Then He Smiled [BoyxBoy]

Fight Me

The boy's knuckles were bruised, his skin split in different places, slowly oozing blood.

Arnold lost count of how many times the boy's fist connected with his face, how many times he had to bite his tongue to stop from crying out in pain.

Quiet. That was the golden rule.

"Does it hurt?" the boy taunted.

Arnold didn't reply, he took the pause as a chance to twist on his side before spitting out a chunk of saliva and blood onto the ground.

"Hey," a pair of rough hands pushed him to his back again. "I asked you a question, queer."

Arnold was heaving, trying to catch his breath.

It wasn't bad, he chanted in his head. Nothing was broken (yet), just a few bruises on his face, and a couple of cuts. Maybe some on his stomach, too. This guy liked to use his feet.

Another punch, and Arnold barely turned his head away to avoid a broken nose.

He never bothered defending himself.

Someone would find them soon, Arnold reassured himself. And then he'd struggle to his feet and get the hell out of that staircase.

In the meantime, the boy thought Arnold's face was a punching bag, and he was having no trouble holding back.

Another punch to the side of his face, a fist around the front of his shirt, a knee to his gut.

Arnold was finally having trouble breathing.

He wheezed, eyelids heavy, head pounding, his nose too clogged up with blood.

He wanted so badly to break the rule at that moment, when his heart felt as if it held more bruises than his face, and his lungs threatened to give way. He desperately wanted to call out a name. A certain name, but its owner was too far away and he knew it. Its owner was at the other end of the building, safe, content, breathing.

Another breath wrenching kick to his side.

Arnold's vision went blank for a second, before refocusing on the floor, now specked with bits of the blood he'd coughed up earlier.

The boy attacking him crouched down and grabbed him by the chin, twisting his face to the side. "Not dead, yet. Are you still waiting for your boyfriend to skip to your rescue?"

Not a word.

Arnold was beginning to think that even if he wanted to scream, he wouldn't have enough energy to.

The boy turned to the door, then back to Arnold. "Guess not."

He pulled his arm back, fist clenched, and was about to imprint another bruise on Arnold's body when they both froze.

Footsteps.

Relief washed over Arnold so heavily that he almost shivered from it. He sagged against the floor as the boy loosened hold of his shirt.

"Oh, you're not getting off that easy."

Arnold heard something crack as the boy's foot smashed against his side. He gasped, color exploding in his vision.

The door opened.

"Hey!"

Hurried footsteps up the stairs.

"Ar?"

Arnold squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he could pretend he was already dead, or at least passed out, to avoid what was to come.

"I've got you."

Hands.

They roamed over his body, careful, examining.