by J. A. Rock
“Family?”
“Parents died a few years ago. I have an aunt and uncle up north. We talk once a month. Maybe someone from work will call them when I don’t show up.”
“But no one knows you came here?”
Patrick shook his head.
Fuck.
“How did your parents die?”
Patrick glanced at him sharply, then looked away again. “House fire. Right after I went to college.”
“That’s horrible.” Even when Ilia had lived at home and hated his parents, he hadn’t wanted to think about them dead. He picked at the couch cushion. Made him sick to imagine them dying violently like that.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “It was.”
“Do you think about it a lot?”
“Yeah. Feel guilty I wasn’t there.”
“We can talk about something else.”
Patrick shrugged. “It’s okay.”
Ilia wanted to talk about something else. Anything else. “Did you want to be a sports therapist for a long time?”
“Not really. I mean, I like helping people. And I just… like muscles.”
Ilia grinned.
“Not like that,” Patrick said quickly. “I mean I like the way the body works. Thought sports massage would be interesting.”
“Oh.”
Patrick stared out the balcony doors. When he spoke again, it was to say, “You’re picking a hole in that couch.”
Ilia looked down. He’d plucked the leather until it cracked.
He laughed nervously. “It’s my couch though. It was mine.”
Patrick nodded at the utility closet. “You think our phones are in there? Where he keeps his papers?”
“I don’t know.” Ilia hadn’t thought about his phone for a while.
Patrick got up and walked to the closet. Kicked the door.
Then he kept kicking it. And punching it, and throwing his shoulder against it.
“I’m getting out of here!” Patrick shouted. “I’m getting out!”
Ilia wanted to go to Patrick and physically stop him. But part of him hoped—stupid, dangerous—that Patrick would succeed. That he’d break down the door, and they’d find their phones, and they would get help.
They’d get free.
Ilia went to the door and started kicking it too. When they couldn’t break it, they tried combinations on the keypad. Eventually they split up, Ilia trying the combination on the front door lock, and Patrick working on the closet. They worked until they heard the elevator ding outside, Nick’s footsteps in the hall. Not speaking, but together, at least.
Allies.
VI
Nick thought Mikhail had taken a sweet boy and turned him into a willing whore. Wrong. Ilia wasn’t a whore. He was wanton, and he was wild, but that was only for Mikhail. Not for the rest of the world. And, just once, to tease Nick.
Until Patrick came along.
Mikhail had wanted to see Ilia and Patrick together, but he hadn’t wanted the kind of show Nick demanded. He’d wanted to see Ilia draw Patrick out. Wanted to see them play. And afterward, when Patrick remembered his shyness again and couldn’t speak for stammering, Ilia would have kissed him sweetly on his way and then basked in Mikhail’s praise.
Ilie. Ilie, my light. My beautiful boy.
Mikhail would have said that.
It wouldn’t have been sordid.
There was a game playing on TV, and Nick’s gaze slid from the floor to the screen and then back again. He reclined in his couch with his feet on the coffee table, one hand holding a beer and the other holding his cock.
Ilia and Patrick kissed on the floor, naked and entwined.
Ilia was hard. Patrick wasn’t.
Ilia sucked in a shaking breath as Patrick’s fingers snagged in the ribbons on his back. He thought Patrick would choose to hurt him, but he didn’t. He moved his hand away.
Patrick kept straining to see around the couch, into the kitchen.
The hammer was in there, on the counter near the fridge. Nick sometimes left it out when he was home. A constant reminder to obey. Or a test to see if one of them would try to pick it up. He did that—challenged them. He had left them access to the balcony, even though there was a chance they would succeed in alerting someone. Even though he knew they could jump. He left the chairs out. Let Patrick cook, let him boil water. Let them eat off heavy ceramic plates, with forks. Dared them to try to turn small comforts into weapons.
Ilia had caught Patrick eyeing it this afternoon.
Stupid fuck. You try anything, we’re both dead.
Ilia tried to kiss Patrick again, but Patrick’s lips were shut tight. Ilia met his gaze.
“How can you do this?” Patrick whispered.
