Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10140899.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro_Strider/John_Egbert, John_Egbert/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Dave_Strider, Bro_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      psychostriders, Gore, i_will_leave_individual_tags_for_each_chapter_so
      that_ya_don't_get_any_nasty_surprises, Physical_Abuse, Emotional/
      Psychological_Abuse, Kidnapping
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-06 Updated: 2017-10-16 Chapters: 6/? Words: 36784
****** In a Room with God and the Devil ******
by popup_potato
Summary
     Basically just another psychostrider kinda fic to add to the list of
     many others, oops.
     The gist of things is that Dave and Bro are hit men. Dave is obsessed
     with a boy named John, so he takes (what he would like to call) mercy
     on him when his name appears on the list. Thus kidnapping John. The
     story spans over the time that John spends together with the two
     killers, doing his damnedst to survive.
Notes
     Okay so super duper self-indulgent fic that I have been wanting to
     write for a while, but y'know. Never got around to. But I finally got
     started!!! It'll be hella gross, so watch out for that. It's one of
     those cliches about "psycho kidnapping someone and then shit ensues",
     but I have always had a soft spot for those stories. I like them,
     honestly. And so I wanted to try and write one of my own. Likely,
     it'll be filled with plot holes and stuff, but I'll see how it
     goes,,,
     The first chapter is basically just a introduction of the characters,
     the scenario, and all that jazz― in other words, hella boring. But I
     always feel like I gotta start somewhere concrete to get a good push
     off, ya feel? But yeah, that means no actual warnings for this
     chapter, it's just stupid dialogue and rushed scenes that I wrote up
     in the span of a day, so it's likely filled with mistakes, oopsi.
     I'll edit and add to this story as I go― hope you enjoy! :D
     Oh, and for good measure: John is 16, Dave 17, and Bro is 32.
***** Fragments *****
There were footsteps approaching. They were light, barely audible, and only
within hearing due to how every second ‘tap’ was followed by a heavier clinking
noise. The latter sound was too loud for it not to be intentional― whoever was
coming wanted him to know that. John listened intently, anticipation building
with each step towards the door; the door he had been watching for the last two
hours. At least it felt like hours, he couldn’t be sure. Without any windows in
the room, it was near impossible to make out time, and he had given up on
counting the seconds when he had reached the count of fifteen minutes. It had
seemed pointless by that point, and so had panicking. He knew he had spent a
good time hyperventilating, which had been the moment he lost track of time,
and that he had rattled the doorknob only to find it locked. The realization
hadn’t stopped him from continually pulling at the thing. Eventually, he had
decided that that was a waste of effort as well. The room he was in was small,
despite being able to stand up straight. He could reach each end by simply
holding out his arms, and even then his elbows would have to bend a little. It
was likely not an actual room, more like a closet. But the lack of a hanging
rack and shelves had him second guess that, too. One thing was certain; it was
cramped, claustrophobic, and dark. John had felt around the ceiling in search
of a light source, but found nothing. All the walls, the top, and the bottom
were naked. There was nothing, and he was alone― safe for the footsteps drawing
ever nearer. 
The doorknob rattled, but it was not by John’s hand. His breath stuck in his
throat, and he pushed himself flat to the back of the closet, his heart rising
in his chest when he recognized the clinking noise from before as keys. There
was a ‘click’ and the door opened. Though the light that washed over him was
dim, it was bright in comparison to the darkness he had grown accustomed to. A
silhouette stood in the opening, taking up most of John’s view. Squinting, he
tried to make out the person. Without his glasses, it was a blur. John had not
the time to actually adjust to the new level of light and the presence before
him, because the silhouette moved without warning. A hand wrapped around his
arm, dragging him out of the closet. His legs were tired and stiff from
standing up for so long, unable to move, and they could not keep up with the
pace that arm set. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, and with only one
hand free to take for the fall, his knees crashed against the floor. 
“Fuck― What the hell?” John was not pleased with the pitch of his voice, but he
blamed it on the jolt running up his legs from impact with the ground. In
truth, the squeak was more due to fear. A hand was still shackled around his
lower arm, keeping it raised in the air. He looked up, even more unlikely to be
able to make out the face of the person from the new angle. What he could see
were the most prominent features; a slender neck, sharp jawlines, a long nose
that stuck out, and most distinguishable; the two round, black eyes. In his
right mind, John recognized them as sunglasses. The shaded individual said
nothing, but their head was inclined downwards. John tried his voice once more;
“What’s going on? Who the fuck are you? What is― Would you let go of my arm
already?” 
His voice raised for other reasons than fear then, and the stranger did not
take kindly to it. The grip on his arm tightened momentarily, and he felt
ragged nails dig into his skin. “Ow! Let me go, you―” He did not get out the
last words. Before he could state his demand, the hand on him relented and drew
back, and he practically slumped against the floor as his arm dropped. John
stared up at the other person in the room; an actual room. Looking around
fleetingly, it was much larger than the other and resembled that of a bedroom.
There was a desk, a bed in the corner, shelves, and windows with the curtains
drawn, but a small amount of light was peeking through the edges. A soft, warm
light, low in intensity. It was the rising sun. 
John fidgeted in his spot. He did not know what to say or what was going on,
and that alone made him tongue tied. Clearly, he was in no control of the
situation, it all belonged to the tall figure before him. John’s position on
the floor, kneeling and looking up, amplified this power dynamic, and it felt
like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Despite that, his shoulders were still
drawn up high. The person moved, their knees bending, and they crouched down in
front of John. No words left their mouth, but they came close enough that John
could see the characteristic edges of a masculine face― or what was about to
become one; there were still soft edges to it. John saw his own mirrored
reflection in the boy’s sunglasses as well. He looked like hell. There was a
dark bruise blossoming beneath his right eye, reaching down half of his cheek,
and his hair was matted with sweat and something thicker. He guessed the latter
to be blood, because there was a dry streak of red coming from his temples. It
was carelessly wiped away, leaving only traces left, but the scabs of crimson
still drew a clear outline of the blood flow. His shirt was no longer smooth
and ironed, but creased and dirty with dark stains. 
Hands reached for John, and he flinched back, opening his mouth to protest. But
the words remained in his throat as the world became clarified; the familiar
weight of his glasses settled on the bridge of his nose, and he saw everything
clearer. The boy before him used a single finger to push the black frames
further up John’s nose, and then he got back to his feet. Standing like a
giant. John had to crane his neck to be able to look him in the face. Neither
of them said a word. John was waiting for the other to break the silence, but
who knew what the boy was thinking. His expression was hard to read with those
sunglasses taking up half of his face. Behind those dark lenses, eyes were
roaming over the boy on the floor, John could feel it. Like bugs crawling over
his skin, making him shiver, and he found the need to end the quiet before it
became too noticeable. 
“Who are you?” That question prompted a response out of the stranger, though it
was non-verbal. He cocked his head to the side, his pale brows knitting
together, and John knew with absolute certainty that he was staring right at
him. “What is this?” John asked, anxiety edging its way into his voice. 
“I thought you’d be smart enough to put two-and-two together.” The boy was
monotone in his speech, no pitch or rumble to give away his state of mind.
“Suppose I got to draw it all out for you, which I don’t mind, really. But I
would have hoped to spare the time. I’m on a tight schedule as is, and you put
it in a corset to make it all the tighter.” 
“What?” The oddity of the previously silent man suddenly changing into someone
with a full vocabulary took John off guard. At least he was getting something
to work with, though. With cautious movements, he pushed to be standing up. It
did little to level their difference in height, but John did not have to strain
his neck to look the other in the face as he came to just below his chin. He
felt more at ease like this, if he could feel anything resembling to peace at
all in his situation. Fragments of memories about how he had found himself in
the closet came to mind, but he had trouble putting them all together. His head
was elsewhere, much too focused on the boy in front of him. He tensed as the
other moved to sit down on the bed, his steps as slow as John’s movements had
been. As he walked, that clinking noise sounded again. In the belt loop of the
boy’s pants hung a bundle of keys, all rusted and some even with broken teeth.
Their positions were changed when the stranger sat down, his hands coming
together in his lap, and John saw a glint of scarlet eyes peek out above the
shades. He froze, and a stunned expression flashed across his face. By the
twitch of the boy’s lip, he caught on to it. 
“I‘m not a demon, if that’s what you’re thinking. If anything, I’m more of a
guardian angel. Your guardian angel, to be exact, which I really would prefer.
It would make all of this go much smoother, as I know you’re probably just
dying to hear about this whole predicament of yours. Fear not, I’m here to
guide you through all of it. Be the one to show you the ropes, bring you down
memory lane, and―” 
“What the fuck are you talking about?” John’s voice cut through, anger swelling
within him. The tension was poking at his nerves, making his heart pick up
speed, and he was scared. Confused. And he could not find a logical reasoning
behind his situation, so he turned to anger in the face of fear. “Did you bring
me here? What is this? What the hell―” The boy brought a hand up, palm open,
and the speed in which he moved had John flinch back. He looked too pleased
with John’s reaction, his voice taking on a lighter note.

”Chill. You’ve been repeating the same question, like, five times already. I’m
telling you, I’m going to give you the lay of the land. If you can keep your
mouth shut and not interrupt me, that is,” the boy said with the hint of a
smirk. “I really would appreciate it.” 
John pursed his lips, eyes narrowing as he glared at the other; he was so
casual in his approach and words, it was infuriating. John did not know exactly
how long he had spent inside of that closet, but it was long enough for him to
have a panic attack and calm down, which took more than just a few minutes. Yet
this stranger was chattering like it was nothing, having the audacity to joke
around while John was obviously uncomfortable. He wondered if it was
deliberate, or if the guy had trouble reading people’s social cues. No matter
what, it was no excuse. John balled his fists by his sides, removing his eyes
from the boy and looking around the room. The boy took this as a prompt for him
to continue. 
“You got here five hours ago,” he began. “You were completely out of it, of
course. Couldn’t say or do shit, which made getting your ass up the stairs
quite the hassle, but hey. We managed. Though you also managed to drool your
way through my shirt at one point, had to go change before coming in to see
you. Which, by the way, sorry for the close quarters. Bro said to tie you down,
but I thought nah, that would be uncomfortable, seeing as I honestly had no
idea how long you were going to be out for. I’ve tried using chloroform on
people a few times before, but apparently the k.o. time all depends on height,
weight, and all that jazz. I don’t bother with that shit. Bro on the other
hand, he does, but hadn’t. It was kind of an impulsive decision on my part, so
I guess that plays into the whole― Hey, what’s with that face?” 
John staggered back as if the memories physically hit him. The fragments were
coming together, the image of the puzzle becoming clear in his head. 
He remembered the couch. He had been residing on it when the sound of tires on
gravel had alerted him to his father’s arrival, but the alarm had not been
enough to get him to leave his seat. It was expected, his father was a punctual
man who always came on time, and he had told John he would be gone for fours
days; leaving Thursday and arriving home on Sunday evening, six o'clock sharp.
And so he did. The digital clock on his phone had struck 05:56 pm. Bothering to
get up was beyond him, and so he remained seated, watching the screen flick
between scenes in some cheesy cop show. The clock struck 06:10. The unusual
wait between the sound of the car pulling into the driveway and the door
opening had drawn John’s attention. He had craned his neck to look at the door,
just as he heard the mundane creak of its hinges opening― he had told his
father time and time again to fix it; clearly he had yet to do so. Still, the
familiar sound had eased John back into his seat, leaning back comfortably.  
“Hey dad, brought back a souvenir this time?” Footsteps had approached, someone
on light feet, barely audible. He had only heard them when they were right
behind him, and before he had had the chance to turn around, there was a cloth
in his mouth; the material scratchy even when it was soaked with a pungently
sweet smell. It had filled his head, clouding his consciousness until it had
disappeared completely. The rest was a black, empty space in the continuum of
time. When he had woken next, he was stuffed inside what he had later found to
be a closet. Panic had flooded his every senses until the nothing that was
happening had him stop, breathe, and think. And then a boy had opened the door
for him.     
Fear gripped him tight. John bolted, turning his back on the other boy, and
rushing for the door he hoped to god was behind him― and it was. He gripped the
knob, needing only to pull at it once to realize it was locked. He whipped
around, scared to find the boy right there and in his face, breathing down his
neck, but the other had not moved from his spot on the bed. He was leaning
back, resting his palms on the mattress, and giving John a bored look. Right
until John grabbed a lamp that was standing on a nearby table, pulling its cord
out of the socket, and gripping it with every intent of using it as a weapon.
That got the stranger moving, standing up as tall as he was, coming towards
John.   
“Whoa there, John, don’t do something stu―”
“How the fuck do you know my name? Get away from me!”
“Now, that’s just rude. I saved your sorry ass, don’t I even get a than―”
“Fuck off!”
 The corner of the boy’s lips twitched. “John. I really don’t like being
interrupted, so―”
“Don’t come closer!” The lamp was raised above his head, but John’s hands
shook; whether from fear or anger, he was not sure. One thing he knew was that
this guy had been the same one to stuff a cloth against his mouth―soaked with
chloroform, as he had so casually mentioned―and locked him in a closet in an
equally locked room. Making claims of being his savior, and John was having
none of it. The thought of his father came to mind, and his stance faltered.
The boy moved before he had the chance to collect himself. “You fucking step
back you― AH!”
The lamp fell to the floor, the shade taking most of the impact. John was not
as lucky. His head knocked against the door, skull rattling at the force of it,
and it took him a few seconds to notice the ragged nails from before closed
around his wrists, keeping his hands pinned to the surface behind him. His legs
tried what his hands could not, but all movement became near impossible as the
boy put his whole body against him; chests flush against one another, and John
had to turn his head to not breathe the air coming out of the boy’s mouth.
Being so close, the pitter patter of John’s heart was audible, only picking up
speed the longer they remained like that. He dared not look, his eyes squeezed
shut, but even so he could still feel those scarlet orbs on him. Moreover, he
could feel the other boy’s breath on his skin. Hot and moist, and it was
disgusting. Finding his voice, John had a deep intake of air, but before he put
it to use, he was tugged off of the door. Again, the boy moved faster than John
could keep up with, and his own feet sent him crashing to the floor. He
scrambled to get his legs beneath himself, but a blinding pain to the side of
his face had him back to square one; on the floor, but with something wet
running out his nose. It passed his lips and he tasted metal. John looked up
through his glasses, crooked in their place, and the boy’s face was much darker
than before. His foot was hovering just a few inches off the ground before
settling down. 
“I’ll be back―” Had blood not been gushing out his nose, John could have
appreciated the movie reference. “―you better have calmed down by then.” It was
the last thing the boy said before the rattle of keys, a click, and then the
door slamming shut behind him followed by another click. And John was left all
alone, in the dimness of the room that was slowly becoming brighter with the
morning sun slipping through the cracks. On the other side of the door, the
boy’s footsteps had turned loud and heavy, fading away gradually.    
The boy made his way down the corridor, wanting to punch the walls so hard that
the entire building would shake beneath the blow. His anger was directed
elsewhere, the joints in his neck snapping when the rumble of a voice reached
him. In one of the doorways he had passed stood a man, bigger than him in every
aspect, and wearing sunglasses of his own; triangular opposed to his own
circular ones. Accustomed to seeing the world through dark lenses, he knew they
were staring directly at each other. 
“Told you he’d take badly to it, Dave,” said the man.
“No shit. He just needs time.”
“And a bit o’ conditioning. Some restraints, maybe.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”
The boy―Dave―was worming his way out of the conversation, being less than
subtle about his disappointment in his previous encounter. He had had a plan.
It had started accordingly, expectantly, but took a sour turn. He knew he
should have cleared the room for all movable objects. “Since you’re such an
adroit eavesdropper, you already know how it went. We both know how it went.
Neither of us need a summary. So fuck off, Bro.”
The man responded to the odd name, scoffing at the hostility in Dave’s voice.
“Don’t know what’s so special about him anyway.”
“He’s pretty,” Dave answered without missing a beat. It was the same answer he
had given plenty of times before, and it was annoying to have to repeat
himself. Bro knew that.
“That’s it? You like him ‘cause he’s pretty?”
“I like to indulge in the aesthetics of life, so what?”
“So what is when you mix pleasure with professionalism. Pretty boy is on the
list.”
“Yeah, I know.”   
That came to be the end of their conversation, both unrelenting in their stare―
Bro more so than Dave. With a jerk of his body, Dave returned to stomping down
the corridor, walking away from Bro’s provocations. He needed not his shit
right now, he had more important things to think about.
***** Be Grateful *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter: Physical abuse
     (I'll try not to spoil too much with the warnings, but if you ever
     feel like I ought to add more, please do tell me! I don't want
     someone to wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time because I
     haven't tagged warnings properly!)
     Whoopee, dishing out a second chapter in the span of days booyah.
     That being said, if you find any mistakes/typos/whatever, please let
     me know so I can fix it! I do proofread my work, but have a tendency
     to overlook stuff :o
     Anyways, a bit more action in this chapter! Finally getting into it,
     down and dirty and all that.
     I hope you like it!
Patience is a virtue. It was something Dave would like to quote from some
author or poet unbeknownst to him. It helped to steady his mind, his hands, his
itching being that was anything but patient. The continuous drumming of his
fingers against the tabletop conveyed his restlessness, and it brought great
annoyance to his brother sharing the breakfast table. Milk and fruit loops
spilled onto the table when Bro threw his spoon into the bowl, drawing Dave out
of his mind palace and putting an end to the obnoxious fidgeting. The man’s
dark brows were taught on his forehead, noticeable above the edge of his
sunglasses. He spoke with intention in his every word, and it was clear what he
wanted from Dave at the moment― silence. 
“Yer gonna have to go check up on him eventually. If it starts to smell, you’re
handling it,” Bro said and leaned back in his seat. His arms crossed over his
broad chest, shaded gaze unrelenting, though his eyes were trained on those
bony fingers; the cause of the growing annoyance within him.
”The room’s connected to a bathroom, calm down.” Catching the hint he had
deliberately been ignoring, Dave busied his hands by bringing a spoon of
colorful, soggy cereal to his mouth. They had soaked in the milk for too long.
He was tempted to throw them out. 
“That’s not the kind of smell I’m talking about. In this weather, he might
start smellin’ in, what? Half a day?”
“I’m not gonna let him rot.”
“Well he sure ain’t flourishing with no food for two days. I doubt even
houseplants can go that long with just tap water.”
Dave took another bite, his teeth clinking hard against the silver spoon. “For
your information,” he said with a mouth full. “They can. It’s the whole thing
about plants, you see. The things can live off of nothin’. Fucking ultimate
survival right there. They do this wicked thing called photosynthesis, where
they basically suck goddamn nutrients up with their ass and skin, and―”
”Quit stallin’.” 
Another clink of teeth against silver. He really hated being interrupted. “Quit
putting your nose in my shit. Thought you had no fucks to give about the guy.” 
“I don’t.” Bro readjusted himself in his seat, propping one elbow onto the
tabletop and resting his chin in his palm. He was analyzing the hostility that
Dave was addressing him with. He was analyzing, not trying to analyze. He never
trieddoing anything, as that would implicate he did not know the outcome of his
attempts; you need not try when you were successful. The tension that Dave had
brought to the table was from obvious reasons. Ever since that John kid had
been dragged over their doorstep, Dave had been acting on edge. He was jumpier
than usual, giddier, and more antsy. It was like the number of nerves in him
had doubled, all acting up and making him hyper aware of the world around him.
Bro could see past it the first day, he had been a bit out of character
himself. The occasional shouts and banging on a door did that to a person. It
had taken his all not to kick down the door and bang the kid’s head against a
wall. A sound he could handle more easily and for a longer duration of time.
But this was Dave’s shit to handle. Not his. Problem was when Dave would not
take responsibility and face the very person he had had no problem ogling for
the past― hell, Bro didn't know. He could date it all back to the first picture
Dave had snatched of the boy, but Dave refused to let Bro anywhere near his
“work”. Bro found the term unfitting. 
“But I happen to give a great many fucks about my beauty sleep,” he finally
continued by saying. “And I had the impression you felt the same. You got a
room and a bed, so use it.”
”The couch is just fine,” Dave replied nonchalantly. His back was sore from
having spent two nights on said couch, but he was not about to validate Bro’s
nagging. Soon, he would be able to move back into his own room, with John. The
boy was occupying his quarters currently, likely tearing the place apart if the
banging, curses, and yelling were anything to judge by. It was not according to
plan, but it was expected. Dave knew it would be wishful thinking to have John
compliant in the matter of a few days, but he had visioned John as a better
listener. The boy would always listen to his friends, talk with them for hours
on the phone, text back within minutes, and would nod his head in interest when
talking to someone face to face. Dave had thought John would do so with him,
too. But he had not. John had interrupted him and cursed his very presence, the
fear in his voice back then so strong that it had drowned out the intimidation
he had tried to pull off. All that Dave had asked for was gratitude, but the
request had been met with spite― and he had kicked John in the face for it,
painting it red. The color did not look good on John. 
But plenty of other colors did. The candy red of blood was too stark on him,
but a deeper berry red went well with the warmth of his clay skin. Green made
him look like he was in bloom, and blue brought out his eyes; those cobalt eyes
held an intensity to them that was unlike any other. They were plain, normal,
and nothing special to the common opinion, but Dave found them mesmerizing. The
moment in his room had been the first time he had been so close for so long. He
had been able to gaze into them, John’s irises all blue as his pupils had
shrunk. It had been beautiful. Dave wanted to see it again, but he had to bide
his time. He had to, or the previous day’s mistakes would repeat themselves. In
the time in between, he had dug out old photographs of John to state his
longing, reminding himself that all good comes to those who wait― another quote
from someone unbeknownst to him. He considered saying it out loud, because his
brother had an air of agitation around him, affecting his tone of voice.    
