Day 8 Of @ailesswhumptober

Day 8 of @ailesswhumptober

rope burns/ gags- "You look so much prettier this way."

cw. child abuse, violence, allusions to self harm, blood.

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Snyder's office was gorgeous, dark green walls and a large, heavy, mahogany desk sat in front of the window at the end room that overlooked the court yard. It was almost cosy, lit dimly with yellow lamps, and a thick red woven rug covering most of the floor; the walls were lined with pictures too, various art pieces interspersed with portraits of the men that used to run the Refuge. Alex Snyder's father, Nigel, and his father before him.

It was a family name he took pride in, even if he hated the men themselves, so old and so behind and so awful at understanding how boys today worked, the firm hand you had to direct them with.

Snyder never considered himself a cruel man; he was young and smart, a businessman. That's what his father never understood when he ran this institution. Snyder knew that to keep the Refuge in business, and to make sure the boys listened, you had to be willing to do what it took. He knew that to turn out a genuine, real, rehabilitated young man, sometimes it took violence. It was hardly like Snyder shifted the world to be this way, he just understood how it worked. The world spun, and masters hit their charges and the government sent money his way for every upstanding young citizen he sent back out into society.

Snyder had a firm hand, but he never considered himself unfair. There were just some boys who just refused to behave, who just refused to listen, Who had several notches next to their name and Snyder couldn't allow it, couldn't allow this behaviour and the ruin it would bring to his reputation if he wasn’t able to discipline them while they were in his care at the very least.

Kelly was one, a deliberate and consistent problem child who Snyder was sure existed to make his life and his job difficult. So strong in spirit and backbone that Snyder had yet to completely break down but he was sure he was slowly getting there in some capacity if the lack of yelling from down in solitary had anything to say about it.

The other problem developed with the Delanceys. When he had taken up the post he had assumed that given how long they'd been here they'd be able to understand how to take an order, but it was a nigh impossible task to tell them anything.

It had only been this past Monday that the Older Delancey and Jack Kelly had made his blood boil, with an unfamiliar fury; and Snyder would never consider himself an angry man by nature.

It had been an insepction they knew was approaching for weeks, that he had sharply told the boys about the night before, cane resting on the wooden dorm room floor as he instructed them to be on their best behaviour as he showed the inspector around.

But as they'd walked into the dorm the Delancey boy was hunched over with Kelly on the ground and a hand viciously wrapped around his throat, nose dripping blood onto the boy writhing viciously beneath him. It wasn't the first time Snyder had seen a fight between the two of them. But it was the first time he'd lost marks in an inspection, had watched the man frown and lean his head down to write something in his notebook that Snyder couldn't quite read from over his shoulder. The anger was all consuming, he almost felt calm with it, relaxed into this state of fury.

He'd pulled the boys apart of course, had hissed in their ears that they would regret this and had been somewhat satisfied with the sheen of fear in both their eyes at the promise of punishment.

Kelly had been dealt with now, dragged into his office in the early hours of the morning and sent away close to, Snyder checked his watch, an hour ago now. Snyder had sat back at his desk, ignored the splatters of blood on his floor and eaten his lunch, a glass of red on the side. Dry and not his favourite but it's what his father had kept in the cool basement.

He had asked for the Delancey boys to be brought in just after two, Oscar had been the only one fighting, but his brother frequently followed in his footsteps. Snyder had been watching them, the last few months since he had taken over, and he had come to a conclusion he finally had time to test.

As of yet, he hadn't been able to force an apology out of Oscar, despite the beatings and the days in solitary and all the things that usually got Jack to spit the words at least. But two thirds of the fights Oscar got in, the food he stole from the pantry, almost all of it was on behalf of his younger brother. If Oscar could hold his tongue at his own beatings, he wondered if it would be the same if his younger brother was the one under the belt.

The door clicked open and Snyder didn't bother to stand from his chair as the two boys were shoved in. Oscar looked old, like a man, if maybe a little underweight. He was 17 now Snyder knew, and he'd be aging out of the Refuge next year. Snyder wasn't about to let a dangerous miscreant out of his institution without at least teaching him a few lessons first.

