniskirt swishing behind her. 

“Enjoy your little private time, lover boy. Hope you brought a condom!” she called behind her with a haughty sneer, and slammed the door behind her. 

The relief of her absence was instant, palpable between the two of them. “Sorry about that..” Marquez looked sheepish as he gazed back down at Seven, who was still panting slightly, his eyes wet around the edges. “I didn’t know she’d come in like that. Does this door even lock?” 

“It… It doesn’t, Sir…” Seven said quietly, confirming Marquez’ suspicions that Seven might have his own room, but privacy was a right he had to constantly earn around here. 

Marquez vowed to wring her neck along with Wes’ when the time came. He let out a heavy sigh, trying to shove the feelings down once again and right himself to focus on what he could actually control. He willed his brow to unfurrow, his expression to soften, back into that of calm gentleness—the one that Seven needed right now. 

“Okay, just come here,” he situated himself beside Seven once more, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s alright, just come over here with me,” he said gently, extending one arm and beckoning Seven to lean back with him and snuggle into his torso as he’d been before. Seven’s skin still felt so hot to the touch. Marquez spotted the bottle of ibuprofen on the bed side table.

“Did Wes already give you a few of those pills?” He said, nodding to the bottle. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven murmured against his chest, not even looking up.

“Alrtight then, I’ll give you some more in a few hours. For now, let’s just be here together, okay?”

“Oh–” Seven’s voice caught in his throat. “Okay.. Yes, Sir..” Marquez felt the boy hiccup against his chest, but didn’t say anything, instead bringing a hand to Seven’s bare back and rubbing gentle circles into the feverish skin with his thumb. He tried not to take too much notice of the way the layered whip scars felt beneath his fingertips. Don't think about Wes. Don’t think about how much you fucking loathe Wes. Don’t think about how nice it’d feel to slam his face into the ground.. 

Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it down, vowing to channel the energy into soothing the subject of Wes’ abuse. His other hand lifted to Seven’s head, carding long fingers through the boy’s damp hair, absentmindedly undoing any tangles in careful, feather-like motions.

Seven didn’t know what it was that made him start crying. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the act of someone actually caring about him, for the first time in over a decade, that brought fresh tears to well up behind his pale, long lashes. He hadn’t felt actually, genuinely loved like this since—since her. 

And just like that, the floodgates opened, as the memories Seven had worked so hard to suppress over the many years began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness, breaking through the confines of the mental walls he’d carefully built up for his own sanity. He tried never to think about the past—about her. It all hurt too much to think about—but perhaps it was the fever, Marquez gentle touch, his soft voice, or all of the above, that weakened the gates of the dam with crack after crack, little hairline fractures spreading into larger canyons in the concrete, until the whole wall collapsed into rubble and water flooded into the valley of Seven’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his mother.

Rosaline had been a gentle and hardworking woman—what she lacked in money she more than made up for in spirit. She worked herself to the bone to provide for the two of them, but it never cost her her smile—she would beam at her little boy every time she came home. She’d take Seven up in her arms, swinging him around with sore muscles and hugging him close. 

The way Marquez smiled at him, the way his hands felt like pure love itself, it all flooded his fevered mind with memories of her—of the last times he was able to feel gentleness, like he was truly worthy of love. His Aunt Beatrice had never loved him—that much was clear from the day he’d been moved into her house and was carved in stone the day she’d sold him. But Rosaline always had. Seven missed his mother more than anything in the universe. It ran through him like a wooden stake, piercing through his very heart in the place where every emotional nerve met at its highest sensitivity. 

He grieved the life he might’ve had if she hadn’t died when she did. He missed the way she would hold him, he missed the way he’d trusted in her—in the world itself, at the time—to hold him and lead him through it safely. The memory of her love always opened a hole up in his chest and sucked everything good in with it. It cracked his soul apart and it fucking hurt. It always did when he allowed himself to remember her gentleness. He’d tried for years to block it out mentally, for her memory only caused him more pain, but something about the way Marquez’ was holding him now made him unable to think of anything else. 