“We don’t have a choice.”
Noise from the TV. A whistle blown. A buzzer sounding. A roar from the crowd.
“We do have a choice.”
What choice, you idiot fucking whore?
Patrick had sucked Ilia’s cock to avoid pain, hadn’t he? Had sucked it because he was scared. So apparently Patrick’s fucking choice was to do exactly as Nick said, and maybe live.
“We don’t have to hurt each other,” Patrick insisted, lips barely moving, voice so soft Ilia almost didn’t hear him.
“This isn’t hurting me.” Ilia stroked Patrick’s cheek. Patrick flinched. “Is it hurting you?”
Patrick nodded.
“You’re hot.” Ilia exhaled, and his breath hit Patrick’s face, making him blink. “I would’ve wanted to do this anyway.”
“Not like this.”
No, not like this. For Mikhail.
But maybe that wouldn’t have worked, because Patrick wasn’t Mikhail’s. Patrick might not even have liked Mikhail, and it wouldn’t have been much of a show if Patrick wasn’t into it.
Patrick seemed like the type to want someone who would give himself over completely. Someone who would accept and love all that he offered in return. Ilia couldn’t have been that for Patrick, because Ilia had belonged to Mikhail.
But Ilia might have wanted someone like Patrick in high school—before Mikhail, before Ilia knew what it was to have a real man. Back when he’d liked watching the guys on the swim team. They had those perfect muscles—not bulky, but softly honed. Patrick had muscles like that.
Ilia reached out to touch Patrick. Stopped.
Patrick had ruined everything. Had made Ilia want things he shouldn’t. Made Ilia think about what was fair, what was right, when the world didn’t fucking work that way.
Junior year of high school, Ilia was supposed to watch the news every night for his current affairs class. Was supposed to form opinions about what was going on in the world. But all Ilia had cared about were the clothes he wore and cutting out pictures of tattoos he liked in magazines. Sneaking glances at the boys he thought were hot, and almost always focusing on the douchebags—the guys who would at the very least have laughed at him if he’d come onto them, and at worst would have beaten the shit out of him. Maybe it felt safer to want those guys. No danger that anything would actually happen there, that Ilia would have to navigate sex and relationships and try to make something out of his muddle of hormones and insecurities.
Maybe he would have liked someone like Patrick back then, someone shy and gentle and even more nervous than he was. Beautiful, sensitive, willing to take things slow.
Ilia had messed around with a couple of guys his own age after high school, but it hadn’t been very satisfying. When Mikhail had shown up, everything made sense. Ilia needed someone mature enough to offer guidance, to make him feel safe, yet who was so enamored of Ilia that Ilia never had to worry about disappointing him.
He’d always been selfish. Always cared about his narrow existence and not what went on around him. Cared about getting his way. About what others could do for him.
“There are two of us,” Patrick whispered. “And only one of him.”
No.
Patrick was stupid to think he could get Ilia t
o look out for anyone but himself.
“Shhh!” Ilia said.
“The fuck’s going on?” Nick demanded.
“He won’t shut up,” Ilia snapped, before he could stop himself.
He saw Patrick’s eyes go wide for a second, then close.
Nick got off the couch. Turned off the TV. A few seconds of dead quiet.
“Maybe he’s been cooped up too long,” Nick said. “Needs to express himself.” He walked toward the bedroom. “Come on, Patrick.” He patted his thigh like he was calling a dog.
Patrick looked at Ilia. Two of us. One of him.
Ilia looked away.
“Come on,” Nick repeated from the bedroom doorway. His tone was encouraging, almost amiable. “You can scream as loud as you want in here.”
Patrick slowly rose and went to the bedroom.
The door closed.
Ilia sat on the floor in the living room. Winced a little when the noise started. Patrick, moaning the kind of exaggerated moans you heard in pornos, except there was fear in every one of them. The bed shifting, creaking. Patrick’s cries of pain.
Ilia covered his ears.
VII
Only once had Ilia ever asked Mikhail how he could do what he did. Kill people. Come home and wash the blood off his hands and then make dinner or watch TV or visit Ilia.