They looked nervous, despite the similar glares they sent his way. It was almost sweet how their expressions matched given how different they looked, Morris was gaunt and dainty, with a sharp nose and sharp jaw; Oscar was a little firmer in features, a strong nose and strong cheekbones, deep-set eyes that were blue to Morris's brown.

If he didnt know they were siblings Snyder didn't think he would ever guess it.

He waited for one of them to break the silence, settling into the uncomfortable quiet draped across the room like a blanket.

It was Oscar who spoke eventually, and Snyder's lip twitched. He knew it would be.

"Why the hell is Mo here? He ain't done nothing."

"I was hoping you would ask Oscar, I'm sure Morris here is curious himself, aren't you."

Morris glanced at Oscar, hesitantly, and then at Snyder, like he was checking for permission to speak.

"Yessir."

He knew at the very least their father had had them well trained.

"I'll be happy to explain as soon as I get a few things sorted." He took note of the way Oscar swallowed, and pulled open the heavy drawer of his desk, winding the length of rope casually around his wrist as he lifted it out and stood up, finally. "Oscar come here won't you, turn around."

Oscar's line of sight was fixed on the swath of thick rope. He didn't move, and Snyder felt that same anger he felt on Monday curl in his gut, like it had never faded in the first place.

"What's that-"

The backhand was swift and the crack reverberated around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the the way Morris flinched and the satisfaction at it fanned some of the flames back.

"I didn't tell you to ask ask questions, I told you to come here, and turn around."

Oscar's cheek was already blooming a splotchy red, and he glared, but he listened, took that final step closer to him and turned around.

He only resisted for a moment when Syder grabbed him none too gently by the wrist and twisted one arm behind his back, and then the other, securing his wrists together and ignoring the groan of pain through gritted teeth that Oscar breathed. He tied it just tight enough to be uncomfortable for his shoulders. Just tight enough that he couldn't writhe out.

Snyder shoved him forward and the boy stumbled over the deep red carpet that decorated the floor, the orante, woven designs working to hide so much of the brutality he was unfortunately forced to enact in here. He almost sighed.

"Stand in the corner, and turn to face me. Morris, heel."

"Mr Snyder-"

It was Oscar's voice from the other side of the room. Scared and trying so desperately not to be.

"He aint even done nothin'- fuckin'- tried to stop me from goin' at Kelly-"

"Stop talking, or you'll only make it worse for your brother."

"Mr Snyder-"

"And that's three extra strikes."

"Shut up, Os."

It was a hiss from Morris, now stood in front of him, and that was all the reminding Snyder needed before he grabbed a clean handkerchief from the bottom of the same drawer, neatly folded next to a quater drank bottle of whiskey.

"Open your mouth,” he directed, voice cold, and Morris listened.

It was a simple task to loop the fabric around the lower half of the boy's head and tie a firm knot at the back. It wasn't a perfect gag by any means, but it would work enough to keep any questions off his back, would prevent the screaming from getting too loud.

And instead of sending him away like he did Oscar, he spun Morris to face him. A hand on his jaw, holding him.

He could feel Oscar's eyes on them, from the corner of the room.

"You know why you're here, don't you?”

Snyder revelled in the fact there was no answer, just Oscar's terrified silence and Morris's terrfied gaze staring up at him, eyes wet with fear already.

"I got the report back from the inspection on Monday," he continued, and the pocket knife he reached for in the inside the breast pocket of his blazer was heavy and expensive. He pulled it out in one slow movement. "And it would've been the best score this institution had achieved if it weren't for one, discerning factor."

Their breathing matched too, Snyder realised with vague amusement, not just their glares; their panicked inhales, admittedly harder on Morris's part, were the same.

"Snyder-"

He flicked up the sharp end of the knife.

“Infighting in my Refuge. I have a reputation, you understand Oscar, and I can hardly have people believe that I don't have my wards under control. But you just refuse to listen."

He grabbed Morris's arm, grip far too tight.

"I like this think that maybe this will make you understand the consequences of ignoring me."

"What the fuck- Snyder he ain't do nothin'-"

The first slash was deep, Snyder had to admit, deeper than he intended, and it cut through several of the healed smaller scars that Morris had built a collection of over the years.