He cried into the pillow in his arms, feeling Marquez' gentle touch on his hair, on his back. He wanted to apologize for crying but he couldn't even get himself to speak, he was sobbing so hard. He remembered the little stuffed pig she'd gotten him one year, when he was very small. Whatever happened to it, he didn’t know. He wasn't even allowed to pack his own things from the house after she’d died—he was ushered to his Aunt Beatrice’s house so quickly and the house he’d shared with Rosaline had been cleared out by his Aunt before he could clutch anything for the last time. Aunt Beatrice, who had said he was ‘too young to know what he’d need,’ had packed it all up—what little she thought necessary—and must have simply thrown the rest away. Seven never saw the pig again, or any of his stuffed animals, or even any photos of her. He had nothing but the memories.

He had a feeling Beatrice had always hated her sister. His mother had never really spoken much of her, not that he could remember anyway. But after Rosaline’s death, Beatrice had seemed hell-bent on erasing her own sister’s very existence from history itself. Beatrice always grew angry with Seven whenever he tried to talk about his mother. He learned quickly never to bring it up. Rosaline lived on in his memories, though, and he remembered kneeling on the floor every night in Aunt Beatrice’s house, silently praying to anything that was out there to bring her back—to take him away from this new house where he was loathed and beaten down like he was some evil, wretched thing. He’d pressed his face into the hardwood and cried into the floorboards, praying over and over to have his mother’s sunshine back. 

Nothing ever answered him, of course. 

He was so young at the time, that he didn’t even recall that many conversations between them, but in his mind he could see her smile. He heard the sound of her laugh. He remembered the way she’d make pancakes for him in fun little shapes—hearts and dinosaurs—and put fresh strawberries on top. The songs she’d sing him—god the songs—sweet little lullabies as she rubbed his back to lull her young son to sleep. The songs especially hurt to think about—the melodies in his head. He tried to shove them down but the song started up anyway. 

‘Go to sleep my darling, hush now, don’t you cry…’

He had curled in on himself now. He bit down on the pillow he was clutching and sobbed, shaking with the pain of it. His head pounded harder with the fever. He'd give anything to hold her in his arms again. Seven didn't know how tall she’d been before she died, he had been so young and small at the time, but he imagined he might even be taller than her now. He thought of what it would be like to hug her, to pull her up against him tightly and rest his chin on the top of her head. He wondered if she’d still sing to him, the way she used to—soft and light, like the call of the morning birds. 

Birds—they made him think of her too now, in the thick of his fever, his mental walls demolished to nothing by the sick burning heat. There was a memory of him lying next to her on a blanket in the grass. The shade of sunlight-dappled branches cast wandering stars over their forms. The image was so vivid he may as well have been hallucinating. He lay with his head on her shoulder and leaned into her torso, her arm wrapped around him. Rosaline laughed, in that bright, beautiful way that felt like the morning light itself. She pointed up to a bird on a branch. 

“It’s a red breasted robin, dear, do you see it?”

“Yes, mama,” he’d probably said, nuzzling in close to her and gazing up at the little bird. 

Rosaline was not unlike the robin. She was light and free and peaceful. She hadn’t had it easy, certainly not, but she’d never lost that light that seemed to glow at the edges of her form. That music in her laugh, that carried on her voice with every word. Birds always brought Seven a certain bittersweet peace, when his guard was lowered as it was now—she must’ve given him that association before he could even piece it together. 

He’d give his life for hers, in a heartbeat if he could. She’d been too gentle, too sweet for a world like this one. It was only through some cruel divine wrath that her light would be snuffed out so soon, that Seven would be cast into darkness to face the world's cruelty alone—Aunt Beatrice, the facility, the McQueens. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, to tell her he loved her one last time. He was so young the day Rosaline had died—she didn’t even get to see what he might turn out to be. 