He’d expected Mikhail to give some bullshit answer about how it was a dog eat dog world, how the strong thrived and the weak were no great loss. But all Mikhail had said was, “I’m good at it. And there are a lot of things I want for myself that I can get by doing what I do.”
Ilia had appreciated the honesty, at least.
And then Mikhail had said, “A lot of the people who work for me have families. Children. Just because we hurt those who have wronged us doesn’t mean we don’t know how to care for others.”
Ilia didn’t ask about the children of the people Mikhail killed. Didn’t ask whether members of rival gangs felt a similar duty to protect their loved ones. What had seemed important at the time was that Mikhail cared for Ilia. That Ilia never feared Mikhail. Never saw, when it was just the two of them, even a hint of the violence Mikhail was capable of. If Mikhail and Ilia disagreed, they bickered like any couple. Mikhail never strong-armed Ilia. Never stuck his fingers in old wounds—bringing up Ilia’s father or trying to make Ilia feel ignorant because he was young, because he’d been shit at school.
“It’s a beast, not a man, who doesn’t know how to care for others,” Mikhail had said.
And Ilia had ignored that, because he was never going to be in a position to care for anyone. Was going to belong to Mikhail, be provided for, cherished.
If they had managed to get Patrick into bed with them, then Ilia would have been kind. Would have taken things slowly. Would have eased Patrick past his nervousness, touched him and talked to him. He would have cared for Patrick, but only for a couple of hours. Then Patrick would have gone home, and Ilia would have been back in Mikhail’s arms, absolved of any further responsibility beyond being treasured.
VIII
The sounds wouldn’t stop. Ilia jerked in time with Patrick’s cries.
He’d made this happen. He’d gotten Patrick in trouble.
He’d made all of this happen.
He moved his hands in little circles over his ears, to create noise in his brain, to drown out Patrick. Closed his eyes.
He didn’t want to see.
But with his eyes shut, he only saw more.
Saw Mikhail standing before him, so real that Ilia didn’t know whether to run to him or recoil.
Don’t—don’t see me like this. You won’t love me if you know what I am now.
But Mikhail remained, staring at Ilia quietly.
“I’ll look after you,” Ilia had told Patrick that first day. Didn’t know what had moved him to say that. Maybe a memory of Mikhail.
The memory that stood here now, surveying the mess Ilia had made of looking after Patrick. Knowing how empty Ilia’s promise had been.
Maybe Ilia had always been empty.
A beast, not a man.
Ilia couldn’t stand Mikhail’s silence, his judgment. He curled up and tried covering his eyes instead of his ears. But when he did that, the sounds from the bedroom were louder.
Nick was hurting Patrick. Over and over. Why didn’t Patrick pass out already, or die, if it hurt bad enough for him to cry like that?
Ilia’s fault.
He pressed hard against the sides of his head, wishing he could collapse his own skull. Wishing he’d done the world a favor and thrown himself off the balcony weeks ago. Smashed his own brains out with—
The hammer.
He stood, so swiftly that several seconds passed before it registered that he was moving. He hurried to the kitchen.
StopthinkingStopthinkingJustdo.
He picked up the hammer and crossed to the bedroom.
You can’t think. There isn’t time.
This is your chance.
He shoved open the door.
Nick was on top of Patrick, pants around his thighs. Patrick had his head thrown back, eyes wide, mouth open, blood flowing from his nose onto the pillow.
Ilia was at the bed in two strides and raised the hammer. As he did, Nick looked up, met his gaze, and his expression alone was enough to make Ilia falter. A hungry fury, black and wolf like.
“Don’t.” Nick’s voice was calm. He made no attempt to get up or draw his gun.
Ilia kept the hammer poised. His arm shook. “Let him go.”
Nick might just do that. Might let Patrick go, and do something worse to both of them. Ilia had to swing, or they were in trouble.
“Do you know what will happen, if you swing that?” Nick asked softly.
Ilia forced himself not to look at Patrick. To focus on Nick.
