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ai-less whumptober; day eight

@ailesswhumptober 8 — rope burns, gagged, “You’re so much prettier this way.” ↳ the refuge word count; 1.1k

cw; grooming, manipulation

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Morris hadn't meant to freak out.

Truly, he never does — it just happens. Always has, ever since he was tiny, whenever he's feeling too much.

And he's been feeling on edge for days.

Oscar has been ignoring him completely ever since getting back from solitary a few days ago, not talking to him or even looking at him, so Morris has been alone. He doesn't deal well with being alone. He's not supposed to be on his own. He can't sleep when he's alone, so he's tired, and he hasn't eaten because Oscar hasn't been making him, and his throat hurts from all his talking.

He'd been attempting to rectify the loneliness.

He'd talked and talked the first couple of days, desperately rambling and chattering and babbling to try and get something out of Oscar, engage him in conversation or annoy him into anger or anything, but none of it had worked — until finally the words had seemed to dry up in Morris' throat after endless attempts with no results, and he could no longer speak at all, no matter how desperately he wanted to. He'd been helpless, utterly silent then.

Silent, at least, until one of the other boys had tried to strike — trying to take advantage of Morris being devoid, for once, of his older brother's protection.

Morris can't remember much of it. The details. But he remembers being grabbed by his hair and dragged to the floor, pinned. He remembers being called awful things, things Da used to call him, and hit and slammed down and and strangled.

He remembers turning and going at the boy like a dog the first moment his hold had slipped.

He remembers hitting him, over and over, again and again, as hard as he possibly could. He knows he'd been screaming — he'd kept screaming, unable to stop, even as two guards came in and wrenched him from the boy, tossed him aside like a sack of grain. But Morris had started on himself then, hitting and scraping as deep as his worn-down nails could get into his skin, still shouting and screaming. He'd slammed his head into the leg of the nearest bunk, then the floor, again and again until the guards had managed to get ahold of him again and restrain him.

They'd dragged him off then, legs being scraped bloody along the filthy ground, and when he'd started to wail again, a swift hit had knocked him unconcious.

He doesn't know where he is now, but it's quiet.

There's a gag in his mouth.

It's soft, Morris thinks. Cotton, maybe, and it smells like Snyder's clothes do — rich and clean, like it's been freshly washed, though it's tied no less tightly at the back of his skull than any other gag has ever been. He tries to move, tries to reach hazily for the knot to see if he can work it loose, and finds his hands won't go where he wants them to. Won't move at all.

They're behind him, he realises. Another hazy pull triggers another scrape of something around his wrists, so he pulls again, and again, wrists beginning to burn —

"Morris," Snyder tuts. "You should know by now that you're only wasting your energy when you fuss like this. And you're wearing your poor skin away. You'll have yet more scars."

He's close, Morris realises. Somewhere behind him. He flinches when a hand touches him suddenly — an instinctive reaction, trained. But Snyder's touch is gentle. An uncalloused hand clasping carefully around one bony wrist, a thumb tracing the warmed skin where his bindings end.

It's rope, he realises. Thick, awful rope. Snyder makes a sympathetic noise.

"It is a pity," he soothes. "But you were causing yourself needless injury — and we can't have that, can we?"

Morris hears him stand, and then a few, rhythmic clicks of his immaculate leather shoes as he walks slowly around to Morris' front. Snyder's eyes are dark, looking down on him with something indescribable in his face.

"And you're so much prettier this way."

It's a whisper, like something private. Something he perhaps wasn't meant to hear.

Morris doesn't…feel especially pretty. Not right now.

His skin feels raw all over. He hurts, not at all helped by how he'd scratched and scraped at himself just earlier. His head is pounding from him hitting it — or maybe it's from that hit that had knocked him out. He tries to speak, though he has no idea what there is he could say, but all he manages is a muffled, garbled noise behind the gag, all too aware of how drool is pooling in his mouth.

The very corner of Snyder's lip twitches.

He reaches out with the back of his hand, like Morris is a dog to be tamed, and traces his knuckles softly along the side of his bruised cheek. Then dares to turn his hand, cradle Morris' jaw just beneath where the gag runs across the softness above it.

"You are quieter than your brother. None of his mouthiness." It's praise, from a line of thought Morris hasn't been a part of, though he soaks it up regardless. "But the awful wailing, the screaming. We'll have to curb that. And then..."

Then what?

Snyder must see the question in Morris' face, because his lip twitches again.

He doesn't say anything more.

Morris spends that night in solitary, but Snyder comes and fetches him first thing, and Morris spends the morning sat in Snyder's office. He perches on a chair with his wrists still bound behind him, gag still in place to keep him silent, and he simply watches as Snyder eats his breakfast, reads the morning paper, looks over some paperwork.

Snyder looks pleased when he's finished and Morris has been sat still and obedient the entire time. The look makes Morris' chest bloom with pride, and something else he doesn't recognise as Snyder approaches. He leans down and gently unties Morris' wrists with effortless experience, soothes his thumbs over the reddened burns that remain when the ropes are gone.

And, for the first time in his life, Morris has his minor injuries tended to with expensive medicine and proper care. Herbal-smelling salve rubbed into his wrists by gentle hands, and a clean towel soaked with cool water held to his bruised cheek.

When he returns to the bunk room, it's with a stomach full of fresh, buttered toast, and a clean face, bandaged wrists. And Oscar talks to him immediately. Drags him close and demands to know what happened, what Snyder did, if Morris is okay.

Morris tells him, but not everything. Too betrayed by his brother to let slip the promises Snyder had made, about more rewards if Morris is good. The quiet remark that there's something special in him, something Snyder wants to cultivate.

For the first time, Morris keeps something to himself.