Incomplete
Arkin was sleeping but it was a form a slumber foreign to most people. Most people slept in their homes, in a bed and were able to put aside all the shit of the day for a few hours in favour of some much needed respite. Other people lacked those comforts but even a vagrant managed to find a spot he associated with safety and could let go for a few hours in the knowledge that monsters wouldn't snatch them up in the night. Even if they were aware of the truly monstrous facades some so called humans could take everyone had a strange conviction wired deeply in their lizard brain that they were safe. The monsters wouldn't get them. It made no fucking sense but everyone was guilty of this irrational sense of invulnerability. Hell, Arkin had been guilty too. Despite having a life far from easy and getting his fair share of abuses he'd still walked into that mansion thinking the worst thing that could happen to him was getting thrown back in jail.
Like most he'd thought he understood what monsters were. He'd run into a few, especially during his time serving time. He's been disgusted and appalled to share a species with such sick fucks but they still made some sort of sense to him. Then he'd met The Collector and he'd been treated to a rude awakening. Monsters were terrified of him. He was so far beyond human that normal people could only attempt to put rational and him in the same sentence. It was like staring at the sun and hoping to see the fire. Normal human beings simply weren't designed for it. It took Arkin a while to understand but eventually he did and now he sheltered his eyes in the presence of the orbiting star. The only thing he hoped to achieve otherwise was blindness.
Arkin was asleep but aware. He was always aware of every noise and every minute touch. If a tiny fly buzzed on the other end of his room he was aware. Calling what he did sleeping was almost a torture in itself but it was the closest thing he had to it. It rested him just enough for him to function outside the bounds of complete delirium. At first he'd been unable to do it and he'd been forced to stay awake for days until hallucinations became so acute and consistent he'd nearly ripped his own eyes out. The Collector stopped him by binding him to a table so tightly he couldn't wiggle a toe and just abandoning there at the mercy of his own demons. It wasn't even the physical torture which ended up breaking him but rather the unyielding stress and frankly, his own imagination. He'd been tough at first, taking the beatings and abuse, confident that one day he'd escape and put himself back together.
He'd mouthed off, taking the inevitable punishments for his restless tongue with some satisfaction that he was getting under his captor's skin. A stupid, insignificant act of vengeance which was about as effective as a fly buzzing around the muzzle of a stallion. All it did was speed up his own demise, an inevitable outcome as he now knew. He'd licked his wounds and hid inside memories of better times in the few moments he was left alone. He hadn't realized what a mistake that was until those same memories turned on him like a pack of rabid wolves, sinking their fangs into his back and ripping his flesh from his spine. What he'd once associated with peace and love became distorted inside his breaking mind until love turned to hate and peace turned to pain. It got to a point where every cut and punch brought forth the image of his daughter and Arkin chose to forget her in order to protect his psyche even a little bit. With no way for him to defend himself anymore Arkin was surrounded by nothing but agony. The Collector, a predator clearly versed in breaking his pray, saw this and struck while the iron was hot. The abuse became more relentless, even more extreme and Arkin had no time to put the shattering bricks of his mental walls together. He was ground into dust and when there was nothing left he was ground some more.
The final straw came in the kindness. It was small acts at first, small touches of The Collector's fingers across his skin. By this stage Arkin lived in an almost constant state of panic and depression. He was so far gone he began looking forwards to the beatings because they broke those states. At least he'd feel the touch of someone else, even if said touch was as welcoming as splinters under his fingernails. So when The Collector ran fingers through his hair, gently, rather than slap his face to hear the reverberating sound echo around the hallow room, all Arkin could do was sob with gratitude. When fingers beckoned him to come over so they could pat him on the head like a good dog he had no choice but crawl over. He had nothing to hold onto and he was so fucking desperate for anything so when The Collector gently caressed his cheek he crumbled completely.
The beatings and various forms of torture didn't stop and Arkin couldn't be more gratified. He needed the consistency because he was being rebuilt from the ashes as a piece of his master's collection. He needed to come to some sort of term regarding his new life expectancy. Pain was either good or bad. He began to understand The Collector's silent language and know when he was being punished or rewarded depending on the force of his blows or the depth of his laceration. Arkin would sigh in relief when The Collector broke his fingers but didn't break his wrist. Or when he burned his thighs but applied salve on the injury before a fever set in. He would smile weekly when metal scraped along the bones of his ribs but the knives were disinfected and the injury stopped just before piercing an organ. The Collector must have come from some medical background because he knew exactly how to push a body to its absolute breaking point only to resurrect it back like a phoenix.