“Just admit it,” Bro said. “You don’t know what yer doin’.” He got no response
from Dave apart from a sidelong glance, the boy choosing to stay within his own
thoughts rather than addressing the issue. The conversational topic was a
hassle, and plenty more so as it was becoming more of one-sided talk. Bro gave
a loud sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose and pushing his shades up in the
process. “If yer gonna keep him, at least do it right.” 
“And what exactly is right?” 
Bro paused. He tapped a finger against his cheek, letting the seconds drag out
before he spoke again. “I’ll show you.” 
“What the hell are you ta― Wait, Bro.” The chair made a shrill noise as Bro
pushed back and got out of his seat, walking around the table and heading to
where the kitchen became corridor. Dave knew where he was heading, and he
recognized the hint of excitement in his brother’s voice. It was a foretelling
of bad things to come. “Bro, stay out of this. It was my choice, I’ll handle―” 
“You’re not handlin’ shit. Can’t trust a kid with a pet without adult
supervision.” 
“He is not a pet,” Dave said hotly, pushing the words through gritted teeth. He
was tailing after Bro just a few steps behind, the man’s legs longer and faster
than his own. It was a weak excuse. He did not dare touch Bro when he was in
such a mood, but that did not mean he was going to let him touch John, either.
Yet his own hesitation to step in meant that Bro reached the end of the
corridor before him, pulling out a set of keys and blasting the door open.
“Bro―!” 
The room was seemingly empty. The man walked in with loud steps, looking
around. The sheets were strewn about the bed, the curtains drawn back to reveal
barred windows and a late morning sky, and the walls were void of decorations
of any kind. John was nowhere in sight. Bro’s attention snapped towards the
closed door to the connected bathroom. His fingers were itching to dig into
something, but he had not the chance. 
John darted out from behind the door Bro had opened, dashing down the corridor.
He made it all of five steps before his path was blocked by Dave, coming close
to crashing into each other, and John saw those demon eyes widen behind their
shades. It was a brief moment’s contact. A hand large enough to reach around
the girth of his neck took a tight hold on him. The scream in his throat was
choked, and he was hauled backwards. The man was someone new, John did not
recall his face, but if he had keys to the door, then he was bad. John was
dragged back into the room, his bare heels getting floor-burns without the
protection of socks or shoes, and he could not get in a kick with how fast Bro
was walking. Getting over the doorstep was a jab of short pain. Objections were
shooting out of John, loud and booming, and the sound of them had Dave rush
forward; not to help, but to be there to pick up the pieces. 
“Let me go! Let g―” John was cut off when he became short of breath, being
slammed up against a wall pushing the air out of him. The hand had shifted to
wrap around his front, squeezing his throat, and he could not swallow. Each
time, his Adam’s apple was hindered by a palm pressing against his jugular.
Getting any word out past that death grip was an effort he was not willing to
make. Before him stood a man, and he would have been towering above John had he
not been levitating the boy in the air, making them face to face. The added
pressure of gravity drew a strained noise out of John. His hands reached for
the one wrapped around his throat, clawing at the wrist, but his captor was
unfazed. In his head, John made the connection between the man to Dave’s
previous words and the mention of what he guessed to be a name― he must be Bro.
The ability to put a face to the name helped not. The hand was still like iron
around his neck, despite the red scratches John left on Bro’s wrist. 
“You listen up, you ungrateful piece of shit,” Bro growled, the sound low but
dangerous. His breath was coming out right against John’s face, smelling of
sugary sweets and milk. “I’m dead tired of you throwin’ a fit. Yer gonna be
spendin’ a while here, so I suggest you get a grip on that little attitude
problem o’ yours.” He tightened his grip, making John’s mouth hang open in a
silent gasp. “Should’ve known. You rich kids are all the same.” 
Bro let go. Without something holding him up, John came crashing down. He
grasped at his own throat, rubbing the spot as if to ease the passage for air
to be sucked down and into his lungs. It was only a moment’s relief he was
allowed. Before he could regain his breathing, Bro was speaking up again. 
“Dave, grab his hands. Take him to the bed, on his knees and leaning over the
mattress.” 
John had not the time to memorize the new name as Dave approached, leaving his
spot in the doorway where he had stood like a statue. John barely even had the
time to register what Bro was saying. Dave was upon him, grabbing his arms and
dragging him across the floor, and he kicked and screamed the whole way there.
The shouts were silenced when he was pulled against the edge of the bed, arms
outstretched before him. Dave held them to the mattress, practically sitting on
them, and John’s chest was bend over the bed. The position was uncomfortable.
Both because of his knees on the hard floor, and because of the fact it
obscured his view. Bro’s figured had disappeared somewhere behind him. Even
with the loud thump, thump, thump of his pulse in his ears, he heard the sound
of metal clinking together briefly, then the swoosh of fabric against fabric.
The panic had words tumble out of his mouth. 
“W-wait! Let me go, I won’t―” 
There was a loud crack, and John’s whole body convulsed in shock. He knew what
the previous sounds had been now. Bro had taken off his belt, a great long
leather thing, and was holding it in his hands, pulling it tight to make it
crack in the air. It sparked a new fire in John. He writhed against Dave’s
grasp, trying to push off on his knees. He needed to get away, he knew what was
coming, and he did not want to be there for it― he did not want to sit and wait
for it to happen. 
Unknown to John, a look was exchanged between Dave and Bro. “H-h-hey! Stop!
Don’t―!” Cold air hit John’s back suddenly, and he was hidden away from the
sunlight coming in through the cracks of the barred windows. Dave had leaned
forward, grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it up above his head,
exposing his skin to the room. The eyes that roamed over the display were
almost sensory. John could feel them travel up the bit of flesh protruding
where his pants hugged his hips, and then they moved further up past his lower
back and spine. They were ice, and they sent a shiver through him. 
The cold did not last long. The only warning was the sound of something cutting
through the air, and then hot pain exploded on John’s left shoulder blade― a
scream ripped his throat, but it broke halfway out his mouth. There was another
hit in the same spot, making the pain dig deeper into his skin and lingering
there. John arched his back, the small bumps of his spine showing, and he
thrashed against Dave’s hold. He could not see, not with his own shirt above
his head, and he could only move as much as Dave allowed it. The boy’s hold was
unrelenting, leaving dents on John’s lower arms. The left side of his back was
ablaze, lines of pure fire reaching from the center to the tips of his
shoulder. It was terrifying. He felt everything, but all he could see was the
plain sheets beneath his head, and all he heard was the whistle as the belt was
swung. And something lighter, a breathy sound like a puff of air coming from
somewhere behind him.    
Bro was bringing his hand back a third time, the belt loose in his hands. His
hand tightened around the leather, and it came down on John’s naked back, the
sound of impact resonating within the four walls. The boy was shaking more and
more with each hit, but he was still making too much noise. Bro relished in it,
yet he had a point to be making. John’s breath hitched, a plea on the tip of
his tongue, but it was snuffed out by a lick of the belt. The fourth time. Bro
was counting, he kept count on most things. Like the amount of breaths John
could fit within the pause between each hit. The boy had an impressive lung
capacity. 
“Do you happn’ to have broadened your vocabulary yet, kid?” John flinched just
from the sound of the man’s voice. Bro’s face was stone, barely even showing
acknowledgment for John’s distress; unlike Dave. Dave’s grip was not faltering,
but his composure was. His brows had come together, his lips formed a thin
line, and he was looking down at the trembling body beneath him. John’s back
was lined with four lashes. They were not deep enough to leave scars, but for
the moment, they were a stabbing pain that ignited John’s skin, making the
smallest roll of his shoulder and arch of his back hurt. Dave had had worse,
but John had not. He was yet untouched, his body blank like a page. And Bro had
just spilled the first drop of black ink onto him, Dave helping to stretch out
the paper. Within the bundle that was John’s shirt, sobs were audible, if not
noticeable by the way the boy’s shoulders heaved up and down shakily.   
Another crack, eliciting a loud cry. “I asked yer a question.” 
“I don’t know wha― Nngh!” The answer John was about to give was not
satisfactory, Bro would rather hear him cry. He meant to dig the answer out of
John, however many swings it would take. They had reached the count of six. 
“C’mon. You know the answer I want.”
“I don’t kn―” Seven. “S-shit! Fucking hell, that hurts.” 
Bro clicked his tongue. John was slow in the uptake. He walked close, bringing
up his foot and stomping it against the boy’s abused back, keeping it there and
forcing out a shout of pain from the one beneath his boot. The soles of his
shoes were dirty, bits of grovel and pebbles stuck in the empty spaces, and it
stung against the raw skin. 
“Bro―” Dave had begun by saying, but the swift gesture of Bro holding up a
single finger had him silent once more. 
“Think. What do I wanna hear?” 
“I’m t-telling you, I don’t―” Pressure was applied, cutting John short before
he could make the same mistake for the eight time in a row. It helped not, for
John went ahead and did it anyway. “Okay! Okay, okay, fuck. I― I’ll apologize.
I’m sor― AAH!” 
The leather cracked against his back in place of Bro’s boot, and there was a
particular force behind the blow. John could feel minuscule drops of blood
swell to the surface. 
“I said think. What do you say when someone does somethin’ nice for ya? When
someone savesyou?”
“You’re not seri―”
Bro reached the count of nine. Another scream released itself from John’s
throat, its passage dry and painful. It was agony. The ninth lash had turned
the droplets of blood into red pearls rolling down the curve of his back in
thin stripes, and every expansion of his chest when he breathed stretched the
cuts just a smidgen. John’s following words were a prayer;      
“Thank you! Thank you! I’m grateful, I am. I’m g-grateful.” 
Something in the air shifted. The tension had lifted, as if released in time
with the breath leaving Dave’s lips. John could hear it, that sigh of relief,
coming from above him. The grip on him loosened, but he did not move. It hurt
too much, and he was scared. His world was still obscured to that within his
shirt, and he feared opening up for reality to hit him again. It was a wise
choice. Bro was tempted to make the count of lashes an even number. A pleased
hum came from behind him, Bro fastening his belt around his hips again. The
leather felt warm. 
“Took yer long enough,” Bro said. John could not feel it now, his back a
sensory massacre, but eyes were taking in the sight of him again. The boy was
quivering, choked down sobs audible in the silence that came over the room,
shaken to the core and left with a clear impression of the man called Bro; in
the form of asymmetrical lines on his skin. John stayed on his knees, the ache
in them paling in comparison to his back. Bro moved, walking right past him and
for the door, but not before leaning in towards Dave. “That’s how you do it.
Hope you took notes.”     
The man was seen off with a deathly glare from Dave, his chest puffed out and
shoulders raised. They only lowered several moments after Bro’s footsteps had
disappeared down the corridor. Dave and John were alone. Dave hesitantly moved
to the trembling mess leaning on the bed, the dip of the mattress not startling
as much as he was simply too exhausted. 
“Keep your arms stretched. I’m going to take off your shirt,” Dave whispered.
He need not talk louder as every sound practically amplified in the quiet that
fell upon them. There was no response from John, and he went ahead to rid the
boy of the clothing. Was it left be, it would just get dirty. Dave carefully
held on to the bottom of John’s shirt, pulling the garment further up his arms,
past his elbows, and off of him. It knocked his glasses out of place, and he
winced more than once, but practicality came before his immediate comfort. The
black locks on John’s head had gotten out of place and static from the friction
of the fabric. It was so tempting. 
John only tensed when he felt a hand in his hair. Long, skeletal fingers carded
through it, getting caught in knots and accidentally tugging at individual
strands. The touch was uncomfortable, everything was uncomfortable, but the
fear was still heavy on him. He was grounded, unable to move. Dave was
smoothing back his hair, those ragged nails scratching his scalp, but the other
seemed content to continue. Eventually, when John made a move to push his chest
off of the mattress, Dave snapped back to reality. The blood had gone dry on
John’s back, and the wounds needed treatment, however small they were. The
softness of John’s hair was a lingering tickle against his fingertips, and it
took his all not to reach out again. It was the first time, the very first
time, that he had touched John. A picture says a million words, but his hands
were able to convert physical sensation into feeling; it was light and warm,
unlike anything he had felt before, and he itched for more. Dave was starting
to disagree with the authors and poets who spoke so highly of patience. 
Dave brought his hand back, getting off of the bed. He spoke still in a
whisper, keeping it short and sweet to spare John; “I’ll bring you some fresh
towels.” 
And Dave did bring back a pair of towels, as well as the bowl of soggy cereal
he had left in the kitchen.
***** Questions & (no) Answers *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: Physical abuse + Dave being a big creep
     Sorry for the wait!!! I honestly thought I could have this out much
     sooner, but school caught up with me,,,,
     But wowzer, thank you all SO MUCH for all the great support and sweet
     comments!! :'D
“You need to sit still.” Despite Dave’s words, the boy was still squirming in
his seat. He knew that John heard him. The boy inclined his head just a
fraction of a centimeter to the left, evident by the slight contraction of
muscle in his neck and the way his hair would shift in its place. The dark
locks were heavy with sweat, and some of the hairs on the back of his head had
gotten bits of blood in it. The fact that John was listening but did not comply
was bothering him. It was another way of disregarding his words, same as
interrupting him. Dave kept his hands from conveying the frustration build
inside, his touch remaining gentle. John was nothing but nerves, jumping at the
smallest pressure applied to his open back. The towel Dave had brought used to
be white, but it had become dotted with red stains, and new ones were still
being added. He patted it against the scarlet lines on John’s back. Even
through the material, he could feel the boy tense, his muscles jumping beneath
the material that was supposed to feel soft― against his wounds, it felt like
sandpaper. 
“Don’t move,” Dave repeated. “We’re almost done.” He had said the same several
minutes ago. John had stopped holding his breath waiting for Dave to leave when
he realized the other was taking his sweet time. Every touch lingered, closer
to that of a caress than anything else. It was such a contrast to the abuse he
had been dealt just moments before. John had not stopped crying. His tears had
become scarce, running dry, but a few still trickled down his cheeks, and he
sniffled to keep snot from running past his upper lip. More than anything, he
was scared. And beyond that, he was fazed.
“W-who are you?” The caress of his back stopped, hovering just above his right
shoulder, and John feared he had spoken out of turn. A heavy silence followed.
The only sound to break it was John’s shallow breathing, in and out, coming
faster the longer the quiet remained. Anxiety was lying right beneath John’s
skin, crawling like bugs and causing shivers to course through him― or it was
anticipation. He was waiting for the other boy to say something. The sudden
reticent to him was a stark contrast to that of the talkative boy from earlier,
but whether the boy was talking or not, John found he gave little to no
answers. None that made sense, anyway.
John stared down at his own two hands in front of him. The bones beneath the
skin were showing just slightly, his knuckles clearly defined, from how tightly
he was holding on to the covers beneath him. They were white as snow, stained
with a few drops of sweat and blood, the latter standing out against the blank
sheets. John wondered how bad his back looked. Something hard to imagine as he
scarcely could even come to terms with what was happening. The four walls
surrounding him were not familiar, and they had thrown back his own screams
when a strange man had come to hurt him. To punish him for things that were not
his fault, and to force a piece of his dignity out together with the two words;
“thank you”. It felt as if he was sitting close to a fire, his back covered in
a painful heat, and maybe he was. His abductor was right behind him, and his
every touch burned.
“Right...” The silence was finally broken by Dave. He brought his hand back up
to add pressure to John’s wounds, and he liked to think that John flinched from
the pain rather than away from the touch itself. Another moment of quiet
tension passed between the two of them before he continued talking. “My name is
Dave. I won’t give you a surname, there’s no use. Ya won’t be using it, so I’m
just Dave. And that other guy?” John’s shoulders rose higher at the mention,
the muscles of his back drawing together. “You will call him Bro.”
“Bro?”
“Just Bro, yeah,” Dave told John, and immediately repeated his own name― “And
I’m Dave. Remember that.”― as if John was like to forget it. Dave almost rushed
to say it, wanting to push past the topic of his brother and keep the focus on
the moment. The moment shared between just John and him.
“How could I forget? I― ouch, fuck.” John hissed in pain. Dave pressed against
a particularly sore spot, one where the leather belt had ripped deeper into
him. “Sto― Stop.”
“If we don’t get these sparkly clean it’s gonna hurt even more. Trust me, I
know a thing or two about―”
“No! No, just― Stop!” The fire in his voice had Dave’s hand retaliating
completely. The presence behind him retreated just a few more inches, and the
amount of space between them was an indication of John’s confidence. It was not
much, but it was more than before, and just enough to give John the courage to
raise his voice. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you fucking touch me!”
Panic was coiling itself around John more, and his entire body jolted to escape
its grasp. He turned around to face Dave, the skin on his back stretching in
pain as his torso twisted at the waist. A deathly hand was reaching out for
him, and it was the only thing John saw. He did not see the worried crease of
Dave’s brows on his forehead. John jerked away, his hands grabbing and pushing
against the surface beneath him for leverage, but the sheets were silky smooth
and slipped beneath him. The white bed received much larger stains when John’s
back hit the mattress. It was supposed to feel soft beneath him, but in that
moment it felt like jagged glass, and John let out a cry. And Dave’s hand kept
coming closer.
“Shit― John, calm down. Look, I’ll tell you. I’ll answer your questions. I’ll
tell you my whole name, Bro’s, my birthday, and―”
“I don’t fucking care what your name is!”      
“You literally just asked wh―”
“Who are you?What am I doing here? Where―” John pushed himself upright, the
sheets sticking to the sticky wetness of his back for just a few seconds before
letting go, and he saw the thin lines of blood on them. It was an imprint of
his back, and he knew the real thing would look a lot more grotesque. Dave saw
it, too. They were close enough that those demon eyes were visible through the
dark lenses, practically glowing, and it made it so that John detected them
returning to him immediately after. Dave’s hand would not stop reaching for
him.
“Don’t touch me!” John swung his arm but it did not make impact. Instead, he
found his back pushed down, reconnecting with the mattress. Despite the bouncy
surface, it rattled his head and strained his neck, but he fought through it.
Even as Dave moved on top of him, filling up his view and blocking out all
else, he did not cease fighting. He only screamed louder, and all of it was
voiced as questions, though he did not want an answer to most of them. He
feared it, the answers. The red lines on his back gave him plenty of clarity as
to what these men were capable of. “Don’t touch me! Get off! What are you
doing? What do you want?Get off!!”
Anger flashed across Dave’s face, fast and quick, and it caused the previous
concern in his voice to harden. A large hand that was all bone fisted itself in
John’s shirt, pushing him down, and he could feel the boy’s knuckles against
his collarbone. It sparked a renewed panic in him. “Don’t touch me!” 
John reached his hands up, dragging his nails down Dave’s lower arm, but even
as they left scratches in their wake the boy did not even flinch. He only
sneered down at John. The way his muscles contracted could be felt in John’s
fingertips, and he swore he saw blue veins popping beneath that sickly pale
skin. He could not be sure, though, because Dave moved at a speed John could
not keep up with. He was hungry, tired, and in pain. He could not keep up with
most. To John, Dave was moving at inhuman speeds, and he was more and more
convinced that Dave really was a demon. John opened his mouth to scream, but a
hand snuffed out the sound. Those jagged nails dug into his cheeks, leaving
dents in the soft skin, and John forgot how to breathe through his nose. Dave
was so close, only inches away from his face, and though his body was hovering
above John’s, it felt heavy all the same. It pushed John down into the
mattress, putting pressure against his wounds, and making his chest feel tight.
From above, John looked a mouse. Caught and trapped as it had tripped the
spring-loaded bar, and that trap was now squeezing the life out of him. Only
difference was that a mouse would at least have gotten a bite of cheese before
death, John had not even seen his father’s face. 
The words he tried to say were muffled into Dave’s palm, but he caught the
hint. Dave kept his hand on John’s mouth for just a little while longer, then
releasing it. Hearing how John gasped for air calmed him some, knowing he was
the one who had given it to him. Everything that John had was a gift bestowed
upon him by Dave. John was, however, having trouble understanding that. He
looked no closer to understanding as Dave was looming above him, one hand
placed on either side of his head, making sure not to accidentally place them
on those dark locks of hair. The effort was lost on John, though. Dave scanned
his face, finding only fear there, evident in his wide eyes and the thin layer
of sweat starting to coat his earthy skin, giving it a shine. Dave did not like
that look. It was too alike that he saw on the faces of lesser people. It did
not belong on John’s face. His cheeks should not be that pale, his nose should
not crease so, his brows should not be that high and close together, and Dave
should not be feeling such an ache at the sight. 
“I don’t like being interrupted. I already told you that,” Dave said, quiet and
melancholic. His fingers traveled down from John’s chin to his neck, tracing
the pulse beneath the delicate skin. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the
touch.   
“W-where is my dad?” John croaked out. Dave was pleased to note that the
other’s voice had lowered to a more reasonable volume, one that Dave could work
with and talk to. The question was another matter. 
“Shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?”
“Where is my dad?”
“Not here.”
”Where is he?”
”21605 Fir Dr, Maple Valley, Washington.” 