"Snyder-"

Oscar's voice was coated in panic and Morris's gasp of pain was nearly completely silenced by the gag as he tried to yank his arm away.

Snyder dug his fingers into his wrist so tight his nails nearly drew blood and added another.

It was hardly neat work, he'd blame that on the anger that consumed him every time he glanced at the report sat open on his desk-

"Oscar if you take one step closer I'll cut his tongue out do you understand me."

It wasn't an empty threat. And Morris barely spoke anyway. It would hardly be a loss. He was sure he could persuade Oscar to thank him for it if he tried hard enough, that he blessed him with not having to listen to his little brother's rambles about home and ma anymore.

Oscar froze where he got halfway across the room. Arms still wrenched painfully behind his back, skin already going red with rope burn from his struggle in them. Eyes pink and jaw hard and utter hatred coursing through him.

"You're sick." It was spat, but he didn't step any closer, and Snyder found himself glancing back to Morris's arm, something like satisfaction curling in his stomach, and then to the thick carpet again under Morris's feet. Blood was streaming in rivulets from his wrist, still enclosed in Snyder's grasp so tight he knew it would leave bruises, cheeks wet with tears, both dripping onto the floor.

Snyder wasn't worried about the mess. The blood was already blending into the rug. He had always thought the deep red of it went with the dark green of the walls.

"Maybe. But don't you think the room is so much prettier this way?

i’m gagging. excellent work.

ai-less whumptober; day eleven

@ailesswhumptober 11 — hallucinations, truth serum, “Why would you even say that?” ↳ the refuge, circa 1896 word count; 1.8k

cw; drugging, mental health issues, caning, abuse, catholicism

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morris honest to God doesn't know what Oscar had done. He hadn't been involved, not remotely, hadn't even been told about the plan — whatever it was, whether it was planned at all. Whatever had been done, he hadn't seen. Hadn't heard. He doesn't know.

But Snyder doesn't believe him.

He'd watched, just a while earlier, as Oscar had been dragged from the bunk room — kicking and screaming the way he does when he's guilty — and sat and waited for him to be returned. He had no idea what his brother was in trouble for, but he was sure he'd find out when Oscar was tossed back black and blue, suitably (to the Refuge's standards) punished for whatever slight he'd commited against Snyder.

But Oscar hadn't come back. And then they'd come for Morris.

He kneels in Snyder's office now, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, back lit up in bright agony from his neck down to his tailbone, torn open with what was surely a hundred thousand strokes from one of Snyder's rattan canes, each one — and each strike from Snyder's bare hand, his polished shoes — intended to draw a confession from Morris. Honesty, Snyder says. But Morris can't be honest about what he doesn't know, can't confess sins he isn't privy to — and he wails that sentiment again, face inches from the rich maroon rug that spreads across Snyder's office floor, as Snyder's cane cracks down on him again.

It only earns him another kick to his ribs.

"Give it up," Snyder spits, voice cold and vicious in a manner Morris rarely hears, usually reserved for Oscar or Jack. Snyder is gentler with him. Snyder likes him. But right now he is looking at Morris like he despises him, like Morris has spat in his face. A traitor. "You could bring an end to this, Morris. Immediately. All you have to do is confess." Another hit, and Morris howls. He doesn't even really remember what the question was anymore. Perhaps Snyder had never really asked one. Perhaps there isn't one.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs, just in case it was him. Just in case Snyder, like Da, had just felt the need to hit him, an irresistible target for violence. A lamb for the slaughter. "'m'sorry, 'm'sorry, Sir, p'ease, le'mme…le'mme…"

Let me make it better. Let me atone. Whatever I did to deserve this.

"Have—have mercy on me, O Lord, for I have sinned. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your love; according to your abu—bundant mercy, blot out my tra'sg'essions—"

The cane is tossed down sharply beside his head, and Morris flinches hard but continues his prayers, reciting the atonements and verses that Da and Snyder each have made him memorise. Even as Snyder walks away, shoes a sharp rhythm against the floor, his figure so imposing that Morris can feel him without needing to see him. Over his own voice, Morris hears a cabinet open, hears things being moved against rich wood.

