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.
no subject
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.)