It was comical how John’s face stretched in bewilderment at the pinpoint answer
he was given, even as he had been the one to ask. Dave tilted his head just a
tad, looking down at him. John was a curios thing, so expressive as if he had a
face made of rubber, capable of molding itself to fit every human feeling known
to mankind. Dave wanted to see all of it on that face, every specter of
emotion. John had the freedom of showing all the things that Dave could not,
and he relished in it. He had a collection dedicated to the boy’s face, showing
both the good, the bad, and the ugly. And all of them were absolutely stunning
in their own right. Some would make his heart throb, others pulled at the
corners of his mouth, and some made him feel warm deep in his gut. To have John
beneath him, live and in the flesh, it was surreal. The boy was an open book,
and Dave wanted to read all of his pages. 
“What are you doing?”
“Pardon?” Dave cocked his head to the side, raising a brow.
“Where am I?” 
John had reconsidered his question. A smart choice. His blue eyes were locked
on the dark shades on Dave’s face, seeing his own reflection in them. Stark
white hair was hanging in the other boy’s face, almost one with the white of
his skin. The only color on him were the freckles dusting his cheeks, forehead,
and John’s eyes could follow their trail all the way down Dave’s neck and
shoulders, disappearing further into the cover of his shirt. John thought it
easier to look at those dotted pigments than it was to look at his own mirrored
reflection.    
“Somewhere safe,” Dave answered.
“Somewhere safe?”
“That’s what I said, yeah.”
“Where is somewhere safe?” 
Dave flashed him a grin, showing off teeth just as pale as his face. “Now, I
can’t spoil all of the fun. Besides, it doesn’t matter.” 
“Doesn’t matter?”
“You sure do like to mimic voices, don’t ya?” 
There was only given a hot glare from John in response, waiting for an
elaboration from Dave. The boy’s words were foreboding, a tone to each of them
making John feel like he ought to ask more questions and stop talking
altogether. The silence John chose to respond with proved to be the right
choice. Dave twisted his tongue to start talking again only moments later. 
“It doesn’t matter because you’re not goin’ outside. Not yet. You’ve barely
even broken in the bed, gotta at least get a bit of good shut eye before
starting to wander about.” 
“This isn’t a vacation!” John hissed out, louder than he meant to. He quickly
recovered his composure, not wanting that clammy hand to cover his mouth once
more. “I can’t sleep.” 
“Not on your back you can’t.” Something kinder slipped into Dave’s voice. “Bro
can be bit of a jackass sometimes. Just don’t get on his bad side― or well, he
only got bad sides, so try to not get on any of them. I swear, he is like a
mine field. One big plain of pure mines, just waitin’ for you to up and trip on
one. Sometimes he deliberately makes you walk right into them, he is just that
much of an ass jack. And― You’re not listening at all, are you?” 
John was silent. His eyes were watering, glistening in the light of the room
coming in through the windows. Dave wracked his brain trying to figure out why.
He had not hurt John, had he? The boy’s back was still sore, but he would have
reacted sooner if that was the cause. Had he said something wrong? He was
giving John all the answers to his questions, John should not be on the verge
of tears. He was doing everything for John― John had not the right to cry. 
“Hey. Hey, no, John. Stop.” Dave tried speaking with a voice as soft as
possible. People did not take kindly to loud noises, he knew. In distress,
softness was the way forward, and he did his best to convey that. He moved both
hands to John’s cheeks, cupping his face. It was the opposite reaction of what
he wanted that he got. 
A shriek tore through the quiet, and John thrashed all four of his limbs.
Dave’s hands had felt enclosing, and he realized that John was not acting a
human for the moment. The other boy was closer to that of an animal, cornered
and wounded. Dave had made a mistake in his calculations, but he was not
allowed to right them with John throwing his arms about, kicking his legs.
Suddenly, Dave’s speed was not enough. He did not dodge one of John’s feet in
time, and it hit him in the gut, kicking a harsh coughing sound out of him. An
opportunity opened, and John rushed to grab it. John pushed Dave off, unfazed
by how the fast movements twitched and tore at his wounded back, and his eyes
shot for the door. His feet would have done the same, but they never made it
off of the bed. 
John got a face full of sheets. The scream he made was muffled into the fabric,
and he tried to claw his way forward to no avail. A hand was closed around the
back of his neck, forcing him down with such strength that it left no space
between his mouth and the bed for him to breathe. He was choking again, his
body convulsing in on itself as it tried sucking in air it could not get to.
Dave was seated on his lower back, his knees digging into John’s sides. Another
mistake had been made, and Dave was forgiving; he could be, for John, but Bro’s
rumble of a voice echoed inside his skull. If he was going to keep John, he
would have to do it right. 
Hot, blazing pain dragged down John’s back. He recognized those jagged nails
again. Dave inched his fingers down John’s exposed back, starting from where
spine met neck and down, passing the red lines put there by the belt. Each
time, those notched nails would catch in the slight dents of the lashes,
pulling at the broken skin and awakening droplets of blood. And each time, John
twitched, his screams turning into moans of pain. He wondered just how long his
back was, because it seemed to drag on forever. Finally, Dave reached his
tailbone. New, pink lines decorated John’s back alongside the scarlet ones. He
went still, all except for the shaking of his shoulders. The pressure on his
neck had lifted just enough for him to be able to breathe, and a wet spot was
created on the sheets from his moist breath and wet cheeks. His fingers were
gripping onto the material tightly. 
He was not the only one breathing hard. Dave’s breath was ragged above him.
“Shit...” he cursed, his hands leaving John’s body altogether. There was blood
under his nails, John’s blood, and it itched. “God fucking damnit.” John
flinched at the raise of his voice. “Why did you have to do that? I was doing
what you asked, you fucking―” Dave stopped himself, realizing that he was about
to quote his own brother, and the thought alone did not sit right with him. But
John had been ungrateful. And Bro’s method had helped. The punishment had
helped calm John down. The boy was rigid beneath him, conversing his emotions
through the sound of his sobs and hitched breathing. Dave deciphered it as
momentary submission. He knew John too well to say it was permanent. 
“You deal with the rest,” Dave said. The weight on John’s back left as Dave
slipped off of him, getting off the bed in the same motion. John did not move
to follow. “You gotta clean it up. Add a bit of water, but don’t take a shower
yet. Let it dry before puttin’ on a shirt. And eat―” A hand gestured towards
the bowl of cereal on the bedside table. It was beyond soggy now, practically
dissolved in the milk and taken on an odd color from the different Fruit Loops
mixed together. It was food nonetheless. “I’ll bring you something more
substantial later.”     
There was no response given. John had fallen quiet. Dave wanted an answer, but
the new dots of red surfacing on John’s back prompted him not to. His departure
was signaled with the close of the door, followed by the lock turning. John
pushed himself up once the jingle of keys were out of hearing distance. Every
move hurt. When that door opened again, it was still hurting, but not bleeding.
Moreover, the sun had begun to set outside.
The time in between morning and evening had been spent on patching himself up,
trying to keep from wincing at his own hand, and finally being able to put on
the privacy of a shirt in the end. It was stained with blood in a few places,
as were the sheets, but John had scrubbed his hands clean. Every little nook,
cranny, and fold. As Dave stepped into the room, John saw that his hands were
clean, too. Even the blood under his nails. 
“Hey,” Dave greeted. He was sounding friendly, but the fact that he turned to
lock the door after himself was anything but. John eyed him warily from his
spot on the bed. There was a plastic container in one of his hands, the inside
walls fogged with steam from whatever was inside, and a spoon in the other. It
was food, just as Dave had promised. John had to will himself to look away. His
diet the last few days had consisted of water from the tab and nothing else, to
say he was hungry would be an understatement. The bowl of cereal was left
untouched. Even if John was hungry, he would not be lapping up soggy
leftovers. 
There was no exchange of greetings, and Dave’s own was left hanging in the air
unanswered. He had expected as much, though he had hoped for something else. “I
got you some grub, you must be starving. It’s pasta―” Dave was taking off the
lid of the container as he came closer, showing what was inside. “―with tomato
sauce. Nothin’ fancy, just dished up whatever we got in the fridge. Which,
admittedly, wasn’t a lot, but we’ll make due, yeah? Survival of the fittest and
all that.” 
He was cheery. It made John’s brows come together, his face setting in a hard
expression. It did not falter as Dave kept coming closer, seating himself on
the edge of the bed and much too close to John. Moving further away was not an
opportunity. John was already up close with the wall, and he did not want to
push his back against it and stir up the burning pain of his back just as it
had settled down. He stayed put, his breathing coming in shallower in Dave’s
presence. 
“I couldn’t get you anything but a spoon. You probably understand why, right?”
Dave continued talking, glancing at John. “Considerin’ our latest get-together,
I think it’s pretty reasonable not to trust you with something sharp and
pointy. I mean, I’m even hesitant to give you this thing, round and all.
There’s a damn movie about a dude killin’ someone with a spoon, y’know? Shit is
dangerous in the right hands.” 
John strongly doubted that Dave ever trusted him with something pointy. The
room and the connected bathroom was void of all things not nailed to the floor,
wall, or the ceiling. But he let Dave run his mouth; the boy seemed easier to
handle so long as he was talking. 
“Anyways, I dished this out myself. Not the greatest, but I’m not ashamed to
admit my culinary skills aren’t that defined.” The plastic container was passed
to John, feeling warm in his lap, and the spoon was pressed into his open palm.
John was hesitant to dig in. A prolonged look from Dave, and he began to pick
at the food, though. Dave’s silence was a bad sign. To hear the boy draw in a
breath to fuel his rambling was a relief.
“Unlike you,” Dave continued. He leaned back against the bed, keeping himself
upright with the support of his hands and arms. “The stuff you can cook up, boy
oh boy, got my mouth waterin’ at just the thought.” John was listening with
half an ear, stuffing his mouth with the pasta. It was overcooked and the sauce
was too salty, but it was food. He only noticed Dave getting increasingly more
intimate in his observations when he was halfway through the dish. “You gotta
teach me how, someday. I mean, all humans make mistakes, even in the kitchen,
but you? You rarely do. Except for that one time. I never knew you could
actually set a muffin on fire. Color me impressed. You almost burned off both
your father’s eyebrows.” 
The words struck a nerve in him. John looked up from the food, staring at Dave
with wide eyes. “That... was a prank.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
Something deeply unsettling came over him, making it hard to swallow. John
still remembered the feeling of Dave’s nails raking down his back, he
remembered the kick to his face and everything else, too. Going against the
boy’s will was an ill decision, but John could not help feeling disturbed. Dave
spoke about him as if he himself had been there. Like he had stood there in the
kitchen with John and his father, had been able to smell the smoke and hear the
crackling of the muffin bread burning. He spoke with a convincing familiarity. 
“Hell of a prank it was. Really blew the guy away, though I think anyone would
be caught with their pants down if they expected to open up a nice batch of
sizzling hot cupcakes but found hell’s inferno instead. Like damn, talk about
dropping it like it’s hot, huh? John?” 
Dave finally caught on to the disquieted expression on John’s face, even as he
had been looking at the other the whole time. It was when the tension did not
fade that Dave decided to approach it, albeit not head on. 
“What? It doesn’t taste good?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pasta. Is it no good, or?”
“No. No, that’s not what I’m― How do you know that?”
“The pasta?” 
“NO! The things you said. About me. My father. Everything.” John was growing
frantic in his speech, making his anxiety strikingly clear with how harshly he
shoved the plastic container back in Dave’s hands. He did not care about the
pain it would cause to his back anymore; he pressed himself up against the wall
which the bed stood by, just to get more space between them. It was not enough.
Dave still so close that John could see the way the corner of his lips twisted,
his nostrils flaring for a moment. 
“You really want me to say it?”  
“No.”  
“You know how.”
“I can make a guess.” 
“Good. Then don’t say it,” Dave said in a way that indicated that part of the
conversation was done for. There was a hint of shame there, hidden away behind
the stoic facade. John did not want to plow into it, scared of what skeletons
he might dig up. Dave rose from his seat, continuing to speak. “I’ll go put
this away. Get ready for bed.” 
The atmosphere had shifted, depending entirely on Dave’s mood. It seemed that
Dave would walk through the door with an optimistic attitude, talkative beyond
what was approving, and when he left, he would be brooding; going through the
moments he had spent with John, trying to spot the part where it went amiss. 
John did not lay down on the bed. His eyes were trained on the door, waiting
for it to open, and for his stalker to walk in and watch him sleep. The thought
was disturbing. But Dave had talked like they knew each other, like they had
shared memories even when it was not until just recently that John realized he
existed at all. He wished Dave had remained nonexistent in his life. Fate was
not on his side, though, and the door opened much later. A sense of calm had
just come over John, together with a heavy exhaustion, enough to have had him
slip beneath the sheets, making sure the stained surface was facing up.
Sleeping in his own blood made his skin crawl. The sound of the door opening,
letting a stream of light pour into the room, had him startled. A dark
silhouette stood in the doorway, only recognizable once the door closed again.
John’s eyes readjusted to the dark, and he saw Dave. The boy was blurry in his
vision as he had discarded his glasses on the bedside table, but even so there
was no mistaking the other. 
“What are you doing?” The idea that, maybe, Dave was actually going to watch
him sleep struck him. 
“What? It’s bedtime.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“I’m going to be sleeping with you tonight.” 
John froze. “What?” He thought about the implications that short sentence could
mean; about the lingering touches Dave had dealt him, how soft they were; he
thought about when those nails of his had dragged down his back and how much it
had hurt. Dave stepped closer, and John panicked.
”No. Wait― Fuck no! Get away from me!”
“Dude, it’s just―”
“Don’t fucking ‘dude’ me! Don’t touch me! Don’t― D-don’t come closer, I swear I
will fucking kick you agai― Ow! Let go!” 
Dave had gotten on the bed and grabbed John’s wrist in an iron grip. The look
on his face was set in stone, as was his will. John did not want to bend to it,
but something told him it was either that or quite literally breaking; the
broken part being his wrist. The alternative was worse, though. John jerked his
hand back, but Dave only followed. In a second, they were back in the same
position as before. Dave towering over him. John felt short of breath already,
and it made it so that Dave could get a word in before he could.
”It’s just sleeping. Jesus Christ. This is my room. I should be able to sleep
here.”
“Then let me go.”
“What? Why?” 
It was the stupidest question John had ever heard. He boiled over. “Because
you’re a sick stalker freak who fucking kidnappedme! You beat me! Locked me in
a closet and fucking starvedme! And now you want to share a bed? Get the hell
away from me! Let me go! Let m―”
The smack echoed off the walls, sounding so glaringly loud within the quiet of
the night. It left the right side of John’s face burning, as if a phantom hand
of fire was resting there, and his ear was ringing. He did not register Dave
continuing to talk above him until the boy moved to lay beside him, putting
that same hand that had slapped him on his waist and edging closer. “It’s just
sleeping,” Dave repeated. His one arm was around John, and his chest was hot
against John’s back. Yet Dave was keeping just an inch of space between them,
knowing that John’s skin was in a delicate state. But again, the concern went
right over John’s head, much to Dave’s disapproval. He was trying so hard to do
it right. John was resisting his every attempt. He thrashed in Dave’s hold,
pushing away from him. The space on the bed ran out, and John crashed to the
floor with a loud thud. 
“Fucking hell, John― Fine! You can sleep on the floor. Suit yourself.” 
John was not listening to Dave’s outburst, only the tone of which it carried.
Angry and frustrated. Which could mean another fistful of pain for him. He
scurried to his feet, running for the bathroom and slamming the door shut
behind him. There was no key, and he pressed his palms against it to keep it
closed. To keep Dave out. But he heard no footsteps approaching, nothing
stirring or rustling on the other side. Even when his breathing evened and he
could hear more clearly, there was still nothing. John stumbled back a few
steps, finding support against the sink. The tiles were cool against his skin,
but they did not help to calm him down. He did not sleep that night. At all.
***** Home Alone (But Not Quite) *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: Physical abuse (this is p much like every chapter oops) +
     Rape/Non-con
     OKAY SO. This chapter is rly gross,,,,
     And also, I couldn't get all of the italics to work in this?????? Idk
     why, but like, I'll probs go and fix it at one point or another
     but like yeah here have a new chapter :v
John’s stomach began growling the moment he slipped back into consciousness,
the afterglow of sleep making his body feel like lead. That, and his
muscles―worst of all his back―ached from a night spent on hard tiles. If he had
not slept at all, it would not have happened. He had no recollection of just
how long he had been out for, but the fact that he had been at all was
unsettling. A minute, ten minutes, an hour. A lot could happen within that
time. He shivered, stopping his train of thought before it could run off with
him. He needed his head clear, for on the other side of that door awaited a
demon, with red eyes and soft hands that could turn to claws in the matter of
seconds. There was no lock on the door. Nothing but a piece of wood just a few
inches thick between him and Dave, equipped with a loose handle. A single push
would have the hinges thrown wide open.   
Carding a hand through his hair to try and soothe himself proved ineffective.
His dark locks were knotted, his fingers catching and tugging sharply at his
scalp. His thoughts were focused entirely on the present moment, not letting
his attention wander elsewhere as it had done before he had fallen asleep.
Images of the day that had transpired had invaded his mind’s eye, and he had
almost been able to hear the crack of leather in the acoustics of the tiled
walls. The memory had helped keep him awake, though he ultimately was overcome
with sleep. What he regretted the most was that, even after a moment’s shuteye,
he was not rested. His muscles were still taught, his body aching and heavy.
The time he had lost sleeping was unsettling all the same. It was a hole in his
memory, and he had a good enough imagination to fill it out. The images had his
back itching.
Minutes ticked by, John able to keep vague count of them by the tick tock of
his heartbeat. Slowly, he came to the unwilling conclusion that he could not
barricade himself inside the bathroom forever, especially considering he had
nothing but his body to withstand any potential intruder. Before the day he had
woken up in a closet, he had thought himself to be of average height, just tall
enough to avoid the classification of being short. But when Dave had stood
before him, he had felt so immensely small. The boy had towered over his head,
looking down upon him, and Bro was even worse; broad shoulders and a wide
chest, rippled with muscles that he carried on the thick stilts he called legs.
John felt so small. Even now, the bathroom seemed to grow out of proportions,
the white walls stretching into an endless tunnel above his head, the sink so
large he could sit beneath it like an umbrella, and the tub reflecting that of
the ocean’s depths. He was small. So, so small in this world of giants.
But even the small could walk. John pushed himself out from under the sink,
brazing himself against the tiled floor and getting to his feet. Standing up
helped not on the inferior feeling surrounding him, nor the strained beating of
his heart. Walking proved a bigger task than he had thought, and he almost
thought he had to learn how to crawl again before getting it to work.
Eventually, he managed to put one foot in front of the other. Then another, and
another, and that was all it took for him to be right in front of the door. Now
it was a matter of moving his hand, to make it reach for the handle and turn
it. Step inside the bedroom and face Dave. The prospect of being within arms’
reach of the boy sent a cold shiver through him.
The hinges made an awful noise as the door was pushed open. John wished he had
had something in hand, a lamp or anything like that first time, but his hands
clenched around air. There were no movable objects in the bathroom, he had
checked. Every cupboard, shelf, and drawer. Absolutely nothing. It did not feel
like a place a person lived, it was much too clean and sterile. A surgical room
had more personality.
John held his breath as he stepped into the other room. His eyes immediately
fell upon the bed. The sheets were folded, laid out tidy atop the mattress and
without a single wrinkle or crease in sight. It was as if no one had been there
at all. Suspicion arose within him, heightening his senses, but not starting
the alarms in his head. He walked in with light steps, looking around to every
which side. A few lines of sun were peeking through the barred windows, letting
him know that it was daytime. The light was bright and white, and he guessed it
to be around midday. That idea bothered him, thinking back to his loss of time
where he had dozed off. Part of him wanted to know how long he had been out
for, whilst the other would rather it be a question unanswered. What he really
wanted answers to was where Dave was. There was not a trace of him there. He
had inhabited the room like a ghost and left just the same. John’s gaze went to
his new challenge, the second door, the one that would lead him out of the
bedroom and into unknown territory. But it seemed too big a step for him still.
He walked to the windows, backtracking and not turning a blind eye to the other
door for even a second. Only when he made it to the opposite side of the room
did he risk turning around. His nose pressed against the glass, hands coming up
to shield his eyes from the glaring sun as he looked out the narrow spaces that
the planks did not cover. A view opened up before him, short and without a
horizon, tall building obscuring his view. A city. The room he was in was far
up as he was able to look down on the roofs of some buildings, but there were
taller buildings still. Looking at them, they seemed ready to tilt over and
turn to rubble. The windows were gray and cloudy with dust, cracked or
barricaded. The concrete walls were crumbling, giving the structure an unsteady
foundation that would only take minimal effort to cease to exist at all.
Falling apart and turning skyscrapers into ruins. John could only imagine what
the building he currently found himself in looked like. The streets below were
almost empty, old, abandoned cars littering the road like trash, and the
concrete cracked. Only a few people were out, looking like dots of muted color
floating around. Though he knew there was no way anyone could hear him, he
could not stop his own hands from beating against the window.