Seven cried in Marquez’ arms until he couldn’t anymore. Though Marquez didn’t know what had suddenly overcome the boy, he never pried, and simply held Seven and let him ride out the emotional waves as they came. Marquez would be his rock—the one thing he could steady himself against amid the barrage of the storm—he was determined to be, to stay with him until the clouds parted and calm was restored to the seas of Seven’s mind once more. 

At last, Seven’s sobs gave way to little faint hiccups, the occasional sharp inhale, until even those faded into something slower, something akin to a calm sky with a still distressed, swirling sea below. Marquez kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scarred back. He pressed a soft kiss into the top of Seven's head. The boy had fallen asleep right there, no doubt spent from crying and fighting the fever’s heat. 

Perhaps, when he awoke, Seven would tell him what he’d been thinking about. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Marquez would listen if he wanted to talk, but it was up to Seven if he was willing to share it. Regardless, Marquez would be right here, still holding him tightly when he awoke once more. 

༻✦༺

SEVEN taglist 

@oddsconvert @blood-is-compulsory @lonesome--hunter @silversanimewhump @whatwasmyprevioususername 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @theonewithallthefixations @saltyemrys @writing-and-trying @veyroswin 

@whumpdreamz @kitstorm @amazingmagda @honeycollectswhump @ijustwannareadsomestuff 

@fleshand-blood @cryptobiolliegy @whumper-whimsy @electrons2006  @abmwrites 

@ichortwine @pumpkin-spice-whump @jumpywhumpywriter @angstandwhumplover @morning-star-whump 

@softvampirewhump @technicallydeliciousdeer  @scoundrelwithboba  @whumpsday @hellodecisionparalysis

@lolrpop @hiddencowboybarbarian @wolfolkstar @elfwhump @andithewhumper @hueningplushie 

@theloveofwhump @light-me-on-pyre  @hihi24 @thekneelingdoll @glvsnchapsblog

@kingbri-guyf @neuronalwhip @spookyboywhump @victimeyez @whatwhump

“Ughhh! He's fineee!” Wes groaned. “He’s literally fucking fine. He’s fine, he just, he just… He’s like, sick or something okay? I don't know, man. Okay? I don’t even fucking know but like. It’snotgood, dude… So you should… You should juslike… help me out, y’know.” That last part probably should’ve been a question, but Wes drawled it out like an assumption.

Marquez would have laughed if he weren’t so concerned. Was Wes drunk calling him for help? Marquez only had seconds to make a decision, and quite frankly the situation was obviously dire if Wes was calling him at a time like this. Whatever was wrong, Seven needed help, and Wes was completely unable to provide it in this state—especially in this state. Marquez figured he could sit here on the phone and try to drag more details out of a tossed and belligerent Wes, or he could just figure it out himself. The answer was obvious.

“Alright, I’m coming over. Same passcode as last time on the elevator, yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah…” Wes drawled, and Marquez noted the lack of ‘thank you’ that would typically punctuate a request like this. 

Whatever. Marquez wasn’t doing this for Wes. This was about Seven. It was always about Seven.

“Okay—okay, yeah. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank fucking godddd,” Wes groaned—he probably hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but Marquez knew it was as close to an actual thanks as he would get, at least for now. 

A moment later, the line went dead, and Marquez went to find his keys.

༻✦༺

Seven was drifting in and out of consciousness when the bedroom door slipped open. He was somewhere far away, lost in the sprawling grounds of the McQueen estate. Seven found himself caught in the maze of immaculately carved hedges, wandering through those palatial grounds. He labored away, in that practiced fashion that was so familiar, pulling weeds that kept growing back as soon as he had tugged them from the soil. He frantically trimmed rose bushes, whose prickly vines kept trying to wrap around his limbs. At one point, he gave up, throwing down the trimmers and turning his gaze up at the sky. After what felt like a lifetime of struggling, he was willing to let it happen to him—to not fight against the forces that seemed hell-bent on sabotaging him over and over. He looked up into that bright blue abyss and willed it to suck him up entirely. He just wanted to float above it all, like a dove flying through the clouds, but the thorny brambles of the roses he had tried and failed to trim kept him tethered to the ground. Weeds sprung up around him, their tendrils thick and anchoring, covering his feet and wrapping his ankles in their undergrowth. 

