lord treavor pendleton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
loyalless) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
OPEN RP POST
send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.
[ It isn’t departing.
It isn’t severance; the press of Alice’s forehead assures this. And Alice wouldn’t leave him. Alice wouldn’t drop away or break off without warning, and didn’t they hold that kiss together, wasn’t that drift of kisses - brief and yet momentous, lasting-like-forever kisses - a giving they shared? Something they crafted together, so of course there’s no abrupt end, and even the end feels more like a shit into another moment, another phase. Not ending, but continuation.
And there’re those eyes watching him (perfect, perfect blue, when Treavor’s never given much of a shit about blue eyes or any color eyes before; Treavor can’t remember seeing blue eyes or remember anyone else’s eyes, at all, that shit’s never stuck with him, but Christ, he could picture Alice’s eyes from hours away in an instant), and doesn’t that smile feel intimately familiar, and doesn’t he love it on Alice’s face? Loves every expression on that perfect goddamn face, and he could kiss it again, maybe he will kiss Alice and Alice’s face again, but for now it’s enough to watch his guy, letting his sight trace every contour of that face, registering every shifting glow of gorgeous auburn hair.
Everything about this space is dire and lasting. Rare and perdurable.
And there’s gratitude between them, what feels like thanks offered to one another and to the so-often-bullshit circumstances that drew them here. A thanks for what finally united them; a thanks for this perfect, this uninterrupted afternoon.
It wouldn’t be possible with anyone else. The universe wouldn’t align for this peace with any other person.
And Treavor is smiling and shaking his head a little, Treavor knows his eyes are stinging but they were already burning, right, and how could he have known this would happen? That anyone - that this guy, who makes him feel so fucking good - could grace him with words like that?
A fact he’s known for years, maybe decades: He isn’t extraordinary. Well. An extraordinary disappointment, maybe. Everything in his life has shown it, everyone’s told him as much.
But even thinking that feels like an insult to Alice. Who would never bend truth or speak lies at Treavor. Who only offers what he knows. Who Treavor would trust with the whole of his life, and his heart and his soul.
And Treavor’s smiling, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, his expression largely overwhelmed and grateful. ]
I know how good you make me feel.
I know how wonderful you are, or I’m starting to get an idea.
You make me float, did you know that? When you say my name or look at me or…
I’ve never been kissed like that.
[ He cocks his head slightly, nods, eyes never leaving Alice’s, his focus linked with his guy’s. ]
You’re perfect.
[ And then - because he wants to; and then, lingering over the name— ]
Alice.
My Alice, best guy.
[ And his smile’s grown daft, wondering at that name and the irrefutable, assuring truth of the man before him. ]
You look at me, and everything changes.
[ And it's the best fucking thing in the world. ]
It isn’t severance; the press of Alice’s forehead assures this. And Alice wouldn’t leave him. Alice wouldn’t drop away or break off without warning, and didn’t they hold that kiss together, wasn’t that drift of kisses - brief and yet momentous, lasting-like-forever kisses - a giving they shared? Something they crafted together, so of course there’s no abrupt end, and even the end feels more like a shit into another moment, another phase. Not ending, but continuation.
And there’re those eyes watching him (perfect, perfect blue, when Treavor’s never given much of a shit about blue eyes or any color eyes before; Treavor can’t remember seeing blue eyes or remember anyone else’s eyes, at all, that shit’s never stuck with him, but Christ, he could picture Alice’s eyes from hours away in an instant), and doesn’t that smile feel intimately familiar, and doesn’t he love it on Alice’s face? Loves every expression on that perfect goddamn face, and he could kiss it again, maybe he will kiss Alice and Alice’s face again, but for now it’s enough to watch his guy, letting his sight trace every contour of that face, registering every shifting glow of gorgeous auburn hair.
Everything about this space is dire and lasting. Rare and perdurable.
And there’s gratitude between them, what feels like thanks offered to one another and to the so-often-bullshit circumstances that drew them here. A thanks for what finally united them; a thanks for this perfect, this uninterrupted afternoon.
It wouldn’t be possible with anyone else. The universe wouldn’t align for this peace with any other person.
And Treavor is smiling and shaking his head a little, Treavor knows his eyes are stinging but they were already burning, right, and how could he have known this would happen? That anyone - that this guy, who makes him feel so fucking good - could grace him with words like that?
A fact he’s known for years, maybe decades: He isn’t extraordinary. Well. An extraordinary disappointment, maybe. Everything in his life has shown it, everyone’s told him as much.
But even thinking that feels like an insult to Alice. Who would never bend truth or speak lies at Treavor. Who only offers what he knows. Who Treavor would trust with the whole of his life, and his heart and his soul.
And Treavor’s smiling, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, his expression largely overwhelmed and grateful. ]
I know how good you make me feel.
I know how wonderful you are, or I’m starting to get an idea.
You make me float, did you know that? When you say my name or look at me or…
I’ve never been kissed like that.
[ He cocks his head slightly, nods, eyes never leaving Alice’s, his focus linked with his guy’s. ]
You’re perfect.
[ And then - because he wants to; and then, lingering over the name— ]
Alice.
My Alice, best guy.
[ And his smile’s grown daft, wondering at that name and the irrefutable, assuring truth of the man before him. ]
You look at me, and everything changes.
[ And it's the best fucking thing in the world. ]
Edited 2020-11-15 19:35 (UTC)
[ The easy peace is creeping in again, and Alice lies near and aware of every part of himself as it exists in relation to and contact with Treavor.
The insistent beat of his pulse, throb of not-so-distant arousal, the contented warmth spilling through him like honey, and the flutter of elation. His arms shift and there's a boy (a man, Treavor, his, fuck, that's his someone, his person, his other, the-) still there, still wound inextricably with him. Legs tangled with legs, his hip against a pelvis and a hip against his pelvis (try not to focus long on that, on contact), stomach against his own, chest pressing and pressing and pressing his and they're breathing the same, but Alice can't recall trying to match Treavor's breathing.
(His body, that always felt too tall, too gangling, doesn't feel utterly out of place now beside a body from a similar mold, like clothes that fit well and not just well enough.
And he remembers the first morning, the thought of their similar but not the same hands, and how he had wondered if Treavor's would make his own beautiful. He wonders now if Treavor's form against his own makes him beautiful.
It makes him feel beautiful.)
It doesn't seem possible that there was someone so perfect all this time, who would fit so exactly against him. It seems extraordinary. It also seems impossibly natural.
Everything about Treavor has felt impossibly natural, from the moment Alice looked into his eyes on that harbor. He thinks he should tell him so, but Treavor is speaking, and Alice wants to heed him. He wants to give him every remaining energetic burst, every caress of fingertips - these, along his throat, his shoulder, his bared arm. He'd like to argue that he isn't perfect, that perfection is an unfair expectation, or maybe ascertain Treavor knows he means 'perfect for Treavor', and not to hold Alice up on some pedestal from which he's likely to fall.
But he says something else, and Alice freezes, stricken, his eyes seeking (night sky) (black water) (darkness behind starlight) Treavor's (and that's also perfect, neither up nor down but just there at his own eye level, always accessible should he need to fall into them again.)
My Alice, he said.
And without his safeguards. Without his walls. Here, high, on this perfect day, Alice looks across the space of an inch or two into the dark eyes of his other, his one (yes, that's -)
Treavor.
(Fuck.) (He's.)
Yeah. Yeah. He's the one.
And Alice thinks: It was always going to be you, wasn't it?
And thinks: Am I? Can I be?
He pauses time; it deserves pausing, and a kiss offered like a gift, pressed to Treavor's forehead.
He feels good. He feels good, and he doesn't think it's the weed. He doesn't think there's anything in the world that will make him feel as good as Treavor does, and that's something he wants to commit to memory. Something that needs to be spoken. ]
Nothing makes me feel like you do. If I look at you and make a change, it's because you alter the world for me. Make it brighter. Make it charming, and soft, and full of wonder.
That's important, Treavor. You're important to me. And - I can't promise it will be uncomplicated. But I think there's something here worth chasing.
[ He shifts a little, and his arm winds around the other man once more. Alice smiles again, though his voice lowers, and each speaks of something edging shy. ]
Worth revising my five-year plan.
[ His ten-year plan. His life plan. Fuck. ]
Because you - you say 'my Alice', and I find I quite like my name. And I. I'd like to be yours.
I'd like that.
The insistent beat of his pulse, throb of not-so-distant arousal, the contented warmth spilling through him like honey, and the flutter of elation. His arms shift and there's a boy (a man, Treavor, his, fuck, that's his someone, his person, his other, the-) still there, still wound inextricably with him. Legs tangled with legs, his hip against a pelvis and a hip against his pelvis (try not to focus long on that, on contact), stomach against his own, chest pressing and pressing and pressing his and they're breathing the same, but Alice can't recall trying to match Treavor's breathing.
(His body, that always felt too tall, too gangling, doesn't feel utterly out of place now beside a body from a similar mold, like clothes that fit well and not just well enough.
And he remembers the first morning, the thought of their similar but not the same hands, and how he had wondered if Treavor's would make his own beautiful. He wonders now if Treavor's form against his own makes him beautiful.
It makes him feel beautiful.)
It doesn't seem possible that there was someone so perfect all this time, who would fit so exactly against him. It seems extraordinary. It also seems impossibly natural.
Everything about Treavor has felt impossibly natural, from the moment Alice looked into his eyes on that harbor. He thinks he should tell him so, but Treavor is speaking, and Alice wants to heed him. He wants to give him every remaining energetic burst, every caress of fingertips - these, along his throat, his shoulder, his bared arm. He'd like to argue that he isn't perfect, that perfection is an unfair expectation, or maybe ascertain Treavor knows he means 'perfect for Treavor', and not to hold Alice up on some pedestal from which he's likely to fall.
But he says something else, and Alice freezes, stricken, his eyes seeking (night sky) (black water) (darkness behind starlight) Treavor's (and that's also perfect, neither up nor down but just there at his own eye level, always accessible should he need to fall into them again.)
My Alice, he said.
And without his safeguards. Without his walls. Here, high, on this perfect day, Alice looks across the space of an inch or two into the dark eyes of his other, his one (yes, that's -)
Treavor.
(Fuck.) (He's.)
Yeah. Yeah. He's the one.
And Alice thinks: It was always going to be you, wasn't it?
And thinks: Am I? Can I be?
He pauses time; it deserves pausing, and a kiss offered like a gift, pressed to Treavor's forehead.
He feels good. He feels good, and he doesn't think it's the weed. He doesn't think there's anything in the world that will make him feel as good as Treavor does, and that's something he wants to commit to memory. Something that needs to be spoken. ]
Nothing makes me feel like you do. If I look at you and make a change, it's because you alter the world for me. Make it brighter. Make it charming, and soft, and full of wonder.
That's important, Treavor. You're important to me. And - I can't promise it will be uncomplicated. But I think there's something here worth chasing.
[ He shifts a little, and his arm winds around the other man once more. Alice smiles again, though his voice lowers, and each speaks of something edging shy. ]
Worth revising my five-year plan.
[ His ten-year plan. His life plan. Fuck. ]
Because you - you say 'my Alice', and I find I quite like my name. And I. I'd like to be yours.
I'd like that.
[ A five-year plan.
If anyone else had mentioned it, Treavor might have laughed. Would have laughed. Because anyone who pieces out their future that way’s probably a stodgy sort of nerd who’s got no room for improvisation or fun (or a going-nowhere would-be-ruffian), and because setting out plans is a good way of calling down failure. Anyway, what’s the fun in a plan? And what’s the fucking point?
It’s what he’s declared time and again. What he said when he forfeited required classes for the sake of scattered electives; what he told himself when he quit attending half his classes, when he spent all his time with his camera or a revolving group of sort-of-friends at sort-of-parties. What he told Sheldon when Sheldon wouldn’t shut the fuck up about ‘hey but what’re you going to do anyway.’ What he told any date who asked, before he stopped attempting dates and stuck to hook-ups.
It’s what he told his family (in softer terms, often mumbled and half-lost) again and again, wishing they’d fuck off with their ‘now Treavor you need to do something’ bullshit, their ‘it needs to be a respectable something,’ their ‘if you had an ounce of spine you wouldn’t be back here in New York, taking jobs from our hands.’ (Eventually they did fuck off with that. Eventually a while ago, when it became clear he in fact wasn’t going to find a plan or make a plan or manage to stick to anything beyond the day-to-day of his not-really-job at his family’s firm.
It isn’t really better this way, with them resigned to his bottom-of-the-barrel place within their watch. But at least it means a little less griping from them.)
This is different, though, the way everything with Alice is different. Alice mentions a five-year plan, and Treavor glimpses a flash of meticulous calculations, of steps and maneuvers planned just-so. And what Treavor hears is Alice - painstaking in his designs, very nearly fussy (okay, maybe pretty actually kind of fussy) in everything he does - offering to open space for Treavor, to speak into possible being a possible future together.
Which is a brave thing and a generous thing to offer. Which sets Treavor surprised and smiling, attempting quiet encouragement even before he speaks. (The guy should knows that Treavor understands. That treavor doesn’t take his meaning lightly.)
(True, revising any plan around Treavor isn’t a good idea. Treavor’s a mess and he knows it, and he knows Alice should know it, and probably Alice does know it when the sun strikes a little less perfect and weed’s not a part of the equation.
Should he warn Alice? Maybe he should warn Alice. Or, no, why drag graveled details into this sun-struck afternoon? He’ll warn Alice another time, if he needs to. If Alice somehow hasn’t worked it out for himself.
And anyway. It strikes Treavor that he might like to live in this idea right now. Would like to curl himself in the thought that Alice might be inclined to make room for Treavor in his life.
It might not be so bad being part of a five-year plan. So long as that plan is Alice’s, and so long as it involves the two of them together.)
(Fuck, what would it be like to look ahead at anything beyond a roil of question marks and nothing?
What would it be like to look ahead every day, even on the darkest days, and see Alice waiting always, and Treavor rising to meet him, Treavor working day after day to meet him better, and prove worthy of this change of plans?)
This guy is wonderful.
Treavor’s guy is wonderful. ]
Hey, that’s good. Because I like your name a lot. It’s got a good sound. It conjures a great guy.
Really sticks with you.
[ It’s true he’d liked Alice’s name from day one, even if he hadn’t given the guy any kind of chance.
It’s true that since the day he awoke on Alice’s sofa, Treavor’s found himself reciting the name, relishing the name at odd moments, just to feel its form in his mouth and feel the world turned bright with his syllables.
And, speaking with appreciation, eyes slipping half-shut as he lingers in the sounds— ]
Alice.
[ That’s his thumb brushing Alice’s jawline, that’s his forefinger brushed the side of Alice’s face, deliberate and soft. That’s Treavor smiling warmly, reassuring, and yes, maybe smitter. ]
My Alice.
Definitely my Alice.
[ A small sigh, a nuzzle, and then he's seeking Alice's eyes again. ]
Complicated I can do. Complicated’s about all I know…
As long as it’s not too much for you.
[ A flash of concern, and his caress pauses, turns to a gentle hold. ]
I don’t want to make too much trouble for my best and only guy.
[ It feels good to say. Feels like relief and joy to think, the same way that hearing Alice call Treavor important thrilled him. ]
But hey, if you’re up for the challenge, I bet we can work it out.