“Help!” John beat at the glass with open palms. “Help me! Look up! I’m― I
can’t― Help me! Help! Look up!” The dots remained floating, unaware of the
desperate pleas spilling from a boy’s lips from high above them. John felt like
crying all over again. His hands slid down the glass, falling to his sides as
he took steps backwards. The tears were kept in. He would not walk out of the
room bawling his eyes out, he did not want to cry in front of those two men
again. The dark amusement was still a stark memory in his mind from when he had
been bent over the bed, stretched out with his shirt obscuring his view and a
blazing pain upon his back. And that huff of air he had heard in Bro’s voice,
an undeniable chuckle after he had struck hell into John’s skin. He could still
feel it, that hell fire.
Standing in front of the door that inevitably would bring him face to face with
his abductors had his knees go weak. The handle turned, and he realized that it
was actually unlocked. Like a bear trap, just waiting for him to step into it
so it could shut its jaws tight around him. But the trap had yet to activate.
John opened up to a short corridor, doors on either side of the narrow space.
At the end of it, it opened up to a kitchen and living room where the corner of
a TV could be seen, flickering with some show on the screen. Someone was up.
John found his feet dragging him backwards, but just then a door opened to his
right.
“G’morning.” Bro’s voice was heavy with sleep, and one could imagine the bags
he must have had under his eyes behind those triangular shades. Despite the
slump to his shoulders, he still stood tall before John, a brick wall on two
legs, craned over just slightly like the buildings John had watched through the
window. John stopped moving altogether. Bro was just standing there, shirtless
and scratching at a particular scar on his hip bone― his pale skin was starred
with even paler scars, some pink and fresh looking whilst others were almost
white. Some were long and reached all the way from shoulder to his navel. Some
were short but deep, having a much deeper color than the others. Some were
shallow and unnoticeable in comparison. He had a tattoo. A big one that covered
half of his chest. It resembled that of an anatomical heart, black and white in
detail, the arteries sticking out a few good inches, and half of the heart was
inked properly. The other half was left in only lines, thick and sketchy
looking, veins engraved into Bro’s skin. John felt his own heart, the real one
beating inside his chest, squeeze tight as air caught in his throat, his legs
becoming rooted to the floor. He held Bro’s gaze―he could feel it, just as he
had been able to feel it roaming his back the last time―and he gaped like a
fish. The least intimidating thing about the man was the toothbrush hanging out
between his teeth, a bit of white toothpaste at the crook of his mouth. The
sight was almost domestic.
”Close yer mouth, kid.” John’s jaws shut with more force than he had meant to,
teeth clinking together. “You were the one makin’ all that noise before.” It
was said as a matter of fact, Bro well knowing that between the now three
residences of the place, only one of them would be dumb enough to squawk like a
bird, repeatedly flying headfirst into the window because it was too stupid to
realize it was a transparent barrier. John gulped, flinching slightly at how
loud it was. Bro spoke again, having taken the toothbrush out of his mouth. “I
doubt I need remind you of yesterday,” he said and brought up a hand to wipe
the white off of his mouth. “With the way you were moaning like a lil bitch,
I’d say the message came out clear enough.”
It was almost laughable how easy John was to read. His brows came together in a
frown, every muscle in his face turning down, and his hands balled up into
fists by his sides. Bro let out a chuckle. “Hey, I was just doin’ what needed
done. Nothin’ personal.”
“What period are you stuck in to think a beating is necessary?” The words
spilled from John’s mouth quicker than he had time to think. They caught up
with him, his demeanor wavering. It received a whistle from Bro, a short tune
of amusement.
“Hoo, someone got the wrong leg outta bed― or should I say the sink?”
John’s face flared. Bro knew. Knew where he had spent the night, and that
information settled as a lump in his throat. It was hard to speak around it. “I
didn’t exactly feel like sleeping with the guy who kidnapp―”
His back collided with the wall, sending a flood of pain through him, drawing
out a strangled cry― strangled because Bro’s thick fingers were wound tightly
around it. That hand squeezed his windpipe, nails digging in, and John gasped
for air. His own hands reached up, clawing at the man’s wrist to no avail. Bro
was made of ice, solid and unfazed by his attempts. And cold. Bro leaned in
close, breath fanning over John’s mouth, the smell of mint filling his nostrils
like a fresh chill. There were rows of sparkly white teeth behind the man’s
lips. His incisors were sharp, and he looked a predator, baring his fangs at
his next kill. John tried screaming, but no sound nor air could make it past
the grip Bro had on him. The ground began to disappear beneath his feet. John
kicked desperately, Bro’s hold becoming tighter still as he was lifted up by
the throat, dangling in the air and supported only by the wall behind him and
Bro’s strength. The man no longer had to crane his neck down to be able to be
face to face with John, not as he was bringing the boy up to be on his level.
His voice came out a rumbling threat;
“What did I say about being grateful?” John answered with a gurgling sound,
kicking the air. “Sounds like you’re really gonna keep me busy, eh? Handin’ out
lessons left and right just to teach your spoiled ass a thing or two about
common decency.” Bro’s grip tightened, making John gasp breathlessly.
“Normally, I wouldn’t mind. Hell, last day was a damn fine session, but this is
just too fuckin’ early in the mor―”
”It’s almost 1 am.”
Neither of them had noticed Dave approaching, and neither of them turned their
head towards him. John did not because he could not move at all, and Bro
because his gaze was firmly glued to the writhing boy in his hand. With every
strained breath John tried to take, he could feel his Adam’s apple tremble
against the palm of his hand, urging him to put more pressure on. But one
sidelong glance at his brother, and Bro reconsidered. Dave was standing there
defensively, fists by his sides. He had always been protective of his things,
Bro just had a hard time wrapping his head around why he would want to take
claim to this particular boy. John was a risk, simple as that. John was on the
list, and he would be until they delivered the evidence that the job had been
followed through. That the Egbert heritage was cut short. Dave was doing an
awful lot to make a simple task difficult.
“It’s mornin’ when I damn well wake up,” Bro responded after a moment, his
nostrils flaring. “The little shit was making noise. Thought I’d go see what
was up.”
“He didn’t wake you.” Dave said it bluntly. The vexation was radiating off of
the older man, and Dave was concerned that those big hands of his would leave a
mark on John’s throat. It was delicate, he knew.
“Doesn’t mean I appreciate the ruckus he keeps makin’.”
“But he didn’t wake you up. You were already awake.”
“Your point?”
“He didn’t disturb you.”
A harsh laugh released from deep within Bro’s gut. The fingers around John’s
throat loosened just a little, dropping him back on the floor but still keeping
his back against the wall. Something that had John grit his teeth together, his
nails still digging into Bro’s wrist.
“Did you not hear the shit he was spewing?” Finally, Bro turned his head
towards Dave. “He was shoutin’ to high heavens for someone to come save his
petty ass. Ain’t that a nice way to reward our hospitality?”
Dave bristled. His shoulders rose up higher, and the way he flexed his muscles
could be seen beneath the snug fitting shirt he wore. It was a cause of both
amusement and annoyance in Bro.
“Yer haven’t explained to him his little predicament just yet, have ya?”
The question was a slap to the face judging by the way Dave reeled back for
just a moment, then putting both feet in front of him and storming up. It was
not fear that had Bro raise both hands in the air, stepping away from John and
letting Dave force his way between the two of them; it was that of delectation.
The answer Bro got to his question was curt and short―a simple “No”―Dave
clearly not wanting to dive into a conversation like that.    
Bro pointed his toothbrush in John’s direction, the boy peeking out from behind
the human shield that was Dave. “You don’t think that plays a pretty big part
in all of this? You oughta tell him. Give the thing some clarity―”
“I’m not a thing,” John barked out. He received an inclination of Bro’s head,
but his focus had directed to Dave. There was some small relief in that for
John. He rubbed at his sore throat, feeling the imprint of Bro’s fingers and
nails on his skin, trying hard to swallow.
“Just sayin’. If you want the kid to give two shits of gratitude, you should
tell him. Everythin’.” A toothy grin split Bro’s face in two, giving a shrug of
his wide shoulders. “Or do as I, keep ‘im on a short leash.”  
“That’s not what this is.”
Bro scoffed. “Not what this is?”
“It’s not. I’m help―”
“Helping yourself, yeah.”
”No.”
“It’s a’right. Just try ‘n keep an eye on him. I mean, look, he’s about ready
to make a run for it.”
John stopped dead in his tracks, flinching at his mention. Dave’s head whipped
around, seeing the boy standing a few feet away and on his tiptoes. The frown
that came upon Dave’s face had John rendered immovable.
“Just shut up, okay, Bro? I got this. I don’t need you butting in.”
“Sure,” the man said, giving another shrug and a sly grin. “But you’re dealin’
with the payment tonight.”
“What? Fuck no.”
“Fuck yes.”
“No, I’m not fucking leaving.”
“Fuck yeah you are. You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shi―”
Bro was quick to interrupt him, taking a threatening step forward and putting
the sole of his foot harder into the ground than necessary. “Notice where you
are standing. The roof above your head. The fact that you ain’t fuckin’ starved
on the side of the road, contemplatin’ jumping into traffic. And that your
precious little boy toy isn’t there with you.”
The urge to correct Bro, to tell him that it was not like that came over Dave
again, but he bit down on his tongue. With a single nod of his head, the man
finally relented. There was a tsk and then steps were made towards the door
opposite of where Bro had come from, leaving Dave and John alone in the
corridor. The tension was heavy, but compared to the one before, it felt like
feathers. John did not say a thing, staying right where he was and scared of
making a single move. Dave was doing the same, standing still and rigid in his
place, the only sign of motility being the tremble of his hands, still balled
up by his sides. With one deep breath, Dave suddenly became reanimated.
“You must be hungry, right?” John did not answer. The expression he wore was
one of anticipation and wariness, not a hint of trust in him. Dave did his best
to not show how it bothered him. He turned around, walking past John and
towards the kitchen. It was baffling, seeing the other boy’s back, and John
could not determine if it was an attempted trap or a gullible sign of the trust
that John himself lacked. In the end, it did not matter to him. In the next
second, just as Dave rounded the corner leading to the kitchen, John bolted
down the corridor. The unfamiliar surroundings passed by in a flash, but he
recognized the characteristics of an entrance. A hanging rack, a door with a
lock, and a row of shoes. John went for it, the first time that day he did not
hesitate to grab the doorknob and pulling at it. And the first time that day
that he was met with an unyielding blockade. All other doors had let him
through, but the last did not budge. John refused to acknowledge the confidence
of his captors’ that it expressed. A confidence that escaping was an
impossibility.
The doorknob rattled with how hard John was pulling at it. “Come on, come on,
come on! Fucking― Help! Please!” His fists pounded against the door, and he
could hear it echo on the other side. “Help! I’m trapped! Help me! I―”
“SHUT UP ALREADY.”
The roar had John flinching. It came from down the corridor, inside of the room
that Bro had disappeared into, but the man’s voice was voluminous enough to
pierce through walls. John stopped, both hands gripping the doorknob, squeezing
it, shaking. The mantra of pleas was whispered against the door, nothing but
incoherent words.
“Sorry to say...” Dave’s voice came from close behind him, John whipping around
and seeing his own reflection in those dark sunglasses; tears had welled up in
his eyes, but his face was a furious scowl. Dave was but a breath away from
him, his breath ghosting across John’s face as he spoke. “... but you’re
wasting your voice on nothing. No one. This place has been empty since― well,
shit, I don’t exactly remember. Before I came to, I suppose, so a shit long
time. It’s pretty much a ghost town, so unless you’re some kind of a medium, I
don’t think you’re gonna get far doin’ that.”
Dave turned around again, heading for the kitchen, but adding one last comment
and glancing back at John. “Not to say you would get much help from talking to
ghosts, either.”  
John’s hands would not let go of the doorknob. Even when the two of them did
nothing but look at each other, he did not move. Not even when Dave returned to
the kitchen did he move. For a moment, John was left to himself, finding a
brief feeling of solace in the hand on the handle. Dave made him a toast, using
white bread because he knew John was allergic to nuts, and he did not want to
take the risk. It was his job now to protect John, and he never did a job half-
assed. He never did, and that was why he did as Bro had ordered. He left later
that evening, to go take care of the last loose ends of their most recent job.
It was with great reluctance that he did, not liking the idea of John being
alone with Bro. Yet he left anyway, with a feeling that he was doing right by
his brother and earning his keep.
The apartment grew eerily quiet after Dave’s departure. There was a tick, tock,
tick, tock from a clock in the living room, counting the time passing by ever
slowly. John tried to shut it out and concentrate his hearing on all other
sounds. There was nothing. Safe for the sound of time, it was dead quiet. Dave
was no longer there to fill out the silence, straining John’s ears in the
process and making his stomach churn with the intimacies he dropped. Small
details, delusional memories, and future dreams. He had had to force down the
toast Dave had made for him, feeling like throwing it up mid-chew. They had
been sitting at the small kitchen counter for the whole duration of the
afternoon. Dave was content just talking, sharing his every thought with John
and trying to coax the boy to return the favor. But he had had no such luck.
John was speechless, only humoring Dave with a few scarce words and contorting
grimaces.
He listened to the quiet in between the tick, tock. Still nothing. Bro had not
showed his face since the incident in the corridor, only making his presence
known when his heavy feet had shuffled from one room to the other, but never
stepping inside of the living room or kitchen. The man must live on air and
sunlight alone. John was alone. He was alone in a moment full of opportunities.
There were objects lining every space in the living room. Pictures, books,
movies, shelves with knick knacks, technological devices, forgotten plants that
had wilted and died. And the kitchen was a goldmine. John eyed the corridor
nervously. He could only see a few feet of it, the rest hidden behind a corner,
but there was no one there. Not a shadow. It was still quiet. The kitchen was
just on the other side of the counter. Drawers filled with cutlery, with
knives. He could arm himself. He could go find that set of keys Dave had had
hanging from his hip that first time. He could get out of here. But he needed
to move. Getting off of the chair was terrifying. His hands fidgeted in his
lap, eyes constantly flickering up to look at the still empty corridor. It took
three deep breaths for him to collect himself and put his feet on the floor.
Every step was a risk he was taking, growing bigger and bigger the closer he
came to the kitchen drawers. When he came so close that he could reach out and
open it, his heart was pounding so loudly that he could not hear the clock no
more. Neither could he hear the steps coming up behind him.   
John did not get to scream before a hand was fisted in his hair and shoving him
forward. A blinding pain exploded in his face when he was slammed against the
counter. The impact left him dizzy and his glasses askew, but aware of the body
pressing up against him from behind, and the fingers wound tightly into his
knotted locks. He was being reeled back and away from the counter before he
could get his wits around him again, only conscious enough to reach both hands
up to grab the one buried in his hair. Keeping up with the long strides he was
forced to be taking was difficult, and he tripped more than once, suffering a
sharp tug to his scalp. They reached the living room, and John was thrown to
the floor like a dead weight. His ass took the fall before he tilted onto his
back, then promptly rolling to be on his side at the burn. Only then did he
notice the trickle of blood coming from his nose, running past his lips.
“Fuck...”
“Fuck is right.” The voice came from high above him. John looked up, shrinking
in fear at the tower of a man. Bro. His face had hardened significantly.
“Wanted to grab somethin’ pointy now, did ya?”
“N-no! No, that’s not―” The air left him as a boot dug into his gut with a
sharp kick.
“I got two functionin’ eyes behind these glasses. Don’t lie to me.”
“Fu― Fuck... Jesus Christ, can you really blame me?” Bro gave him a curious
look. “Y-you fuckers just took me! You expect me to be goddamn happy about it?”
“Never told ya to be happy.”
“Oh, my bad. I meant grateful,” John hissed it with venom in his voice. His
tongue was sharpened and defensive, and he was desperately trying to make it
sound steady, too. But it shook, the pitch was too high, and he knew he was
looking all but surefooted as he tried getting back up. The ground seemed to
slip beneath his sweaty palms, and whenever he did manage to put his weight on
his arms, they gave way. The kick to his stomach had hit just right. He could
practically feel the imprint of Bro’s boot.
The man gave a groan at John’s words, though not directed at him. “So Dave
didn’t tell ya yet.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’m tempted to spill the beans, but... No, that really is for Dave to do. Lil’
man gots to take some responsibility.” Bro watched John struggle to regain his
foothold, then continued talking. “Would be nice for him to do it soon. Might
put a dampener on this piss poor attitude o’ yours.”
“Let me go then if you hate it so much,” John growled back, finally getting
into a sitting position.
“Nah, that’s the wrong word for it.” That dark amusement was back in Bro’s
voice, and John really had to get back on his feet. He scrambled, kicking his
legs on the floor to get away, but he could not get out of arms’ reach fast
enough. Bro grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. With a hard yank of the
fabric, John was sent tumbling forward and dragged as Bro took a seat on the
futon standing in the living room. John was pulled to sit between the man’s
spread out legs, and he was no fool to the position. He jerked back, but the
hand previously in his shirt found its way back into his hair, and Bro threw a
leg over his shoulder. The heel of Bro’s boot pushed against his lower back,
creating a burn on the fragile, wounded skin. John instinctively arched his
spine to get away from the sensation, but could do little moving with Bro’s leg
heavy upon him and a hand grabbing his hair. It forced John to meet the other’s
gaze, unable to lower his head. The sunglasses did not cover up the grin
stretching those stubbly cheeks. “I think the proper word would be endearing.”
“Let me go. Let me― Don’ttouch me!” John drew his head back as much as he could
when a thumb came down, smearing more than wiping off the blood on his upper
lip. “Get your hands off of me!” The hand drew back, Bro cocking his head down
at the boy between his legs. A furious thing, snarling even when bloodied and
roughed up. And impossibly loud still.
“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
“I won’t shut up opposed to taking your shi― What the fuck are you doing?”
One hand was secured tight in John’s hair, but the other had edged down Bro’s
stomach, coming right above his crotch. He rubbed it with an open palm, his
head inclined towards John as if it was not happening. John wished it was not.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
”What? You were sayin’ something. Continue.”
“No! What the hell? You sick piece of― Ow!”
Bro pulled sharply at his hair, drawing John’s head just a few inches forward.
Before tumbling over completely, John brazed himself against the futon, pushing
back against the pressure on his head. Bro’s other hand was still rubbing at
his groin, right in front of John’s face. He wore sweatpants, tight around his
hips but loose all other places. The fabric was beginning to become tighter. A
tent was forming beneath Bro’s hand, eventually big enough that the outline of
his cock could be seen clearly. The sight caused bile to rise in John’s throat.
“No. No, no, no, no. I’m not― Let me go. I’m not doing this. Let me go. Let me―
Let me go!” John’s voice took a pitch even higher, panic rising within it. He
grabbed the wrist of the hand in his hair, shaking his head wildly to try and
get free. He did not care if it costed him a chunk of hair, he would shave his
whole head if it could get him out of the man’s grip.
“You never sucked cock before?”
“Let me go!”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
“Fuck your questio― Stop!” Bro’s hand had stopped stroking himself in favor of
pulling down his sweats, and John could not pry his eyes away. It was like
being held at gunpoint; if he was getting shot, he would see the bullet that
pierced him. The elastic of the pants gave way easily, Bro pulling them down to
show off the bulge in his briefs. It was big, was all John could tell. He
stopped his thoughts from furthering the observations, putting his all into
getting away from Bro’s hands. The grip on him did not budge, and the leg swung
over his shoulder pressed him closer with ease. John could not keep pushing
back on it, and the one time he paused to get a better grip on the futon, Bro
seized the moment. John was sent diving forward, face down in Bro’s crotch. The
entirety of John’s body contracted, thrown into a fit of nerves as he
desperately tried to push away while Bro’s hand was doing the opposite, but
stronger. The man moved his hips just slightly, the bulging mass in his briefs
rubbing up against John’s cheek. The underwear became stained with just a few
drops of tears before John was allowed to pull back.
The hand, ever present in his hair, did not allow it for long, though. “Don’t!
Please, please, don’t! I― I w-won’t try to― To― I’ll s-stay quiet, I’ll―” Bro
was pulling his briefs down, his cock bouncing in the air once it was released.
There was a groan from the man, and a sob from John. “O-oh g-g-god, please,
don’t. I w-won’t make a s-sound any-anymore, I promise!” The thing was long,
the underside decorated with silver studs from base to just below the head. The
metal shone just as the tears on John’s face did. “P-please, don’t. Let me go.
Let me go, let me go, let me go―!” Bro pulled him forward, the tip of his cock
nudging against John’s lips. John sealed them tight.
“Cryin’ already?” Bro chuckled, tugging at John’s hair to see how the boy
winced within his grip. “Haven’t even gotten started and yer already bawling
your eyes out. But at least you shut up.”
With slight rolls of his hips, he pushed his cock insistently at John’s closed
mouth, watching as those lips quivered. But his patience was running thin. Bro
used the hand not in John’s hair to grab the boy’s nose, pinching it and
cutting off his source of air, leaving him only with his mouth if he wanted to
breathe. Those blue eyes blew open at the shocking realization of his
ultimatum, never ceasing in his struggles, but neither being able to throw Bro
off. The sun kissed cheeks began changing color, and Bro could barely handle
the anticipation building inside of him at the sight. His cock throbbed,
aroused by just the picture of John on his knees, between his legs, and crying
a river with a smear of blood on his lips. For just a moment, he could
understand Dave’s appeal.