He assumes another cane is being fetched. Or something worse. A knife, a whip, a flame—

"My Lord, forgive me, forgive me, I will withdraw the thorns from my way of life henceforth, my wickedness kept the crown of thorns on your head—"

"Quiet," Snyder says.

Morris goes silent.

He keeps his bleary gaze on the rug beneath him, the dizzying twists of patterns and swirls that seem to suck him in like he's drowning. It's just as hard to breathe. But then Snyder's shoes step into his vision — immaculate polished black leather — and Snyder is crouching, seizing Morris by the chin and lifting his head.

He's holding a handkerchief. One of his own, neatly embroidered, monogrammed.

"If you are so reluctant," Snyder tells him quietly, "To enlighten me, even as I carve you open. Then I have other methods to procure the truth."

The handkerchief is held suddenly to Morris' face, over his nose and mouth, and the air he breathes turns sweet and cold, like mint. He meets Snyder's eyes over the handkerchief in his vision, and Snyder only stares back, eyes dark, expression severe — until Morris' vision blurs only moments later. The world tilts and his brain seems to start to spin in an instant, faster and faster and faster, an endless whirlpool that vies to pull consciousness away from him.

And then Snyder pulls the handkerchief away, sharply.

Morris is left spinning, nauseous, tethered to reality only by Snyder's hand gripping his jaw. It's a feeling he can only liken to waking up after being beaten unconscious, a dazed battle for consciousness that he's losing. The chill of menthol sticks to his nostrils, the back of his throat.

"Morris," Snyder says lowly. "Where did your brother get the clothes? The food, the blankets?"

Morris can't find his tongue. It feels like an impossible task to locate it, to make it do the correct movements to say words — but Snyder slaps him across the face then, so Morris tries.

"I don'…" he slurs. "Wha'…clo's…"

"Morris. Your brother, through methods unknown, brought contraband into my facility. Clothes and food. How did he get them."

Morris wants his mamaí. His head is still spinning, eyes unable to focus on anything, and it doesn't…hurt, nothing hurts, pain feels as if it's a distant memory. But it's scary. He's scared. He wants his mamaí. Doesn't want this man touching him anymore, that awful grip on his jaw that means he can't move at all, can't turn to focus on the blurring figure over the man's shoulder.

That awful piece of cloth, stuffed over his face again to make the slowly fading dizziness reignite like a flame. As his eyes blur once again into oblivion, for a moment he is able to see the figure. A smear of pale skin, dark curls, a long dress.

"Morris," Snyder says. It echoes in Morris' head. The handkerchief is pulled away again, and in its place a hand begins to stroke his matted curls. Brushes them carefully out of his face. It's nice.

In his mind, through Snyder's words — whatever they are this time — washing through him, he finds a memory.

"Cowboy," he mumbles. And Snyder seems, for a moment, to light up. His touch gets gentler. A reward. "Kelly," he breathes. "What did he do?"

"Was…was talkin' to Os. When. Before," it's hard to remember, but Morris wants to be good. His gaze keeps sliding like he's being spun around, but he fights to find his mother again, focus on her. He wants to be good. He doesn't want to be hit again. "'Fore he left last. Cowboy said. Told 'im that…that he'd. Bring. Give…"

"Kelly brought them here," Snyder says. "He got them to Oscar."

It sounds right, maybe. Morris can't do much else but nod, eyelids heavy, mind still swirling like a bathtub filled with water that he's drowning in.

He wants his mamaí. Swears he can see her above the water, staring down at him, not moving as it all falls away.

He wakes up in a bed.

"Mamaí," he mumbles immediately, as soon as he's found his tongue again. "M..mm…m'mmy…?"

"What?" Oscar says, from beside him in bed. His voice sounds strange, deep. It's dark, and Morris can't see. His eyes will barely open. It's freezing cold, like it always is in the farmhouse.

"Mamaí," Morris repeats.

Oscar releases a breath that seems to shake. "Christ," he breathes. In the narrow bed they share, he shuffles closer. "She ain't here, Mo."

That doesn't make any sense. Not only because Ma is always here, but because Morris had only just seen her. She wouldn't have left. She never leaves Morris.