He squirmed in place, alternating between fighting the possessed flora and not fighting at all. He writhed helplessly against the very forces of nature he was meant to tame, that were supposed to obey him here when nothing else in the world would—when something stirred him just enough to crack his eyes open and see that the doorway was opening. A figure appeared in the space of the widening gap, and he let out a small surprised noise when he recognized the shape that had stepped through. 

It couldn’t be real—a sturdy figure, black ink coiling around strong, olive-tanned limbs—his nightmare had sent an angel. The image of Marquez, still fuzzy at the edges, hovered before him, gliding like a spectre towards the edge of the bed. Yes, Seven resigned, he was definitely still dreaming.

“Seven?” came a concerned voice, that voice that flooded Seven with warmth every time he heard it. Seven’s pale, shaking hand extended forward unconsciously towards the looming figure. He tried to sit up but the motion made the room swim and all the blood rise to his face, bringing with it a heat that thundered in tandem with the pounding heartbeat in his ears.

“Mar… Marquez…” Seven whispered as though he couldn’t believe it. Like the man before him was a living ghost, gliding along the deck of a long-sunken ship. Marquez had saved him from those twisted, thorny vines, surely, for he didn’t feel their sting anymore. Only a thumping pressure behind his eyes and that burning heat that rose to the surface of his skin in a glistening sheen of sweat. 

Marquez reached him, and sat on the edge of the bed. Seven felt the mattress sink as his savior settled upon it, before he saw Marquez’ large, warm hands extending out to cup Seven’s flushed cheeks.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Marquez’ voice was gentle as ever, washing over Seven like a splash of cool water against his fevered flesh. Marquez gazed down at the wilted servant, his mossy green eyes brimming with concern. He looked just as he had the day Seven’s tongue had been burned—he was every bit as beautiful and unbelievable in his radiance. Seven blinked up at him, trying to focus his gaze on Marquez’ face—it was still blurring in and out of focus before him. 

“Mar… quez…” was all he could say.

“You’re burning up, aren’t you.” Marquez wasn’t asking, it was merely a resigned observation. “What on earth did that bastard do to you…”

“Huhhnn..” Seven’s voice sounded slurred and far away—he barely registered Marquez’ words, savoring the richness and comfort of his presence alone, the low resonance of his voice. 

“Out… Outside…” Seven said softly, when Marquez’ question finally processed in his fevered mind. Everything moved like molasses, just as it had when he’d passed out in the shower, or in the kitchen. It seemed he’d been horrible at staying conscious lately, ever since Wes had left him outside in the rain all night.

Marquez had no idea what Seven meant by that—Wes had given him absolutely no context when he’d arrived. Rather than provide any useful information, Wes had greeted Marquez by shoving him up against a wall with a fist twisted in the collar of his shirt, his other hand clutching a bottle.

Marquez had scowled at him, but didn’t shove him off. He should’ve expected something like this. 

“You’renot fucking special, y’know,” Wes had slurred. “You’re my fucking drug dealer, that’ss it. You’re fucking replaceable. You’re only here ‘cuz you were free, got that?" Wes leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. Marquez just stared Wes down, a fierce burning in his eyes. Whatever Wes was doing—attempting to establish dominance or some dumb shit—Marquez told himself he had to simply endure it. Let him say his little drunken threats, and then he could find Seven.  

“An’ byy theway,” Wes had hissed, pressing Marquez harder into the wall. “Don’t do fucking anything other than help heal my fucking servant. Don’ fuck him or touch’him like that or any of that fuckshit I know you wanna do. That’ss how he got like this in the first place.. fucking whore.”