When The Collector was truly angry with him he would bestow the worst punishment. He would leave and not come back for an undetermined interval of time. It was never the same and the thief had no idea if the man would ever return. What had once been a respite from the agony was moulded and shaped into agony itself and where once Arkin screamed because he need to get away from the pain, now he sobbed for The Collector to return and take him out of the darkness. He'd be locked in a dark, bare room and someone would bring him a plate of food every so often but there was nothing else. It was just him and those inner demons of his which were all too happy to lurk in the shadows, delighted to wait for him until he trespassed against his new god. Half the time he didn't even know why he was thrown in the pit and this was yet another masterful way to break him. Arkin was always careful with his every gesture, tiptoeing around every noise and shying away from the slightest disturbance in the norm.
When and if The Collector returned to him he would always hesitantly approach, tears streaming down his cheeks until the man either patted him, reassuring him that all was forgiven, or kick him back, trapping him in the darkness for longer despite his howls and begging. One time when The Collector descended down the wooden steps, the sound of his boots far too loud to Arkin's sensitive ears after his complete sensory deprivation, he'd crooked his fingers for his pet to approach. Arkin dutifully did only to be slapped back. His weakened legs gave way and he fell back but didn't cower away. Glancing back up he saw that calling crook again and he got up, glanced at his feet and approached to endure the same treatment. The fifth slap around Arkin was crying silently but he didn't beg for the killer to stop. He wasn't even sure if said tears were entirely due to negative emotions. Some twisting part of his being was loving every sharp sting across his cheek and he was coming back towards the crooked finger more eagerly.
It took The Collector twelve slaps to get bored and upon the thirteenth crook he drew Arkin into a burly hug. The shock of it was so complete Arkin passed out almost immediately as if a fuse blew out inside his fried brain. When he'd woken next he was not surrounded by darkness or concrete floors. There were no chains and implements of torture waiting just within arm's reach, hungry for his blood. There was no reassuring drip, drip, drip from a leaking pipe in the left corner of the otherwise soundproof room. Even the smell of dried blood and heavy dust was gone. Arkin blinked and blinked and blinked but his surroundings didn't change. He was in a bed, an honest to god bed, with pillows and clean sheets which smelled of some nondescript flowery soap. There was a window where actual sunlight filtered in, though it was barred, and Arkin stared at the dust dancing through the beams of light, unable to comprehend why the seemingly mundane image was the most beautiful thing he recalled seeing in his whole life. There was also a small table in the corner and a chair with a vase. There were flowers, actual living flowers inside the translucent glass and Arkin visibly shook at the realization. Everything about this room was comforting, the stark opposite of what he'd grown to crave and the only thought galloping through Arkin's mind was RUN!
He leaped out of the bed and rushed for the door, scratching at it when it wouldn't open like a dog forgotten in an empty house. He needed to run back to the dark room, to his leaking pipe and the silver bits of metal. He needed to let The Collector know that he hadn't been bad and he didn't need this. He liked where he was and if the man wanted to slap him around some more that was perfectly fine. He didn't know what he'd done to annoy his precious captor but he needed to beg forgiveness and prostrate himself at his feet. When a low whine, so intense it was more animal than human, broke from a deep part of him he had no hope of placing the door swung open and Arkin crashed into the larger chest of The Collector. He looked up into the white pupils with sheer panic, eyes as round as saucers, glistening in the light with shed and unshed tears, before his knees gave way and he landed harshly on the carpeted floor. He grasped at the man's legs, pressing his forehead against them and began bubbling apologies. He didn't know what he was saying, just that he was very sorry and he needed The Collector to know it.
He felt a pat on the top of his head and his blabbing lost some of its agitation. He heard The Collector shush him in a gentle tone, not a commanding one, and the shivers running through his collapsed form like lightning through a rod began to relax. It took him a long time but he finally managed to stop, all the while the pats rhythmically tousled his messy hair, though he still didn't look up. Only when he felt fingers pull slightly at his hair did he chance a glance and met the unnaturally pale eyes of his breaker. The Collector pinned him there with his gaze as effectively as if he'd driven iron rods through his limbs and crooked his finger, telling Arkin to stand. The thief did, reluctant to let go of the man's legs but not even entertaining the notion of ignoring a direct order, and when The Collector raised his hand he couldn't help it. He flinched despite a small smile beginning to stretch his lips. The slap never came and Arkin opened his tightly shut eyes to look at the raised hand in pure confusion. It must have shown on his face too because The Collector struck a second later, forcing the smaller man's head to whiplash at an awkward angle.