"Jus'," Morris slurs. He scrunches his eyes shut hard and opens them again, but all he can see is a muddle of a room that's much too crowded for their bedroom. "Jus'…mamaí was jus'…"

She was just here. Morris fights to sit up — doesn't understand why Oscar seems instantly so panicked at him doing so, hands hovering around him — and looks around the room. Doesn't recognise an inch of it, but he immediately recognises his mother again, as vague a figure as she is, all the way on the other side of the room. She's wearing her long cardigan, has her hair up in an untidy pile of dark curls. Morris tries to go to her, but his legs don't seem to work, and Oscar keeps a firm hold on his wrist, tight enough that Morris is sure it should hurt. But it doesn't. Nothing does.

"I wan' mamaí," he urges. Oscar's grip gets tighter.

"She ain't here, Mo."

Morris can feel his eyes start to burn, fighting to keep them on his mother, but his vision twists and then she's gone — moved somewhere else, a figure in the corner of his vision that he can't seem to catch. "Can see her—"

"No, you can't—"

"I can—"

"Mo, she's dead. She ain't here. She's dead."

The world seems to stop.

And then it starts tilting again — in the other way this time. Like Morris had reached the apex of a leap and began to fall.

"No," he whispers. His stomach is turning, vision blurring more, but this time it's with tears. "No, she…why…why would you even—say that?"

"Fuckin'—'cause it's true, Mo. Ma's dead. You know that. You—" he stops himself suddenly, like he'd been about to say something that he thinks it's best Morris doesn't hear. He swallows. Morris starts to cry. "Jesus. Fuck. What the fuck did Snyder do to you?"

It's a rhetorical question, asked to the air, but Morris' chest still aches because he doesn't know. He can only sob, feeling as if everything is suddenly crumbling around him, and as it crumbles, his back begins to burn like a fire catching. His jaw begins to ache, fingerprints bruised into it. He weeps as Oscar pulls him carefully back into the bed and lays beside him, pulling a blanket around them both, just like he did when they were really on the farm. When Ma was really alive.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs. He still doesn't really know where he is, but he knows Oscar is here. Knows Ma isn't. Oscar pulls him closer like they're kids and wraps an arm around Morris as tightly as he dares when Morris' back is an open wound.

"'s'okay," he whispers back, voice scratchy and soft. Deep like he's more a man than a boy. "I got you, Mo. 'm'here."

Morris falls back into oblivion and dreams of nothing.

they're both here. this is lovely. <3

when did you stop loving daisy?

(did you ever?)

POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922

This is an impossible question to answer. You must understand how much of myself I put into her and thus how much of myself I lost the day I realized it wasn't going to happen. Can you imagine that? Building the whole of your world and your vision of yourself on the opinion of the one person on Earth you thought you truly understood, the very first person in your life to want nothing more than to bring you peace—just for that same person to change and withdraw as you, in an effort to retain their attention, concentrated and refined yourself into exactly what you thought they needed?

For once in my life I had someone I could understand, until I didn't. And for a moment I thought for sure that without her I had nothing, that I was nothing and I would die nothing, but—

—well, that's simply not the case. Now, here, anyway. In another life maybe I pursued her until my body gave out and I rotted away to reveal I'd been hollow all along. I still feel that way sometimes, on foggy nights when the green light at the end of her dock cuts through my room.

Only now I don't face it alone. And thank god for that.

I'll always have a fondness for Daisy. I don't think I could fully extract her from myself if I tried, as many times as I've reinvented myself. I don't think that's a bad thing. She's good, you see, old sport. She really is. I don't blame her for my giving up, and you shouldn't either.

I would write more, but I have more letters to answer, a past to put away, a present to appreciate, and I'm already being called to tomorrow.

Sincerely and emphatically,

Jay Gatsby

thank you?! oh my gosh

I see a man (fictional), I am generally like "okay". I see the same man (fictional) being put in a situation, covered in dirt and blood, perhaps soaking wet, actively sobbing and shaking like a chihuahua, and I am saying "yay" and "yippee" and things of this nature

ai-less whumptober; day thirteen

@ailesswhumptober 13 — using themself as bait, defiance, “Take me instead.” ↳ the refuge, 1896 word count; 1.3k

cw; mentions of death, panic attacks, dissociation

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Oscar only finds out it's his birthday when Snyder tells him.