John’s lips parted suddenly with a gasp, trying to breathe, but his head was
shoved down before he had the chance to, being denied oxygen even as he had
complied. The man’s cock pried his jaws apart, the piercings knocking against
his teeth painfully as Bro wasted no time in forcing his head down. Further and
further until he was taking in half. Already it felt like an impossible
stretch. The shaft was thick, his lips thin around it, and it pressed down on
his tongue that twitched in an effort to get it out. Bro gave a grunt of
approval above him, and the sound had John’s stomach churn again. The need to
vomit washed over him as Bro began to roll his hips, his cock pushing in
further. The urge to bite down was so strong. John did nothing to suppress it.
A howl of pain left Bro, jerking the boy and his teeth off of his dick. There
was the slightest dent just an inch past half of its length. He clicked his
tongue, nostrils flaring. John was gasping for air while he could, thrashing
his body around to get loose, but his little stunt only made the hands on him
grip tighter, harder, intent on leaving bruises. Bro kept one hand firmly in
those dark locks, the other grabbing John by his chin.
“Fucking punk. You like it rough, huh? Why don’t we give you somethin’ to
actually cry about?” Bro sneered, talking through gritted teeth. His hand on
John’s chin moved to the plump cheeks, and he dug into the flesh with his
nails. John’s jaws gave in, parting, and it was but for a few seconds that Bro
spent outside of the boy’s mouth. He slipped his cock back inside with a thrust
of his hips, tugging on John’s head to meet him halfway. The studs knocked
against those chompers again, sending ripples of sharp pleasure through him. He
could feel all of it, how John’s throat tightened around the large intrusion,
the heat and the warmth, and the vibrations of the pathetic noises rising on
John’s tongue but never making it out. Still, the boy was far from taking in
all of him. Those pretty pink lips came to a stop at just a little past half of
his length, leaving plenty for the taking, but already the boy was struggling.
John gurgled, saliva gathering in his mouth and pooling out of the corners,
dribbling down his chin, and his cheeks looked fit to bursting with how Bro’s
dick was filling him up. The view was amazing from atop the couch. His girth
twitched at the sight, popping a vein as all blood rushed south.
Weak noises of protest squeezed out between John’s lips and the dick in his
mouth, growing louder and more desperate as the man kept applying pressure to
the back of his head, forcing him down further. John’s hands shook as he
brought them up to push against Bro’s thighs, his hips, beating against his
stomach to no avail. There was no easing the passage. He choked around the
massive piece in his mouth, the barbels lining the shaft sliding against his
tongue. As Bro shoved another inch after inch inside, he felt that same metal
reach the back of his throat. He convulsed, throat tightening, and he choked.
Violent coughs went through him, but they never breached the surface. Instead,
they shook him, riding pain through his body and gathering in his chest as an
increasing ache.
“Ooooh, fuck, yes...” Lewd noises were coming from above him. John’s eyes were
squeezed shut, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but he could not shut off his
hearing. Bro was grunting, an animalistic sound that rumbled in his chest, and
he would occasionally moan. Those times being when John tried and failed to
swallow, but gave the same intense sensations running through his shaft. The
boy’s mouth was tight and wet, coating his throbbing cock with a slick heat
that he wanted so badly to ram into. To have John’s mouth engulf him completely
and see the way those pretty blues would bulge out of their eye sockets as he
fucked John’s throat. Frightened hands were leaving red lines upon his skin
wherever they touched, but Bro could not find it in him to care. The sting of
it was welcome. Later, though, he would have to teach John to retract his
claws. Already, Bro was looking forward to it.
The head of his cock hit the back of John’s throat, hard. Everything in the boy
tightened, sending his body into a fit of shaking limbs and miserable, choked
noises. “For it being your first ti―aaah, shit―first time, yer not half bad.”
The praise was sour in John’s ears, Bro knew, but there was no denying how much
the older man was enjoying himself. He began to pick up a rhythm, using both
hands to ram his dick inside of John’s face. He went faster, raising his hips
to meet each jerk of the boy’s head, hitting the back each time and plunging
deep down his throat. The way those weak noises vibrated around his overtly
sensitive member had him throwing his head back against the futon.
The fight in John was ebbing away slowly, pounded into the ground with each
hard thrust. His jaws were aching, and his hands had gone weak. They clung to
Bro’s thighs rather than pushing. Keeping himself conscious was easier than
protesting, but still a challenge. He did not want to give over his limp body
to the man, but neither did he want to stay awake for the endgame. It hurt. It
was humiliating. It tasted awful, and it just hurt so bad, and he was scared.  
Bro gave a particularly loud groan, and John’s head was held down completely
still in his lap, so close that the coarse hairs at the base of Bro’s cock
tickled against John’s upper lip. Two breaths later, and a thick, warm
substance was shooting down his throat. John made a startled noise. He could
not swallow, his throat would not cooperate, or maybe it was the thought of
having to swallow Bro’s cum that was blocking the way down. Bro’s dick
twitched, spilling inside of John, feeling how cum began to gather in his
cheeks and coat his cock with more than just saliva. Holding the boy down,
forcing him to take it all, he waited. His hips rocked steadily, letting his
dick poke the back of John’s throat. “C’mon, kid,” he hummed. “Be a big boy and
swallow. All of it.”
John could not. He was sobbing, gagging around the girth of Bro. When Bro
finally pulled out, he doubled over, coughing and hacking, everything coming
back up. To keep his head up was too much, and he pressed it to the floor,
completely curling in on himself, shoulders shaking violently with each harsh
intake of air. Cum dripped onto the floor from his mouth, his tongue sticking
out; he wanted to cut it off just to get rid of the taste. Something nudged at
his head, disturbing his moment of agony.
“Hey, get up. Look at the mess you made.” Bro still had his cock out, stroking
it absently as he waited for himself to go flaccid, all the while watching John
break down; like he had the front row seats to the greatest tragedy of all
time, but the crease of his brow made it clear he thought it just a bit too
cliche. It was a pretty sight, no doubt, but he could only stand John’s crying
for so long. Having those soft lips around his cock made him much more
tolerant. He tugged himself back into his pants. “Clean this shit up.”
The demand was met with a deathly scowl from John, looking up at Bro through
teary eyes and unruly hair, his face a mess of cum and salty tears. But he did
not rush to talk back. It was progress in John’s behavior. Even more so was how
the boy flinched away from Bro’s touch when he leaned down to caress his cheek.
Bro no longer smelled of minty toothpaste. John could not put a finger on the
smell, he was sniffling too much to take in anything, but it sent a wave of
repulsion through him. That big, bruising hand patted his cheek, Bro’s mouth
giving a sharp smile. “ ‘n don’t say a thing to Dave, yeah? The guy’s a bit
immature, I guess you could say, when it comes to these things. He’ll come
around, ‘m sure. But till then, this stays between me and that sweet lil’ mouth
o’ yours. Understood?”
Bro did not wait for approval. He pushed John back suddenly, sending the boy
sprawling onto his ass on the floor and giving the prettiest little whimper.
Bro was back to towering above John when he got back on his feet, standing
there for just a moment longer to take in the sight. Before turning on his
heels, he added: “Oh, and―what was your name again? John?―try pulling that shit
with the knives again, and I’ll shove one of them up your ass.” The tone in
which he spoke had John not doubting the sincerity of it.
The room returned to the quiet once Bro left, only a tick, tock, tick, tock to
be heard, and John’s rugged breathing. When Dave came home, he found John to be
sitting the same place he had left him. John did not respond to his cheery
greeting, nor his long stretched complaint about traffic and cars with smoky
engines. He did not respond at all. He did not talk at all. And he spent
another night sleeping beneath the sink after Dave had forcibly dragged him to
Dave’s―their―bedroom.   
***** A Choice Between Shit and Deeper Shit *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: Rape/Non-con (like shit dude, it's half this chapter)
     SORRY FOR THE WAIT, AGAIN. exams are ten inches up my ass yet again
     and kinda taking up a lot of time. buuuuuuut i finally got around to
     making a new chapter! AND i fixed some mistakes in the earlier ones,
     nothing major just a bit of grammar and shit like that :y
     this chapter ends kinda abruptly, but it was getting a bit long so i
     decided to save some for the next chapter :o
     and yeh, the title is fucking shit but honestly i am giving up on the
     titles omfg
     EDIT: lmao i forgot about Bro's goddamn piercings, i added that in
     real quick. nothing of note, just a few short inputs about piercings
     is all :y
Dave’s bed had never felt quite as empty as it did with John around. The boy
refused to so much as sit on it, taking permanent residence in the conjoined
bathroom every night. He would not eat in front of Dave, but he was eating at
least. Dave could tell as much from the empty plate he would come back to,
picking it up to throw it in the dishes together with the other two. It was
only getting worse, John’s absence, and Dave was at a loss of what to do. The
only progress they had made since John’s arrival was the noise. John was no
longer screaming to high heavens for someone to come save him. It did not mean
he was not still hoping. Many a time, Dave would open the door to the sight of
John by the window, looking through the planks that obscured most of his view,
watching the dirty streets beneath them. It felt like an insult to Dave each
time.
“It won’t do you any good, y’know?” The only response Dave would get would be a
slight inclination of John’s head, a sidelong glance, or a twitch of the boy’s
shoulders. “They can’t see you from way up here. I mean, hell, maybe if they
had a pair of binoculars, but I doubt anyone in this neighborhood thinks that a
good investment. Typically, people have better things to do than look up at the
sky. Speaking of which, they rarely ever look down either, if only to watch
their own two feet to make sure they don’t all up and trip over themselves on
the way to the drugstore, about to get a lil somethin’ to get them through the
day.”
John would be as motionless as always, unresponsive to Dave’s ramblings. Yet
Dave knew exactly how to get a response out of the other. All it took was a
touch. John’s whole body would quake beneath his fingertips, reeling around
with a flare of anger to face him, lips pulled back and showing those straight
lined teeth. Dave had not been there for when John had his braces, but he knew
that no one’s teeth could straighten out like that on their own. As a teen, his
teeth were a far cry in comparison to the childhood pictures that Dave had
managed to snatch. One thing that had remained the same were John’s eyes and
expressions, his heart still worn on his sleeve. Even when he was turning to
Dave, shouting at him in a fit of rage as his frustrations piqued. It was the
same every time. An entree of questions. Dave would rather avoid them, but he
knew that they would never cease if they were left unanswered. Eventually, he
swallowed around the lump in his throat, and the next time he came to John,
finding the boy lost with his eyes locked on the outside world, he was prepared
to give some clarity.
“It’s been a week,” he began by saying. The door to the bedroom closed behind
him, the lock clicking. “I usually give things three times, and if the third
ain’t the charm, then I drop that bitch like it’s hot. You’ve been staring out
that window how many times now?” That had been a honest question, but John did
not catch on. Dave humored him, continuing to talk. “You can’t go outside. I’ve
already told you that. Besides, there honestly isn’t that much to go out fo―”
“Why?”
An interruption. Dave felt his fingers itch, but ignored it. He had come with a
cause, actually taking Bro’s advice and finally intending to lay the truth out
for John to see. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Dave took in a deep breath.
“It’s dangerous out there for you, at least right now it is.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re dead.”
The bluntness to how Dave said it had John turn to face him fully. John’s mouth
was lax, eyes narrowed and his brows close together. “Dead?” he questioned, as
if he did not know the meaning of the word. “I’m dead?”
Dave nodded. “Yup. Dead as dead can be to them.”
“Them?”
“The public.”
“The public?” Everything John said was a question, a confused echo of Dave’s
words. “What are you talking about?”
“A’ight. That’s gonna take a whole lot more explaining, so why don’t we have a
seat, yeah?” John did not make a move. “Or stay right there, have it your way.”
A particular bitterness flashed across the brunet’s face then, features
contorting in anger and drawing lines on his skin. Dave watched the shadows
fall into each fold, John’s face taking on an expression he had not yet seen on
the boy. It was anger, fear, puzzlement, anticipation. Tight lips, narrow eyes,
flaring nostrils, drawn back shoulders, and a pushed out chest. It was
captivating. Dave observed John through dark lenses, wishing he had his camera
in hand to immortalize the moment and later hang it up alongside the rest of
the fragments of time he had been fast enough to capture. He kept so many
paper-thin time capsules stocked away, most of them with John as the motive.
That boy had become his muse. Those blues burned holes in the photographic
paper with their intensity, but the mess of hair atop the boy’s head framed his
face to keep the eyes from setting the whole picture aflame. When the light hit
just right, it would look like a halo crested on his head from the contrast
between sunlight and dark locks, and Dave knew he was pulling cliches, but the
boy was the image of an angel. When he had held that chloroform to John’s
mouth, it had felt like stealing a small piece of heaven.
Now, he had the boy’s wings tied down and had rendered him flightless, feeding
him by the palm of his hand but being rejected each time. John did not
understand what was happening, and Dave could not blame him. Everything had
happened so fast, Dave had not been fully aware of his own actions until much
later. Having John stuffed away in a closet had been one of his better ideas.
It had allowed him to think, something he was usually quick on the trigger
with, but just then his thoughts had been knotted and incoherent, and he had
needed the space, the quiet, and the time to gather his wits. Apparently he
still needed it.
“Are you going to tell me, or what?”
Dave snapped back to attention. “Oh, right. Yeah, sure. But unlike you, I’m
gonna take a seat, because knowing me and knowing you, this is gonna be hell of
a long ride.”
That same bitterness from before crossed John’s face, eyes not leaving the
other as Dave went to take a seat on the bed. It dipped beneath his weight as
he all but dropped down on it, creasing up the nicely folded sheets. Their eyes
met briefly, unbeknownst to John as he could not tell what was going on behind
those sunglasses of Dave’s. They shrouded the boy in anonymity. It was the only
thing John could understand. If he did what Dave and Bro were doing, he would
want to hide his face, too. He waited expectantly for Dave to continue talking,
and he finally did.
“So. You seemed a bit upset about being dead.”
“Add that to the list of things I’m upset about.”
“I don’t see the big idea. I mean, I’m dead, too. It’s no biggie. The afterlife
is pretty sweet if you ask me, like okay sure we can’t quite phase through
walls like ghosts or nothin’, but there’s a reason people invented doors, so I
think we’ll be just fine.”
“I’m not dead!”
“To them you are.”
“And who the fuck is them?”
“The public, I already told you that.”
“You’re not telling me shit! You’re just spewing incoherent bullshit that’s
making no sense! Why the hell am I here? Why’d you take me? What do you
want from me?!”
John may as well have been talking to a deaf man. Dave was lacking in response
to the other’s outburst, his hands neatly laced together in his lap and his
head turned towards John. There was nothing tense in his posture as he simply
listened to John’s anger. It almost looked fitting for Dave to ask John ‘How
does that make you feel?’. To psychoanalyze him and write a check once their
therapy session was over. John could not keep his cool, he had not been able to
since the day he was brought here. He turned on his heels and walked back to
the window, but his eyes would not concentrate on the outside world. With his
shoulders drawn up to be level with his ears, he nearly shook from the
frustrations within him. He was getting nowhere here. He was getting nowhere
with this conversation, and Dave was making no sense, and his head could not
make sense of it on its own either. He was getting nowhere, but Dave was
getting off of the bed and coming towards him.
The footsteps approaching were the first warning. John whirled around,
realizing the mistake he had made of turning his back to the other, and his
hands came up in preparation to put space between the two of them once more.
But Dave stopped in his step a foot away, not trying to touch John as he would
have done previously. John was uncertain about whether he felt good about that
or not. In this place, one of the few things he could find a sense of comfort
in was routine and the predictable. Dave’s patience was unexpected.
“Okay,” Dave said quietly. “I’ll be straight and to the point. I’ll make it as
clear as possible. Cut it into bite-sized pieces for you to swallow, yeah?” He
had thought he was already doing that, answering John’s questions with as few
words as he could manage. Although his tongue still got the better of him most
of the time. But he was trying, and John refused to recognize that. Dave would
have thought the boy would know enough about him by now to tell that he was
talkative. Talking when he was nervous, happy, scared, it was all a means of
defense and expression to Dave. The silence was a force to be reckoned with,
and he did not want to take up the challenge of facing it, so he decided to
keep it at bay instead. John was slow at realizing this it would seem, or he
simply chose to ignore it. Dave did not want to believe in the latter.
“So, the lay of the land is this: You’re dead. Not in the literal sense like
hello Mr. Reaper, no. In theory, you’re dead. To put it simply, as I promised,
we staged your death. Or mostly me. Bro made me do all the hard thinking
because he was still a bit pissy about my―”
“You staged my death?!” John close to shouted, and Dave actually winced. Bro
had told them to keep quiet.
“Yes. We did. I did. But it was for your own good, you see―”
“How the fuck could that be for my own good?”
An interruption. Dave had to take a moment to force down a breath that
threatened to get stuck in his throat, but when he did, he continued talking.
”It could be for your own good if, say, someone was out to kill you. For real
kill you. See, the logic here is that if you die first, then those suckers
can’t get to do it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the them in question. I can’t put a name to the faceless,
nor a face to the nameless, but there are some people out there who’s got money
to spend on hit men to do the dirty job for th―”
“Hit men? What the hell?”
Another interruption. Dave could see past it for the time being, but he still
had to steady himself for just a moment. “It’s a profession. You’ve seen enough
movies to know what it entails. And also to know what I mean when I say that
you were on the list. I was told to kill you, John, but I didn’t. I sav―”
“Fucking Christ.” John was interrupting again. “What about my dad? Is this
because of his...”
There was no sign that John was going to finish his sentence, so Dave came to
his aid. Just as he had done it time and time again.
“Yup. Being a big shot business man is all fine and dandy until someone gets a
hit put on them.”
“Is he... Where is he?”
”Who?”
”My dad.”
“John, you’re not getting what I’m saying here. I fucking saved you back―”
“Where is he?”
“John, I am trying to―”
“Where is he?”
“21605 Fir Dr, Maple Valley, Washington.”
“Is he dead?” The way John’s face contorted just from saying those three words
in one sentence made it clear how much it hurt him. Yet he was still not
getting the point Dave was trying to make.
“John, that’s―”
“What did you do to him?”
“John―”
“What the fuck did you do?!”
It was one interruption too many. Anger flared on Dave’s face, and he looked so
much like his brother in that moment. His hands felt the same, too. Long
fingers wrapped around John’s throat, pushing him back against the window so
hard it rattled in its hinges, and the glass vibrated from the impact. John
gasped for air, hands moving on instinct and muscle memory as they reached for
Dave’s slim wrists. He could easily fit his fingers around them. Even so, it
helped not. He pulled and clawed and tugged, but Dave did not let go. Instead,
the boy leaned in close, and John would have held his breath if it was not
already cut short. He did not want to breathe the same air as Dave.
“I don’t like being interrupted, John. How many fucking times do I have to tell
you this?” Both of Dave’s hands were fisted around John’s throat, and he
pressed his thumbs into John’s windpipe. He could feel how the other struggled
to breathe beneath the pressure, but John was quiet, and it was his turn to
speak now. “You don’t listen to me. I am telling you everything, but you’re not
listening. I’m trying to tell you that I fucking saved you back then. It was
literally my job to kill you, it was our job. Me and Bro’s. And god knows Bro
hates leaving a job unfinished. But I saved you. I took you in and staged your
death and I fed you. I put a roof above your head instead of a coffin six feet
under. I helped you. I saved you. I continue saving you, and you just...”
John’s face was turning blue, the blood draining from his cheeks. His hands did
not scratch quite as hard as before, and he was going lax in Dave’s grip. Tears
were welling up in those pretty blues, and Dave could almost see his reflection
in them. He let go then, watching John fall back against the window and
clutching his own throat, coughing harshly. Dave’s thoughts were reeling. There
were evident fingerprints on John’s throat, as well as inclinations left from
his nails. He could not tear his eyes away from the sight, and he felt almost
trigger happy― the kind of trigger happy where he wanted to shoot picture upon
picture of John’s panicked face. It scared him. Not that he had hurt John, he
had done so already on multiple occasions. He was scared because he wanted to
hurt John more.   
Dave realized he was beginning to take on one too many of Bro’s advice. The
assaulting hands were jerked away from John, Dave taking steps backwards. A new
expression crossed his face once more, one of fright and honest antipathy, and
it did not fit on his features. It looked abnormal and incompatible with the
sharp edges of his face. John did not see it. His view consisted of the floor
beneath them, grasping at his own throat and feeling every cough tearing
through his windpipe. That sound was unpleasant and all the more reason for
Dave to leave. He wanted to leave, he had to leave or he might do something he
would regret later. What he needed was a moment’s space, quiet, and time to
gather his fractured thoughts and ease the gallop of his heart. They were
things that John could not give him at that moment.
“I’m leaving.” To see John give the slightest bit of attention to those words
cut like a knife. Dave felt an itch in his hands, still warm from when they had
fit snugly around John’s throat. “I’ll be back by tonight. So just... Fuck. I
don’t care, you don’t fuckin’ listen anyway, so go ahead and keep staring out
the window like some lost Rapunzel. I don’t give two shits, and― Fuck.”
As if they had moved on a subconscious level, Dave’s hands had raised
themselves again. Both he and John recognized the threat, and there was a crack
as John’s head hit the back of the glass again, arms locking up around himself
defensively. Dave had not taken a single step forward, he was taking steps
backwards instead as John’s shoulders began to shake, the tremble soon taking
hold of the whole of his body. There were plenty more words to be said between
them, but John prioritized breathing, and Dave could not speak around the lump
in his throat suddenly. The door slammed shut when Dave stormed out.