Marquez’ nostrils flared—a low growl rumbled in his throat—he wanted to beat Wes into the ground right then and there for even speaking about Seven like that, especially while the boy was probably within earshot—sound carried easily across all the glass and marble—in some state of peril, and likely groaning in pain in the one of the bedrooms. Marquez was one hundred percent confident he could take Wes and win. He was stronger, his biceps wider, Wes was wasted—it would be easy.

But Marquez swallowed the swell of rage that twisted up his throat—he shoved it down hard. He had to focus on what he’d come here for. It was always about Seven.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” Marquez gritted out through his teeth, clenching his fists tightly so he wouldn’t fucking deck him.

After a moment of silence so tense it could snap, Wes seemed to have gotten what he wanted, because he finally released Marquez’ shirt and stepped back from the wall. He gestured towards the staircase with the bottle in his hand, uttering a slurred,  “He’ss upthere.” 

Marquez then wasted no time, hurrying up the staircase to the bedroom Seven usually slept in, cursing Wes in his mind the whole time for whatever he’d done to the poor servant. He’d imagined a hundred awful scenarios on his way to the penthouse. His mind had been racing with anxiety at what state he might find the boy in, but finding him sick and feverish to the point of near delirium was, in Marquez’ opinion, one of the better options. At least he wasn’t horrifically injured. He wasn't bleeding out. No bones appeared to be broken. If Marquez was lucky, and attentive and fucking perfect, he’d be able to help nurse Seven out of this. 

But Seven looked so fucking gone. He blinked up at him and his gaze was clouded and unfocused, but nothing could take the reverence out of those cerulean eyes whenever he looked at Marquez. Seven looked at him like he was an angel—a god. Marquez supposed it made sense, given everything that had happened between them. It seemed Seven had no one else that truly cared about his wellbeing. Hell, Wes would rather get blackout drunk than take care of his ailing servant. Resentment rose like bile within him whenever Marquez thought about it too hard—the fact that Wes, of all the sick people in the world, was the one in charge of Seven. But he knew, despite his simmering loathing, that stirring in his hatred for the man downstairs would do nothing to help Seven in that moment. Wes had called him for a reason. He was the only one equipped—that cared enough—to do this. Everything was up to Marquez now. 

Just as he took note of how hot the boy’s face felt, Marquez spotted the damp washcloth, scrunched up on the sheet a foot or so away. He released one hand from Seven’s cheek to take it. At least Wes had provided the bare fucking minimum before utterly crashing out. Not that he deserved any credit for it, given that he’d no doubt been the cause of all of this, somehow.

“Give me a second, okay?” Marquez said in that soft, gentle tone that always seemed to calm Seven in a way nothing else in his life would. Marquez slowly lifted himself from his sitting position, and Seven let out a little soft whine at his absence. The sound sent a small pang of regret through Marquez’ chest—he couldn’t help it, the way the boy’s distress made his heart throb with remorse. But he took the cloth to the bathroom anyway, running the fabric under cold water and wringing the excess water from its fibers before returning to Seven, who had since fallen back down, listless, into the pillows. 

“Come here, little thing,” Marquez soothed as he gently turned Seven’s shoulder so he was face-up again. 

“Nnnhh…” Seven sounded. Marquez wasn’t sure how lucid he was exactly, but he wasted no time gently sliding the cold washcloth over the servant boy’s face—down his cheek and across his chin, down the other cheek and over his pale, slender neck. Seven’s eyes fluttered shut once more, and he gave a small hum of approval at the motion. It must have felt nice—the cooling sensation on his heated skin. Marquez wiped the sweat from Seven’s forehead, before folding the cloth and laying it across his skin to cool the fever.

Fuck it, Marquez thought. The kid was burning up everywhere—he needed another cloth. Marquez went back to the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a second wet washcloth. Setting it on the bed beside Seven, he reached for the boy’s thin shoulders. “Come on sweetheart, up— Can you sit up for me, just for a moment?”