[ A pause and a smile, a moment as he brushes his thumb along that jawline, then moves that thumb - his own thumb - to his lips, presses a kiss to his thumb, brushes his thumb at Alice’s jaw. And he cocks his head. ]
You’d really change your plan for me?
I don’t… I’m not big on planning, myself. But I’d like to be a part of yours. I’d like that a whole, whole lot.
If anyone else had mentioned it, Treavor might have laughed. Would have laughed. Because anyone who pieces out their future that way’s probably a stodgy sort of nerd who’s got no room for improvisation or fun (or a going-nowhere would-be-ruffian), and because setting out plans is a good way of calling down failure. Anyway, what’s the fun in a plan? And what’s the fucking point?
It’s what he’s declared time and again. What he said when he forfeited required classes for the sake of scattered electives; what he told himself when he quit attending half his classes, when he spent all his time with his camera or a revolving group of sort-of-friends at sort-of-parties. What he told Sheldon when Sheldon wouldn’t shut the fuck up about ‘hey but what’re you going to do anyway.’ What he told any date who asked, before he stopped attempting dates and stuck to hook-ups.
It’s what he told his family (in softer terms, often mumbled and half-lost) again and again, wishing they’d fuck off with their ‘now Treavor you need to do something’ bullshit, their ‘it needs to be a respectable something,’ their ‘if you had an ounce of spine you wouldn’t be back here in New York, taking jobs from our hands.’ (Eventually they did fuck off with that. Eventually a while ago, when it became clear he in fact wasn’t going to find a plan or make a plan or manage to stick to anything beyond the day-to-day of his not-really-job at his family’s firm.
It isn’t really better this way, with them resigned to his bottom-of-the-barrel place within their watch. But at least it means a little less griping from them.)
This is different, though, the way everything with Alice is different. Alice mentions a five-year plan, and Treavor glimpses a flash of meticulous calculations, of steps and maneuvers planned just-so. And what Treavor hears is Alice - painstaking in his designs, very nearly fussy (okay, maybe pretty actually kind of fussy) in everything he does - offering to open space for Treavor, to speak into possible being a possible future together.
Which is a brave thing and a generous thing to offer. Which sets Treavor surprised and smiling, attempting quiet encouragement even before he speaks. (The guy should knows that Treavor understands. That treavor doesn’t take his meaning lightly.)
(True, revising any plan around Treavor isn’t a good idea. Treavor’s a mess and he knows it, and he knows Alice should know it, and probably Alice does know it when the sun strikes a little less perfect and weed’s not a part of the equation.
Should he warn Alice? Maybe he should warn Alice. Or, no, why drag graveled details into this sun-struck afternoon? He’ll warn Alice another time, if he needs to. If Alice somehow hasn’t worked it out for himself.
And anyway. It strikes Treavor that he might like to live in this idea right now. Would like to curl himself in the thought that Alice might be inclined to make room for Treavor in his life.
It might not be so bad being part of a five-year plan. So long as that plan is Alice’s, and so long as it involves the two of them together.)
(Fuck, what would it be like to look ahead at anything beyond a roil of question marks and nothing?
What would it be like to look ahead every day, even on the darkest days, and see Alice waiting always, and Treavor rising to meet him, Treavor working day after day to meet him better, and prove worthy of this change of plans?)
This guy is wonderful.
Treavor’s guy is wonderful. ]
Hey, that’s good. Because I like your name a lot. It’s got a good sound. It conjures a great guy.
Really sticks with you.
[ It’s true he’d liked Alice’s name from day one, even if he hadn’t given the guy any kind of chance.
It’s true that since the day he awoke on Alice’s sofa, Treavor’s found himself reciting the name, relishing the name at odd moments, just to feel its form in his mouth and feel the world turned bright with his syllables.
And, speaking with appreciation, eyes slipping half-shut as he lingers in the sounds— ]
Alice.
[ That’s his thumb brushing Alice’s jawline, that’s his forefinger brushed the side of Alice’s face, deliberate and soft. That’s Treavor smiling warmly, reassuring, and yes, maybe smitter. ]
My Alice.
Definitely my Alice.
[ A small sigh, a nuzzle, and then he's seeking Alice's eyes again. ]
Complicated I can do. Complicated’s about all I know…
As long as it’s not too much for you.
[ A flash of concern, and his caress pauses, turns to a gentle hold. ]
I don’t want to make too much trouble for my best and only guy.
[ It feels good to say. Feels like relief and joy to think, the same way that hearing Alice call Treavor important thrilled him. ]
But hey, if you’re up for the challenge, I bet we can work it out.
[ A pause and a smile, a moment as he brushes his thumb along that jawline, then moves that thumb - his own thumb - to his lips, presses a kiss to his thumb, brushes his thumb at Alice’s jaw. And he cocks his head. ]
You’d really change your plan for me?
I don’t… I’m not big on planning, myself. But I’d like to be a part of yours. I’d like that a whole, whole lot.
Edited 2020-11-15 22:58 (UTC)
[ It's not easy to hold a coherent thought in his head, between the lethargic tug of the weed and the caresses lavished on him. (This is heaven, he thinks again. This is ecstasy.) His skin lights brilliant beneath Treavor's touch, his neck arches to allow the nuzzle (beg for it) (invite more and more), and there's a gasp of air and a huffed laugh.
(People routinely ask to touch his fucking beard like it's a pet he's carrying around. And some people don't ask at all, just dive right in, Alice snapping What the fuck?! and throwing a hand up to knock the intruder off his face, and oh, okay, he's the crazy one. It isn't that he minds people touching his beard - if he minded, he'd shave it off.
The same story for his hair. People (women, why is it always women?) want to play with it like he's a Barbie doll, and sometimes he'll sit and let them braid it with his eyes rolled and his mouth set in grim irritation, sure. People (men) want to pull on it while fucking.
Sure. All right.
If he minded, he'd cut it off.
He doesn't mind.
But it does nothing for him.
It. Did nothing for him.
This does something for him. How Treavor had his hand wound in Alice's hair, not pulling, not knotted or yanking. Treavor's thumb with the memory of a kiss on its pad, Treavor's every perfect touch leaves him shaken.
(There's something niggling at him, gnawing at the edges of his pleasure.)
He wants to guide Treavor's hand over every part of himself, echo every touch he ever endured with passive disinterest. He wants to know how easily he can be sundered now, can bow into a palm against his chest, into the coaxing of a fingertip at his throat.
(Something Treavor said, about.)
He wants to melt, and kiss some more, and maybe Treavor will let him gently - gently! - catch his lower lip between his teeth.
All of this, because today is lovely, and he's definitely verging towards stoned now that his heart is starting to calm itself down - and they're together, finally together, and Treavor is the One.
(That's it. The thing Treavor said.)
Alice reaches up, seeks Treavor's hand with his own and pulls it down, out of distraction range, and hums a sound: a man trying to shake off thrall, even if his eyes still track Treavor's. He said.
He said. I don't want to make too much trouble.
Alice's smile fades as the entirety of meaning sinks in, as his heart shatters down the center. (The desires, the lethargy, the dizzied warmth notions recede, and the world clarifies a little; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes they could have held in that perfect sphere of softness just a little longer, but Treavor thinks Alice meant he's the complication, and that's gutting.
And Treavor doesn't understand, but needs to know, that Alice is the complication. And that's gutting, too.)
Softly, he manages: ]
Bunny.
[ As if to say, No, you've got it all wrong.
Or, How could you think that I meant you.
Or, Do you know how much I adore you. You wonder. You startling miracle.
He relinquishes the hand in favor of stroking his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, and then offering a cupped palm against his cheek. ]
I'm the complication.
[ He pauses, considering. Treavor drinks. Heavily. And that's a complication, and it's trouble, and it's something they need to deal with. Eventually.
But what he's bringing to Treavor's door is worse, isn't it? ]
I can't be out. [ He didn't mean to blurt that, even quietly, even with the pain lurking in his throat, so hurriedly, he adds: ] Not yet. But if you can bear with me. Wait for me to pass the bar -
[ Treavor knows, he remembers, that his life is handed to him. He also remembers telling Treavor the reason for the internship was to get out from under his father's financial hold.
He shouldn't have pressed this forward. He shouldn't have kissed Treavor. And he shouldn't be so frightened now of what could happen, of the absence of a safety net, of the lack of money.
But he's young. And he's terrified of all the walls and pyres that exist beyond his line of sight.
...And despite that. Despite that. He'd take this small risk, because Treavor is something worth chasing. Alice's eyes hold all that longing; if he can reach the finish line, then maybe. Maybe Treavor is what he can have.
Bar. Junior partnership. Treavor. The five-month plan. Three, if he pushes. Fuck. He'll push. For Treavor, he'll push. ]
Could you give me a few months of 'complicated'? Please, I.
[ It occurs to him belatedly that Treavor could very well say 'no'. He'd be right to say 'no'. There's no reason why Treavor should accommodate this unreasonable cowardice, this spinelessness, this.
He closes his eyes, holding on a moment longer to the nearness of the body against him, his hand slipping to Treavor's shoulder. And in the space between what he said and what Treavor will say, before there's an ending or a continuing, wreckage or relief, he shoves aside everything else, keeping only the warmth of a body, and the sound of blues from his phone, and the sunlight, and the smell of plants and weed and Treavor and himself, and the subtle sway of the hammock.
Just one more heartbeat of it, where the heart keeping time was in love, and he was smart enough to commit that to memory. ]
(People routinely ask to touch his fucking beard like it's a pet he's carrying around. And some people don't ask at all, just dive right in, Alice snapping What the fuck?! and throwing a hand up to knock the intruder off his face, and oh, okay, he's the crazy one. It isn't that he minds people touching his beard - if he minded, he'd shave it off.
The same story for his hair. People (women, why is it always women?) want to play with it like he's a Barbie doll, and sometimes he'll sit and let them braid it with his eyes rolled and his mouth set in grim irritation, sure. People (men) want to pull on it while fucking.
Sure. All right.
If he minded, he'd cut it off.
He doesn't mind.
But it does nothing for him.
It. Did nothing for him.
This does something for him. How Treavor had his hand wound in Alice's hair, not pulling, not knotted or yanking. Treavor's thumb with the memory of a kiss on its pad, Treavor's every perfect touch leaves him shaken.
(There's something niggling at him, gnawing at the edges of his pleasure.)
He wants to guide Treavor's hand over every part of himself, echo every touch he ever endured with passive disinterest. He wants to know how easily he can be sundered now, can bow into a palm against his chest, into the coaxing of a fingertip at his throat.
(Something Treavor said, about.)
He wants to melt, and kiss some more, and maybe Treavor will let him gently - gently! - catch his lower lip between his teeth.
All of this, because today is lovely, and he's definitely verging towards stoned now that his heart is starting to calm itself down - and they're together, finally together, and Treavor is the One.
(That's it. The thing Treavor said.)
Alice reaches up, seeks Treavor's hand with his own and pulls it down, out of distraction range, and hums a sound: a man trying to shake off thrall, even if his eyes still track Treavor's. He said.
He said. I don't want to make too much trouble.
Alice's smile fades as the entirety of meaning sinks in, as his heart shatters down the center. (The desires, the lethargy, the dizzied warmth notions recede, and the world clarifies a little; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes they could have held in that perfect sphere of softness just a little longer, but Treavor thinks Alice meant he's the complication, and that's gutting.
And Treavor doesn't understand, but needs to know, that Alice is the complication. And that's gutting, too.)
Softly, he manages: ]
Bunny.
[ As if to say, No, you've got it all wrong.
Or, How could you think that I meant you.
Or, Do you know how much I adore you. You wonder. You startling miracle.
He relinquishes the hand in favor of stroking his fingertips along Treavor's hairline, and then offering a cupped palm against his cheek. ]
I'm the complication.
[ He pauses, considering. Treavor drinks. Heavily. And that's a complication, and it's trouble, and it's something they need to deal with. Eventually.
But what he's bringing to Treavor's door is worse, isn't it? ]
I can't be out. [ He didn't mean to blurt that, even quietly, even with the pain lurking in his throat, so hurriedly, he adds: ] Not yet. But if you can bear with me. Wait for me to pass the bar -
[ Treavor knows, he remembers, that his life is handed to him. He also remembers telling Treavor the reason for the internship was to get out from under his father's financial hold.
He shouldn't have pressed this forward. He shouldn't have kissed Treavor. And he shouldn't be so frightened now of what could happen, of the absence of a safety net, of the lack of money.
But he's young. And he's terrified of all the walls and pyres that exist beyond his line of sight.
...And despite that. Despite that. He'd take this small risk, because Treavor is something worth chasing. Alice's eyes hold all that longing; if he can reach the finish line, then maybe. Maybe Treavor is what he can have.
Bar. Junior partnership. Treavor. The five-month plan. Three, if he pushes. Fuck. He'll push. For Treavor, he'll push. ]
Could you give me a few months of 'complicated'? Please, I.
[ It occurs to him belatedly that Treavor could very well say 'no'. He'd be right to say 'no'. There's no reason why Treavor should accommodate this unreasonable cowardice, this spinelessness, this.
He closes his eyes, holding on a moment longer to the nearness of the body against him, his hand slipping to Treavor's shoulder. And in the space between what he said and what Treavor will say, before there's an ending or a continuing, wreckage or relief, he shoves aside everything else, keeping only the warmth of a body, and the sound of blues from his phone, and the sunlight, and the smell of plants and weed and Treavor and himself, and the subtle sway of the hammock.
Just one more heartbeat of it, where the heart keeping time was in love, and he was smart enough to commit that to memory. ]
[ Oh. No. Oh no, what did… What happened?
Treavor doesn’t know where the fade came from, or how to ease that smile back.
Or. Alice doesn’t want that ease right now. Alice is telling him something in that hum, in the way he’s taken Treavor’s hand. Not tearing away Treavor’s touch, but asking for a moment, a pause. A space to let in some unknown word or thought or subject, and if there’s anything Alice needs to address, Treavor won’t bar him. Will only watch quietly, making certain his eyes never waver, making certain Alice knows Treavor’s here no matter what.
He wants, he badly wants Alice to feel safeguarded and bolstered. Wants Alice to feel even a part of the security that Treavor feels when this guy holds him, brushes against him, heeds any word he says.
It means something that Treavor finds himself at a precipice, not knowing the shape of the could-be-trouble ahead and yet not flinching away, not trying to bat off the inevitable, not shrinking inside even a little. This is a wherewithal he rarely finds. A strength granted by the man who holds his hand with such care, who looks at if his heart’s been wrenched.
And Treavor wants to fix it.
And Treavor has to wait. Listen. (And if what Alice has to say is hard to hear, he’ll listen anyway, and register its every tone.)
So he keeps his quiet, expression carefully attentive, trying not to show worry (he can’t help a little bit of worry; Alice looks so stricken), doing his best not to impose or do more than curl his fingers just slightly, so slightly against Alice’s hand.
(And Alice calls him ’Bunny.’ Only ‘Bunny,’ and Treavor loves the sound of it, how he could be, how he is Alice’s bunny.
At the same time, Alice calls him ‘Bunny,’ and the word seems stark, alone; a correction with a note of sorrow, and again Treavor wants to reach out, hold his hand over Alice’s heart and offer healing.)