Nick continued: “I will be faster. I will grab it right out of your greasy, scrawny hand. Then I’ll put the claw through one of your eyes. Okay? I’ll leave the other eye alone, so you can see what I do to him.” He jerked Patrick’s hair. “So you can watch me do each of his joints with that hammer. Until they’re pulp. You understand? Until there’s not a piece of bone left big enough that even a fucking doctor would know what it was. And then I’ll do you the same.”
Ilia shook harder.
“Ilia—” Patrick said, but Nick shoved Patrick’s head into the pillow and continued to stare at Ilia.
“I trusted you, Eli,” Nick whispered.
It shouldn’t have hurt to go back to Eli. Shouldn’t have hurt. Ilia’s arm fell to his side, the hammer suddenly too heavy.
“Drop it now,” Nick said. “Before this gets any worse for you.”
The hammer clunked on the floor. Ilia went to his knees, dizzy and so wired with fear he could have come apart, gone to pulp without Nick even touching him. A shadow swiped his vision as he fell onto his hands. A high-pitched note of agony sounded in his brain, and he gagged. Over and over, until there was no air left, until he fucking prayed Nick would shoot him.
He collapsed then, and mercifully, everything stopped.
CHAPTER NINE
I
Someone’s hand was on his forehead.
Ilia opened his eyes a little. Peered through the slits.
His head throbbed, but it wasn’t a grinding pain anymore. The room smelled terrible. The pillowcase was dark-spotted. Smelled like blood and vomit. His bladder ached like he’d been kicked there.
The bedroom door was shut, and the room was dark except for the faint light from outside.
Patrick whispered, “You awake?”
Ilia didn’t answer. Wished he’d stayed asleep. Wished he’d died.
“You’ve been out for a couple of hours. Nick told me to get you up and running again.” Patrick was dressed—T-shirt and sweatpants—but his nose was still crusted with blood.
Up and running. Like a machine.
Memory hit him fast
Hearing Nick rape Patrick. Mikhail’s ghost.
Grabbing the hammer. Nick…and what Nick had said.
“H-h-h-h-I’m s-sorry,” he whispered around ragged jerks and gasps. “I’m sorry!”
“Shh,” Patrick said, smoothing Ilia’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. He glanced toward the door.
Ilia swallowed. “He’s out there?”
Patrick nodded.
Ilia reached up to grip Patrick’s thin wrist. At the same time, he felt warm dampness spreading under the covers as his bladder released. He couldn’t remember what muscles he needed to control that, and it was too late anyway, so he tried to ignore it.
Patrick glanced down in surprise when Ilia touched him, but he didn’t pull away. “You don’t understand,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry. Patrick.”
If Patrick hated him—and Patrick should hate him—then he had no one.
He continued, needing to make Patrick understand. “Can’t be a—a victim. Have to—to—to want it. What he says. Just do it. And be something else. Don’t let him—don’t let it hurt. I can’t be a victim.”
Patrick stared down at him. Ilia couldn’t read his expression.
“I hurt you.” Ilia gulped air. “So much. And I can’t—” Tears flowed into his mouth. He needed to wipe his nose, but he couldn’t let go of Patrick’s wrist, and he didn’t have the energy to move his other arm. “Two of us, one of him,” he whispered. “Please? Can we still be…two of us?”
Patrick gently pulled his arm from Ilia’s grasp. Reached for a tissue from the box beside the bed and held it so Ilia could blow.
Ilia felt like a fucking child. Worse than a child. Weaker, more helpless.
Patrick wadded the tissue and tossed it aside. The tissues were new. Nick had bought them to help with clean up. The other day, Patrick had tried to write HELP and their location on one, using grime from the stove burners. The letters hadn’t shown up, and the tissue had torn, but Patrick had kept trying. “I don’t know,” he said softly.
“Please!” Ilia couldn’t speak for a minute, couldn’t get his breathing to even out. He was lying on his back, and the pressure on his rings was suddenly vivid. He could go hours, days forgetting the piercing was there, and then all at once he’d be unable to stop feeling it. “Don’t hate me. Please. If you hate me, then what’s l-left? I don’t wanna be weak, but I’m so...so scared.”