“Hnnmm… Mhmm..” Seven hummed affirmatively, and although he  sounded so far away, the boy seemed to understand—Seven allowed Marquez to slowly guide him up into a sitting position. Marquez slid the damp t-shirt up over the boy’s head, and Seven raised his arms in compliance when he realized what was happening. Everything felt too hot anyway, he was glad to be rid of it. 

Marquez bit back a gasp of horror at the sight before him. Seven’s torso was covered in large bruises—deep splotches of purples, reds, and blues ran along his ribcage and stomach. He could see the fading remnants of old injuries in the yellow-green tinge of other areas. Marquez’ eyes shot wide when he saw the wrap-around scars of old lash wounds that he now realized covered Seven’s entire back. He glimpsed what he swore was a fucking brand on his lower back—but the angle didn’t provide a perfect view, and he was not about to make Seven turn around so he could inspect his body. 

More scars littered his front, many of which he didn’t even know how to pinpoint the cause of. It made him feel sick to even think about what Seven must have endured in however long he’d been in Wes’ penthouse. Marquez didn’t want to alarm Seven, or make him feel any worse about his state than he already did, but he was fucking seething seeing it all with his own two eyes. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find when he removed the boy’s shirt, though, given everything he had seen in his visits to the penthouse so far, but seeing it first-hand made his blood run cold in sheer hatred for Wes and whoever else had had a hand in this.

As soon as Marquez released him, Seven slumped back down onto the mattress, panting slightly with the vertigo from the small motion alone. Marquez, trying to recover from the shock and surge of internal rage, twisted the shirt fabric in his hands. Calm. If he wanted to help, he had to remain calm. Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath—in… and out. He would wring Wes’ neck one day, he swore it, but today was not going to be the day. 

Resigning himself and shoving the feeling deep down, he tossed the shirt aside, and began to gently wipe Seven’s chest with the cool washcloth. Seven seemed even more fragile beneath him than he had before, now that the extent of his injured state had been revealed. Hell, that wasn’t even what Marquez had been called to fix—did Seven just… live constantly in a state like this? It broke Marquez’ heart to think about. 

“Uhnnn..” Seven hummed—he at least seemed pleased with this development.

“Thaat’s it,” Marquez cooed down at him. “You’re doing amazing.” He tried to keep his voice steady, and hoped he didn’t sound too patronizing. Given Seven’s state, he imagined any word of encouragement right now might, to some extent, but Seven seemed to be responding well to it. Marquez slid the cloth down the boy’s ribs and stomach, trying his best to be extra careful over the bruised areas—which if he were honest, seemed to be most of it. Slowly, he wiped the thin sheen of sweat away, before carefully lifting the waistband of Seven’s boxers to swipe the cloth over the skin beneath it. 

Marquez froze when Seven feverishly and clumsily caught his wrist. 

‘No—! Please, don’t..” Seven pleaded, and Marquez’ eyes widened in shock. “Not.. Not now… C-an’t—please,” he just kept begging, and all the blood drained from Marquez’ face when he realized Seven was begging to not be used. 

Marquez felt tears prick at his eyelashes at the fact that Seven would assume he would do that at a time like this, when Seven was so vulnerable and weak.. Marquez wanted to cry right there, thinking about how many people must have done that to Seven for him to see it as something normal and expected. He couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt in his chest, imagining how Seven must have felt in that moment—the doubt, the betrayal, the notion that his last hope for kindness and safety could be so easily twisted into being used again.

“No! I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Marquez scrambled to correct the situation, releasing Seven’s waistband immediately. 

Seven gave another sad little whine when those fingers released him, which puzzled Marquez. The boy seemed distressed either way. Regret stabbed through Marquez’ chest as he imagined the betrayal Seven must be feeling, thinking Marquez had only gotten close to him, was only helping him because he wanted to use Seven like a toy, just like all the others had before him. The very thought that Marquez would weaponize his vulnerability, would use that small glimmer of hope and safety and trust just to pry him open—to build Seven up, just to tear it all down again—it would rip his heart right open. Marquez bit his lip, his hands shaking slightly as they hovered above Seven’s body, afraid to touch him at all. 