Hard not to melt into the drift of those fingers at his hair; impossible to wholly muffle a choked sound at Alice’s words: ’I’m the complication.’ Words fired with pains Treavor doesn’t know the outlines of. Words that ache to hear, because what Treavor reads in those words is blame, is a bearing down beneath some burden this man should never need to take alone.
Treavor tries to be still, but his hand moves to Alice’s cheek, offering quiet, quiet caresses in kind. (He can’t let Alice hang there without succor of some kind. He can’t watch Alice suffer distant. He won’t.) And he hears Alice’s words (and he hates the history they whisper, everything that’s conspired to leave Alice severed from so much, everything that means Alice has to hide (it’s his father, isn’t it? or his father’s part of it; Alice said something about, about wanting to break away, support himself, and maybe this is why, okay, okay, it sucks, fuck Alice’s dad if that’s what it is, but it’ll be okay, Treavor’ll help make sure Alice gets through things okay). His poor fucking guy. His poor fucking guy, who’s go so much shit at his shoulders.
Treavor wraps his arms around Alice, tight, tighter. Speaks softly— ]
It’s okay.
[ And then just holds Alice, nudging at his head, his hand stroking steady assurance at Alice’s neck.
This goddamn guy’s carrying too much. Treavor’s poor fuckin, beautiful goddamn guy. ]
Alice, hey. That’s not so bad. It’s not even that complicated. Not for me.
[ He traces a thumb from Alice’s temple to his cheek. Nudges the guy’s head again, hums a little lilting sound and places a light, light kiss against Alice’s hair. ]
I’d take a few years of complicated if you wanted it. Needed it.
[ Another kiss to the head. ]
There’s no rush, okay guy? As long as I’m here with you and you’re with me. You don’t have to worry.
[ Nudge, nudge. ]
Actually if you could tamp down the worry, that’d be pretty great. You’ve got enough shit to deal with without wondering if I… Hey. I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll take complicated with you over easy trails without you, you know? Any day of any month of any year.
That’s a Treavor Pendleton promise.
[ If Alice allows, he’ll take Alice’s hand carefully, almost deftly, and kiss the back of it once, then again, seeking Alice’s eyes after. ]
And I’m not gonna rush you. I don’t want to rush you.
I’ve got my Alice. That’s all that matters. Me and my beautiful guy.
A beautiful goddamn guy and his Bunny.
Treavor doesn’t know where the fade came from, or how to ease that smile back.
Or. Alice doesn’t want that ease right now. Alice is telling him something in that hum, in the way he’s taken Treavor’s hand. Not tearing away Treavor’s touch, but asking for a moment, a pause. A space to let in some unknown word or thought or subject, and if there’s anything Alice needs to address, Treavor won’t bar him. Will only watch quietly, making certain his eyes never waver, making certain Alice knows Treavor’s here no matter what.
He wants, he badly wants Alice to feel safeguarded and bolstered. Wants Alice to feel even a part of the security that Treavor feels when this guy holds him, brushes against him, heeds any word he says.
It means something that Treavor finds himself at a precipice, not knowing the shape of the could-be-trouble ahead and yet not flinching away, not trying to bat off the inevitable, not shrinking inside even a little. This is a wherewithal he rarely finds. A strength granted by the man who holds his hand with such care, who looks at if his heart’s been wrenched.
And Treavor wants to fix it.
And Treavor has to wait. Listen. (And if what Alice has to say is hard to hear, he’ll listen anyway, and register its every tone.)
So he keeps his quiet, expression carefully attentive, trying not to show worry (he can’t help a little bit of worry; Alice looks so stricken), doing his best not to impose or do more than curl his fingers just slightly, so slightly against Alice’s hand.
(And Alice calls him ’Bunny.’ Only ‘Bunny,’ and Treavor loves the sound of it, how he could be, how he is Alice’s bunny.
At the same time, Alice calls him ‘Bunny,’ and the word seems stark, alone; a correction with a note of sorrow, and again Treavor wants to reach out, hold his hand over Alice’s heart and offer healing.)
Hard not to melt into the drift of those fingers at his hair; impossible to wholly muffle a choked sound at Alice’s words: ’I’m the complication.’ Words fired with pains Treavor doesn’t know the outlines of. Words that ache to hear, because what Treavor reads in those words is blame, is a bearing down beneath some burden this man should never need to take alone.
Treavor tries to be still, but his hand moves to Alice’s cheek, offering quiet, quiet caresses in kind. (He can’t let Alice hang there without succor of some kind. He can’t watch Alice suffer distant. He won’t.) And he hears Alice’s words (and he hates the history they whisper, everything that’s conspired to leave Alice severed from so much, everything that means Alice has to hide (it’s his father, isn’t it? or his father’s part of it; Alice said something about, about wanting to break away, support himself, and maybe this is why, okay, okay, it sucks, fuck Alice’s dad if that’s what it is, but it’ll be okay, Treavor’ll help make sure Alice gets through things okay). His poor fucking guy. His poor fucking guy, who’s go so much shit at his shoulders.
Treavor wraps his arms around Alice, tight, tighter. Speaks softly— ]
It’s okay.
[ And then just holds Alice, nudging at his head, his hand stroking steady assurance at Alice’s neck.
This goddamn guy’s carrying too much. Treavor’s poor fuckin, beautiful goddamn guy. ]
Alice, hey. That’s not so bad. It’s not even that complicated. Not for me.
[ He traces a thumb from Alice’s temple to his cheek. Nudges the guy’s head again, hums a little lilting sound and places a light, light kiss against Alice’s hair. ]
I’d take a few years of complicated if you wanted it. Needed it.
[ Another kiss to the head. ]
There’s no rush, okay guy? As long as I’m here with you and you’re with me. You don’t have to worry.
[ Nudge, nudge. ]
Actually if you could tamp down the worry, that’d be pretty great. You’ve got enough shit to deal with without wondering if I… Hey. I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll take complicated with you over easy trails without you, you know? Any day of any month of any year.
That’s a Treavor Pendleton promise.
[ If Alice allows, he’ll take Alice’s hand carefully, almost deftly, and kiss the back of it once, then again, seeking Alice’s eyes after. ]
And I’m not gonna rush you. I don’t want to rush you.
I’ve got my Alice. That’s all that matters. Me and my beautiful guy.
A beautiful goddamn guy and his Bunny.
Edited 2020-11-16 02:11 (UTC)
From the airport to the cab; from the cab to Darius fucking can’t keep his glomming hands to his putrid fucking self fucking Scarlett’s fucking door.
Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.
He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.
—Or not.
Or not, because there’s been a complication.
A mistake.
Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.
What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—
Morgan is furious.
Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.
The boy can’t stay there.
And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.
He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”
If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.
Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.
He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.
—Or not.
Or not, because there’s been a complication.
A mistake.
Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.
What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—
Morgan is furious.
Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.
The boy can’t stay there.
And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.
He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”
If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.
With tented fingers to his chest and an increasingly familiar, approving smile, Darius told him to stay. Enri lay sprawled and stretching contentedly in bed, satiated and thinking happily of nothing at all, because Daddy has everything under control. Daddy's stepping out onto the luxurious patio to make a phone call; dimly, now, Enri can hear him swearing at someone for interrupting their time together, and all is right with the world.
This new, unimagined world, where his mind is pleasantly, perpetually hazed. Where he, body and heart and soul, exists at the whim of his god outside of time, outside of any obligation but the demands Daddy sets for him.
There are aches. There's subtle strain and the sting of bites across his skin, and Daddy is with him, written in bruises, speaking in dim flickering pain. (Enri has never minded pain.) (He loves it now.) There are aches, but they don't matter at all. Nothing matters except Daddy, and what Daddy does to Puppy.
(The bruises on Daddy's throat. What Puppy does to Daddy matters, too.)
A curl of pleasure in his abdomen draws a bowed-back stretch and a warm bass hum from him. He wants more. (Darius.) (His Darius.) ((The things they did, how they made the night pass through shadows of forest and bright lit inferno. How they pressed body to body.
How the balmy night air felt on the bare skin of his shoulders, when they dressed and left the chapel and strolled, lingered on dunes by the water. The world was empty of anyone else, an expanse of water and star-shot sky, and they were gods together. And here, in this room (their room), Darius claimed him over and over. Bit and whispered and did - things. Nameless things. Incredible things, turning Enri inside out, playing Enri like an orchestra until he sang.
Howled.
And begged for more.
And called him my adoration. Traded (for now, for this time, for a week) heart for heart.
He has never been as happy as he is here, with Darius. And nothing else matters.))
He's reaching for his phone, thinking maybe he'll interrupt whatever Daddy's got going out there, when the room shudders with the heavy vibration of a fist at the door.
And Enri shudders to stillness with the heavy vibration of a fist in the form of his name.
(He knows the difference between the twins.) (He knows what Morgan sounds like.) (He has only heard him rage once, in twenty-two years.)
The mental haze recedes slightly, enough for panic to set in. Enough for him to mouth fuck and look at the door leading outside - not to see if Daddy (no no no no DARIUS it has to be Darius can't say Daddy can't even think it) Darius is coming to his rescue, but to make sure he stays there, out of sight, out of range. And then he scrambles out of bed in a wild flurry of bare limbs, hunting for clothes. (An immediate wash of guilt, sudden and swift and sure: he shouldn't have moved. Daddy said stay.) Finding his jeans under the bed and kicking into them, thinking I need to move, need to be fast alongside I need to stay, I'm supposed to stay -
(He needs a shirt.)
(No, he needs to get back in bed.)
Because if he's not fast.
(He can't let them see the bites.) (The bruises.) (They'll know.)
(Daddy said stay, he need to go back to bed before Daddy catches him disobeying.)
If he doesn't get to the door.
(Where the fuck is his shirt?!)
(He can't do this, this is wrong, Daddy said stay-)
Morgan is going to bust it the fuck down.
This new, unimagined world, where his mind is pleasantly, perpetually hazed. Where he, body and heart and soul, exists at the whim of his god outside of time, outside of any obligation but the demands Daddy sets for him.
There are aches. There's subtle strain and the sting of bites across his skin, and Daddy is with him, written in bruises, speaking in dim flickering pain. (Enri has never minded pain.) (He loves it now.) There are aches, but they don't matter at all. Nothing matters except Daddy, and what Daddy does to Puppy.
(The bruises on Daddy's throat. What Puppy does to Daddy matters, too.)
A curl of pleasure in his abdomen draws a bowed-back stretch and a warm bass hum from him. He wants more. (Darius.) (His Darius.) ((The things they did, how they made the night pass through shadows of forest and bright lit inferno. How they pressed body to body.
How the balmy night air felt on the bare skin of his shoulders, when they dressed and left the chapel and strolled, lingered on dunes by the water. The world was empty of anyone else, an expanse of water and star-shot sky, and they were gods together. And here, in this room (their room), Darius claimed him over and over. Bit and whispered and did - things. Nameless things. Incredible things, turning Enri inside out, playing Enri like an orchestra until he sang.
Howled.
And begged for more.
And called him my adoration. Traded (for now, for this time, for a week) heart for heart.
He has never been as happy as he is here, with Darius. And nothing else matters.))
He's reaching for his phone, thinking maybe he'll interrupt whatever Daddy's got going out there, when the room shudders with the heavy vibration of a fist at the door.
And Enri shudders to stillness with the heavy vibration of a fist in the form of his name.
(He knows the difference between the twins.) (He knows what Morgan sounds like.) (He has only heard him rage once, in twenty-two years.)
The mental haze recedes slightly, enough for panic to set in. Enough for him to mouth fuck and look at the door leading outside - not to see if Daddy (no no no no DARIUS it has to be Darius can't say Daddy can't even think it) Darius is coming to his rescue, but to make sure he stays there, out of sight, out of range. And then he scrambles out of bed in a wild flurry of bare limbs, hunting for clothes. (An immediate wash of guilt, sudden and swift and sure: he shouldn't have moved. Daddy said stay.) Finding his jeans under the bed and kicking into them, thinking I need to move, need to be fast alongside I need to stay, I'm supposed to stay -
(He needs a shirt.)
(No, he needs to get back in bed.)
Because if he's not fast.
(He can't let them see the bites.) (The bruises.) (They'll know.)
(Daddy said stay, he need to go back to bed before Daddy catches him disobeying.)
If he doesn't get to the door.
(Where the fuck is his shirt?!)
(He can't do this, this is wrong, Daddy said stay-)
Morgan is going to bust it the fuck down.
Edited 2021-04-07 00:30 (UTC)
Five, six, seven seconds, his breath a burning seethe.
Ten seconds, eleven, head clearing to coruscating blankness. Weight shifting to his back heel, shoulders gathered, hands stilling.
Fifteen seconds strikes sudden: Morgan’s heel connecting below the lock with a sound of splinters giving way. One more kick cracks gunshot-raucous through the hallway, and Morgan’s hand shoots through the shattered frame to draw the handle - catching at a clutch of jagged wood, skin tearing with a scent of fresh iron - and rip the door open.
Nothing now stands between Morgan and the room. Three steps in, and he catches sight of (their son) (Enri) the boy ((half-clothed)) ((panicked)) ((bruised and bitten)) ((exposed)). Fixes his eyes on Enri and listens, senses, finds no sign of Scarlett. (Fucking coward. Fucking self-satisfied rot. Expecting to return and continue what he’s wrought.)
Morgan’s fist curls.
Morgan breathes.
And Morgan speaks, voice resonant, growled at the edges and crashing loud.
“Enri. Now.”
Meaning, 'We're leaving.'
Meaning, 'This ends right now.'
Ten seconds, eleven, head clearing to coruscating blankness. Weight shifting to his back heel, shoulders gathered, hands stilling.
Fifteen seconds strikes sudden: Morgan’s heel connecting below the lock with a sound of splinters giving way. One more kick cracks gunshot-raucous through the hallway, and Morgan’s hand shoots through the shattered frame to draw the handle - catching at a clutch of jagged wood, skin tearing with a scent of fresh iron - and rip the door open.
Nothing now stands between Morgan and the room. Three steps in, and he catches sight of (their son) (Enri) the boy ((half-clothed)) ((panicked)) ((bruised and bitten)) ((exposed)). Fixes his eyes on Enri and listens, senses, finds no sign of Scarlett. (Fucking coward. Fucking self-satisfied rot. Expecting to return and continue what he’s wrought.)
Morgan’s fist curls.
Morgan breathes.
And Morgan speaks, voice resonant, growled at the edges and crashing loud.
“Enri. Now.”
Meaning, 'We're leaving.'
Meaning, 'This ends right now.'
The silence after the shatter. Enri standing, staring not quite like a deer in headlights (if the deer can shift, can make itself a wolf and flicker back again, dual forms of terror and anger.)
A single, outraged thought: He has no right. (Swiftly following: He has every right.) (Does he?) (No one has a right to come between him and his Da-(Darius!)) (His god. His world.) He blinks away the deluge of thoughts, his brows knitting.
The command hits like a blow and he visibly recoils from his confusion (from Morgan), lips drawn back from his teeth and fists clenching (he knows not to attack this man his father Morgan who is stronger who can be cruel who has never been cruel to him but he possesses capacity he is dangerous) (he has no right, he has no fucking right to give orders like Enri is a wayward child (a puppy.))
