It's not like they could do anything about it.

About his hunger for suffering, his pleasure for blood or his fascination with torturing the one who so easily forgave him and believed his promised lies.

The monotony of the day only gave the feelings more fuel, seeing the little boy, bruised, bleeding, naked at his feet. It gave him a feeling of divine power, knowing the little homunculus would take it quietly and the others didn't care.

'Quit your crying, kid,' he would say, delivering a sharp kick in the stomach of the little boy, sending him flying into whatever was behind him.

A couch, a bed, a wall, a corner.

It didn't matter as long as there was a cry of pain or squeak of suffering. Then his rage would slowly, slowly die away, and he would treat the little homunculus as a loving brother, promising change and fantasies, giving excuses that were never true.

And the funny thing was, the kid actually believed him, would look at the older homunculus with big lavender eyes.

Scared. Hopeful.

Trusting. Wary.

He would stop crying and shiver in the older homunculus's arms, bleeding slowly stopping, tears drying.

Bruises throbbing.

But the beating was presently over, giving him a short time for rest. And when the little boy had, exhausted, fallen asleep in the older homunculus's arms, he would dump the little boy on a bed or whatever remotely comfortable area was available, all the while smirking at his little victory.

Then he would slink into his room, feet making no sound, and close the door behind him. Leaning roughly against it, he would immediately begin to shiver and sweat as his anger battled for a way out.

Sometimes, it would escape and the homunculus would open the door and return to the little boy's room.

Other times, his feelings for the little boy would prevail and his anger would slip into a dormant coma, ready to be awoken from the slightest movement.

Slowly, the homunculus would lower himself to a squat and just sit, staring at the too-white walls. At the ugly green of the flimsy bed covering. At his windowless, unventilated space, all mocking him of a chance to calm himself.

…..

And he would cry.