Seven, even in his own fevered mind, instantly felt Marquez’ regret and lamented it. Seven desperately wanted it to be real. He wanted Marquez to touch him—but he wanted so badly for it to be genuine and soft and kind, he wanted to remember it without the tinge of pity and fever and guilt that the memory would have if it were to happen right now. 

“Not… Not like… this,” Seven tried to clarify.

“I’m so sorry, Seven,” Marquez’ voice cracked. “I’m so so sorry—I wasn’t going to—”

“Want…” Seven said quietly, “Just… Just not… like this.” 

Marquez worked those words over in his mind, deciding to just let the moment slip past them for now. “Of course,” he reassured, as gently and earnestly as he could. He blinked away the tears that had risen beneath his eyelids, and tried his best to recover—he needed to be strong for Seven right now. 

“May I…?” He asked softly, hovering the wash cloth over Seven’s ribs. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven nodded, letting his eyes slip shut. Trust. Marquez hadn’t fucked this up irreparably. Thank fucking god.

Marquez took to drawing the cloth over Seven’s torso once more, cooling the skin there in soothing motions until it reached a less burning temperature. Seven seemed to calm throughout this, and Marquez never brought it lower than the boy’s hipbones. Marquez dabbed at Seven’s cheeks with it once last time, before spreading the cloth out and laying it across his chest. 

“Feel a little better?” He asked softly, leaning forward slightly to assess Seven’s expression.

“Mhmmm,” Seven hummed, giving the slightest nod of his head against the pillow, his eyes still closed shut. Marquez felt movement at the cloth of his trousers, and looked down to see Seven’s little fingers balling up in the excess fabric. Marquez couldn’t help the fond smile it brought to his face when he saw it—the boy had done this last time too. He was clinging to him. 

“You wanna be close, little thing?”

He heard the faintest response. “Please,” Seven nearly whispered, and Marquez let out an involuntary hum. Why was he so damned cute, even like this—or, especially like this? Seven was always so sweet and vulnerable and pliant with Marquez. Though it wasn't lost on Marquez that this was likely because they’d only interacted when Seven was already in some very vulnerable state, but he couldn't help the way he felt about it. He rather liked it. 

Marquez situated himself beside the servant’s frail form. He took Seven into his tanned, tattooed arms, sliding his thumbs soothingly across the boy’s pale, bruised skin, and together they nestled into the pillows with a new peace that seemed to stop time entirely. Seven hummed warmly against his chest, as though Marquez were the embodiment of bliss itself, and promptly fell fast asleep, letting out little slow puffs of air against Marquez’ sternum. Marquez found himself almost as deeply entranced, as sleep nearly overtook him as well, and they settled there for a while, wrapped in a sheetless embrace, Seven’s feverish cheek against a steadily beating heart. 

༻✦༺

Part 2 of this is already written! I’ll probably post it tomorrow.. 

SEVEN taglist 

@oddsconvert @blood-is-compulsory @lonesome--hunter @silversanimewhump @whatwasmyprevioususername 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @theonewithallthefixations @saltyemrys @writing-and-trying @veyroswin 

@whumpdreamz @kitstorm @amazingmagda @honeycollectswhump @ijustwannareadsomestuff 

@fleshand-blood @cryptobiolliegy @whumper-whimsy @electrons2006  @abmwrites 

@ichortwine @pumpkin-spice-whump @jumpywhumpywriter @angstandwhumplover @morning-star-whump 

@softvampirewhump @technicallydeliciousdeer  @scoundrelwithboba  @whumpsday @hellodecisionparalysis

@lolrpop @hiddencowboybarbarian @wolfolkstar @elfwhump @andithewhumper @hueningplushie 

@theloveofwhump @light-me-on-pyre  @hihi24

@thekneelingdoll @glvsnchapsblog @kingbri-guyf @neuronalwhip @spookyboywhump