There were times during their visits to Iowa when Morgan would issue a command, and of course. Of course Enri obeyed. Even when Felix turned sour-faced, and argumentative, Enri (desperate to please Morgan) (hoping this time it would mean they'd stay, or take the boys with them) obeyed. (It was always after, as they were leaving, that he threw his worst tantrums. That he broke furniture, threw stones, once ran himself at the car taking his parents from him. He had believed that the Best Behavior would somehow change their minds.
He was always disappointed.)
He always obeyed.
He doesn't obey now.
His expression bears kin-familiar malevolence, accusation, defiance. ((They abandoned him)) ((Daddy didn't abandon him.)) ((Only Daddy can tell him what to do.) (Daddy told him to stay and he didn't stay and he's going to be so disapproving, so unhappy with his Puppy.)) (Darius, he needs Darius, he needs Darius, he needs-) (-to do what he's told-) (-by Daddy-) (-by his father.)
He thinks -
You fucking prick.
His face reddens with rage both impotent and not (he is an adult) (he's in the goddamned Army, he's been to war zones) ((everyone's a deserter) (maybe not Darius, who will drag him through hell and agony, who will leave his signature across Enri's skin in blood and purple bruises, but who will (for a week) keep him. Loyal to his Puppy.)) The veins of his arm cord with a violently clenched fist, his mouth setting a hard line.
(This is his father.)
(He loves his father.) (Or the idea of his father.)
(He loves Darius.) (Or the idea of Darius.)
What does it come down to. He obeys them both.
(Who hasn't left him (yet) (because everyone's a deserter in the end)?)
Where does he want to be?
Morgan (is his father, he needs to think this through, he needs to be calm-) (Darius said stay and he didn't stay, he'll think Enri abandoned him, fuck fuck fuck-) -
Morgan has no fucking right.
He can't make the word come. He can't form it with his tongue, but slowly, he shakes his head. No.
A single, outraged thought: He has no right. (Swiftly following: He has every right.) (Does he?) (No one has a right to come between him and his Da-(Darius!)) (His god. His world.) He blinks away the deluge of thoughts, his brows knitting.
The command hits like a blow and he visibly recoils from his confusion (from Morgan), lips drawn back from his teeth and fists clenching (he knows not to attack this man his father Morgan who is stronger who can be cruel who has never been cruel to him but he possesses capacity he is dangerous) (he has no right, he has no fucking right to give orders like Enri is a wayward child (a puppy.))
There were times during their visits to Iowa when Morgan would issue a command, and of course. Of course Enri obeyed. Even when Felix turned sour-faced, and argumentative, Enri (desperate to please Morgan) (hoping this time it would mean they'd stay, or take the boys with them) obeyed. (It was always after, as they were leaving, that he threw his worst tantrums. That he broke furniture, threw stones, once ran himself at the car taking his parents from him. He had believed that the Best Behavior would somehow change their minds.
He was always disappointed.)
He always obeyed.
He doesn't obey now.
His expression bears kin-familiar malevolence, accusation, defiance. ((They abandoned him)) ((Daddy didn't abandon him.)) ((Only Daddy can tell him what to do.) (Daddy told him to stay and he didn't stay and he's going to be so disapproving, so unhappy with his Puppy.)) (Darius, he needs Darius, he needs Darius, he needs-) (-to do what he's told-) (-by Daddy-) (-by his father.)
He thinks -
You fucking prick.
His face reddens with rage both impotent and not (he is an adult) (he's in the goddamned Army, he's been to war zones) ((everyone's a deserter) (maybe not Darius, who will drag him through hell and agony, who will leave his signature across Enri's skin in blood and purple bruises, but who will (for a week) keep him. Loyal to his Puppy.)) The veins of his arm cord with a violently clenched fist, his mouth setting a hard line.
(This is his father.)
(He loves his father.) (Or the idea of his father.)
(He loves Darius.) (Or the idea of Darius.)
What does it come down to. He obeys them both.
(Who hasn't left him (yet) (because everyone's a deserter in the end)?)
Where does he want to be?
Morgan (is his father, he needs to think this through, he needs to be calm-) (Darius said stay and he didn't stay, he'll think Enri abandoned him, fuck fuck fuck-) -
Morgan has no fucking right.
He can't make the word come. He can't form it with his tongue, but slowly, he shakes his head. No.
Edited 2021-04-07 20:46 (UTC)
'No?'
Fucking— No?
He tells himself not to let his fists clench further. Tells himself to halt the step he starts to take; keeps himself in place. This is Enri. He should. He wants to. He will. Keep himself contained.
(He broke a door. His hand drips blood. There will be fallout.) (Too late to consider that now.)
It's the sight and actuality of Enri that necessitates restraint, and triggers Morgan to remember. It's the sight and actuality of Enri that eases his shoulders minutely, that barely, just barely calms the raging purpose behind his eyes.
It's also the sight of Enri, and the sound of Enri, and the outright fury and dissent of Enri that tangles thought and thorns Morgan. (Morgan hates, Morgan hates confusion. Hates to find the world turmoiled past recognition. Hates to lose all grasp of certainty, to lose the outline of the world as he knows it.) That tightens his jaw again and gathers in a rough inhale, a breath held moments too long, the air in the room charged electric.
He will—
He feels the urge to.
He knows he ought to.
Grab the boy and draw him out. (Grab the boy by his fucking collar.) (...Take the boy by the shoulder. Tug. Offer, first.) End this before it can stretch any further.
The question driving haze through thought: fuck's come over Enri?
What's happened in this fucking room, and why is the boy raising hackles, ready to fucking fight? (It's not right. It's not usual. Something is wrong here, and Morgan can't sort what or how. Something is wrong, and the world feels as if it slips awry, leaving Morgan to scramble internally, leaving Morgan half-blank, drifting from comprehension.)
(It's dangerous, this absence. He knows it. He's been told.)
(Lydia, where's Lydia.) (Why won't the boy obey?)
His own lip's a snarl, twisted. When he speaks, his voice has lowered, the volume leveling toward a rumbled quiet.
"Now."
And, as he moves toward the door leading outside - moves to block the door, then snap shut lock the door, focus fixed on Enri even when his back's turned - adding— "Into the hall." Turning to face the boy, shoulders squared, brow furrowed. Trying, telling himself, to keep his fury from heightening.
Fucking— No?
He tells himself not to let his fists clench further. Tells himself to halt the step he starts to take; keeps himself in place. This is Enri. He should. He wants to. He will. Keep himself contained.
(He broke a door. His hand drips blood. There will be fallout.) (Too late to consider that now.)
It's the sight and actuality of Enri that necessitates restraint, and triggers Morgan to remember. It's the sight and actuality of Enri that eases his shoulders minutely, that barely, just barely calms the raging purpose behind his eyes.
It's also the sight of Enri, and the sound of Enri, and the outright fury and dissent of Enri that tangles thought and thorns Morgan. (Morgan hates, Morgan hates confusion. Hates to find the world turmoiled past recognition. Hates to lose all grasp of certainty, to lose the outline of the world as he knows it.) That tightens his jaw again and gathers in a rough inhale, a breath held moments too long, the air in the room charged electric.
He will—
He feels the urge to.
He knows he ought to.
Grab the boy and draw him out. (Grab the boy by his fucking collar.) (...Take the boy by the shoulder. Tug. Offer, first.) End this before it can stretch any further.
The question driving haze through thought: fuck's come over Enri?
What's happened in this fucking room, and why is the boy raising hackles, ready to fucking fight? (It's not right. It's not usual. Something is wrong here, and Morgan can't sort what or how. Something is wrong, and the world feels as if it slips awry, leaving Morgan to scramble internally, leaving Morgan half-blank, drifting from comprehension.)
(It's dangerous, this absence. He knows it. He's been told.)
(Lydia, where's Lydia.) (Why won't the boy obey?)
His own lip's a snarl, twisted. When he speaks, his voice has lowered, the volume leveling toward a rumbled quiet.
"Now."
And, as he moves toward the door leading outside - moves to block the door, then snap shut lock the door, focus fixed on Enri even when his back's turned - adding— "Into the hall." Turning to face the boy, shoulders squared, brow furrowed. Trying, telling himself, to keep his fury from heightening.
Edited 2021-04-07 22:18 (UTC)
Enri starts when Morgan moves, a jerk without purpose or direction: he doesn't know what's coming, but Morgan looks furious (confused?) (Morgan doesn't like being confused, he knows that, he knows that, unlike himself, Morgan is not actually stupid, just odd, and he gets frustrated easily, and that frustration stems from confusion.)
He steps aside, circling as Morgan passes, and watches with increasing dread as his father nears the door Darius used. His eyes widen. His breathing quickens. (Morgan might hurt him. Morgan might kill him.)
What happens is worse than anyone's death.
Morgan locks the door. In this act, there are a thousand words and meanings. In this, there's a deliberate pronouncement, a severance, and Morgan is taking Darius away from Enri. Morgan is taking Enri away from Darius.
He's moving before he has a time to think, fixated on the door, a buzzing, repeated word in his throat climbing register and volume (no no no no no-) until he hits something solid, that something solid means the door is not in his reach and stays locked. The solid thing means he can't unlock the door.
His 'no' becomes a strangled cry of 'Darius', a helpless and pleading wail for (Daddy) (please) (he needs Darius, he needs him ) the other man. And the struggling begins, Enri a lithe structure of muscle, bone, and wounded skin, snarling half-coherent demands, spitting vehement curses, lashing out where he can against the thing restraining him.
(Madly, he thinks - if he'd stayed on the bed, if he'd stayed and done as Daddy said, this wouldn't be happening. Bad things happen to bad Puppies.)
He steps aside, circling as Morgan passes, and watches with increasing dread as his father nears the door Darius used. His eyes widen. His breathing quickens. (Morgan might hurt him. Morgan might kill him.)
What happens is worse than anyone's death.
Morgan locks the door. In this act, there are a thousand words and meanings. In this, there's a deliberate pronouncement, a severance, and Morgan is taking Darius away from Enri. Morgan is taking Enri away from Darius.
He's moving before he has a time to think, fixated on the door, a buzzing, repeated word in his throat climbing register and volume (no no no no no-) until he hits something solid, that something solid means the door is not in his reach and stays locked. The solid thing means he can't unlock the door.
His 'no' becomes a strangled cry of 'Darius', a helpless and pleading wail for (Daddy) (please) (he needs Darius, he needs him ) the other man. And the struggling begins, Enri a lithe structure of muscle, bone, and wounded skin, snarling half-coherent demands, spitting vehement curses, lashing out where he can against the thing restraining him.
(Madly, he thinks - if he'd stayed on the bed, if he'd stayed and done as Daddy said, this wouldn't be happening. Bad things happen to bad Puppies.)
He hears the upheaval. Of course he does. He'd have to be fucking senseless not to notice it, never mind that he's far from the room when the crash falls and the shouts follow, having walked the fuck across the beach in agitation, finding himself approaching the beach and what. The fuck. Is happening.
And why does that sound like Enri's name, shouted?
A drop internal: They've come for him again. Fucking bastards came back after Enri, came to take a grown goddamn man away after he's made his choice.
(Puppy is waiting for Daddy.
Puppy can't be pulled away again.)
Fuck. Fuck. And Darius ends his call abruptly, nearly hurls the phone into the sand as he strides, half-runs back toward his room. (Where Enri's waiting.) From which the sounds are clearly emanating. (If they've hurt Enri. If they've taken Enri. If they've fucked with Darius's intention again, and if they've grabbed Enri away from where the fuck he clearly wants to be—)
He reaches the door, hurls himself at the door. (Fucking locked. Who the fuck—)
He knows who the fuck. Knows that voice, the looming form inside. (Where's Puppy, what fucking right do these asshole have, charging in again?)
He pounds on the door, snarling: "Pendleton, let me the fuck in"
Calling: "Enri, Enri!"
Kicking at the bottom of the door, pulling at the knob, slamming his hand against the frame again, again, watching the forms through frosted glass and feeling a vine of panic tightening around his neck, his chest, his knowing.
And why does that sound like Enri's name, shouted?
A drop internal: They've come for him again. Fucking bastards came back after Enri, came to take a grown goddamn man away after he's made his choice.
(Puppy is waiting for Daddy.
Puppy can't be pulled away again.)
Fuck. Fuck. And Darius ends his call abruptly, nearly hurls the phone into the sand as he strides, half-runs back toward his room. (Where Enri's waiting.) From which the sounds are clearly emanating. (If they've hurt Enri. If they've taken Enri. If they've fucked with Darius's intention again, and if they've grabbed Enri away from where the fuck he clearly wants to be—)
He reaches the door, hurls himself at the door. (Fucking locked. Who the fuck—)
He knows who the fuck. Knows that voice, the looming form inside. (Where's Puppy, what fucking right do these asshole have, charging in again?)
He pounds on the door, snarling: "Pendleton, let me the fuck in"
Calling: "Enri, Enri!"
Kicking at the bottom of the door, pulling at the knob, slamming his hand against the frame again, again, watching the forms through frosted glass and feeling a vine of panic tightening around his neck, his chest, his knowing.
He hears Darius and cries out miserably, angrily, struggles harder to break loose, his vision blurred wet and red-hazed, an elbow checking sharp at some tender body part and he remembers -
(Darius came back.) (Darius is struggling at the door, shouting for him.) (Darius is trying to get to him, trying to keep Morgan from dragging him off.) (Darius called him my adoration, gave him all and everything, and it's love, it's love even if just for a week, and Daddy said 'stay'.)
He remembers he's been trained. He knows how to fight, he knows how to kill someone with just his hands if he has to. This thought doesn't center him; this thought twists him from any grounding, sets him spiraling into panic. (He can't fucking kill Morgan, what the fuck kind of impulse -) (What is happening. What's happening. What's happening.)
Several things occur in rapid succession. Enri snarls and jerks violently, "Get the fuck off me!"
Darius shouts his name (and Enri thinks distantly, if that door opens, Morgan will kill him.)
And from behind him, a calm voice cuts through the din (excises the wind from his lungs and leaves him slack and shellshocked.)
"Stop, Puppy. That's enough."
(Darius came back.) (Darius is struggling at the door, shouting for him.) (Darius is trying to get to him, trying to keep Morgan from dragging him off.) (Darius called him my adoration, gave him all and everything, and it's love, it's love even if just for a week, and Daddy said 'stay'.)
He remembers he's been trained. He knows how to fight, he knows how to kill someone with just his hands if he has to. This thought doesn't center him; this thought twists him from any grounding, sets him spiraling into panic. (He can't fucking kill Morgan, what the fuck kind of impulse -) (What is happening. What's happening. What's happening.)
Several things occur in rapid succession. Enri snarls and jerks violently, "Get the fuck off me!"
Darius shouts his name (and Enri thinks distantly, if that door opens, Morgan will kill him.)
And from behind him, a calm voice cuts through the din (excises the wind from his lungs and leaves him slack and shellshocked.)
"Stop, Puppy. That's enough."
It's too fucking much. Turning toward abject chaos, and Enri's struggling, Enri's fighting, that scum-snake of a shit is rushing the door, shouting, Enri's shouting, Morgan's head is pounding and the air feels red, singes crackled pulsation and Morgan has to work to keep from clutching his head, to keep his hands on the boy without inflicting too much pressure, to keep his teeth ground so that while he's growling, almost hissing, he doesn't snarl anything regrettable, save once to shout over his shoulder—
"Out, Scarlett."
