All The Ways We Touch [BxB]

sixty-eight - old haunts - pt. one

It was the stench that snapped Jamison out of his slow, hazy return to consciousness. Cheap, chemically, artificial pine; a dollar store cleaner that performed well, but burned your nose and throat if you inhaled too deeply after use. His stomach dropped, nausea immediately washing over him while a soft sob passed through his trembling lips. This couldn't be happening, right? But everything immediately fell into place. The kidnappers hadn't been targeting Elliot, but him. But why take Elliot? He was a somebody, and his profile would only draw more attention and resources into the search. And who was helping Pastor Timothy? Had he recruited someone? Or twisted one of the more vulnerable teen boys into becoming his little disciple? Those were questions for later. For when thinking clearly didn't feel like trying to peer through midnight coastal fog.

With the fear that pulsed through him, making his hands shake and his pulse a beating drum, he could only manage a whisper. "Elliot?" It was incredibly unlikely that he was in the same room, not only because it would've been an odd decision by Pastor Timothy, but there was an air of stillness that screamed he was alone. An old feeling he'd known intimately during most of his life. Still, it was worth trying. With no response, he tried again, a notch louder. "Elli?"

Tears spilled out of his pinched eyes as he willed himself to open them and look for his beloved, but despite every cell in his body telling him he was back in the facility, he was too terrified to confirm it. "I can't do this," he choked out, his voice as small as he felt on the thin, plastic mattress. As his chest heaved and stomach churned with acid more fiery than when he'd experienced his gay panic, Elliot's voice responded in his head. 'Yes, you can.' It was the same as during the hate crime, when Elliot's voice had encouraged him to fight for his life. Only now it was even higher stakes, given that Elliot was at risk too. 'Just open your eyes.'

Jamison hesitated, his hands clenched into fists so tight that it felt as if his nails could break through the recent threads of scar tissue running through his palms like veins of gold in stone. In a bid to calm himself, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly just as Elliot had taught him. After repeating it until he could no longer feel his pulse pulsating like the dance music at Duncan's Halloween party, he tried wiping away his tears, but it was futile, and more came as soon as he lifted his fingers. Opening them in such a state seemed like a silly idea, but Elliot needed his help—he was sure of it—and the visions of whatever horrors Pastor Timothy might be inflicting upon him played behind his eyelids with such vivid vigor, he could barely keep himself from hyperventilating right into a severe panic attack. With one last deep, shaky breath, he finally opened his eyes and found himself face to face with the ancient coffee colored water spot on the ceiling above the bed. Not only was he back in the facility, but they'd put him back in his old room. He sat up, goosebumps breaking out at the familiar sound of the plastic mattress crinkling beneath him. Everything was a reminder of a time and place he'd desperately tried to forget, but was now back to drowning within.

The plain, violently white room was devoid of anything aside from the bed, so when Jamison got up, the first thing he did was head for the door. Why not have hope? One hand on the handle, he paused to check his pockets only to find that his pen was missing. It seemed that they'd been thorough and confiscated it before dumping him back in his cage. He could only imagine how much Pastor Timothy must've loved discovering the weapon that he'd used to puncture his throat was an accessory that he still carried with him. Worse, Jamison was now at a severe disadvantage; Pastor Timothy now knew he was still afraid of him, something he'd rather been able to try and hide when he inevitably came back. After wiping his eyes again, he took a shallow, shaky breath and tried to turn the handle. Of course, it was locked.

"Fuck." Turning back around, he ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed the room, trying desperately not to succumb to the darkness threatening to swallow him whole again. If he hadn't spent years trapped and trying to dismantle his bed frame, he'd have attempted to break it down and use some metal piece as a weapon. The plastic mattress wasn't going to help either. He was just as stuck as he'd been when he was fourteen, and it was crushing. Another, louder sob escaped him as abject despair filled him, sinking deep into his bones like a winter chill. There was an urge to lie back down and cry, or to hide under the bed like he'd done when he was particularly overwhelmed, but there was Elliot to consider, no matter how negative his internal thoughts had become about his capabilities and the situation as a whole.