He's brought into Snyder's office by a guard with a hand tight on his bicep, and he's expecting any of the usual reasons. Most likely that he's in trouble for some reason or another, almost equally likely that Snyder's just a lonely bastard who wanted someone to smoke with and talk to again.

But instead, Snyder smiles. Tight and utterly false.

"Happy birthday, Oscar."

Oh.

Oscar doesn't know what day it is, and had only half-guessed at it being October. But apparently he'd been right.

Not that him knowing what day it is would've helped him much. He doesn't know what day his birthday is. And Snyder must know that, or see it in his face, because he says.

"October 28th. A mere three days before All Hallow's Eve. How fitting for your birth."

Perhaps that should be another sign for Oscar. The fact that Snyder just told him, rather than keeping another gleeful secret, yet another thing he knows that Oscar doesn't. But there must be another secret somewhere, because Snyder is just looking at him then, expectant.

Oscar doesn't know what's being expected. He takes a guess.

"Uh. Thank you, Sir."

Swing and a miss. Snyder looks irritated, as if Oscar is the one fucking with him. He turns his attention to his desk and flips through some papers, not even bothering to look at Oscar when he speaks next.

"Well, your uncle will be here to pick you up soon."

And Oscar's world grinds suddenly to a halt.

For a moment, he's sure he'd imagined the words, or utterly misinterpreted them somehow. Maybe Snyder is just fucking with him still, a part of whatever weird joke this is. Snyder's always had a backwards, sick sense of humour — a consistent reminder he's hardly older than Oscar, when it comes down to it.

Well, less older now.

"Uh," Oscar sort of croaks. "What?"

Snyder glances up from his papers. "Are you stupid?" he asks calmly.

Oscar swallows. Hesitates.

"Your uncle," Snyder repeats. "He'll be here to retrieve you. I would recommend getting yourself organised."

"My—uncle."

"Yes, your uncle. Do you know what an uncle is, Oscar?"

"I—Weasel? Wiesel? My—my da's brother?"

"Correct."

"Why. Why—"

"It's your eighteen birthday, Oscar."

Oh. Oh.

"In fact, he first contacted me weeks ago concerning your release, but I informed him he would incur a fee for your release at that point in time. Bail, to be curt."

Oscar's head is swimming.

"But. But I'm eighteen now," he says, hardly above a whisper.

"Eighteen indeed. Your sentence is over."

Oscar feels. Dazed. Feels like the world has been pulled out from under him and he's floating, falling, spinning. He has to fight down some insane urge to start laughing, almost the same feeling as when Ma died. A tangled mixture of terror and relief and utter overwhelm.

But just as quickly as it had all started, it grinds to a halt.

"What," he says, breathless, "What about Mo?"

And suddenly all of his worst fears are lighting up like a fire when Snyder doesn't respond.

"What about Mo?" he repeats, more urgently this time.

"Your brother isn't even sixteen yet," Snyder answers calmly, gaze on his papers again. "He has a while to go."

"No," Oscar says. His stomach is on the floor, cold terror washing over him even as his gut burns. "No, no, no—"

"Go and gather your things. Eight o' clock, Mr. Wiesel said. He'll be here any minute."

"No! No, no, I don't wanna go, I wanna stay. I want—You can't make me leave Mo—"

Oscar has to be dragged out of Snyder's office. By the same guard who'd dragged him in, hold considerably more brutal now as Oscar kicks and fights and pleads. He can't stomach it. He doesn't want to go, he can't go — but as much as Snyder won't let anyone go if he can help it, he won't let anyone stay once he's no longer being paid to keep them. Oscar is worthless to him now. And won't be kept.

He feels the attention of the bunk room shift to him as he's tossed in, lands on the floor in a brutal skid that has his arm and hip grazed to shit by the filthy floors. He's still shouting.

"Os," Morris says immediately, running to him. Taking his hand. "Os, what happened?"

Oscar's eyes are burning. His chest is tight, lungs won't expand. He can't bring himself to look at his brother, but a larger part of him desperately wants to look at him, to stare at him, to commit every inch of his face to memory lest it be forgotten in two years.

Two years.

Oscar chokes a sob.