His slighter body was send toppling back from the sheer force of the blow and he hit the table only a few feet away, sending the vase and the flowers crashing to the floor. The shattering of the glass was almost as painful as actual cuts and Arkin shuffled away from it. He understood what he'd done as soon as that desired sting spread across his skin. By showing confusion, he'd dared question the actions of his master and that was a big no-no. It wasn't up to him to decide what he deserved. It wasn't up to him to decide anything, just accept what came his way. Weather that was a new room or a slap across the face, he had no say in the matter. Arkin heard footsteps approach and he looked away from the broken lilac blooms, their fragrance releasing into the air like an accusation, watching The Collector near him instead. He hadn't been told to get back up so he didn't. The other man knelt in front of him and stared deep into Arkin's eyes with that scrutinising glance. He always did this when he was deciding what to do with his pet next and Arkin found it unnerving because this was the moment when The Collector decided if he was pleased or displeased with him. There was rarely any hint as to which way the pendulum would swing so Arkin could only suffer in silence until the other man did something.
At long last, The Collector reached for his arm and pulled it towards him while grasping a piece of broken glass with his other hand. Arkin watched with round eyes as The Collector looked at the glass, considering it while holding it up to the light and throwing a rainbow prism across the room. He then brought it to Arkin's eyes, inviting him to study the piece as well. He was about to be punished but he needed to understand why. Due to Arkin's actions the vase was broken and that act of destruction couldn't go unpunished. It wasn't that The Collector was angry with him. He simply had no choice but take action when a wrong was committed. Arkin nodded softly, relaxing his fingers just before the glass struck across the inside of his arm. He hissed, more reflexively than from pain, and stared at the blood quickly pooling to the surface of the cut. At first the intense red turned his stomach upside down but now he found the colour, especially when fresh, mesmerising.
The Collector pressed his thumb just below the injury, forcing more blood to gather and flow into his open palm, all the while studying Arkin studying the wound. He pressed the now stained glass a little bit higher on Arkin's flesh and cut again, this time slowly, letting the thief feel every second. Arkin hummed and leaned in, silently asking for another. He was given three more cuts, the same number of pieces left of the vase and by the end his arm was almost completely red. He understood The Collector had cut just deep and careful enough to avoid any major veins but there was still more than enough fresh blood to satisfy. His debt was paid and Arkin felt a short-lived pang of regret at the loss. He watched with rapt attention as The Collector brought the instrument of his punishment to his lips and Arkin opened his mouth, tasting his own blood on the sharp edge. The killer didn't rush him, letting him clean the glass at his own leisure so as not to cut his own verbal muscle off and when he was satisfied he threw the piece of trash with the rest of its counterparts.
The Collector pressed against his wounds one final time, coating the tips of his fingers in Arkin's blood and tasted the liquid for himself. Arkin sighed with want and appreciation, recognising the loving show of intimacy for what it was. The Collector loved him and this was how he showed it. Arkin loved him back but the only way for him to show it was to accept his captor's love wholeheartedly. When the fingers were clean and The Collector was satisfied he got to his feet, patted Arkin one last time and left the room. There was no goodbye or hint of when he might return but Arkin was happy because he knew his master didn't hate him. Alone once more, he looked about the room again, this time actually taking it in without falling prey to an anxiety attack. He cleaned his wounds as best he could with his shirt before moving about, not wanting to dirty the carpet. If breaking a vase earned him that kind of punishment he shuddered to imagine what happened if he marred the white spiral patters. The white was certainly not an accident either. The smallest of droplets would be a glaring beacon on the snow white canopy.
He meticulously gathered the shards of glass and not knowing what to do with them, he piled them on the table. He also gathered the lilacs, every leaf and every petal, taking a second to bury his nose into them. The perfume was intense, so intense he found himself crying all over again. There used to be a white lilac tree close to the place where he grew up and he remembered that smell always meant summer was there. Smelling the stuff now he was thrown into a maze of memories he wasn't equipped to process and he felt bile rise up. He looked for any container he could hurl into and spotted a bucket in a corner. He had nothing inside him but stomach acid still burned its way up his oesophagus as he purged, physically expelling his past. Had The Collector known what those flowers meant to him or had it been just another one of those cruel, universal coincidences? Did it even matter? Why worry about his abuser finding another weakness to exploit when there was nothing left of him to break? Arkin drew in a deep breath and approached the flowers again, tidied them in a neat bundle and left them by the glass pieces.
There was nothing else around the place. He stood at the corner of the window and stared outside. The view was limited but to him it was absolutely glorious. There were some abandoned buildings in the distance and maybe, with enough time, he could figure out a way to signal for help. That would have been his first thought not so long ago but now, the idea of another person seeing him from afar made him want to hide under the bed covers. Even if someone found a ladder, climbed right up to his window and tapped on the splotchy glass, Arkin would stay as quiet as a church mouse. He didn't need to be out there anymore. He didn't want to be out there anymore. Seeing the clouds drift by was more than enough for him. Like a bird born in a cage, he felt no envy towards his other aviary brother and sister which could fly. He had The Collector and that was enough.