While he wrangles with Enri. (His son. Their son. Why is the boy fighting so fucking hard? Does he fucking want to be here, and what the fuck, what the fuck, and Morgan remembers again, this could be the fucking wastrel's fault, this is all too much like witnessing a repetition, and again Morgan reminds himself to loosen his grip, and again the pressure at his skull increases, again he feels further strangled, feels closer and closer to cutting from himself.
He doesn't know what to do here. This can't be solved with force. (Because it's Enri.) This can't be solved with reason. (Because Morgan's in a rage.) (Because Enri's in a rage, as well.) Because the room is raucous and the door is slamming, again, again, with the force of Scarlett's foot and fist and what the fuck does the thrice-fucked weasel think he's going to fucking manage, Morgan'll rip him in half, Morgan would like to rip him in half, only, only—
He wraps an arm further around Enri and wrenches, adjusts, trying to contain the boy's struggle (Enri's strong) (fucking of course he is; he's should be) (Morgan could appreciate the fact, if everything weren't so fucking far beyond comprehension). Huffs a harsh exhale and tries, tries to focus on... the scene, on (his son) Enri, on not-Scarlett, on not the sounds, on what needs to be done, which is getting the boy out, if only the boy would fucking move, if only the boy'd stop struggling, and Morgan's going to have to escalate, Morgan's going to escalate whether he wishes to or not, when—
Lydia?
(Why. Those words.)
(What is she saying.)
Lydia. Whatever she's said, it's made an impact; the boy's gone loose, and though Morgan shoots a puzzled, frustrated, half-irate glance her way, he tightens his grip on the boy and nudges toward the door. Takes a step, and wills the boys to move (hears another pounding at the door behind them; tries not to notice), and feels Lydia's presence, and knows that for all of his confusion, she will - as she does, as she always does - keep the situation from running to destruction.
"Out, Scarlett."
While he wrangles with Enri. (His son. Their son. Why is the boy fighting so fucking hard? Does he fucking want to be here, and what the fuck, what the fuck, and Morgan remembers again, this could be the fucking wastrel's fault, this is all too much like witnessing a repetition, and again Morgan reminds himself to loosen his grip, and again the pressure at his skull increases, again he feels further strangled, feels closer and closer to cutting from himself.
He doesn't know what to do here. This can't be solved with force. (Because it's Enri.) This can't be solved with reason. (Because Morgan's in a rage.) (Because Enri's in a rage, as well.) Because the room is raucous and the door is slamming, again, again, with the force of Scarlett's foot and fist and what the fuck does the thrice-fucked weasel think he's going to fucking manage, Morgan'll rip him in half, Morgan would like to rip him in half, only, only—
He wraps an arm further around Enri and wrenches, adjusts, trying to contain the boy's struggle (Enri's strong) (fucking of course he is; he's should be) (Morgan could appreciate the fact, if everything weren't so fucking far beyond comprehension). Huffs a harsh exhale and tries, tries to focus on... the scene, on (his son) Enri, on not-Scarlett, on not the sounds, on what needs to be done, which is getting the boy out, if only the boy would fucking move, if only the boy'd stop struggling, and Morgan's going to have to escalate, Morgan's going to escalate whether he wishes to or not, when—
Lydia?
(Why. Those words.)
(What is she saying.)
Lydia. Whatever she's said, it's made an impact; the boy's gone loose, and though Morgan shoots a puzzled, frustrated, half-irate glance her way, he tightens his grip on the boy and nudges toward the door. Takes a step, and wills the boys to move (hears another pounding at the door behind them; tries not to notice), and feels Lydia's presence, and knows that for all of his confusion, she will - as she does, as she always does - keep the situation from running to destruction.
Enri isn't just slack; he's motionless, silent, his eyes fixed first over his shoulder at the speaker (Lydia) (oh god) (his mother) (oh god), and then not over his shoulder but she's still there. (Morgan is steering him. Towards the door. Nearer to Lydia.)
Whatever might have spawned from his fury - words he couldn't unspeak, or a rain of blows, or an action he couldn't undo - vanished in an instant, an unchanced potential. She called him.
Oh. Oh fuck, she called him.
She.
Lydia. Called him.
She knows.
(His mother knows he's been screwing around.
With a man.
A man who is twice his age.
Worse: she knows what kind of screwing around. (Did she read his texts.) (Did she read his fucking texts did she see the pictures he sent oh fuck oh fuck -)
Worst: it's Darius Scarlett.)
Enri recoils, though this time it's into himself. His eyes go distant and fix sightlessly on the broken door (nearer and nearer, he's being managed, he's being taken); his shoulders round and his hand drifts to the back of his neck.
(Daddy-)
(No. Not while she's here. He can't. Think about Darius.)
A detached and panicked thought: please, don't let her see a used condom.
((She has no right, either.)) (She's his fucking mother, though.) (He doesn't want her seeing this.) (Knowing about his sex life, holy shit.)
He's shaking, washed through with near-panic, with unquiet rage and humiliation, but he has the presence of mind to snatch up his shirt from the ground as he passes it. To drag it on over his head and cover the bites.
(This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong.) (Darius is outside the other door and he doesn't know.) ((Daddy said 'stay' and he's not staying, he's being a -)
(Bad Puppy.))
With each step away from Darius, his stomach roils with guilt. He chokes on something that could become a howl, or a sob, or bile. He dares a look back at the door, ransacked through with misery (need) (Darius please) and despair and shame.
He doesn't want this.
He doesn't want to leave.
He doesn't want her to know, either.
Darius is his 'Daddy' - but Lydia is his mother.
Lydia, meanwhile, stands with arms loosely folded, a mild expression writ across her face speaking of perhaps-curiosity, perhaps-analysis (or perhaps hiding what notions flit through her head about this situation.)
This boy. (Her boy.) (Morgan's.) (Darius's, now, too.)
They've landed into chaos, Custis infuriated and snarling apocalypse, Morgan catching the pack-scent of vicious frenzy, and Darius - stubborn, narcissistic (is he?), manipulative creature - reacting.
Enri caught amid decades old grudges and flung into a tantrum for what? (Perhaps not even Enri fully comprehends what's happening between him and the other man. It's quite a lot, and Enri has been sheltered.) (How unsurprising though. To find he has proclivities like his mother, his father - look at those bites. Incisive. No doubt excruciating.
(Commendable.)
And Enri wears them unflinching, save for her invasive stare.)
She continues to hold him in her regard as he passes, steered out into the hall, and she flickers a look to her husband. An arched brow, a slight movement of her head (back to our room, because what else is there but to silence complaints from the hotel guests?)
Well. There is one thing. Lydia waiting until Morgan is out of the room before she crosses it. Her thin fingers throwing the lock on the door leading outside, and that same hand controlled, swinging open the door itself.
Her head canted at a precise angle. Her eyes fixed on Darius. A low-hummed, tuneless stretch of seconds, stared down like the barrel of a gun (what in fuck's name do you think you are doing to (my son) that boy), before she turns to go, her stroll casual, unhurried. She's of no concern to him.
(He's of no concern to her.)
Whatever might have spawned from his fury - words he couldn't unspeak, or a rain of blows, or an action he couldn't undo - vanished in an instant, an unchanced potential. She called him.
Oh. Oh fuck, she called him.
She.
Lydia. Called him.
She knows.
(His mother knows he's been screwing around.
With a man.
A man who is twice his age.
Worse: she knows what kind of screwing around. (Did she read his texts.) (Did she read his fucking texts did she see the pictures he sent oh fuck oh fuck -)
Worst: it's Darius Scarlett.)
Enri recoils, though this time it's into himself. His eyes go distant and fix sightlessly on the broken door (nearer and nearer, he's being managed, he's being taken); his shoulders round and his hand drifts to the back of his neck.
(Daddy-)
(No. Not while she's here. He can't. Think about Darius.)
A detached and panicked thought: please, don't let her see a used condom.
((She has no right, either.)) (She's his fucking mother, though.) (He doesn't want her seeing this.) (Knowing about his sex life, holy shit.)
He's shaking, washed through with near-panic, with unquiet rage and humiliation, but he has the presence of mind to snatch up his shirt from the ground as he passes it. To drag it on over his head and cover the bites.
(This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong.) (Darius is outside the other door and he doesn't know.) ((Daddy said 'stay' and he's not staying, he's being a -)
(Bad Puppy.))
With each step away from Darius, his stomach roils with guilt. He chokes on something that could become a howl, or a sob, or bile. He dares a look back at the door, ransacked through with misery (need) (Darius please) and despair and shame.
He doesn't want this.
He doesn't want to leave.
He doesn't want her to know, either.
Darius is his 'Daddy' - but Lydia is his mother.
Lydia, meanwhile, stands with arms loosely folded, a mild expression writ across her face speaking of perhaps-curiosity, perhaps-analysis (or perhaps hiding what notions flit through her head about this situation.)
This boy. (Her boy.) (Morgan's.) (Darius's, now, too.)
They've landed into chaos, Custis infuriated and snarling apocalypse, Morgan catching the pack-scent of vicious frenzy, and Darius - stubborn, narcissistic (is he?), manipulative creature - reacting.
Enri caught amid decades old grudges and flung into a tantrum for what? (Perhaps not even Enri fully comprehends what's happening between him and the other man. It's quite a lot, and Enri has been sheltered.) (How unsurprising though. To find he has proclivities like his mother, his father - look at those bites. Incisive. No doubt excruciating.
(Commendable.)
And Enri wears them unflinching, save for her invasive stare.)
She continues to hold him in her regard as he passes, steered out into the hall, and she flickers a look to her husband. An arched brow, a slight movement of her head (back to our room, because what else is there but to silence complaints from the hotel guests?)
Well. There is one thing. Lydia waiting until Morgan is out of the room before she crosses it. Her thin fingers throwing the lock on the door leading outside, and that same hand controlled, swinging open the door itself.
Her head canted at a precise angle. Her eyes fixed on Darius. A low-hummed, tuneless stretch of seconds, stared down like the barrel of a gun (what in fuck's name do you think you are doing to (my son) that boy), before she turns to go, her stroll casual, unhurried. She's of no concern to him.
(He's of no concern to her.)
Edited 2021-04-08 03:23 (UTC)
Not a word is spoken down the hallway's path.
Morgan scarcely entertains a thought. (Better not to risk jarring up against a fracture.) (Better not to risk tripping himself deeper into ire.)
(What the fuck. What the fuck has been going on.
How the fuck is this where they are. From hunting to this. From rarefied air and the aftersounds of prey to this obscenity of hackneyed drama.
And their son at its center.
Their son who was ready to fight Morgan. Their son who hurled himself at the door for a fucking Scarlett. It's as if Enri's looking for destruction.
It's the boy's right to struggle. (The boy's right to chase ruin if he wants, but fuck that, that won't be withstood, not here, not with that shitweasel of a man.) Better than to submit, limp.
...The boy isn't struggling now. (Lydia. It was Lydia's influence. And that word.))
Just now, it is the boy's place to be led quickly down the hall, Morgan noting figures around, not favoring any with a direct glance. Morgan attuned toward any signs of struggle from Enri or trouble from without.
No one stops them. Or, if someone tries - if that was an attendant attempting to flag Morgan down; if that was a guest pointing tentative in their direction - Morgan doesn't care. Morgan's focus is singular and fixed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't begin to loose his grip from the boy until he's made it several strides into their suite.
The door slammed shut behind him, or he slammed it. He realizes, curls his lip, and reaches back to jar the door open slightly. (Lydia will be close behind. Lydia must find the door open. Morgan won't shut her out, or have her find her path impeded.) All without moving his eyes from Enri. All without releasing the storm in his stance.
For a space of static-tingled breathing, Morgan doesn't speak.
For a time, Morgan lets his seething silence fill the room.
Then, a command, his voice imposing: "You're going to find another indulgence."
Meaning not this titillation. Not this man. Meaning there will be no mor of this obscenity.
Morgan scarcely entertains a thought. (Better not to risk jarring up against a fracture.) (Better not to risk tripping himself deeper into ire.)
(What the fuck. What the fuck has been going on.
How the fuck is this where they are. From hunting to this. From rarefied air and the aftersounds of prey to this obscenity of hackneyed drama.
And their son at its center.
Their son who was ready to fight Morgan. Their son who hurled himself at the door for a fucking Scarlett. It's as if Enri's looking for destruction.
It's the boy's right to struggle. (The boy's right to chase ruin if he wants, but fuck that, that won't be withstood, not here, not with that shitweasel of a man.) Better than to submit, limp.
...The boy isn't struggling now. (Lydia. It was Lydia's influence. And that word.))
Just now, it is the boy's place to be led quickly down the hall, Morgan noting figures around, not favoring any with a direct glance. Morgan attuned toward any signs of struggle from Enri or trouble from without.
No one stops them. Or, if someone tries - if that was an attendant attempting to flag Morgan down; if that was a guest pointing tentative in their direction - Morgan doesn't care. Morgan's focus is singular and fixed, and he doesn't stop moving, doesn't begin to loose his grip from the boy until he's made it several strides into their suite.
The door slammed shut behind him, or he slammed it. He realizes, curls his lip, and reaches back to jar the door open slightly. (Lydia will be close behind. Lydia must find the door open. Morgan won't shut her out, or have her find her path impeded.) All without moving his eyes from Enri. All without releasing the storm in his stance.
For a space of static-tingled breathing, Morgan doesn't speak.
For a time, Morgan lets his seething silence fill the room.
Then, a command, his voice imposing: "You're going to find another indulgence."
Meaning not this titillation. Not this man. Meaning there will be no mor of this obscenity.
Blank-eyed and blank-minded, Enri is led. Steered, aware of his father's hand on him. Aware of very little else. He doesn't struggle. He doesn't rebel. (His mother is near. She must be. That's the worst of this.) (Although it's beginning to sink in, slow, slow, like water into concrete, that his father knows what he's been doing with Darius Scarlett, just like his mother knows.)
(He doesn't like this thought. Better to keep the concrete clear.)
The slam of the door startles him, jerks him back to coherence, and he stares at Morgan across a divide that has more to do with minds and storms and broken things than with physical distance.
The silence is reprehensible. The silence is quailing, and aggravating, and unnecessary. (Morgan is trying to scare him, he thinks.) (It's not not working.)
At the end of the silence, broken by words that don't immediately sink in, Lydia appears through the unslammed door; Enri watches her past Morgan's shoulder, how delicately she closes it. A soft and uncomfortable click. He tracks her as she moves away from it, this familiar pattern of hers. She roams new rooms. Circles, agitated by newness or seeking something deadly. Taking note. She is paying attention to him, and to Morgan, and to all the objects situated around them, and to the sounds outside, and to-
Wait.
Wait, what.
He jerks his head back to Morgan. You're going to - What.
Enri's frown settles firm, and his brows drawn together challengingly. They dragged him off before. But no one set down an order like this, no one told him point-blank, as though he has no choice in the end. Everyone who spoke before knew he couldn't be forced.
He won't be. He promised Darius. He promised a week, and all his heart and soul, and (Daddy claimed him on the pulpit in that chapel, oh, dizzying, to think about it, the grey fog in his head ebbing and flowing until he blushes red and closes his eyes to drive the image back.) He belongs to Darius.
He wants to belong to Darius.
Indulgence. Like Darius is a drink, or a jacket, and he can just as easily find a new one.