It wasn’t until a few hours after Dave had left that John felt like he could
breathe again without disturbing the momentary peace. He assumed it was a few
hours later, at least. There was no clock in the room, but the light outside
had turned into a more faded, warmer color. John gazed out through the barred
window, ignoring his father’s warnings of never looking directly at the sun.
His head was filled with thoughts of his father, though. Dave had not answered
his questions, not adequately. It was hard to tell what was worse. To have a
concrete answer, or to be left with a nagging uncertainty, too many
possibilities, and the risk of getting his hopes up. Dave and Bro were hit men.
Their job had been to kill John― that did not sound right. John was
insignificant, his father was the man of importance. The thought had John’s
knees feel weak. He walked to the bed that he had refused to sit on hours
before, and he met the mattress with a sigh. Pieces of the puzzle were fitting
together, creating a clearer image of John’s situation, and he reminisced about
his earlier ignorance. How sweet it had been. He did not want to think about
what fate could have possibly befallen his father. He had opened the door to a
room he did not want to step into, and he had the urge to turn and lock the
door with a key― a key he did not have. Dave had the key. And he had left the
door unlocked when he had left.
John’s mind backtracked. He remembered Dave’s raised voice, heavy footsteps, a
door slamming shut, then more footsteps echoing down the corridor. There had
been no ‘click’ of a lock in between. The door would be unlocked. John could
walk right out into the open apartment. His body moved before he had made a
decision for it to do so, and he walked to the very thing that separated him
and the outside. The outside being the inside of this hell hole. To bring his
hands to that door handle did not happen as automatically as getting off of the
bed had. He recalled opening the door once, finding Bro on the other side.
The door knob almost burned, or at least John felt like it when he jumped back,
clutching his own hand. He had been especially wary around Bro ever since
that happened; the man had choked him on his cock. The memory brought fourth a
sour taste in his mouth.
John had been cooped up inside of Dave’s bedroom, not daring to set foot
outside, and thereby he had no idea if Bro was around. Weighing his options
proved a challenge. Between the two brothers, Bro seemed the most ruthless. The
brother with the least inhibition and little to nothing to keep him from doing
as he pleased. John’s face grimaced at the thought, telling himself that he was
not favoring one psycho over the other. But even though the idea of facing
those triangular shades and pointed teeth again had him scared, there was an
undeniable want in him to get out of those four walls encasing him.
The handle turned, and John stepped into an empty corridor. His every step was
placed carefully, the naked soles of his feet snuffing out any sound beneath
them, and his eyes were peeled for danger. He saw it everywhere. There was
nothing safe about the wooden floors beneath his feet, nor the white walls of
the corridor accessorized with a minimum amount of things, and every door
looked ready to open up and swallow him up. John hurried past them, heading
straight for the kitchen. Dave had left the door to the bedroom unlocked, but
that did not mean he would also let the front door so. The open door had been
intentional, he could not believe otherwise. He needed something to protect
himself with, or something small enough to pick a lock. John rounded the corner
with plenty of ideas coursing through his head, but the moment he had both feet
inside the kitchen, he dropped them all and bolted right back in the direction
he came from.
“Oh no you don’t―” came Bro’s voice behind him, a rumble that almost sent John
flying forwards with the volume of it. He had made a mistake. A big one. He
knew, and he had to get back into Dave’s bedroom, back into the bathroom and
hope to keep the door closed to keep those hands out and away from him. But Bro
had long arms and even longer legs.
Fingers wound themselves into the back of John’s shirt, and in the next moment
he was reeling backwards, losing his balance and crashing to the floor. The air
was knocked out of him upon impact, strangling the cry that had been supposed
to leave his lips. A breath later, and John had his voice back.
“Stop! Don’t touch me, I―”
“You what? Out to repeat old mistakes?”
“I wasn’t doing anything!”
Bro’s brows knitted together. The triangular shades obscured John’s view of his
eyes, but it was clear he was not amused. “You can come up with a better excuse
than that, kid.”
The name he was called had a shiver run down his spine, and his feet began
kicking the floor to get some space between him and the man. And Bro let him,
simply watching him scramble back and eventually get his legs beneath him,
standing up. It helped not evening out the intimidating difference in height,
size, mass, everything. John felt as if hands had already closed around his
throat, and Bro was doing nothing but looking at him. Those eyes of the man
were pinning him to the spot, and he could not even see them. They were hiding
behind dark lenses, but he could feel them all the same. John moved to take a
step back, but just as he did, Bro spoke again.
“You’re not sleepin’ with Dave, are you?” A visible shudder went through John,
and he received a chuckle from Bro. “I take that as a no.” John took a step
back, Bro took a step forward. His long legs shortened the space that John was
trying to put between them. “Why not?”
The question caught John by surprise, any form of response getting stuck in his
throat as a cause. He remembered the lesson in gratitude Bro had taught him. He
had received two lessons thus far. One that left his back in shreds, the second
had given him an aching jaw. Nothing in him wanted to know what a third lesson
would entail.
John flinched when Bro stepped closer, his boot hitting the floor hard enough
to create a loud noise, snapping the boy out of his own head. He knew it was
likely more cozy inside that thick skull, but he needed John in the present
with him. That single step had eliminated almost the whole gap between them,
only one foot left. They breathed the same air, though it looked as if John was
not breathing at all. The kid’s chest had stopped moving, the steady heave of
his ribs spared only for taking in the most necessary of breaths. When John
swallowed, Bro could hear the saliva work its way around the lump in John’s
throat.
“I-I-I... I’m not, no. I don’t want t―”
“We only got two beds,” Bro interrupted. “You gotta pick one.”
“What?”
“Dave’s bed...” Bro took a step closer, John took a step away. “... or mine.”
Bro took another step, John’s back met the wall.
Air became short in the room. John needed not a wild imagination to make a
guess at what Bro was speaking about, and he had all the material to create
vivid pictures in his head. They frightened him. He wanted to close his eyes as
if that would make it go away, but he dared not render himself blind in front
of the man. Breathing in Bro’s presence was a risk on its own.         
“If you got a bed, ya gotta make use of it, right? ‘s only logical.”
“I’m not doing that. I’m not. You can’t―”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and John reconsidered his words.
“I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to. I won’t do it. I...” It was John’s
face contorting then, pulling a grimace as he tried to hold back everything
welling up inside of him. “I just want to go home. This is... crazy. It’s
fucking― fucking horrible. I won’t tell anyone, so just let me go. Let me go,
and I’ll disappear, I promise. I won’t te―”
A rush of air blew right past John’s cheek. He flinched, not from the feeling,
but from hearing the ear-cracking sound of Bro’s fist colliding with the wall
behind him. It was with uncertainty that he noted a faint crackling sound as he
dared not look at the fist next to his head. Instead, his eyes were staring
straight at the looming figure above him, invading his space and sending his
pulse into a gallop.
“Tell me, John, do you have trouble countin’?” Bro muttered. Despite the lack
of volume, his voice cut the very air between them.
“Uuh... I... What?”
“ ‘cause it seems you’ve miscounted the amount of options I gave ya. You had
two, not three. Dave’s bed, or mine. Not Dave’s bed, mine, or neither. See,
there’s a big difference.”
“I’m not doing this. That. I’m not. I won’t.”
It was the last objection John got out in that moment. The fist on the wall
moved, grabbing a handful of dark locks between its fingers, and John let out a
cry as his head was yanked forward. He could not keep up with Bro’s long
strides as he was dragged back down the corridor. His eyes could scarcely even
keep up with the surroundings. It all passed in a blur, or his own arms would
come up and block his view as he desperately tried to get Bro to relent in his
grip. That hand remained steeled in John’s hair against all his efforts to make
it release him. John did not see it when Bro kicked open the door to a room,
but he heard the bang of it and felt himself being roughly thrown inside.
The room was dark, becoming almost pitch black when Bro closed the door after
them. A switch was turned, and a dim light above their heads flicked on. John
already felt sick.
“Stop, no. No, this is wrong. I don’t want to do this. Come on. Com-come on,
just let me go!”
John was on the floor, but he did not stay there for long. He was already back
on his feet when Bro approached. The man was all that he saw, the fact that
they were in Bro's room was all he could think about, and he wished he could
feel more than fear.
“P-please, just let me go. I won’t tell, I swear. You’ll never see me again.
Never hear from me or anything. You won’t― No, no, step back.”
Bro was coming closer. By instinct, John took steps backwards, hands raised and
eyes wide, wanting to run forward and out that door of which he came, but a
wall of a man was in the way. With a fearful heart, John saw as Bro reached a
hand up, picking the sunglasses off of his nose and setting them aside on a
desk he passed on his way. A pair of amber eyes stared at him from across the
room. They were not as abnormal as Dave’s, but they were frightening. Dave was
eerie because of his scarlet eyes, Bro’s eyes were eerie because of the man
they belonged to.
“Look, Bro― It’s Bro, right? I-I’m not out to make my situation worse, so just
step back. Dave has told me everything. I know what it’s about now, and I won’t
tell. I won’t―”
“So the shrimp finally told ya. Good.”
“Y-yeah. I won’t tell anyo―”
“You’ve said that too many times already. I know. You won’t tell.” Bro was but
a few inches away, and John could not go further back. He was almost bent over
backwards on Bro’s bed, his knees having hit the edge. Bro continued talking.
“You won’t get the chance to, either.”
With one push, John went down. He bounced on the mattress and had not even
settled before his legs began to kick frantically, trying to hit everything
within reach. Yet it was a momentary defense. Bro grasped both his ankles,
hands easily fitting around them, and John was left with only his hands and the
thrash of his upper body as his means of escape. Unfazed by every attempt, Bro
talked with a steady voice. “But that was not the question at hand. Dave’s bed,
or mine. I’ll give you somethin’ to compare the two with.”
Fight rose within John from having his legs pushed apart, his ankles caught in
Bro’s iron grip. The man settled between his thighs, far too close, but just
close enough for John to reach his arms up. His fingers caught on Bro’s shirt,
scratching and pulling and shoving and doing everything hands could do, but it
was not enough. He was punching against concrete. The grip on his ankles
released, and Bro’s shackles of hands took hold of his wrists instead. John
felt like the bones within would give beneath the pressure.
“Stop! Let me go! It hurts. Stop it! Don’t! I―” He was no match in strength, he
knew. With every futile attempt at getting free that knowledge was further
pounded into his skull, making his every inch shake with the effort to prove it
wrong. In his mind, he knew that reason would be beyond the man’s hearing, but
he could not not try. 
“Please! I’m― I’m sixteen, don’t do this! I’m just a kid! You can’t!” Those
words would have tasted sour in any other situation, but just then it was a
means of defense. Bro cared not. John’s arms were stretched above his head,
both his wrists gathered in one of Bro’s hands, allowing the man one free to
wander. It slid down John’s body, passing his collarbone and stomach and hip,
reaching the hem of his pants, and it had clear intentions and no hesitation. A
cold hand touched John’s bare skin beneath his shirt, and his voice reached a
higher pitch.
“N-n-no! Don’t! I’m not g-gay, please, don’t do this. I don’t want this.” He
was running low on things to say already. “Please, stop! I’ll― I’ll take Dave’s
bed.” It came out in a rush, and Bro paused. He had a finger hooked inside of
John’s pants, but he spared a glance at the boy. For a moment, John could trick
himself into believing he had said what the other wanted to hear.
“You haven’t even had a toss in mine yet.” A row of teeth showed themselves as
Bro flashed a grin. “Don’t knock it til you try it.”  
John’s thoughts collapsed in on themselves when Bro yanked his pants down with
one swift move, taking his boxers with half the way. His words were watered
down to a continuous mantra of pleaseand don’t and stop,unable to think when
Bro’s hand returned to get rid of his boxers, too. His skin had never looked
that pale before. All the blood in his body had run cold, and tears were
pricking at his eyes as his lower half was rendered naked. Bro reached down to
drag his pants and boxers off all of the way, tossing them aside. John wished
the man had kept his shades on.
Hungry eyes roamed his body, traveling up his thighs and hips, stomach and the
flaccid cock between his legs. John drew his knees up high, but Bro did not
allow it. Bro nudged himself closer, forcing John’s legs apart by the broad
mass of his body, and John could feel something press up against his backside.
It made the already clear intentions behind the man’s actions all the clearer.
The tears gathering in John’s eyes released, followed by a choked gasp as Bro
moved his hips.
“Nononononononono, stop! Please, don’t! Get off of me! You piece of shi―”
Finishing a sentence was a luxury in that situation. The grip on John’s wrists
suddenly let go, but he had no time to use his freedom before he was turned
around, getting a face full of the sheets below. For a brief few seconds, he
could not breathe. His face was pressed into the mattress, a heavy pressure on
the back of his head from where Bro had put his hand. Another hand took hold of
John’s hip, dragging him to stand up on his knees, ass in the air. And Bro
right behind him. John used the oxygen he did not have to sob into the sheets.
They smelled of sweat and deodorant at the same time, and the smell flooded his
senses, and he wanted to puke. He felt the same urge when a hand stroked his
ass. Fingers dug into the soft flesh as if to break the skin, and Bro’s nails
left red lines behind them when they dragged down John’s cheek to his upper
thigh. There, Bro’s hand spread John’s legs even further apart.
“Stop! Please, stop. I don’t want this. Don’t do it. Please, please don’t!”
John was talking to a deaf man. Or one void of sympathy and mercy. In that
moment it was all the same to him. He tried to reach behind himself, shoulders
rolling to accommodate the action, but he was not as flexible as to actually
reach Bro. All he managed was to weakly stretch a hand towards where Bro was
touching. He could reach the hand on the back of his head, though. John gripped
it tight, pulling and scratching the man’s wrist with all his might, fueled by
adrenaline. It was a bad choice.
Bro did not use his words, but he got the message across by shoving John’s face
into the mattress. He held the boy there for several seconds, to the point
where John’s grip on his wrist released. The boy spasmed, body fighting as it
was losing oxygen fast. He squirmed beneath Bro’s grip to no avail, losing
strength with each attempt at getting free, making the following tries all the
more futile. Only when the boy had just enough capability to shudder did Bro
release him. The moment Bro did, John came back up for air; it was a moment’s
lack of resistance, and his captor took the opportunity without hesitation.
Two fingers circled John’s head, coming to his mouth and jamming themselves
between his lips. John’s first response was to object, but getting out any
coherent sound became hard when those same fingers pushed forward, bumping
against the insides of his cheeks. They tasted of dirt and salt. Biting down
was not an option, despite his urge to do so, as the digits tickled his gag
reflex. He instinctively opened his mouth further, tongue pushing and twisting
to get the fingers out, but his attempts came short. Saliva pooled in the floor
of his mouth, so much so that he gurgled, and what spit that did not coat Bro’s
fingers ran down his chin. The man was not saying a thing as his fingers
prodded the insides of John’s mouth. John knew what it was for, and he wanted
to bite down. But he could not even swallow. Wet, desperate sounds spilled from
his mouth as much as spittle did, and Bro’s fingers retreated, allowing oxygen
passage to his lungs once more. Yet John had a feeling it was not an act of
mercy.
A finger pressed up against John’s hole, and the air he had just breathed
caught in his throat. “No! No, stop, pl-please! I don’t want to do this,
pleasepleasepleasepleaseple― Aaaah!”
The protests died on his tongue. The pressure against his entrance doubled, and
Bro slipped a single, slick finger inside. It was dry and tight despite the
saliva, and it had new tears build up in John’s tear ducts, making them
overflow. There was no way it would go in, despite Bro’s insistent pushing. A
curse sounded behind him, and he felt like drowning himself in his tears. The
pressure on his asshole left, but Bro’s presence came closer instead. One hand
gripped his ass cheek, pulling it aside and exposing him to the whole world,
and he felt a warm breath of air ghost across his skin. Then something wet.
John shuddered in disgust, realizing that Bro had fucking spat on him, the
saliva sliding down the cleft of his ass. All the while, pleas and swears
rained from the tip of John’s tongue, all of them directed at the man behind
him despite knowing he would go unheard. Bro had not listened to him before,
there was no reason for Bro to listen to him now. Not when all Bro needed to do
was grab him by the neck to render him helpless.
He should have never left Dave’s room. Should have never left the bathroom. It
had been a stupid, reckless decision, but never before had he experienced
wolves lying in wait just outside the door. Still, he should have known better.
John cried, wanting for all in the world to leave that very moment. Bro’s
finger was using the spittle to push in deeper, but it helped not on the
incredible discomfort and shame washing over John. He was going to get raped.
The fact resounded within the walls of his skull, making him shake in his spot
on the bed. The frantic attempts at stopping Bro had ceased, his hands instead
gripping on tight to the sheets, clawing at them and trying to pull himself
forward, away from the pain pushing into him. But the hand on the back of his
neck did not allow escape. He was stuck. Not even his thoughts would stray to
somewhere else. Everything, his body and mind, it was grounded to the very
present, and he had never hated it more.
Bro gave a whistle behind him. “Hoo, look at you. Cryin’ already? Sheesh, it’s
just like when I had your pretty pink lips wrapped ‘round my cock.” The finger
pushed in ever further, and John trembled around the intrusion. “You were
bawlin’ your eyes out, begging pretty please and makin’ a real show of it, too.
All until I put somethin’ in that mouth o’ yours. Taught you to appreciate the
quiet.”
“I-I didn’t say any-anything this time. Stop it. I haven’t―”
“Oh please, you think I didn’t hear you and Dave?”
“I didn’t― Nngh! F-fuck, pull it out! Stop!”
Bro’s finger was in to the knuckle, long and thick, and John’s hips jerked
forward to get away. “Don’t lie to me,” Bro growled in warning. “You did.
Guilty as charged.” He emphasized his point by curling his finger, making the
boy shudder as nails rubbed against his inner walls. “Cryin’ out for your
daddy, being real mean to Dave and all kinds of disrespectful. The guy’s
offering you his bed, but yer won’t even sleep in it. Typically, it ain’t my
business, but...”
The hand on the back of John’s head moved to grip fistfuls of his hair. John
cried out, having to prop himself up on his hands to not have chunks of hair
pulled out of his scalp as Bro tugged his head backwards. The words that the
man spoke next made him respond with nothing but a sob.
”If Dave ain’t gonna teach ya some manners, I will. Besides, I could use
someone to warm my bed at night.”   
Bro began to move his finger more, dragging it out and pushing it in, igniting
a burning sensation with each action. The spit was doing close to nothing to
ease the passage, leaving only discomfort for John to experience. He grit his
teeth together, both to cut off his own voice and to steel himself against the
sharp pain from the hand still in his hair. It had his head raised high, neck
bent awkwardly, and there was no way for him to block out the man’s voice in
the position. Covering his ears would earn him something horrible in return, no
doubt.
“The boy’s a bit too awkward to make a move. Not that he haven’t thought about
it. You’ve seen the way he looks at you. Hell, I bet ya he’s thought about this
exact scene more times than once,” Bro chuckled, dark and menacing. His finger
was continually pushing in and out of John, feeling the boy clench around the
digit and shake with each bodily attempt at making him stop. John reached his
hands back, he clawed at the sheets, tried to crawl forward, he quivered and
cried. Bro could hardly wait to see the kind of expression that would take hold
of those soft features once he sunk his cock into the other. Surely, it would
be picture worthy. But anything entailing John seemed to be worth shooting in
Dave’s opinion. Not that Bro could really blame his brother. The boy was
nothing but rounded edges, soft to the touch even when his body tensed with
fear. Moreover, John was something they rarely ever dealt with; innocent and
still breathing. It was a scarce luxury to have something as delicate beneath
his bigger frame, and Bro hummed in approval as the boy curled in on himself
when a second finger pressed against his pucker.
“I can see why he’d think of such things with you as the main star,” Bro
continued by saying. “You look good like this, takin’ my fingers.” The second
digit was squeezing in alongside the other, sending a shudder through John, cut
off with a whimper. Actually fitting it inside was harder. John was tight,
closing around the long digits inside of him. Bro’s skin was rough and
calloused, feeling like sandpaper on his inner walls. The man’s voice was even
worse. “You’ll look even better wrapped ‘round my cock.”
“S-stop. Stop it, don’t do this.” John was back to begging, though he had never
quite stopped. That voice had grown strained with the amount of pleas that left
his throat, continuing throughout it all and only making note of themselves
when sparks of pain ignited real fire. “Take it out, stop it. It’s― You’re
disgusting! Stop! I don’t―”
His voice broke off with a groan. Bro had removed his fingers and having them
out was a stark moment’s relief in comparison, even as John struggled to regain
his breathing. Every part of him was rigid, and he felt like he was nailed to
the bed, unable to move just yet. There was a sound of rustling fabric behind
him, but he barely even registered it with how loud his own heart was beating
in his ears. His pulse was running away with him and for once his mind strayed
from the present, zoning in on the ache in his scalp. Bro was still gripping on
to his hair tightly. Until he did not, and John fell forward on the bed without
the man holding his head up. The mattress felt as hard as ever when he hit it,
but it was a welcome feeling all the same. It could not last, though. He had to
get away.
John nudged his arms beneath his own chest, pushing to get back up, but just
then a pressure returned to his behind. The tension in him erupted all at once.
“No. Nonononono, stop! Don’t! Get the fuck off of me, you freak! Let me go!
Let― Mmmpf!” Freedom of speech was forcefully taken from him once more, having
his face shoved into the mattress.
“Shut up, kid,” a deep voice growled above him. “Think you could just keep in
Dave’s room all day, twiddling your thumbs? Gotta earn your keep.”
