"Allan? Would you come here please?" Oliver's light voice rang out.
Allan's small feet pitter-pattered their way toward Oliver, and then skidded to a stop in the doorway of the kitchen. He smiled innocently up at the older man, who grinned just as brightly down at him.
Oliver held out a small plate of sugar cookies. "It's a new recipe," he explained, watching closely as Allan took a bite. Exactly 75.4 seconds later, the boy was bent over in pain. Oliver grinned, knowing that it felt like someone had taken a knife to his abdominal muscles and was twisting it around obscenely.
Through the tears, Allan managed to cry, "What did I do?!"
Oliver sighed. "The Boston Tea Party, my dear Allan. That was a waste of some delicious Earl Grey tea."
Allan stared at him, his brilliant scarlet eyes full of pain. "That wasn't my fault. It was my people. I can't control them-"
His protests earned him a well-placed kick to the sternum. "Learn to control them, Allan. Or I will do it for you." He paused, thinking. Suddenly, Oliver slammed his foot into Allan's gonads.
Allan shrieked and started vomiting. Oliver stared down at him, absolutely disgusted. "Next time you won't leave your fucking bat on the porch, now will you?"
Allan moaned in response.
Oliver spit in the teenager's face. "I can't believe I actually wasted perfectly good formaldehyde on you." He turned and walked back into the kitchen, muttering to himself about ungrateful teenagers and how he could hide razors in vegan cheese.
Allan rolled over slowly, not wanting to see the sickeningly blue walls of Oliver's kitchen any longer. As he settled on his right side, slipping in and out of consciousness, he noted a pair of black boots moving toward him.
When he awoke, he was in his bed, a damp rag on his forehead and a blond haired boy at his bedside. "Matthieu?" he murmured, certain he was suffering from intense delusions. There was no way his stepbrother was sitting at his bedside while he was sick. That boy was a robot, he had no fucking feelings.
"It's me, Allan," that familiar voice answered. "You're not dreaming."
Al smiled. The last thing he remembered was a cool hand on his cheek and a kiss on his forehead, accompanied by the words, "Je t'aime."