bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter eleven, part 2 💚

"No, there's no need for that." Sir approached the bed, waving a dismissive hand. "Just sit."

Case obeyed, sitting with his knees and ankles locked together. White knuckles, fingers curling into the loose fabric of his sweatpants. He doesn't want me to get naked. That should have put him at ease; but the implicit threat of what was to come loomed over him like a guillotine hanging over his neck. It's okay. It's going to be okay.

Sir approached the bed.

It's just intercourse, said the voice. It might just be oral. You're not a virgin. You can do this.

Wordless, Sir dropped the toolbox onto the mattress next to Case. Except it wasn't a toolbox after all: it was a first aid kit. Sir crouched low, matching his line of sight with Case, his expression neutral and his blue eyes focused. He leaned closer. The air between them now tainted with the stinging scent of wood smoke, cologne, and alcohol. Sir reached forward, and gently prodded the bruising around Case's neck.

Case flinched at the careful touch. What is he doing?

He tried to match Sir's blank expression, as if his indifference meant bravery and strength. He was doing well, until Sir's fingertips pressed beneath his jawline and he winced with a hiss.

Sir opened the first aid kit and took out an icepack. "Here."

Without pause, Sir placed the pack into Case's hands. Blue gel squish-sploshed inside the plastic pouch. Stinging-cold burned into Case's palms. The backs of his hands were warm beneath Sir's clasped grasp.

"Hold it here," Sir instructed, guiding their shared hold of the icepack up to Case's bruised throat; when he pulled away, Case couldn't help notice the sudden absence of skin-on-skin comfort. Human touch. Simple, yet something Case was desperately starting to crave.

Sir rummaged through the first aid kit and took out a thin flashlight. With a small click, the light shone blinding white in Case's eyes. Behind the light, Sir held up a finger. "Follow my finger," he said, moving slowly from left-to-right.

Squinting against the light (his eyesight maladjusted to anything other than the dim basement), Case tracked Sir's movement. Pink scratch marks ran down Sir's wrist. Huh. I guess I left a mark, too.

Without warning, Sir moved his fingers to Case's face. Case flinched again as Sir's thumb stroked his cheekbone. He anticipated Sir would notice the tiny scar below his eye, and began listing through possible excuses: I got it skateboarding. As a kid. Play fighting with my brother. I don't remember.

"Your capillaries have burst."

Case was struck with the sickening understanding he had no idea what he looked like, with no mirror to assess whatever damage had been done so far. "Bad?" he asked, his voice like wet gravel.

"No." Sir shook his head, clicking off the torch and storing it away. "Not pretty, but harmless."

Case nodded, inhaling sharply against his nerves. His fingers burned from holding the icepack, melted frost now trickling down his neck and wrist. Frostbite easing one pain for another.

"Are you dizzy?"

Case tried to answer again, "No," but his voice had reached its limit, too hoarse and broken to be audible.

"Do you hear a ringing? Or are you feeling . . . confused?"

Case shook his head, a nonverbal yet clear no. As Sir continued to ask him basic questions, he continued to reply with a simple nod or shake of the head, the occasional shrug for I don't know.