He knows everyone is staring. He knows he's much too old to cry. He's eighteen. He's eighteen now.

"Os," Morris repeats, real gentle. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."

"Get your shit," the guard at the door barks.

Morris looks up at him, and without his eyes on Oscar, Oscar finally dares to look at him. Sees the earnest confusion in his little brother's face, the crease in his brow, not understanding what's going on. Even when he does turn to Oscar then, that familiar dependency on his older brother for explanations. Oscar doesn't know how to explain this.

He chokes out another empty, breathless sound.

"Os, you ain't breathin'," Mo tells him quietly. "You gotta breathe. C'mon. Breathe—breathe."

"You don't get your shit, you're leavin' without it," the guard spits, and Morris. Pauses.

"Leavin'," he echoes. "Who's leavin'?"

Oscar wants to die. His stomach is rolling, throat so tight he can't breathe at all anymore. He squeezes Morris' hand so desperately he can feel every bone and tendon, will surely leave bruises behind — but then there's a distant shout and then the guard is moving, coming for him again. Heaves him up with that familiar grasp on his upper arms.

"We ain't got time for this," the guard grits out. "Got your new boss waitin' for you."

"No," Morris protests immediately, rising up to his feet as if to chase his brother as he's dragged away. He doesn't even know what's happening, and it makes Oscar feel sicker to know that it's Morris' instinct to protect him regardless. "No. No! Os ain't do nothin', let him go. Let him go!"

But if Oscar's protests had been utterly ignored, it goes without saying that Morris' will be too. He doesn't cut much of an imposing figure, even as he rises on bare tiptoes in a desperate bid to seem bigger. He trails the guard to the door, shouting all the while, and when the guard only keeps going, Morris starts to hit him. Insubordination that would usually always earn attention, earn the ire being turned to him.

But this time, it doesn't work.

"No!" Morris screams. "No, this ain't fair, where are you sendin' him? He ain't done nothin'! Take me instead! Take me!"

Oscar doesn't see the hit. He just hears the deafening crack and then the familiar thud of his little brother's body hitting the ground. Hears his screaming go quiet as the door is slammed and locked behind them. And Oscar is just forced to keep walking, coughing and retching, down the hall and the stairs to the entrance hall where his uncle is waiting for him.

He's largely unrecognisable. A bigger man than Oscar remembers. Better dressed. He's got a cigar in his mouth and a rough look on his face, one that almost twists to pity when he sees Oscar.

"Lord above," Wiesel mutters. "What they been doin' to you?"

Oscar doesn't speak. Can't. Feels utterly numb, the voices and sensations all washing over him as Snyder speaks to his uncle. Papers are signed. And then he's being exchanged, the hands of the guard swapping for the bigger, careless hands of his father's younger brother, taking that same grip of his upper arm to lead him once again.

"Right. C'mon."

Oscar doesn't have a choice. He never has.

He goes.

Bonus non-whumptober delancey fic bc apparently it’s necessary.

cw. Mention of/allusions to suicide

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morris wasn’t sure what time it was, but it must’ve been late, or maybe the early hours of the morning; the low hanging moon shining just enough light into the room through the gaps of space between the rotted wood of the roof Oscar hadn’t got round to fixing yet.

His breath was caught in his throat, and he was cold, his thin blanket that had been patched up several times over a tangled mess on the floor. He must’ve kicked it off in his sleep.

Nightmares weren’t unusual, and he couldn’t even remember this one, not really, grasping at smoke as he tried to slot the foggy images back into place, but he felt it in his chest, something hollow that made him aware of what felt like empty space in his ribcage.

It was something about Ma, maybe. When he closed his eyes he pictured her face, her features a little distorted maybe, from so many years without her, but it was easy to piece together when he looked so much like her. He saw her most of the time when he looked in the mirror.

It was the little things he forgot, whether the freckle on her chin was on the right or left of her lip. Whether the scar just below her eye was white or pink.

And she always looked happy, when he imaged her. He doesn’t remember her ever looking happy.

He had an old picture once. When da had told them to pack, Christ, near 10 years ago now, he’d not known what to bring, but shoved the picture of mammy from his bedside table into his pocket before da shoved them out the door and in the back of the cart and abandoned them to Snyder like the shit father he always had been.