Morgan doesn't understand.
(He can’t take your Daddy away.
And he can’t keep you from me. Not now, and not ever.
Darius.)
No one understands.
(As if anything could keep my Puppy from me, hm?
What do they know of you, my Enri?
What do they know of your needs?
Nobody knows you like your god, my lovely boy.
Darius again.)
Staring without truly seeing, he makes a noise: a whine, short and soft. Enri, feeling excruciated, feeling something ripping inside him. Darius. He needs Darius. (Morgan can stop him from getting back to Darius.) He needs Darius.
(They know nothing.
Intermeddlers and fools. Presuming to know you; presuming to comprehend what my Puppy needs, or holds readiness for.
Darius again.)
He needs Darius.
(My adoration.
Oh, Darius.
Enri is his - everything. His world. And Darius is Enri's god, his devil, his Daddy, and his love.)
Another movement, slow and minor: his head shifting in silent refusal. His eyes slip past Morgan to the door. (Will Darius come for him.) (Can he play pliable again and slip out tonight.) (He wants to go back to his god.)
"No. I want him." His gaze flickers back to Morgan, and then (remembering, he remembers Lydia's here) he pales. But there's tension in his own form, and - they can't stop him. No matter how humiliating this is. "I don't want another 'indulgence'. He's mine."
Meaning like you weren't. Meaning like no one has ever been. Meaning unshared and unspoiled and utterly.
Meaning - something else, deeper and darker, speaking of bloodied bites and moonlit chapels. A pact. A vow. A forever, bound up in a week.
(He doesn't like this thought. Better to keep the concrete clear.)
The slam of the door startles him, jerks him back to coherence, and he stares at Morgan across a divide that has more to do with minds and storms and broken things than with physical distance.
The silence is reprehensible. The silence is quailing, and aggravating, and unnecessary. (Morgan is trying to scare him, he thinks.) (It's not not working.)
At the end of the silence, broken by words that don't immediately sink in, Lydia appears through the unslammed door; Enri watches her past Morgan's shoulder, how delicately she closes it. A soft and uncomfortable click. He tracks her as she moves away from it, this familiar pattern of hers. She roams new rooms. Circles, agitated by newness or seeking something deadly. Taking note. She is paying attention to him, and to Morgan, and to all the objects situated around them, and to the sounds outside, and to-
Wait.
Wait, what.
He jerks his head back to Morgan. You're going to - What.
Enri's frown settles firm, and his brows drawn together challengingly. They dragged him off before. But no one set down an order like this, no one told him point-blank, as though he has no choice in the end. Everyone who spoke before knew he couldn't be forced.
He won't be. He promised Darius. He promised a week, and all his heart and soul, and (Daddy claimed him on the pulpit in that chapel, oh, dizzying, to think about it, the grey fog in his head ebbing and flowing until he blushes red and closes his eyes to drive the image back.) He belongs to Darius.
He wants to belong to Darius.
Indulgence. Like Darius is a drink, or a jacket, and he can just as easily find a new one.
Morgan doesn't understand.
(He can’t take your Daddy away.
And he can’t keep you from me. Not now, and not ever.
Darius.)
No one understands.
(As if anything could keep my Puppy from me, hm?
What do they know of you, my Enri?
What do they know of your needs?
Nobody knows you like your god, my lovely boy.
Darius again.)
Staring without truly seeing, he makes a noise: a whine, short and soft. Enri, feeling excruciated, feeling something ripping inside him. Darius. He needs Darius. (Morgan can stop him from getting back to Darius.) He needs Darius.
(They know nothing.
Intermeddlers and fools. Presuming to know you; presuming to comprehend what my Puppy needs, or holds readiness for.
Darius again.)
He needs Darius.
(My adoration.
Oh, Darius.
Enri is his - everything. His world. And Darius is Enri's god, his devil, his Daddy, and his love.)
Another movement, slow and minor: his head shifting in silent refusal. His eyes slip past Morgan to the door. (Will Darius come for him.) (Can he play pliable again and slip out tonight.) (He wants to go back to his god.)
"No. I want him." His gaze flickers back to Morgan, and then (remembering, he remembers Lydia's here) he pales. But there's tension in his own form, and - they can't stop him. No matter how humiliating this is. "I don't want another 'indulgence'. He's mine."
Meaning like you weren't. Meaning like no one has ever been. Meaning unshared and unspoiled and utterly.
Meaning - something else, deeper and darker, speaking of bloodied bites and moonlit chapels. A pact. A vow. A forever, bound up in a week.
Edited 2021-04-10 06:18 (UTC)
Morgan recognizes the language of claim.
As he recognized potentials of meaning in the bruises and bites.
(The boy has been inflicted on.) (Enri may not have found it unwelcome.) (Enri is young.) (Scarlett is a fucking liability.) (And.)
This is what Scarlett does. Tames them. Trains them. Severs them loose and strangling.
Lets them think he's theirs. (Maybe. Does that connect? Morgan lacks the details toward solution.) Plays on inexperience and bare desire.
The boy doesn't know what he's doing.
And.
It isn't his fault. Maybe.
That is the point for focus. Never mind the further meanings Enri's 'he's mine' - precisely speaking, the 'mine' - bears. (Never mind the implied 'not mine's suggested.) (Never mind the edge of it that clenches Morgan's insides. That would grit his teeth, if his jaw wasn't already fixed.) Never mind that 'no.' The boy can speak refusal if he likes; he's here now. Away from that shitweasel now.
Looking at the door now. Thinking of bolting, most likely. Morgan will grab the boy if he must.
Morgan's fingers flex. His thumb shifts along his forefinger, slow. He stands fixed. And Morgan listens for Lydia, tunes his senses toward her. Tenses slightly, shifts his presence slightly, to indicate discomfort and his intention to try keeping steady. To try keeping the boy here without losing presence of mind again.
And Morgan speaks, voice now pitched at an accustomed tone and volume. There's little confrontation in his voice; little more than an expression of fact. "No.
"Scarlett isn't." Isn't Enri's. Isn't what the boy seems to believe. Isn't worthy of Enri's time or health or thought.
"It ends badly."
As he recognized potentials of meaning in the bruises and bites.
(The boy has been inflicted on.) (Enri may not have found it unwelcome.) (Enri is young.) (Scarlett is a fucking liability.) (And.)
This is what Scarlett does. Tames them. Trains them. Severs them loose and strangling.
Lets them think he's theirs. (Maybe. Does that connect? Morgan lacks the details toward solution.) Plays on inexperience and bare desire.
The boy doesn't know what he's doing.
And.
It isn't his fault. Maybe.
That is the point for focus. Never mind the further meanings Enri's 'he's mine' - precisely speaking, the 'mine' - bears. (Never mind the implied 'not mine's suggested.) (Never mind the edge of it that clenches Morgan's insides. That would grit his teeth, if his jaw wasn't already fixed.) Never mind that 'no.' The boy can speak refusal if he likes; he's here now. Away from that shitweasel now.
Looking at the door now. Thinking of bolting, most likely. Morgan will grab the boy if he must.
Morgan's fingers flex. His thumb shifts along his forefinger, slow. He stands fixed. And Morgan listens for Lydia, tunes his senses toward her. Tenses slightly, shifts his presence slightly, to indicate discomfort and his intention to try keeping steady. To try keeping the boy here without losing presence of mind again.
And Morgan speaks, voice now pitched at an accustomed tone and volume. There's little confrontation in his voice; little more than an expression of fact. "No.
"Scarlett isn't." Isn't Enri's. Isn't what the boy seems to believe. Isn't worthy of Enri's time or health or thought.
"It ends badly."
Lydia is watching from behind Enri now, her narrow hips leaned against the back of a sofa, her arms folded across her chest. She cocks her head at the exchange, regarding how the boy holds himself as though this is consummately fascinating.
(It is fascinating. To see the change worked over their son.)
(What is not fascinating. What is upsetting: to hear their son speak so to Morgan. To witness Morgan's agitation. To see him shift uncertain, because this is not something that can be bitten out of Enri.) (It has, she thinks dryly, been bitten in to Enri.) (She doesn't like it. She doesn't like seeing Morgan on precarious ground.)
Enri behaves like a changeling child. This is not unusual for him, save that his behavior occurs at the wrong time. He was, in memory, always loving. Always eager to please, near-desperate to please (they knew, or she knew and so Morgan must have known, that this was owed to some childish belief that they would take him away from his exile and bring their little princeling home.) (How it...)
(How it broke her. Many times over. To leave her sons.)
(To deny her sons anything they asked. And to deny them in speech.)
Regardless of tangential reasoning, whereas Felix retained an almost neutral distance with his parents, Enri adores Morgan. It was only when the pair of them would leave him that he threw his tantrums like so.
This is a tantrum.
This isn't defiance. This is a dog over a favored bone. This is a Puppy, snapping to keep at his game with Darius Scarlett. (There, an intuition roused and utilized in the other room: that Enri has found thrill in submission. (And why not. He was always so eager to please.) Enri has found delight in harm received - and inflicted. She saw the bruises on Scarlett's throat. (And why not. Like father, like son.) The boy (her son) has learned better than a brace of boys before him, and wrested a sort of control over Darius. (Think how Darius flung himself at the door. Think how his shouts sounded, far from collected. Think how he looked when she observed him.) Darius might well be exactly what Enri claims.
More importantly. Worth the consideration of now, and this moment:
Enri is, it seems, deeply embroiled in a - for lack of any better word - scene. For all intents and purposes, Enri might as well not be here. 'Puppy' is here. Liken it, she thinks, to how they are not Morgan and Lydia in the woods. How the return to Morgan and Lydia and a world of steel and glass necessitates mutual regard, mutual comprehension. The mundane word for something complicated, intimate, and often disregarded: aftercare.
What would happen, she wonders, if someone were to sever her from Morgan before she was ready? Before Morgan was ready? Who would she wound, and how would he rage?
They erred in yanking him away. (He'll likely begin to cry in a moment.) (Someone will need to speak with Darius if this is to continue.)
(Will this. Continue.)
(Will it end badly?)
It won't do to speak discordant with Morgan. She waits, watching her son seethe, tearing himself to pieces between shouting outrage at his father, cringing his shame before his mother, and his eyes ever and ever flickering to the door. Darius, Darius, Darius, the ghost and elephant and obsession in the room.
Well.
Her expression revealing nothing (save for a brief connection of gaze with her husband), she speaks. She emulates, as best she can, the speech patterns of Darius Scarlett - though it's been years. And she hasn't the faintest idea whether his tone alters, for his boys.
But she suspects amusement. She suspects pitch, and tone, and perhaps, for Enri, indulgence. "Go lie down, Puppy. Rest on the bed."
(Were she someone other, this would feel sickening. This emulation. This necessity of performance.) (It doesn't feel good, to be certain.)
Enri stares back at her, caught in horror and caught in confusion and simply caught. She raises one brow, unmoved. "Now."
And he goes. Of course he goes. No fight, no argument. No complaint. (The minute he's on that bed, and away from a brawl, away from the door, she knows this will crash on him. A rise from the fog that takes one, and into reality. He'll weep with shame.)
It's only then that she allows herself to share unspoken words with her husband: a press of her mouth, a shift of eyes, an abbreviated shake of her head. Oh, he's in deep. And. He's not here with us. And. Patience.
(It is fascinating. To see the change worked over their son.)
(What is not fascinating. What is upsetting: to hear their son speak so to Morgan. To witness Morgan's agitation. To see him shift uncertain, because this is not something that can be bitten out of Enri.) (It has, she thinks dryly, been bitten in to Enri.) (She doesn't like it. She doesn't like seeing Morgan on precarious ground.)
Enri behaves like a changeling child. This is not unusual for him, save that his behavior occurs at the wrong time. He was, in memory, always loving. Always eager to please, near-desperate to please (they knew, or she knew and so Morgan must have known, that this was owed to some childish belief that they would take him away from his exile and bring their little princeling home.) (How it...)
(How it broke her. Many times over. To leave her sons.)
(To deny her sons anything they asked. And to deny them in speech.)
Regardless of tangential reasoning, whereas Felix retained an almost neutral distance with his parents, Enri adores Morgan. It was only when the pair of them would leave him that he threw his tantrums like so.
This is a tantrum.
This isn't defiance. This is a dog over a favored bone. This is a Puppy, snapping to keep at his game with Darius Scarlett. (There, an intuition roused and utilized in the other room: that Enri has found thrill in submission. (And why not. He was always so eager to please.) Enri has found delight in harm received - and inflicted. She saw the bruises on Scarlett's throat. (And why not. Like father, like son.) The boy (her son) has learned better than a brace of boys before him, and wrested a sort of control over Darius. (Think how Darius flung himself at the door. Think how his shouts sounded, far from collected. Think how he looked when she observed him.) Darius might well be exactly what Enri claims.
More importantly. Worth the consideration of now, and this moment:
Enri is, it seems, deeply embroiled in a - for lack of any better word - scene. For all intents and purposes, Enri might as well not be here. 'Puppy' is here. Liken it, she thinks, to how they are not Morgan and Lydia in the woods. How the return to Morgan and Lydia and a world of steel and glass necessitates mutual regard, mutual comprehension. The mundane word for something complicated, intimate, and often disregarded: aftercare.
What would happen, she wonders, if someone were to sever her from Morgan before she was ready? Before Morgan was ready? Who would she wound, and how would he rage?
They erred in yanking him away. (He'll likely begin to cry in a moment.) (Someone will need to speak with Darius if this is to continue.)
(Will this. Continue.)
(Will it end badly?)
It won't do to speak discordant with Morgan. She waits, watching her son seethe, tearing himself to pieces between shouting outrage at his father, cringing his shame before his mother, and his eyes ever and ever flickering to the door. Darius, Darius, Darius, the ghost and elephant and obsession in the room.
Well.
Her expression revealing nothing (save for a brief connection of gaze with her husband), she speaks. She emulates, as best she can, the speech patterns of Darius Scarlett - though it's been years. And she hasn't the faintest idea whether his tone alters, for his boys.
But she suspects amusement. She suspects pitch, and tone, and perhaps, for Enri, indulgence. "Go lie down, Puppy. Rest on the bed."
(Were she someone other, this would feel sickening. This emulation. This necessity of performance.) (It doesn't feel good, to be certain.)
Enri stares back at her, caught in horror and caught in confusion and simply caught. She raises one brow, unmoved. "Now."
And he goes. Of course he goes. No fight, no argument. No complaint. (The minute he's on that bed, and away from a brawl, away from the door, she knows this will crash on him. A rise from the fog that takes one, and into reality. He'll weep with shame.)
It's only then that she allows herself to share unspoken words with her husband: a press of her mouth, a shift of eyes, an abbreviated shake of her head. Oh, he's in deep. And. He's not here with us. And. Patience.
They took him again.
The other two this time. The other fucking twin, and Lydia in-tow.
Lydia who pulled open the door and stared at him. As if scrutinizing. As if she had any right. As if she drew some fucking significance from whatever she saw at his throat.
Bruises. The same bruises the absolute fucks from security goggled over and thrust pointed questions about. Darius had been three steps from the door, about to charge after Lydia and the bastard before her when hotel security flocked in with shouts and questions aplenty. Prying, 'Are you in danger' and 'Are you all right' and fucking no of course Darius wasn't not fucking all right but that had nothing to do with his goddamn throat and everything to do with the busted door and crowd of guards and, yes, with the absent Puppy Darius knows better than to mention.
