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Watching your team lose hurts. Watching your team lose from over 1000 miles away because you’re injured hurts worse.
And to top it all off it's the House of Black they lose to. The people who have been tormenting them for weeks won and he's not even there to comfort his brother.
He tries to call Penta but he doesn't pick up. Right, probably still recovering from their match. He should rest. The medication for his elbow makes him tired, and he can check in with Penta and Pac in the morning. They probably won't appreciate his call tonight anyway.
He should probably get up from his couch, go to his bed, but he's warm and comfortable. He doesn't want to move, and really what's one night on the couch? He's injured no matter what and there's no brother here to nag him about it.
So he tucks his blanket tighter around him and lets himself fall into sleep
—
When he opens his eyes the world is dark. Not just night dark either, the kind of dark that makes you question if you even opened your eyes. He can't see his hand a centimeter in front of his face.
It's unnaturally silent. He can't even hear the sounds of traffic or people in the distance. It's like a sensory deprivation tank, except he's lying on a floor. The floor is warm, pleasantly so against his skin.
He's not wearing a shirt. He definitely went to bed wearing a shirt.
He's not wearing pants either. Or underwear.
The confusion is slowly turning to fear. Something is really wrong. This is malicious, someone wants to hurt him.
He stands. He still can't see or hear a thing. He has no idea where to go, what to do.
He's about to pick a direction and start walking when a hand closes around his injured elbow. He yells out, both out of surprise and pain. He tries to yank himself free but the other person's grip is iron. All he does is send another stab of pain through his elbow.
Then there are more hands on him, a second hand on his injured arm and two more on his healthy arm and side. They hold him in place, pinning them there. He still can't see but he gets the sudden feeling he's being watched..
The first hand tugs, forcing him to straighten it the most he can. He can't straighten it all the way, and another tug causes him to flinch hard.
“He is truly injured.” Says a deep voice. It's on his left, close enough that it must be the person holding his arm.
For a second the gravity of the situation leaves his mind and he scoffs. Of course he's truly injured. Why would he fake an injury? Do people think he intentionally left his brother alone to face the House Of…
Oh.
Shit.
Creepy darkness, cryptic words, fucking psychos checking his injury is real.
He suddenly has a very good idea of who the people around him are.
Animal panic floods his brain. He needs to run, to get out, to get away from these people. His breathing picks up.
No. These are smart people. He needs to think.
Alright, that voice is Brody, so Brody is on the left. That means it’s either Malakai or Buddy on his right. They’re both pretty short, only an inch taller than him.
He estimates where their face is, rips his arm out of the man's grasp, and throws a punch.
There is a very satisfying crack as his fist connects with a nose.
“Fuck,” a voice exclaims, and it’s very Australian so it must be Buddy.
His satisfaction is somewhat dampened by the realization that that means he has no idea where Malakai is. Then the realization that Julia might also be close hits him a second later.
“She’s not,” says a third voice, blooming out of the darkness a few feet in front of him, “Julia has no interest in this sort of thing.”
Before he can find his voice, Buddy speaks up, “The fucker hit me. I told you we should have put him down immediately.”
“We had to check on him,” Malakai says, “Make sure this injury didn't take too much from him. Make sure he can handle this.”
“He seems fine,” Buddy bites back, then yelps. The hand on his arm tightens to the point of hurting but he doesn't dare cry out.
“Do you think you know better than me?” Malakai asks, suddenly on his right and much closer.
“No, master, I'm sorry.”
Rey has frozen up, terrified and confused. He has no idea what's happening. He's always been curious about the dynamics of the House of Black, but being so close to it is terrifying.
He feels a gentle tug backwards, and Buddy lets go of his arm as he's pulled backwards. Brody's arms encase him, the man's tee shirt itchy against his skin. Even though he's still in deep danger he feels a bit calmer. At least he's away from Buddy and Malakai.
“Youre scaring him.” Brody says. He can feel the man's voice vibrate through him, “He doesnt need to see this.”
Malakai sighs, “Alright, I will put him out now. We don't need to traumatize him any more than necessary."
Then there is a light. Two light, small pinpicks in the dark. Eyes. A voice in the back of his mind tells its Malakais eyes. The same voice tells him to look away.
But he can't. All he can focus on is the eyes.
His brain fills with static. He feels like he's lifting off the ground, floating away from it all. Sensation fades, the pain fading away.
He feels loose, disconnected from himself. He can still think but he doesn't think he can move, can feel. Surely things are happening to his body but his brain isn't registering any of it.
Time slides and shifts. He has no way of knowing what's happening, how much time is passing. He thinks he should panic from his lack of control but even his emotions are gone.
After an hour or a second he feels something, a twinge of pain low in his gut. Emotion begins to creep back in, tendrils of panic beginning to reach him. He thinks he can feel his toes.
Then there's a pressing on his chest and everything fades back away, pain and panic retreating.
The pattern continues. Twinges of pain rise and fall, over and over. It never becomes more than the pain of a soft slap.
He's beginning to wonder if he's trapped in this cycle, if he's going to have to find a way out himself when the pain starts to return.
This time it doesn't go away. It gets sharper, sensation returning more and more. He's pressed to someone's chest, warm arms wrapped around his body. His elbow still hurts like hell, along with the odd pain low in his gut.
It takes him longer than he should to realise it’s the sensation of being fucked. Someone's dick is in him.
He has to catch his breath. He doesn't want them to know he's awake, conscious and aware. He has to find a way out of this.
Then a partially deep thrust hits him exactly right and he can't stop himself from tensing up.
“Shit,” Buddy exhales, right by his ear, "You're awake.”
He squeezes him with his legs, just enough to count as a response.
“Im sorry I scared you before,” Buddy whispers, "It'll all be alright. It hurts now but it'll be alright. Breathe through it.”
He can't get words out. All he can do is sniffle wetly. He wants to pull away from Buddy but he doesn't want to lose the warmth, his only true anchor in the darkness.
“Is his brain clearing up?” Malakai asks, somewhere above them.
“Yes,” Buddy responds.
“Put him down again. The less he remembers the kinder this will be.”
“Yes master.”
Then there were lips pressed to his mouth. It's not exactly a kiss, more a mockery of one. Then there's a pinch on his side and he inhales and suddenly his lungs are filled with a burning fog. He coughs, trying to expel it but it's too late. He can feel his brain fogging up again, slipping back into that warm, safe place.
—
He wakes up hot and panicked. It takes him several long minutes to get his breathing under control. His bedroom is dark, and a look around confirms he's completely alone. His shirt is soaked with sweat.
The room is completely dark. It’s clearly the middle of the night, 1:26 according to his clock.
It's alright. He's alone. It was just a dream.
Then nausea grips his guts and he suddenly has to bolt for the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up.
What comes up isn't normal bile. It's a thick liquid, jet black. It coats his throat and mouth, tasting like smoke and something he can't place. There's so much of it.
He can feel something inside him. A warm press, low in his stomach. If he focuses enough he thinks he can feel a heartbeat, out of sync with his own. A hand pressed to his stomach confirms it bugles slightly.
He throws up again.
He wants his brother.
When he's done throwing up he lets himself slump over the toilet bowl, resting his head on folded arms. His elbow screams in protest. It's more than uncomfortable but he doesn't want to test if he's in control of his limbs right now.
There's a hand in his hair, gently petting him.
He doesn't look up. He knows if he does then the hand will vanish, and the comfort will go with it.