Morris remembered being scared, then. Clinging to Oscar’s hand. And in retrospect he realised Oscar must’ve been scared too, a little kid still. He’d held onto Morris’s hand just as tight in return.

It wasn’t long after they were out of the refuge that Oscar had burnt it, the picture.

Morris couldn’t remember what the argument that prompted it was about anymore, he just remembered the flames licking up the side of the crumpled photo, more creases than it was her image anymore with the amount it had been shoved in his pocket and taken out and unfolded and held so tightly he was sure he accidentally tore it.

He thought about the photo (ma sat down next her husband, a bruise shadowing her cheek) as he leant down to grab his blanket from the floor. The rotting wooden frame of the bed creaked. It was loud in the silence of the room, the only noise aside from Oscar’s level breathing, and then that shifted.

“Mo?” His voice was low and rough and so southern that for a moment Morris was sure he was da.

“Go back to sleep, Os.”

A few second of quiet. And then the shitty mattress gurning as Oscar turned over, pushed himself up onto his elbow to stare at him.

Morris couldn’t help the fond twist of his lip despite the circumstance. Even through the dark he could see that Oscar’s curls were a mess, and he was wearing an expression that Morris recognised from the street cat he disturbed the other week while it was napping on a sunny patch of cobble. Disgruntled.

“Wha’s wrong with you?”

Morris pulled his legs up to his chest, ignoring the goosebumps dotting along his skin. “Nothin’.”

“Shit liar.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“You’re cryin’.”

Morris furrowed his brows and swiped the heel of his palm underneath his eyes. It came away wet.

He hadn’t even realised.

“Seriously Mo.” Oscar shifted and the bed creaked again. “Know I hate it when you lie.”

“Dreamin’ ‘bout ma. I think.”

The admission felt dangerous. There was never any way of knowing Oscar’s reaction to things like this. Whether he’d blow up or ruffle Morris’s hair or ignore him the rest of the night.

Oscar never liked talking about their ma. Morris couldn’t remember the last time Oscar had brought her up first.

He was all too aware of the ways Oscar’s jaw hardened as he swallowed, of the way he flexed his hand.

“I don’t remember what,” he continued, “but I- I don’t think I can remember her face proper.”

Oscar fell back onto his mattress, elbow shifting from under him and Morris noted how he pulled a face at the sound, noted how he didn’t close his eyes but stared up at the ceiling instead.

“You’re right. Should just go back to sleep Mo.”

Morris swallowed hard and pulled the blanket closer around himself. His throat was aching.

“Was she greying when she-“ he couldn’t quite say it, even though it was years ago, and he’s said it before, hundreds of times. “I remember her hair bein’ real dark but sometimes I think about it and-“

“Startin’ to. Grey roots.”

“She was only young though.”

“Stress, Mo.” His voice still sounded all too much like da’s. Low. A quality of gravel to it.

Oscar was starting to grey a little too, in the same spots their da had, only a couple hairs, but Morris was growing more and more aware of it. He’d never thought his brother as old. There was only two years between them.

But ma hadn’t been old either.

“You’re not ever. you’re not ever gonna kill yourself, Os?”

“Jesus-“

“Cause you- ma weren’t even much older than you when she-“

“Morris-“

“-did it and I don’t think I’d be good, at bein’ on my own.” He swiped at his eyes again. “You could. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be good at it-“

“Christ Mo.” Oscar pushed himself up again and glared at him from across the room, if it weren’t for the late hour, Morris would swear there was a sheen to his eyes. But he knew better than to mention it. “I ain’t gonna kill myself, okay?”

Morris was afraid that if he spoke, no sound would come out. Instead he studied Oscar’s face as best he could through the darkness. His cheeks looked gaunter with all the shadows, his deep set eyes even darker, high cheekbones like da, a strong jawline, handsome. His hair was still a mess.

He looked tried.

Had looked tired for as long as Morris could remember. And Morris wondered if this was the image of Oscar he would remember, or if he would make him smile like he did with ma when he thought about her.

“I just.” His voice was quiet, but it felt like he was breaking something by talking. “I don’t wanna forget your face too.”