The weight on the bed shifted when Bro leaned forward, his chest almost
touching and lined up with John’s back, and his cock pressed firmly between
John’s ass cheeks. The man gave a grind of his hips, punctuating his arousal.
“You’ve been a great nuisance to me ever since you got ‘ere. Screamin’,
complaining, acting like yer entitled to some kind of a special treatment just
‘cause your daddy’s rich. Just ‘cause Dave thinks you’re easy on the eyes.”
Another grind, the head of Bro’s cock catching on the rim of John’s hole,
making the boy gasp and shudder and beg ever louder. It was not loud enough to
drown out Bro’s voice, though. “I’ll treat you to my cock instead, how’d you
like that, hmm?”
“N-no, I won’t. You’re fucking sick. Get off of me. Get off, I― N-n-no! Stop!
Don’t p-push―” John’s words reached a higher pitch when two hands put
themselves on his ass, fingers caressing the skin before pressing his cheeks
apart. The deep chuckle he heard from behind him was all he needed to know that
Bro was enjoying the sight of him spread open, and he could feel those demonic
eyes scorch his naked skin again. Then he felt an actual burn as Bro angled his
cock to be level with his entrance, pushing in slowly. The fight in him ignited
anew.
John thrashed his limbs, flailing on the bed and trying to kick, claw, and
punch, but all he gained was a hand on his neck. It squeezed, easily reaching
around his throat and threatening to grip hard enough to leave a bruise. John
cared not. He tossed his body forward as best he could, realizing it was not
much. He choked, making a gurgling noise as tears and saliva mixed together. It
was all too much. Fear was gripping him tighter than ever, and he found himself
wishing Dave was back― Dave, his abductor and stalker, a boy his age that had
beaten and bruised him and made his skin crawl. John abandoned the thought.
“Stop!” he cried out. “Please, don’t! I don’t― I’ve never―”
“Oh? You’re a virgin?” The grin that Bro said it with had John shudder in
disgust.
“P-please, just... D-d-don’t do it. I’ll... I’ll suck you off if you―”
The room resounded with a roaring laughter, and John flinched at the volume of
it. “Shit, you just don’t stop tryin’, huh? Negotiating won’t do you no good,
kid. Not when you got no cards to play.”
“Come on, I’ll do it. Just not thi― F-fuck, wait―!”
Bro gave a single jerk of his hips, and that bulbous head of his cock slipped
past the rim of John’s entrance. The first of those silver studs decorating the
man's shaft fit inside. The boy almost bit down on his own tongue as he
simultaneously wanted to scream and grind his teeth together. There was nothing
between them, and he could feel the heat of Bro’s member pressed right up
against him, slipping inside of him. As Bro pushed in, tears pushed out of
John’s eyes. The wit he used to keep himself afloat and from completely
breaking down was wearing thin, and he was drowning quicker than ever. Water
was filling his lungs, and he could not breathe, airways squeezed tight, and
his body trembled in protest to the intrusion seizing him from behind.
It hurt. It hurt so bad. The pain was blinding, and Bro was not going slow. He
was pushing in without break or pause, each inch measured by a silver bead,
prying the boy beneath him open with brute force. John’s mouth hung open in a
silent scream. Bro groaned above him, deep and guttural, and he wished he had
not been blessed with hearing. A pair of big hands locked onto his hips in a
mean grip. Nails raked against his skin once Bro began to move, halfway in, and
pushed himself back and forth to rock into John. Each thrust of the man had
John slipping slightly on the sheets, and it had the burning pain settle deeper
inside of him. It urged him to use his voice, and he cried out.
“S-stop! Don’t, please don’t! It― It hu-hurts..! P-please, pull it out. Stop
this. It hu―”
“Yeah, that’s it. Keep goin’, scream for me.”
“Sto― Aaah!” Skin slapped against skin, and John lost all means of coherent
speech. Bro was buried in him to the hilt, the man’s hips a motionless wall
against his backside. The stretch was horrible. It stung, burned, and hurt like
salt in a wound, gasoline on skin and ignited with a match. John’s knuckles
turned white from gripping on to the covers beneath him, and his jaw ached from
how hard he was grinding his teeth together. For once, Bro was not moving. He
was still behind the boy, hands holding on tight to the soft hips for leverage,
keeping John in place. There was no escape, he was caught and trapped and he
should have stayed in Dave’s room. 
Shoulders began to shake, sending a ripple effect through the boy’s body. John
whimpered into the sheets, wet sounds that echoed off the walls, mixing in with
the growls from Bro. It was repulsive. And then it was nothing but seething
pain. A piercing cry tore itself through John’s throat, so loud that for a
moment it drowned out all else; the sound of slapping skin as Bro began to move
at a brutish pace, the grunts elicited from the man, and the groaning bed
springs. With each thrust, Bro dragged John back by the hips to make them meet,
plunging into the crying mess of a boy with a force he had never experienced.
The pain was new. It was frightening, and it had his heart beat at speeds that
felt like he might just faint at any given moment. And he wished he would. It
was pure agony, rammed so deep inside of him in places he had never touched.
The man’s cock was throbbing, he could feel all of it. Every bump of a vein
rubbing against his inner walls, the piercings lining the shaft, he felt the
girth of it prying him open, and the slickness of spittle, pre-cum, and
something else he dared not think about. But that something was trailing down
the inside of his thigh, and he knew. It was red and hot, it was blood, and he
was hurt. John cried, a pitiful sound that was choked and strained as his
throat was beginning to give up on trying.
Bruises were forming on John’s hips, blossoming beneath Bro’s fingertips, and
that pert ass was turning red from the slap of Bro’s hips against it. All over,
John’s skin was turning in color. Either losing its warm tone, or littered with
unnatural hues in places where blood came too close to the surface, or where
hands left marks. The boy was changing, the boy had been changed. Bro was the
one molding him, turning him into what was needed in order for him to fit into
their lives― he was doing what Dave could not do himself.
John did not stop screaming, not for a second. Not even when his throat gave
out and the sound became nothing but a hoarse whisper did he stop. He ran out
of tears, his cheeks damp and his eyes a puffy red and blown wide.
Despite the sounds he made, despite sounding like he was coughing up a lung,
Bro did not stop. The man moved with ferocity, building up a mean rhythm that
had his cock ram deep into John beneath him, shaking the boy at his very core.
The tear that was bleeding added some lubricant, but even so there was no
remedy for the pain coursing through John, and it had no impact on the pleasure
Bro was experiencing either. To have someone ― something―hot and tight wrapped
around his dick drew noises out of him that had not escaped his lips in a
while. A familiar feeling was coiling inside his gut, and he knew exactly what
it meant. He reached a hand up to close it around the back of John’s neck,
leaning forward until their bodies were pressed flush together, the boy
squished between the mattress and a hard chest. His voice came out rough, words
laced with something sinister.
“This is your first time, yeah? How’s it feel?” Bro thrust his hips forward,
his cock ramming into John and sending him sprawling across the sheets, trying
so desperately to hold on and withstand the abuse. Neither of which he could
fight. “How’s it like to bounce on my cock like this, hmm? You’re so fuckin’
tight.” John whimpered, and he shook his head at Bro’s words. “Your ass fits
perfectly ‘round me. Just lookit you, takin’ my dick like a proper lil’ whore.”
Bro’s fingers curled around to the front of John’s throat, putting pressure
there and cutting short the messy cries leaving the boy. “Only sound I wanna
hear comin’ from those cock suckin’ lips o’ yours is this. Crying out and
moaning like a bitch.”
Bro let go of John’s neck, leaving John to fall forward against the mattress
and hide away his tear stained face. That ass of his was still high in the air,
held up by Bro’s cock and those bruising hands, ripe for the taking, and Bro
was taking it all. Nails dragged across John’s earthy skin before both of Bro’s
hands gripped on to his hips once more, pulling him down on the man’s cock time
and time again, going faster still, harder. John quivered, taking each brute
thrust with a pained moan. It was too much. It was beyond what he could take,
but then finally there was some release― not his own, but Bro’s.
A wrecked sob left John as Bro slammed in deep, stilling all movements, and he
could feel the whole of the man’s length twitch. It was a warning, and next Bro
was spilling inside of him. John shuddered, repulsion washing over him at the
same time as hot seed coated his insides. Bile rose high in his throat, so high
he could taste it, but he had not enough food in his stomach for anything to
come out. Only spit dribbled from his lips, forgetting to swallow as his mouth
hung open in disbelief. Bro spoke above him, and his voice sounded far away.  
“Fuuuuck, that’s it, boy.” He chuckled. “Maybe you oughta start visitin’ my
room more often.”
John writhed in his spot when Bro began to move again. It had the thick
substance inside of him squelch, further implementing the disgust in him to a
point where no soap and water would be able to rinse him clean. And he cried.
He cried, and it hurt his throat to make the smallest sound, each sob a knife
cutting through him, but he cried all the same. Bro’s movements were languid,
no longerdoing it for the physical pleasure and instead a sadistic
satisfaction. John was broken, fighting just to breathe and managing but a
ragged heave of air every two seconds. It sent a violent shudder through him
when Bro pulled back― it came out with a wet ‘pop’, and John fell limply down
on the bed, nothing left to hold up his body.
The strength in him was drained. He felt like an empty shell. Bro’s hands had
yet to leave him, though. One of them dragged its fingers down the cleft of his
ass, brushing a calloused thumb against his pucker.
“N-no, stop. Plea-... please stop.I c-can’t...” John whimpered. His own fingers
gripped the bed sheets, trying to drag himself forward and away from the
other’s touch, but it became apparent to him just how weak Bro had left him. He
could manage no more than another shudder.
“Now, don’t be like that.” The man’s voice was a purr, but breathless. It made
John’s stomach coil in disgust. “I taught you a lesson, kid. Proved a point, so
to speak. Maybe yer gonna stop bein’ an indecisive brat and appreciate what’s
given to you.” Bro leaned down, his breath coming out hot against John’s ear.
“Lying on a bed feels so much better than the bathroom floor, doesn’t it?”
***** Nothing You Wouldn't Have Done *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: Rape aftermath
     FINALLY OMFG IM SO SORRY FOR THE TERRIBLY LONG WAIT!!!!!!!!!!
     i finally got my shit together and wrote down the sixth chapter,
     hells yeah. i'm sorry for taking so long, i've been super busy and my
     motivation kinda dropped,,,, plus i'm working on some other stories
     on the side that i kinda wanna get to posting soon, too! but yeah.
     i've just been busy and kinda low lmao but i'm back at it!! hopefully
     i'll be able to get out more frequent updates now!!!!
     thank you to everyone who has stuck around, who has read this and
     left a comment/kudos or just liked the story so far in general. you
     have no idea how good of a feeling it gives me<333 :'D
     anyways! i got something planned for chapter seven that's gonna be
     more exciting; this one chapter here is more to just get some
     development in there, show the changes happening with John and
     whatnot. there'll be more action, gross and gory shit soon :3c
     also the fucking coding of this shit kills me jfc,,,, i hope i got it
     right,,,,,,
The water was scolding hot around him, turning his lightly dark skin a pinker
undertone from having been submerged in it for too long. John’s fingers had
turned wrinkly, and they felt numb, but at least they were no longer shaking.
He had been staring at them for far too long now, delaying what it was he had
come to do. The water was not simply to clean himself. He had scrubbed and
clawed and scrubbed some more, but the ghost of rough palms on his skin would
not leave. When he had ducked his head underwater, he could still hear the
man’s voice ring in his ears. What was worse, though, was that he knew that
same man was just on the other side of this room, separated by only a few thin
layered walls.
There was a word for what had happened. John knew, but he could not bring
himself to say it, or even think it. The wound was still fresh and open, and he
did not trust the stability of his own two legs yet. Walking out of that horrid
room had been a challenge he would rather have never faced. His knees had
buckled, but the dark chuckle he had heard at just the inclination that he was
about to fall had been enough to keep him upright. At least until he had made
it into the hallway, the door to Bro’s room closed behind him. He made it all
of three steps after that, before all the steps combined became too much. His
knees took for the fall, and he knew that Bro could hear the heavy thump of his
body on the floor. But the man did not come out. John was thankful of that.
After many a heavy breath, he had managed to get back up, force himself to
Dave’s room, to the bathroom, only to fall once more. That time, he broke down
as well. John had wailed, choked sobs ripping through his already sore throat
and tearing it open. He had felt the wetness between his thighs. Each step had
the flesh rubbing against each other, aggravating the burn and making the dread
in him sink deeper. His body had moved on its own accord then. He had turned on
the water to the absolute highest degree, filling the tub with something that
was close to boiling. The burn of the water was more welcome than the burn
between his legs.
John stayed like that, soaking in the water, until he almost dozed off at one
point, only woken by the liquid suddenly filling his mouth and nostrils. Water
splashed everywhere as he struggled to regain his sitting in the tub. His hands
clutched the sides, and his feet kicked on the smooth porcelain until he came
above water again. The heart in his chest was pounding at increasing speeds,
slowing down once it realized he was no longer at risk of drowning. The fright
of it was enough to get him to pull the plug in the tub and step out, grabbing
the towel to dry himself off. But he still could not stand upright. John’s legs
shook beneath him, and he had to sit down on the cold tiles as to not fall
completely. He felt there was no strength left in him. Not in his legs, his
arms, his anything. Dressing himself took longer than it was supposed to. At
least he had picked out a new set of clothes, ones that did not reek of sweat
and sex―
A shudder ran through him, making his hands shake as he tried to button his
pants. It was too soon. Too soon to think about it, to put reason and cause to
the ache in his lower body and the slickness he could still feel between his
thighs. He had tried to get itout. But his own fingers were not long enough,
they could not reach deep enough inside, and it had hurt too much for him to
try for more than a minute. Instead, he had cried until his eyes had run dry.
As he sat on the floor, his shoulders shook as he began to cry once more.
Goosebumps traveled up his arms, the air around him feeling cold compared to
the hot water, and he hugged his own knees to try and retain some of the
warmth. He hid himself inside a cocoon of his own limbs, eyes squeezed shut.
It was dark outside once John made his way out of the bathroom. He stood in the
doorway, leaning against the frame to support his unsteady legs. All of his
attention was laid solely on the bed in the clinically empty room. The sheets
were folded as always. Neat and tidy, not a wrinkle in sight. John’s eyes
flickered to the entry door of the room, waiting with a baited breath as if it
could open at any moment. Instead of wishing that it did not, he wished that it
would be Dave walking through it. That thought grew weary with every step he
took towards the bed. When he finally sat down on the mattress, he wanted to
cry again. When he tugged himself beneath the covers, laying on his side and
facing the wall, he did cry.
The tears had stopped coming by the time the door opened, casting a ray of
light into the room. John dared not move, but he recognized those footsteps.
They were not comforting, but they were a relief.
“Hey...” It was Dave’s voice, softer than ever, speaking above him. “You’re in
bed.”
John made no attempt at replying. He barely moved at all, only sign that he was
alive being the short rise and all of his chest. A moment passed. Though his
back was facing the other boy, John knew Dave’s eyes were glued on him. It was
another wave of relief when Dave moved, disappearing into the bathroom for a
few minutes before coming back into the room. All the lights were turned off,
and John almost had the urge to look up then, just to see whether Dave’s eyes
shone in the dark. But he refrained. He kept still when he felt the bed dip
under Dave’s weight as he crawled on top of it, yet a shiver was unavoidable
when the covers were pulled up, Dave joining beneath them.
The bed was small. Dave’s shoulder was touching John’s back, and John wanted to
get off of the bed right then and there. That one simple touch had him curl in
on himself, breathing harder than before. Dave shifted in his spot, and John
knew he was going to say something. John did not want to talk, he did not feel
like he could, and he regretted his every decision that day. But Dave was
talking either way.
“You’re in bed...” he began by saying, repeating the same words and sounding
just as baffled by it. Then he took in a deep breath, preparing for more words
to come. “I mean, not that I mind, don’t get me wrong. Hell, I’ve been wanting
this ever since you first got here, but I had the impression you didn’t exactly
want to share a bed with your...” The word was bitter on Dave’s tongue, so he
avoided it altogether. “I’m just surprised, is all.”
There was no response from John apart from his ragged breathing. Dave made note
of that, and also how John had yet to actually interrupt him. It made him want
continue talking. “It’s better than the bathroom floor, right?” He turned his
head to look at the boy next to him. “Not exactly memory foam material or a
seventh cloud or anything, but it’s something, right? And I know it ain’t too
big, but it’s enough for two people, right? We can fit.”
Another pause, another quiet stretch wherein John’s strained breathing could be
heard.
“It’s not so bad, right?” Dave shifted to lie on his side, facing John’s back.
Shivers were traveling up the boy’s spine, making the black hairs on the back
of his neck stand up, and Dave felt an itch in his fingers. “I was worried,
y’know? About you sleeping in the bathroom all the time. It’s bad for your back
and all, and we don’t want you straining no shit, unless you want to see me in
a nurse’s outfit and tending to your wounds.” It had been supposed to earn him
a chuckle, but he got nothing but John pulling his shoulders further up towards
his ears. There was tension in every muscle, Dave could see that, even as the
shirt John wore obscured his view. He had to keep talking. If he stopped
talking that tension would spread like cancer. 
“But like... I get it. I get why you wouldn’t want to sleep in the bed for
those few first nights.” First few weeks. “But you gotta stop acting like that.
It won’t get you anywhere. That’s just how it is. I can’t change it, not now. I
know this isn’t... isn’t what you wanted, but it’s what you needed.”
A visible shudder went through John, accompanied by a sharp intake of air. Dave
scooted closer, eliciting another shudder. His legs brushed up against John’s,
and he felt fabric against them, causing him to frown as his eyes went down.
“Are you still wearing pants? Won’t you get hot?”
John made no attempt at answering, and instead he scooted as close to the edge
of the bed as possible. As far away from Dave as possible. A pang of offense
crossed Dave, but he suppressed it in favor of following every inch John put
between them. The weather was humid, the dark of the night still lukewarm, and
two bodies beneath the sheets would make everything the hotter. Wearing the
absolute minimum amount of clothing was the smart thing to do. Rationality told
Dave that, and he meant to help John. It was all he ever did. But just as his
hand brushed the other boy’s hip and the waistband of his pants, John went into
a rigid state, finally talking;
“Don’t touch me.” It was strained and raw and hoarse, and Dave wondered why
only briefly. John was moving all the more forward, but there was no more space
for him to move on. Another inch and he would fall off of the bed.
Instinctively, Dave grabbed onto John’s hip, drawing him backwards. John’s
rigidity turned into a flailing of limbs. He kicked his legs and waved his
arms, struggling to get away, but Dave was pulling him back. A weight settled
on top of him as Dave used the advantage of size against him, and though Dave
was more bone than meat, he was more than John altogether.  
“Stop! Don’t tou― Don’t touch me!”
“John.” Dave’s hand remained on the other’s hips. “You’re gonna fall off the
damn thing, come on. Quit acti― Hey! Watch it.”
A hand had come dangerously close to slapping Dave in the face, and he wanted
to say it had been an accident. But John’s eyes were right on him, staring into
the scarlet of his irises. Time stopped just as Dave drew in a breath, and he
saw every detail in front of him; the white of John’s eyes, the red, irritated
skin around them, the quiver of his lips, the flare of his nostrils, the
dredging of his throat where the air had gotten stuck. It was fear Dave saw.
“Get off,” John croaked out to Dave on top of him. The pressure was impending,
about to become a crushing weight at any moment, and it felt too alike last
time.He felt like crying again, and his eyes began to sting with oncoming
tears. It was but hours ago. The pain had not yet settled, his mind was not yet
pieced back together, and his body was an open wound. Dave was salt.
Panic rose in John, and he could not breathe no longer. The air rushed into his
mouth with quick, shallow breaths, not reaching his lungs before it was being
pushed out again. Dave was on top of him and everything felt wrong. His body
ached, and; “I want to sleep in the bathroom.”
It came out fast, the words shaking so much that they were almost incoherent.
Dave’s brows came together on his forehead, but his eyes did not narrow at all.
They were wide and open as before, looking down at John incredulously. He need
not speak, John could already tell was the answer was going to be.
“I d-don’t want to sleep here. Get off. I changed my mind. I don’t want to
sleep in here.”
”Why did you choose to come to bed?”
The question caught John off guard, and all of his defenses went up. “Get off.”
“You wouldn’t even let me touch you before I left, but now you’re in our bed.”
John wanted to hurl. Our bed.Dave continued talking. “What changed? What
happened? Did you―”
“I wouldn’t let you touch me because you choked me!”
”I did that because you weren’t listening, even though I was spitting truths
and answering all of your damn questions. Why won’t you answer a single one of
mine?”
“Can’t you just get off of me? What is so fucking hard about― Just let me go!”
“Not until you calm do―”
”No! Let me go! You can’t fucking do this! You can’t just take someone and
expect them to be okay with that!”
“John, I saved you, it’s either this or being―”
“You’re insane!”
The corner of Dave’s lip twitched, a rhetorical shadow covering his face,
though John saw it clearly. The downcast of those scarlet eyes, deepening and
turning a maroon color, how the boy’s sharp features were sharpened into points
and edges, the incisors John could see when Dave pulled back his lips in a
sneer. Dave looked supernatural through frightened eyes. It sent a chill
through John, but his shudder was rendered an inner tremble as Dave all but
crushed him beneath his weight. John’s body reacted before his mind did. He
kicked and flailed his arms around once more, feeling he was running out of air
because of being so close. Fingers closed around his wrists, holding them down
onto the mattress, and John openly gasped for air as Dave seemed to push it all
out of him, their chests pressed together. Even through the layers of clothing,
John could feel the sharp shapes of Dave’s ribs. Everything was far too close.
