He was shoved roughly to his knees, falling upon them hard. He could see nothing through the blindfold and his hands were secured tightly behind his back, rough ropes cutting into the tender skin of his wrists. They spoke around him, quick and rapid Vietnamese he didn't understand, that made his head spin and ache. His heart beat wildly within his ribs, loud enough to scream out his fear.
The blindfold was ripped away and he blinked at the bright light, gasping. Four soldiers surrounded him, glaring and yelling things he couldn't comprehend. The first blow split his lip. And then they were hitting, kicking, breaking. Anything they could reach. His ribs cracked, his jaw broke beneath a boot. Through pain that seared through his brain, through the tears that stung his eyes, only one thing rang true. One thought that took him away, brought him somewhere that was warm and soft and safe.
Jude.
He was pulled from his bed, if you could call it that, roughly. It was night, he knew, for he could see the sky through the bars in his cell. They pushed him into a chair and secured him down, arms and legs tied tightly in place. He saw the knife and squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his mind away.
He thought of dark, feathering hair, soft beneath his fingertips. It slid through his fingers like butter or fine spun silk. Always smelt so good, of smoke and of grass. He thought of calloused artists' hands, long fingered and strong, running through those dark chestnut locks. He did that when he was nervous or agitated, upset.
Jude.
The water they shoved his face into was always shockingly cold; it made him gasp and choke. They held him under long enough for him to just start to wish for death and then they'd pull him back up. Over and over again. Death dangled before his fingers and just when he reached for it, it was ripped away. He tried to think of things to live for.
He thought of a sweet baby face, of cheeks shadowed by stubble. It was always rough against his skin, like a tickle or an itch. It made him appear so gruff, older than his years, perhaps. He thought of a nose, just barely oversized, broad and straight. Of thin lips, wet by a perfect tongue. They'd be petal soft against his own.
Jude.
Their voices were always angry, not that he could ever understand the rapid speech. It confused him. He knew if he could understand, if he could answer them… maybe it'd all stop. But he couldn't give what they wanted, wouldn't even if he could. But how he wished it'd stop.
He closed his eyes and thought of a voice. Deep and drawling, heavily accented. Different, unique. Sadie could only dream of sounding so perfect. When he sang, it was like an angel. Soft, soothing. Like the slow rolls of ocean waves against the beach or a fresh summer breeze that teased at heated skin.
Jude.
He couldn't get use to opening his eyes to sunshine. Even when he saw Lucy's face every day, he couldn't forget. At night, his sleep was fitful. He always dreamt of soft, silken hair, of the sweetest face he'd ever laid eyes upon, of the voice of an angel, his angel.
He awoke every morning with a name on his lips, begging to be uttered. Always the same.
Jude.
His leg bounced and his hands fidgeted. The hot metal beneath him burnt and he wanted to stand, pace. Just move. His eyes returned again and again to the gate, searching, desperate.
And then he saw him… and he was running, calling out the name that'd teased at his lips for months on end. Strong arms encircled him, swept him up into a rough hug. His fingers slid through the softest chestnut hair, thumb stroking along a cheek rough with stubble. Eyes met and his ears were filled with his laugh, his voice.
"Jude."
Lips met, hands clutched at one another. Desperate and aching and wanting and needing. Finally, finally, home.
Jude.