With Enri who fucking needs him, who was told to stay and who shouted for him and who Darius didn't get a single solid glimpse of. With Enri who was supposed to be on Darius's bed right now, safe and fucking sound, only the door's been broken in and now Darius is stuck dealing with this absolute fucking mess, telling the troop of assholes that he'll pay for the damage, never fucking mind why or how it happened and never fucking mind the bruises, just fix the damned door and let him get on with his fucking day.
It takes longer than he'd like to shake away.
It doesn't, in the grand scheme of things, take particularly long at all. Cash works wonders, as does a bit of purposeful rage, to tie things up and set a plan in motion: Darius is going to pay double for repairs, the door will be fixed within the half-hour, and meanwhile, there's space to step outside, phone clutched in-hand, watching the room through the door.
Does he want to press charges, they'd asked. There's security footage, they'd suggested. Probably plenty of witnesses.
And he'd said no. And he's going to speak with whatever fucker he can find with access to those cameras, unless Custis fucking Pendleton - or, shit's fucking sake, Alice fucking Colling - gets there first.
That's in the 'future steps' category, though. That's in the 'it'd be nice, but it's not dire' category. What's important right now is the number he's dialing. What's important right now is the call ringing through, and fuck, shit, fuck, he hopes Enri managed to grab his phone. And if Enri didn't, then fuck it, Darius is making a trip to the Pendleton suite right fucking now, let Morgan try to gut him if the bastard wants.
Darius is going to get this Puppy back.
When Enri answers, if Enri answers, Darius is quick to speak, a command bearing warmth at its edges: "Puppy. Breathe.
"Daddy's coming for you. I'm going to bring you back.
"It's okay. I'm here."
The other two this time. The other fucking twin, and Lydia in-tow.
Lydia who pulled open the door and stared at him. As if scrutinizing. As if she had any right. As if she drew some fucking significance from whatever she saw at his throat.
Bruises. The same bruises the absolute fucks from security goggled over and thrust pointed questions about. Darius had been three steps from the door, about to charge after Lydia and the bastard before her when hotel security flocked in with shouts and questions aplenty. Prying, 'Are you in danger' and 'Are you all right' and fucking no of course Darius wasn't not fucking all right but that had nothing to do with his goddamn throat and everything to do with the busted door and crowd of guards and, yes, with the absent Puppy Darius knows better than to mention.
With Enri who fucking needs him, who was told to stay and who shouted for him and who Darius didn't get a single solid glimpse of. With Enri who was supposed to be on Darius's bed right now, safe and fucking sound, only the door's been broken in and now Darius is stuck dealing with this absolute fucking mess, telling the troop of assholes that he'll pay for the damage, never fucking mind why or how it happened and never fucking mind the bruises, just fix the damned door and let him get on with his fucking day.
It takes longer than he'd like to shake away.
It doesn't, in the grand scheme of things, take particularly long at all. Cash works wonders, as does a bit of purposeful rage, to tie things up and set a plan in motion: Darius is going to pay double for repairs, the door will be fixed within the half-hour, and meanwhile, there's space to step outside, phone clutched in-hand, watching the room through the door.
Does he want to press charges, they'd asked. There's security footage, they'd suggested. Probably plenty of witnesses.
And he'd said no. And he's going to speak with whatever fucker he can find with access to those cameras, unless Custis fucking Pendleton - or, shit's fucking sake, Alice fucking Colling - gets there first.
That's in the 'future steps' category, though. That's in the 'it'd be nice, but it's not dire' category. What's important right now is the number he's dialing. What's important right now is the call ringing through, and fuck, shit, fuck, he hopes Enri managed to grab his phone. And if Enri didn't, then fuck it, Darius is making a trip to the Pendleton suite right fucking now, let Morgan try to gut him if the bastard wants.
Darius is going to get this Puppy back.
When Enri answers, if Enri answers, Darius is quick to speak, a command bearing warmth at its edges: "Puppy. Breathe.
"Daddy's coming for you. I'm going to bring you back.
"It's okay. I'm here."
Buzzing in his head. Dim outlines taking shape, awarenesses and accesses to comprehension of where he is and what he's done and who is with him (not Daddy.) The pain is physical, and real, and consuming.
An addict's hit torn abruptly away. A patient with his wounds flayed open, seeping, untreated and unnumbed and Enri's head is buzzing. His long form drawn into a ball, fetal on the bed where (not Daddy) Lydia sent him. (Shameful. Shame like wet piss-stained jeans like the sour taste of vomit in his throat like a simple equation solved incorrectly before the class. Metallic. Ammonia-scented.) She knows exactly what he's been doing and now his father knows and his uncles will know and the worst of it is he wants it. He wants more. He wants it for the rest of his life, the things Darius does to him.
Buzzing head, buzzing form -
He hears them speaking in the other room, hears maybe a third definitely a third voice maybe a fourth, he can't tell at range the difference in his uncle's voice from his father's. But count them, assume it's his parents, assume it's Alice and Custis with them. (Treavor, maybe, though Treavor - an inane thought - has been markedly absent throughout this affair as though he doesn't want to get involved in any kind of drama.) (Alice might be doing that.)
(And. And also.
Who gives a flying fuck.) (He needs Daddy. Oh, he needs Daddy. He shivers, his eyes closing and lips pressing firm, feverish - Daddy tried to get to him. He heard him shouting.) (Daddy wants to keep him. Daddy said stay.) (Bad Puppy.) Bad Puppy.
Disloyal. He's vibrating with it, with the buzz in his head and -
His phone. Is vibrating. In his pocket.
He scrambles fast for it because it's Darius, of course it's Darius. He curls up to a tighter ball and crams the phone to his ear, only shuddering breaths evidencing that it's him on the other end of the line, listening. Hungry for the word of god.
I'm here.
Relief so severe it's painful. Yesterday, Darius compelled him with only words to howl in rapture, and today, Darius knows how to comfort him. Daddy's coming for you.
Darius won't abandon him. Darius didn't desert him. And he's coming to fight the monsters.
(Deeply, beneath advancing fog, Enri wonders: am I worth this? All this fucking chaos, and he still wants me?)
The monsters aren't monsters; they're his fucking parents. (He can't tell. He can't say that.)
He can't let Darius do this.
Softly, he starts to cry; he presses his free hand to his forehead, rushed with frustration, exhaustion, need taking root like addiction. (He doesn't desire; this runs so much deeper, this feels more a nightmare than any days-ignored erection. This is pure, his mind and soul screaming for Darius.) (Can his god hear him?)
Enri gathers himself enough to speak, his voice barely audible. "I can't talk."
And a miserable whisper: "Please don't leave me."
He can keep the phone sandwiched between the pillow and his head, let Darius be a secret voice in his ear. Until they come back here, and take it all away.
An addict's hit torn abruptly away. A patient with his wounds flayed open, seeping, untreated and unnumbed and Enri's head is buzzing. His long form drawn into a ball, fetal on the bed where (not Daddy) Lydia sent him. (Shameful. Shame like wet piss-stained jeans like the sour taste of vomit in his throat like a simple equation solved incorrectly before the class. Metallic. Ammonia-scented.) She knows exactly what he's been doing and now his father knows and his uncles will know and the worst of it is he wants it. He wants more. He wants it for the rest of his life, the things Darius does to him.
Buzzing head, buzzing form -
He hears them speaking in the other room, hears maybe a third definitely a third voice maybe a fourth, he can't tell at range the difference in his uncle's voice from his father's. But count them, assume it's his parents, assume it's Alice and Custis with them. (Treavor, maybe, though Treavor - an inane thought - has been markedly absent throughout this affair as though he doesn't want to get involved in any kind of drama.) (Alice might be doing that.)
(And. And also.
Who gives a flying fuck.) (He needs Daddy. Oh, he needs Daddy. He shivers, his eyes closing and lips pressing firm, feverish - Daddy tried to get to him. He heard him shouting.) (Daddy wants to keep him. Daddy said stay.) (Bad Puppy.) Bad Puppy.
Disloyal. He's vibrating with it, with the buzz in his head and -
His phone. Is vibrating. In his pocket.
He scrambles fast for it because it's Darius, of course it's Darius. He curls up to a tighter ball and crams the phone to his ear, only shuddering breaths evidencing that it's him on the other end of the line, listening. Hungry for the word of god.
I'm here.
Relief so severe it's painful. Yesterday, Darius compelled him with only words to howl in rapture, and today, Darius knows how to comfort him. Daddy's coming for you.
Darius won't abandon him. Darius didn't desert him. And he's coming to fight the monsters.
(Deeply, beneath advancing fog, Enri wonders: am I worth this? All this fucking chaos, and he still wants me?)
The monsters aren't monsters; they're his fucking parents. (He can't tell. He can't say that.)
He can't let Darius do this.
Softly, he starts to cry; he presses his free hand to his forehead, rushed with frustration, exhaustion, need taking root like addiction. (He doesn't desire; this runs so much deeper, this feels more a nightmare than any days-ignored erection. This is pure, his mind and soul screaming for Darius.) (Can his god hear him?)
Enri gathers himself enough to speak, his voice barely audible. "I can't talk."
And a miserable whisper: "Please don't leave me."
He can keep the phone sandwiched between the pillow and his head, let Darius be a secret voice in his ear. Until they come back here, and take it all away.
Darius knows what to say to tide people over. To string along anyone - Puppies, competitors, would-be-agitators - with the right word and the right seeming-promise. Truth or lie, it comes easily, with scarcely a thought and with few feelings regarding the import of his words.
What’s different in this instance: a feeling of rooted investment. (As if something beyond himself here matters.) Intention beyond a wholly self-serving line of purpose. A wish, perhaps (a wish, certainly) to ease the boy for the boy’s own sake.
He doesn’t think about this. His focus is on the agitation in Enri’s voice and the sound of crying. (They took his Enri away. They left his Enri to crumble. Bastards, absolute bastards. What the fuck are they trying to prove.
Darius has half a mind to contact Colling. He doesn’t like the asshole (how much the asshole purports to comprehend; how much the asshole does clearly understand), but at least Colling had seemed prepared to accept the inevitability of Enri’s place with Darius. Fucking bastard should have spoken with his fucking brothers-in-law-to-be. Fucking bastard could have taken steps to fucking prevent this.
The poor boy. Poor Enri. He didn’t ask for this.
Fucking Pendletons, whittling away their week.)
His voice holds level when he speaks, authoritative and traced still with that warmth, that quiet offering of comfort. "I won't leave you.
"Breathe, Enri. In. Out.
"Close your eyes. Can you feel Daddy's hand at your cheek? Try to know it, Puppy. Put a hand to your cheek. Do it for Daddy, hm?”
A space of pause, a space to let Enri move if he can, if h will, and then, "You're a good boy, Enri. A good Puppy.” And. “I’m not upset. Not with you.
"I want you to breathe, Enri.”
There’s something else. Something more to add, a contingency Darius doesn’t typically address. "If they interrupt us, I need you to breathe. Daddy knows you'll make good decisions. I won't let you wear yourself out.”
Through the frosted glass, he watches figures trail in and out of the room. Tracks the sounds of drills, of removal, of voices bandied over the work. Darius’s brow furrows, though he keeps his voice clear of frustration. “If they interrupt us again, I need you to know I’m not mad. Daddy isn’t mad at you, Puppy. You’ve done everything right. You can speak with them, and know Daddy isn’t angry. You can speak with them, and know that it’s what Daddy wants. I need you to know that I understand.
“And if they try to cut us off again, I need you to trust me: everything will be well.
"Breathe, Enri.
"Do you understand? You needn't speak; only breathe out, if that’s better. Only give me some sound that you’ve heard, hm? I’m here, Puppy. And whatever they try, I’m going to bring you back.”
What’s different in this instance: a feeling of rooted investment. (As if something beyond himself here matters.) Intention beyond a wholly self-serving line of purpose. A wish, perhaps (a wish, certainly) to ease the boy for the boy’s own sake.
He doesn’t think about this. His focus is on the agitation in Enri’s voice and the sound of crying. (They took his Enri away. They left his Enri to crumble. Bastards, absolute bastards. What the fuck are they trying to prove.
Darius has half a mind to contact Colling. He doesn’t like the asshole (how much the asshole purports to comprehend; how much the asshole does clearly understand), but at least Colling had seemed prepared to accept the inevitability of Enri’s place with Darius. Fucking bastard should have spoken with his fucking brothers-in-law-to-be. Fucking bastard could have taken steps to fucking prevent this.
The poor boy. Poor Enri. He didn’t ask for this.
Fucking Pendletons, whittling away their week.)
His voice holds level when he speaks, authoritative and traced still with that warmth, that quiet offering of comfort. "I won't leave you.
"Breathe, Enri. In. Out.
"Close your eyes. Can you feel Daddy's hand at your cheek? Try to know it, Puppy. Put a hand to your cheek. Do it for Daddy, hm?”
A space of pause, a space to let Enri move if he can, if h will, and then, "You're a good boy, Enri. A good Puppy.” And. “I’m not upset. Not with you.
"I want you to breathe, Enri.”
There’s something else. Something more to add, a contingency Darius doesn’t typically address. "If they interrupt us, I need you to breathe. Daddy knows you'll make good decisions. I won't let you wear yourself out.”
Through the frosted glass, he watches figures trail in and out of the room. Tracks the sounds of drills, of removal, of voices bandied over the work. Darius’s brow furrows, though he keeps his voice clear of frustration. “If they interrupt us again, I need you to know I’m not mad. Daddy isn’t mad at you, Puppy. You’ve done everything right. You can speak with them, and know Daddy isn’t angry. You can speak with them, and know that it’s what Daddy wants. I need you to know that I understand.
“And if they try to cut us off again, I need you to trust me: everything will be well.
"Breathe, Enri.
"Do you understand? You needn't speak; only breathe out, if that’s better. Only give me some sound that you’ve heard, hm? I’m here, Puppy. And whatever they try, I’m going to bring you back.”
Enri breathes. And breathes. He lets Daddy's voice wind through him, blanket him protectively, and when Darius bids, he sets his own hand at his cheek. (It's enough, because his hand is Daddy's hand; his hand belongs to Daddy, so of course he feels a shared existence in his own fingers, in the warm caress.)
He eases through, as well, when Darius tells him there'll be no anger. He won't, Enri believes, be disappointed in his Puppy. (Darius said he's a good Puppy, and Darius is god, and god's word is everything.)
He can hear them speaking in the other room, not bothering this time to whisper. He can hear Alice's calm, and Lydia's pensive interjections. He can hear someone's snarling outrage.
They don't matter. None of that matters, because Darius is inevitable. Darius is going to bring him back, and he can stay and stay and stay just like he was told. In Daddy's bed, ravaged and raptured and -
Loved.
Oh, he feels loved.
His entire focus is on the phone and the voice pouring poison into him (love) (comfort) (approval), and so Enri doesn't notice when the talking abates in the other room. He doesn't notice Alice's approach until Alice is a few feet away, a blur in his peripheral vision.
Enri goes still and tense, his eyes flickering guiltily to his uncle-to-be (who is not, he realizes inanely, that much older than himself.) There's no way Alice doesn't see the phone.