John swallowed down a large breath, but before he could scream out, the sweaty
palm of Dave’s hand blocked the sound.
“Quiet.” There was no patience left in Dave’s voice, only an edge that spoke of
his frustrations. “Just― shut up. For one moment, shut up and let me speak. You
don’t fucking listen.” Ragged nails dug into John’s cheeks, harder with each
word passing Dave’s snarling lips. Inside those burning orbs of his eyes,
thoughts were spiraling, trying to make ends meet but the two points were too
far apart to make a connection just yet. “You need to calm down,” Dave tried by
saying. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
The nerves in John tensed up at the words, finding them bitter and ironic in
spite of his panicked state of mind. He could not gather his thoughts and wits
about him. The hand on his face was making it hard to breathe, and he took in
hard intakes of air through his nose instead, nostrils flaring as he willed
himself to meet Dave’s eyes. They burned him. John stopped his thrashing
around, but he did not stop moving; his chest heaved up and down in erratic
bursts, his veins were throbbing with the adrenaline pumping through him, and
the drumming of his heart was making his whole body shake. It was enough for
Dave to relent in his grip. He placed his hands on either side of John’s head
instead, towering above him, an impending weight. John struggled with breathing
just as much as he had done with Dave’s hand covering his mouth.
A silence stretched between them, filled out only by heavy panting and the city
life outside of the barred window. Sniffling took to taking up space in the
quiet, too. John’s eyes were watering, shining in the dark of the room, and his
lips quivered in his attempts at holding back. The fire in Dave’s eyes
softened, turning to embers.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dave said again. “As nice as this is, I know you too
well―” Another shudder went through John. “―to not question the sudden change
in behavior, y’know? That’d be straight up ignorant. Is it about... what we
talked about? Before I left?”
“Could we not talk about it?” John’s voice was weak, shaking as much as his
lips.
“You’re cryin’. There’s something that needs talking about.”
With his hands free, John reached them up almost hurriedly to wipe away the
tears from his eyes, pressing the heel of his hands to his face to clear his
view. For once, it helped. “No. No, it doesn’t. I don’t want to talk about shit
with someone who’s― I just don’t,” he choke out. “I just want to sleep.”
“John...”
Dave touched John’s cheek, but the softness of it was lost as John abruptly
shoved him off. He fell back on the bed, managing to not hit it flat by taking
for the fall with his arms. His patience was cut short several inches already,
and John’s resistance was chipping away at it still. The muscles in him tensed,
ready to shoot up and grab the other if he tried to bolt. But John only moved
to shy away beneath the covers once more. Dave said nothing, the air growing
heavy with silence again. Tipping himself over, he laid down next to John and
stared at the ceiling. The heat of the moment was leaving him, but the words
still unsaid clogged up his throat. He needed to get them out.
“Listen...” John did not even stir at Dave’s words. “I’ve said this times
before, and I don’t particularly like repeating like a broken record, but you
seem to forget it time and time again. This― All of this is to protect you.
Don’t you get that? People out there want you dead, as in six feet under kinda
dead. Or, well, that ain’t entirely true. I mean, people thinkyou’re dead. I
saw your funeral.”
John bristled beneath the covers, the fabric realigning in a different position
as he shifted. Dave’s words were unnecessary, but he dared not speak up, though
the idea of his own funeral had a nestling discomfort surface in him. He
wondered if he had been buried next to his father.
The pillow beneath his head was growing damp quickly with the tears sliding
down his cheeks, and he did not trust his own voice to mutter a single sound
without breaking. Gravity felt ten times more heavy, his body aching and
throbbing in places it should not, and his eyes were burning with a mean sting.
It was all too much; the pain, Dave, the things being told. It was all too much
to fit inside the small confines of his chest. There was barely even room for
his heart with how hard it was beating, testing the durability of his rib cage.
“It was real beautiful, y’know?” Dave continued by saying. “People were lining
the halls, taking up all the ―excuse my wording ― damn space in the church.
Flowers everywhere, people had to watch their feet to not trip over them. They
put your ashes―”
“My ashes?” John injected weakly.
“We burned your house.”
“Oh...”
“And a body inside of it. Almost like you. Same sex, height, age, weight. You
have no idea how hard it was to find, I mean, we don’t exactly got bodies at
our every disposal and especially not with such short notice, so we had to go
and pull some strings. And then them fucks of a police department didn’t even
bother to check, chalking it all up to being an acci―”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Alright...” A bit of disappointment came across Dave’s face. “But they put
what they thought to be your ashes inside this lil’ urn. I couldn’t get a good
look, granny was fuckin’ latched onto the thing like Rose to the board in the
Titanic, making no room for lil’ ol’ Jack here.” There was a pause, as if Dave
waited for a reaction to his movie reference. He knew how much John loved to
make them himself, but as all his efforts seemed to be going, it went
unappreciated.
“So many nice things were said, you know? Your grandmother held a speech.” The
weight on the bed shifted as Dave scooted closer, rolling onto his side and
lifting the covers a bit. John could feel the warmth of Dave’s hand just an
inch away from his back. “It was beautiful. Almost made me shed a tear, who
would’ve thought? Although... I wanted to correct her. She was wrong. She said
you liked cakes so much, you never said no when she offered you a cookie, but
we both know that ain’t true. You don’t like overtly sweet things, do you? I
know you don’t. You prefer the sour candies above the gummy bears, which,
admittedly, is where our paths don’t exactly follow the same trail. I mean, I’m
down for eating sugar straight outta the bag if given the chance, y’know?” 
Dave’s hand inched closer and spread its long, bony fingers across the back of
John’s shirt. A shudder went through John, but he stayed put, holding his
breath to keep from making even the smallest movement.
“Sounded to me like she didn’t know you too well at all. I’ve seen the way you
roll your eyes when she says how nice of a boy you are, never making a ruckus
when you’ve really been sent to the principal’s office more than you can count
on your own two hands. It’s the same look you give when your dad asks if you’ve
taken out the trash and you lie, sneaking it out behind his back later.”
The tears kept rolling down John’s cheeks, and snot began running from his
nose. He had to suppress another shudder as fingers brushed up and down his
back, following the curve of his spine from neck all the way down to his
tailbone. It had him forget about trying not to move. He shied away from the
touch, his body aching beneath the slightest pressure of Dave’s hand, even
though they were that much smaller and lighter than Bro’s. It happened only
hours ago, his skin was still made of shattered porcelain. A sniffle escaped
him, and it was just loud enough to stop Dave’s mouth from running again.
“John..?”
“I just want to sleep,” he whispered, voice muffled against his own hands as he
brought them up to wipe away the wetness of his eyes. “Stop talking.”
A shiver rippled through him when Dave’s fingers brushed against the hairs on
the back of his neck, the touch so delicate it was barely there. It did not
fit, something so gentle did not fit into the tale of horror John was living,
and he wanted it to stop. The care behind the action was not care at all, but
something twisted, broken, and rearranged into the shape of it, trying to seem
true but missing parts. John hunched his shoulders forward, back curving in on
itself to create a shield of a body. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he bit
down hard on his bottom lip to stop its constant quivering, and to block any
sound from leaving his throat. One sniffle had brought back the concern in
Dave’s voice. John knew it was better than the fury, but it was worse than the
one-sided conversations; they were far too intimate, and they got beneath his
skin like maggots in a corpse, eating all until there were only bones left.
Dave picked him apart, dissected him with his words.
“Stop talking...” John muttered from within the enclosure of his own limbs. He
had the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, and his shoulders were raised
high above his ears, his knees were drawn up to his chest, and even his toes
curled in on themselves. Dave could only touch the outside, and so he did. That
skeletal hand slid down from John’s neck and further down his arms, hesitating
before skipping a step and placing itself on John’s hip. The way Dave’s fingers
brushed against the waist of John’s pants was enough to have John almost roll
off of the bed, if only to get away from the touch.
But he had to pick a bed to sleep in. A deep, rumbling voice resounded within
his head, his skull throbbing with each repetitive word, and his body ached
alongside it. Between the two beds in the apartment, he knew which one he would
pick. It was the lesser of two evils, he told himself. It did not change the
fact that he felt a disgusting relief for being in Dave’s bed rather than
Bro’s. The relief alone rooted him to the spot, making it so he did not move
while unfamiliar hands kneaded gently into the pudge around his hips. The only
thing he could not handle was Dave’s voice.
“...Don’t you want to take off―”
“No. No― Just.” John paused, catching his breath. “Just let me have this.
Please.”
For once, Dave seemed to understand the term of boundaries, and he did not push
the subject of getting John out of his pants to make sure he did not get too
hot and sweaty during the night. He settled for having his hand on John’s hip,
thumb rubbing into the soft flesh beneath the fabric of John’s pants. That same
hand slid further into the center of John’s lower back, sliding up the line of
John’s spine but keeping his hands outside of the shirt the boy wore. The hand
kept wandering, finding its way around John’s middle. Dave did not pull, but he
scooted forward himself to the point where his chest was right up against
John’s back, John’s backside nestled just above Dave’s thighs. John laid there
perfectly, each inch of him measured to fit against Dave’s body.
Dave remembered how his hands had locked around John’s throat. It felt almost
the same to close his arms around the boy’s waist― his heart seemed to fit
better within his chest, beating harmoniously, and he liked to imagine their
hearts were drumming in tune. But John’s was still going just a few beats too
fast. Dave could let John have this, a moment’s peace. He could give that to
John.
Morning came and passed, the clock ticking until it struck midday. It was the
first time John stirred in his sleep, regretting it the moment he moved to
shift and get comfortable again. A sharp pain exploded from within his lower
back, running up his spine and rippling through him, pushing a groan past his
lips. Laying on his side had been a bad idea. Waking up was even an even worse
idea, and it did not even leave him with the choice of going back to sleep. The
sheets fell down from around his shoulders as he pushed his arms beneath
himself, raising up on his elbows, clearing one hurdle of getting up, but the
rest of his body was reluctant to follow. It hurt still, a lingering sting.
Deep breaths went through John, finding the courage to force the lower half of
his body into moving. He found the will to do it, and he grit his teeth
together in anticipation of pain, but it was wasted. Something long and heavy
was draped across his waist, keeping him on the bed. Glancing down, he saw pale
skin with subtle freckles dusted all over it, and a few nicks of scars that
looked strikingly white. It was Dave’s arm. John’s eyes followed the limb to
the body it was attached, and red met blue as their eyes crossed each other.
“G’morning,” Dave said in a groggy voice.
John made no reply, simply letting his gaze fall back on Dave’s arm. Dave made
no move to take it off, so John looked back up and down again. The hint finally
came across. With a sound only describable as disappointed, Dave untangled
himself from John, and the boy finally got to use the courage he had taken the
time to muster, pushing up and off the bed. Immediately, it was a wave of
discomfort in John. He willed himself through it, throwing both feet over the
edge of the bed and standing up on jello legs that threatened to give way
beneath him. He only had enough strength stored to make it to the bathroom,
barely getting the door closed behind him as he all but collapsed onto the
closed toilet seat. The air in his throat got thick suddenly, catching and
making it hard to breathe.
It was unexpected, hitting like a snow storm with a chill reaching to his bone
marrow, but in the privacy of his own space, realization hit him. And hard.
Though he had left his glasses by the bed, he could see the blurred image of
his legs shaking. The very same legs that had carried him from Bro’s room to
Dave’s, a sickening slickness running down the inside of his thighs, slipping
out of him and making him feel nauseous, evidence of his mistakes. The
cognizance of what had happened was a thought too big for his skull to hold. It
was pressing against the bone, making it throb, and he noticed his lungs
deflating uncomfortably on themselves. Panic was rising. Apparently, he was not
done with that yet.
Dave was right on the other side of the door, still in bed and unaware. John
bit down on his cheek to keep any unwanted noises from escaping him.
“Yo―” A loud knocking sounded against the door, snapping John out of his
trance. It was Dave’s voice. “Hurry up, man. You’ve been in there for, what?
Twenty minutes now? And I got yet to hear the toilet flush, so no offense,
but―”
”I’ll be out in a minute,” John rushed to say, knowing how shaky his voice
sounded but unable to do anything about it. He had not realized time had passed
so quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute. I just... I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Breakfast’s gon’ get cold.”
There was a hint of a joke in Dave’s words, but more than anything, there was
hesitation. John could see the door handle to the bathroom turn just slightly,
and no doubt did Dave have a hand on it. Swallowing around the lump in his
throat again, John spoke again. ”Breakfast is cold.”
“What about eggs and bacon? That ain’t cold.”
”There are eggs and bacon?”
”No.”
“Then why even― It’s not morning.”
“There’s a thing called brunch, lovely concept, really. Made for those who are
too embarrassed to admit they woke up too late to have breakfast within the
socially accepted breakfast-eating-interval, and―”
”I’ll be out in a minute, okay?”
It was an interruption. Dave wet his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching
at being denied to finish his sentences and be heard. The bluntness to John’s
voice had him appeased, though, and even if the warmth of John’s body had left
the bed awhile ago, it had still been nice. Sleeping side by side, time being
watered down to nothing but the beating of John’s pulse, and the quiet being
filled with the subtle sound of breathing. Dave hoped for more nights like that
to come.
“Alright. Just hurry, okay?” he mumbled, words barely making it through the
layer of the wooden door, but he heard a faint acknowledgment from John on the
other side. He let it be, soon leaving the bedroom altogether. They were taking
small steps. He could wait a little longer.
A little longer ticked away. Dave sat in the living room, eyes flickering to
the clock time and time again. John was nowhere to be seen, still in the
bedroom ― or worse yet, still in the bathroom, closing himself off to the world
― and Bro was not to be found, either. Dave had to wonder what had happened. He
had handled John with a mean hand, he knew, fingers having closed so tightly
around John’s neck was no doubt going to invoke a grudge. Temporary, hopefully.
Most likely. John had slept beside him, after all. That had to mean
forgiveness, for John to allow the very same hands that had bruised him to
touch him again. Dave’s chest swelled at the thought of having earned John’s
absolution. Even so, that pair of striking blue eyes had yet to show
themselves. It was getting worrisome.
Daylight was slipping away, evening suddenly right at their doorstep, and Dave
was still left to his own lonesome. It became apparent to him that John was
unlikely to come out of their bedroom, and his brother was not like to somehow
himself just yet either. It was not rare for the older man to disappear without
a word, only giving some form of clarity as to where he had gone once he was
back. When Dave had been but a child, the days he spent alone had been
frightening. Every sound was oh so loud and unfamiliar as he could not tell the
sound of a monster and a dripping faucet apart, all of it the same to him.
Years passed, and with each day, the empty apartment did not seem as big and
never ending. Still, it had felt like breathing for the first time the day Bro
had taken him outside of those enclosing walls. Even as he had come home with
blood on his hands at the age of ten, he was excited to go back out. To
experience and to learn, to see and to touch. To feel things he never had. It
was everything he had ever yearned for.
Or so he had thought, right until the moment he laid eyes on raven hair and
blue eyes, a smile that could stretch for miles and strike through hearts of
stone. A warmth and amity manifested in the form of a boy. In the form of John
Egbert.
Dave had not meant for it to happen, but John became familiarity to him.
Everywhere he went, there was John. Either steps ahead of him or immortalized
by photographs. But now he no longer had to stay a safe distance away, now the
safest thing was to be close, because if they were not close, it meant others
would be. And others could potentially hurt John. Dave would not let happen.
The thought was enough to get Dave to rise from his seat, but not enough to
make him certain of what to do. Every bit of him wanted to go to John, seek the
boy out and demand answers to the cluster of questions inside his head. Another
more levelheaded part of him disagreed with his wants, though, arguing that
John needed to come to him on his own. Patience is a virtue, they say.
Bullshit.
Dave walked to the kitchen, opening a cupboard that groaned after years of use
but no caring hand or maintenance. He grabbed a bowl from the shelf, closing
the cupboard after before reaching inside a drawer, pulling out a box of
cereal.  It was close to dinner time, after all. With a second thought, Dave
set out a second bowl, filling it with cereal, too. One glance inside of the
refrigerator, though, and he realized they needed one essential ingredient to
building the cuisine that was cereal. Dave pulled out his phone.
yo. we got ourselves one dry situation without any milk in the house
Is that supposed to be an attempt at getting me to buy milk?
it wouldnt be an attempt if you would just do it
I'm working.
and my cornflakes are like the saharan desert without any goddamn milk, so you
can stop by the grocery store on the way home
Let me rephrase. I’m working, as in I am currently elbow deep in some bastard’s
guts, and you’re here asking me to do the groceries. Want me to tell them I had
an accident in the soup aisle while browsing the diary section?
yeah
What the fuck is wrong with you?
i just want my milk, man. come on
Get it yourself.
i cant
Why?
i dont want to leave john alone
What are you, his mother?
shut up. hes just acting weird is all. i dont wanna leave him hanging like that
Get the milk yourself.
do you know what happened?
Kid's oversensitive. It’s a symptom of a chronic illness called “Being A Little
Bitch”.
bro im serious
So am I.
what happened while i was gone?
Did he sleep with you last night?
what? what the fuck kind of question is that? dude i asked you a question first
Did he sleep with you last night?
ugh. yes. why?
Good. I’ll be back before midnight.
bro what the fuck
After having sent that last text repeatedly and gaining no response, Dave gave
up. The two dry bowls of cereal were evidence of his defeat, as he doubted his
brother was like to get any milk. Even if he did, it would be far too late.
Dave waited, mustering up what little patience he could manage, and it proved
just enough. Or perhaps it was just that two hours later, he fell asleep, and
in dreams the concept of time does not apply.
When he woke, it was with a start. Eyes fluttered open reluctantly, glancing
around the room. He had wound up back in the seat by the dinner table, and on
the table in front of him were two bowls of cereal. And a carton of milk. Bro
was home. Like always, it was an air of relief that came over Dave, though it
was not as strong as it used to be. Just knowing that he was not alone soothed
him, and now with John, he never had to worry about that. Not really. Although
it felt lonelier than ever to have the two of them separated by the likes of a
door. A piece of wood made only to divide space, and though it was but a few
inches, the distance felt bigger.
Dave got up from his seat. The sound of the chair screeching against the floor
stirred the place, and in the hallway to the kitchen appeared Bro. The man’s
blond hair was damp, Dave could tell by the darkened color and shine to it, the
way it stuck to Bro’s forehead.
“How’d it go?” Dave asked. He got a shrug in reply, but Bro took steps forward
nonetheless, engaging without a word just yet. “Looks to me like it went messy.
You don’t usually shower before… What time is it?”
A finger tapped against the glass of the digital watch attached to Bro’s wrist,
and he came close enough for Dave to see the numbers as he passed by him to the
kitchen.
“02:17. Damn.”
“You best clean up the drool on the table where you napped, Sleeping Ugly,” Bro
mumbled as he strode to the fridge, reaching inside to scan through it. To his
discontent, he found little to nothing in there. “If you had the time to
sleep,” he continued while closing the fridge again. “You could’ve gone to get
milk yourself.”
“We’ve had this discussion before, you know why―”
“And you haven’t stopped bein’ a lil bitch since then, I see.”        
 “Bro, quit being an ass. C’mon. It’s been a long day.”
“Says the guy who’s been sittin’ on his flat rump for the whole longdamn day.
Some a’ us be out there workin’, whilst others knock their meat around here at
home.”
“I don’t fuckin’ knock my meat around—”
“Oh right, I forgot. Yer too busy throwin’ tantrums over nothin’ and storming
off like Cinderella at the strike of midnight. Don’t even realize your own
goddamn fairy godmother when she’s staring you right in the face.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dave barked back, temper rising. There was an
edge to both their voices; Dave’s from having just woken up, his vocal taught
and hoarse, and Bro from having just come back from work, worn out and
shortsighted. Dave groaned, turning so that he could lean his weight against
the kitchen counter. Not once did he turn his back on Bro in the process. He
faced the man full frontal with every move.
“It’s supposed to mean that you don’t damn well appreciate all the shit you’re
given.”
“You’re the fairy godmother?”
“I’mthe fairy godmother. Who else would I fuckin’ be, huh? I’m the one clothing
you, feeding you, giving you a place to sleep every night.”
“How did you know about that, anyways?”
Bro’s attention shifted at that, less focused on his own appetite and more on
what Dave was saying. By the furrow of his brow, he did not fully make the
connection between the words being said and Dave’s intentions. “ ‘xcuse me?
What’s that s‘pposed to mean?”
“How did you know that John slept with me last night?”
Dave did not get an answer to that aside from a shrug. Bro was already making
his way out of the kitchen before Dave had the chance to repeat his question,
but he was not about to let the man go without getting some clarification.
There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, something that told him
the truth was so painfully obvious he only had to open his eyes but a fraction.
Yet he continued to act a blind man.   
“Bro, what did you do?” Dave insisted, following right behind his brother’s
ankles. No response. “Bro,” he sneered. “What did you do?”  
Only then did Bro turn around, looking down upon Dave with a cold gaze behind
the lenses of his shades. Those amber eyes shined. Before disappearing into the
privacy of his own room, Bro gave Dave but a short answer; “Nothin’ you
wouldn’t have done.”
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