Darius is asking for some sound from him to indicate he understands, but he can't. Move. Speak. Breathe. Only feel as though he's at the bottom of a pit, and the last lifeline is being drawn up out of reach. Alice is going to take the phone, he fucking knows it -
Alice crouches in front of him, one hand curled on the bed for balance. Alice scrutinizes him (gently, it feels gentle and he fucking hates it, he hates Alice, he hates all of them (that's not true) (he wishes it was true.))
"Enri, may I borrow your phone?" His voice sounds careful, and carefully neutral. Even. Calm. R...espectful? Enri stirs and recoils a little, a note of refusal jarring in his throat, but Alice only lifts his hand and gestures settle, settle or it's okay (it's not okay nothing is okay.) "I'd like to speak with Darius for a moment. I'll give it, and Darius, right back to you."
He should -
He should ask Daddy. Darius. He should ask permission, or guidance. But he can't find words, and - Darius did say he trusts him to make good decisions. And he knows that Alice has been looking out for him, sort of.
He thinks Treavor wouldn't trust Alice, wouldn't marry Alice, if he was a liar.
Slowly, he slides the phone out from under his head and barely (reluctantly) offers it over. Alice doesn't snatch. It's almost as though he's showing he won't hang up, the way he's holding the phone so delicately.
(His caution irks Enri. His care, his dedication to preserving...something. He's annoyed.
He's also (a little) grateful.)
And Alice speaks into the receiver with the same cautious tone. His eyes linger on Enri's, and Enri thinks he sees something akin to concern. "Darius. Let's keep this short so I can give the phone back to Enri. I told him that's what I'm going to do, and he's trusting me a lot right now."
Enri realizes something, dawning comprehension: Alice is talking more to him than, or just as much to him as, Darius.
"I'm sorry to you both. Morgan has been out of reach all week. I intended to catch him as soon as the plane landed, but I had to deal with a personal matter that trumps this one, I'm sorry to say. Deforest - You know. It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I'm going to handle this here. If it's all right with both of you, while I'm discussing this situation with Morgan, Enri is going to rest for an hour. Maybe let Lydia treat these bites."
And.
"It would help to know you think that's a good idea."
He eases through, as well, when Darius tells him there'll be no anger. He won't, Enri believes, be disappointed in his Puppy. (Darius said he's a good Puppy, and Darius is god, and god's word is everything.)
He can hear them speaking in the other room, not bothering this time to whisper. He can hear Alice's calm, and Lydia's pensive interjections. He can hear someone's snarling outrage.
They don't matter. None of that matters, because Darius is inevitable. Darius is going to bring him back, and he can stay and stay and stay just like he was told. In Daddy's bed, ravaged and raptured and -
Loved.
Oh, he feels loved.
His entire focus is on the phone and the voice pouring poison into him (love) (comfort) (approval), and so Enri doesn't notice when the talking abates in the other room. He doesn't notice Alice's approach until Alice is a few feet away, a blur in his peripheral vision.
Enri goes still and tense, his eyes flickering guiltily to his uncle-to-be (who is not, he realizes inanely, that much older than himself.) There's no way Alice doesn't see the phone.
Darius is asking for some sound from him to indicate he understands, but he can't. Move. Speak. Breathe. Only feel as though he's at the bottom of a pit, and the last lifeline is being drawn up out of reach. Alice is going to take the phone, he fucking knows it -
Alice crouches in front of him, one hand curled on the bed for balance. Alice scrutinizes him (gently, it feels gentle and he fucking hates it, he hates Alice, he hates all of them (that's not true) (he wishes it was true.))
"Enri, may I borrow your phone?" His voice sounds careful, and carefully neutral. Even. Calm. R...espectful? Enri stirs and recoils a little, a note of refusal jarring in his throat, but Alice only lifts his hand and gestures settle, settle or it's okay (it's not okay nothing is okay.) "I'd like to speak with Darius for a moment. I'll give it, and Darius, right back to you."
He should -
He should ask Daddy. Darius. He should ask permission, or guidance. But he can't find words, and - Darius did say he trusts him to make good decisions. And he knows that Alice has been looking out for him, sort of.
He thinks Treavor wouldn't trust Alice, wouldn't marry Alice, if he was a liar.
Slowly, he slides the phone out from under his head and barely (reluctantly) offers it over. Alice doesn't snatch. It's almost as though he's showing he won't hang up, the way he's holding the phone so delicately.
(His caution irks Enri. His care, his dedication to preserving...something. He's annoyed.
He's also (a little) grateful.)
And Alice speaks into the receiver with the same cautious tone. His eyes linger on Enri's, and Enri thinks he sees something akin to concern. "Darius. Let's keep this short so I can give the phone back to Enri. I told him that's what I'm going to do, and he's trusting me a lot right now."
Enri realizes something, dawning comprehension: Alice is talking more to him than, or just as much to him as, Darius.
"I'm sorry to you both. Morgan has been out of reach all week. I intended to catch him as soon as the plane landed, but I had to deal with a personal matter that trumps this one, I'm sorry to say. Deforest - You know. It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I'm going to handle this here. If it's all right with both of you, while I'm discussing this situation with Morgan, Enri is going to rest for an hour. Maybe let Lydia treat these bites."
And.
"It would help to know you think that's a good idea."
He wants to be angry. He wants to spit fury.
He is angry. Strung with self-righteous bristling, because he and Enri have been separated again (less violently, this time) (with a promise of reunion, this time), and because Enri isn't well, because Enri didn't answer and wasn't given the chance to answer.
And there's that fucking self-righteous (not-so-self-righteous, just now) voice. As if Colling's fucking apology means a fucking thing. (Strangely. Irksomely. The fuck seems almost, possibly in earnest.) As if it matters that Colling's thinks he can reason with a goddamn Pendleton. And, ha, on good fucking terms with the brute of the hour, is he? (Fucking Morgan. Darius'd like to maul the bastard's face. Wouldn't be wise. Wouldn't end well, likely. But fuck's name, there'd be satisfaction in it.)
It's fucking bullshit.
...It is, and it isn't.
Because this could be - Colling's intervention could be - useful. If Colling can talk even an ounce of sense into the Pendlefucks, it could go a long way. Not that either of them - particularly fucking Morgan - deserve a goddamn conversation. Bastards deserve to be rent in pieces for taking Enri away.
Again: The notion isn't productive, or likely to lead toward an especially desirable end. The notion is - fucking alas, fucking unfortunately - unwise.
...Speaking of unwise. What the fuck did Deforest get up to this time? Follow the likely trail: something to do with the most lackluster Pendleton. The little shitstirrer'd be hard-pressed to get under Colling's skin, but damned if hasn't had a decades-old hard-on for antagonizing Treavor.
Not that it matters to Darius. Not that he gives a shit what any of these Pendletons do, so long as they leave his Enri alone.
The point to keep hold of: Colling isn't ranting unreasonable. Enri is nearby - Colling seems to be speaking partly for Enri's sake - and the phone might be returned to him shortly. Better in this case to cooperate; better not to delay the phone's return.
So. Entertain this conversation. Listen, consider, and - voice unyielding and uncontentious - respond. (Don't bend to the itching urge to snap wry at Colling. Don't take this as a moment to wave the fucker's error in his face. Be cooperative. (Think about Enri.) Think about seeking solutions.)
"An hour." A weighted silence as he gives himself another moment to consider, and then— "If Enri is willing.
"After what he's been put through, I don't doubt that he could use the rest." After what he's been put through by the Pendletons and, yes, after a long and fruitful night with precious little sleep. "I support the hour's respite, but I won't tell him to remain if he feels unwell. I'll come for Enri if he insists.
"Tell him, Colling: he has a choice.
"And.
"If he stays. I need you to guarantee that in one hour, he'll return to me. No fucking fight. No further questions."
He is angry. Strung with self-righteous bristling, because he and Enri have been separated again (less violently, this time) (with a promise of reunion, this time), and because Enri isn't well, because Enri didn't answer and wasn't given the chance to answer.
And there's that fucking self-righteous (not-so-self-righteous, just now) voice. As if Colling's fucking apology means a fucking thing. (Strangely. Irksomely. The fuck seems almost, possibly in earnest.) As if it matters that Colling's thinks he can reason with a goddamn Pendleton. And, ha, on good fucking terms with the brute of the hour, is he? (Fucking Morgan. Darius'd like to maul the bastard's face. Wouldn't be wise. Wouldn't end well, likely. But fuck's name, there'd be satisfaction in it.)
It's fucking bullshit.
...It is, and it isn't.
Because this could be - Colling's intervention could be - useful. If Colling can talk even an ounce of sense into the Pendlefucks, it could go a long way. Not that either of them - particularly fucking Morgan - deserve a goddamn conversation. Bastards deserve to be rent in pieces for taking Enri away.
Again: The notion isn't productive, or likely to lead toward an especially desirable end. The notion is - fucking alas, fucking unfortunately - unwise.
...Speaking of unwise. What the fuck did Deforest get up to this time? Follow the likely trail: something to do with the most lackluster Pendleton. The little shitstirrer'd be hard-pressed to get under Colling's skin, but damned if hasn't had a decades-old hard-on for antagonizing Treavor.
Not that it matters to Darius. Not that he gives a shit what any of these Pendletons do, so long as they leave his Enri alone.
The point to keep hold of: Colling isn't ranting unreasonable. Enri is nearby - Colling seems to be speaking partly for Enri's sake - and the phone might be returned to him shortly. Better in this case to cooperate; better not to delay the phone's return.
So. Entertain this conversation. Listen, consider, and - voice unyielding and uncontentious - respond. (Don't bend to the itching urge to snap wry at Colling. Don't take this as a moment to wave the fucker's error in his face. Be cooperative. (Think about Enri.) Think about seeking solutions.)
"An hour." A weighted silence as he gives himself another moment to consider, and then— "If Enri is willing.
"After what he's been put through, I don't doubt that he could use the rest." After what he's been put through by the Pendletons and, yes, after a long and fruitful night with precious little sleep. "I support the hour's respite, but I won't tell him to remain if he feels unwell. I'll come for Enri if he insists.
"Tell him, Colling: he has a choice.
"And.
"If he stays. I need you to guarantee that in one hour, he'll return to me. No fucking fight. No further questions."
Alice listens without interruption, his eyes lingering on Enri, who is watching him back (no he's watching the phone, he's staring like he's terrified to lose this one final connection.)
He hears.
If Enri is willing. (Darius, taking into account Enri's needs.) (Darius called here, not ten minutes after Enri was yanked from him.)
Darius is weighing the boy's needs against his own wants, and there's no grudging tone to be found. He says he'll come here not because he wants to, but if Enri needs him. These aren't the words of a man who has been the subject of monetary settlements over unspeakable abuses.
In fact - now that Alice looks, the bites he can see look superficial. And Lydia said there were bruises at Darius's throat. Alice knows one thing about Darius: the other man roused at the implication of having a hand at his throat just like that. Put it together. Those weren't unwelcome wounds, and. And if Enri was enduring pain he didn't want, it seems he could have easily handled Darius. (Is that a wise conclusion, a safe one?) (It's the probable conclusion.)
"I'm going to hand the phone back to him so you can tell him yourself." Meaning, I'm trusting you to actually tell him all that.
Meaning, I'm keeping my word.
Meaning, It's better, coming from you.
"I'll -" A heavy exhale through his nose. It's been a long fucking day and it's still barely noon. "I guarantee that I'll defend Enri's autonomy. From you and from them, Darius. If he wants to come back to you in an hour, then I'll help however I can. I'm not going to promise anything else without knowing what he wants. Someone here needs to think about th-"
He stops sharply, abrupt and thoughtful, his eyes on Enri, whose hand is out for the phone already.
He heard, a moment ago, I need you to guarantee, and the words sink in wholly now.
That isn't the Darius Scarlett he knows. He would have said, Guarantee in on hour... or I'll have your guarantee, or something, something that conveyed his own rightful entitlement. His sovereignty, his manifest destiny. That's who Darius is.
Darius might as well be pleading for them to permit Enri to return.
And Alice thinks, Oh, Darius, you're in deep, aren't you? (Is this a game Darius can end in a week?) (Is this a game that won't destroy Enri?) (He'd like to reach out a hand and smooth back the boy's hair, but he suspects that would be the worst possible idea.) (This poor fucking kid.)
(...Maybe. Maybe poor Darius, too.)
(Darius, who might be in real fucking deep, is putting Enri first.)
"Sorry. Sorry. That was. Fucking uncalled for, and unfair of me. I - Yeah. I'm -" A breath. "Talk to Enri. I'll go...try to handle the clusterfuck."
Enri practically snatches the phone from him, too fixated on cramming it to his ear to give any sort of acknowledgement that Alice kept his word. As he straightens and turns to leave, he hears (and wishes he hadn't heard) Enri choke out, "Daddy."
He closes the door behind him. Christ.
He hears.
If Enri is willing. (Darius, taking into account Enri's needs.) (Darius called here, not ten minutes after Enri was yanked from him.)
Darius is weighing the boy's needs against his own wants, and there's no grudging tone to be found. He says he'll come here not because he wants to, but if Enri needs him. These aren't the words of a man who has been the subject of monetary settlements over unspeakable abuses.
In fact - now that Alice looks, the bites he can see look superficial. And Lydia said there were bruises at Darius's throat. Alice knows one thing about Darius: the other man roused at the implication of having a hand at his throat just like that. Put it together. Those weren't unwelcome wounds, and. And if Enri was enduring pain he didn't want, it seems he could have easily handled Darius. (Is that a wise conclusion, a safe one?) (It's the probable conclusion.)
"I'm going to hand the phone back to him so you can tell him yourself." Meaning, I'm trusting you to actually tell him all that.
Meaning, I'm keeping my word.
Meaning, It's better, coming from you.
"I'll -" A heavy exhale through his nose. It's been a long fucking day and it's still barely noon. "I guarantee that I'll defend Enri's autonomy. From you and from them, Darius. If he wants to come back to you in an hour, then I'll help however I can. I'm not going to promise anything else without knowing what he wants. Someone here needs to think about th-"
He stops sharply, abrupt and thoughtful, his eyes on Enri, whose hand is out for the phone already.
He heard, a moment ago, I need you to guarantee, and the words sink in wholly now.
That isn't the Darius Scarlett he knows. He would have said, Guarantee in on hour... or I'll have your guarantee, or something, something that conveyed his own rightful entitlement. His sovereignty, his manifest destiny. That's who Darius is.
Darius might as well be pleading for them to permit Enri to return.
And Alice thinks, Oh, Darius, you're in deep, aren't you? (Is this a game Darius can end in a week?) (Is this a game that won't destroy Enri?) (He'd like to reach out a hand and smooth back the boy's hair, but he suspects that would be the worst possible idea.) (This poor fucking kid.)
(...Maybe. Maybe poor Darius, too.)
(Darius, who might be in real fucking deep, is putting Enri first.)
"Sorry. Sorry. That was. Fucking uncalled for, and unfair of me. I - Yeah. I'm -" A breath. "Talk to Enri. I'll go...try to handle the clusterfuck."
Enri practically snatches the phone from him, too fixated on cramming it to his ear to give any sort of acknowledgement that Alice kept his word. As he straightens and turns to leave, he hears (and wishes he hadn't heard) Enri choke out, "Daddy."
He closes the door behind him. Christ.
Edited 2021-04-13 04:17 (UTC)
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