Arkin glanced at the inviting bed and wondered if it was ok to use it. The Collector hadn't forbidden it and he had woken in it. He stared back and forth, between the bed and the door, deliberating. He was tired but more than anything he was curious. Could he even fall asleep in a bed again? Then another thought crossed his mind. Was he even allowed to be curious? Was that not just another way for him to question The Collector's decisions? More tears stung at his eyes, this time frustration taking a reigning seat at the forefront of his mind. He didn't know what to do and he needed his master to tell him. Surely The Collector couldn't be angry with him if he found him in the same spot he left him in? Surely that was okay. Arkin made his way back to the corner where he'd fallen and sat back down. He curled around himself, staring at a beam of light until that beam shrunk and disappeared. He wanted to get away from the lilacs but he endured them. The Collector left them there for a reason and Arkin need to show him that he could behave.
Arkin gasped awake when a boot nudged him. He glanced at the black, steel toed caps through blurry vision before understanding dawned on him. He hastily made to stand up, not wanting to let the other man wait a moment longer and the sudden movement send him toppling backwards. He was dizzy and still mostly asleep. He was going to break the table. Falling on the small piece of furniture from such close proximity meant here was no way to not break it. He wondered how The Collector would punish him this time? Probably break one of the table legs across his back. He'd done similar things in the past and then forced Arkin to lie on his injuries for days. Arkin didn't dare reach for the man in a bid to stop his fall but imagine his surprise when the man reached for him. The Collector's quick reflexes grabbed the thief and pulled him back to an upright position. Arkin opened his mouth to thank him, recalled who this was and snapped it back shut.
He expected The Collector to be annoyed at his clumsy behaviour but he patted Arkin's head and pointed to the chair. The thief sat, staring in utter confusion up at the killer. It was the same sort of confusion a child showed regarding a new insect fluttering across his line of sight without an ounce of condemnation. This sort of confusion was allowed and The Collector didn't punish him for it. He pulled up a bag and placed it on the table and Arkin stared at the black sack, still with that childish curiosity. In his experience whatever The Collector would bring out of there it would cause him pain and pain was familiar and familiar was good. His eyes shone with the anticipation as the killer slowly opened the zip and pulled the lips of the bag apart. Arkin couldn't see properly inside and he was familiar with that anticipation. Would The Collector punish or reward him. He thought he'd behaved admirably so far but he wasn't able to read the man's quickly changing moods.
The first item out of the bag was a pair of scissors and they were placed carefully on the table in front of Arkin. The next was a barber's blade, one of those old fashioned ones Sweeney Todd was known to use. A brown comb with perfectly straight teeth joined the previous implements and Arkin found that one the most confusing. He glanced up at The Collector as he pulled out shaving cream and a shaving brush. A cloth, clean and light blue was placed into a bowl and a small bottle of what looked like aftershave completed the set. Arkin stared because there was absolutely nothing else he could do. Sometimes The Collector washed him, a damp cloth across his skin with nothing fancy, but he'd do so only when Arkin was becoming genuinely repugnant or a risk of infection. When he'd woken into his new room he'd been cleaner than he remembered being in weeks and he could smell the soap on his skin. With the exception of the congealed blood crusting his arm from the previous day's cuts he was clean. Arkin didn't understand and assumed The Collector wanted him to take care of his master, a though which had him blanching. He hadn't even seen the face of his captor. Would this be the day all that changed?
The Collector patted him once, silently telling him to stay, and left the room. He was only gone for a few minutes but it was enough time for Arkin to squirm. When he returned he had a kettle with steaming water in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. Arkin eyed the water wearily, finding burning injuries the most painful, but breathed a sigh of relief when the water went into the bowl and the kettle was placed on the table. The Collector paused for a moment before turning to look at Arkin for the first time since entering the room. He reached for his injured arm and inspected it with his calculating eyes. He popped open the first aid kit and carefully began cleaning it, disinfecting it and dressing it. Arkin continued to blink at the treatment like he'd been hit in the head and he was struggling with a concussion. Certainly the man had cleaned his wounds before but never like this. This was… Nice.
When he was done Arkin stared at the fresh bandage, barely registering the other man move to stand behind him. For prey to have their back exposed to a predator was folly of the highest order. Every creature under the sun, stars and moon knew to cover their bellies around someone they didn't trust because vulnerability meant death. Somewhere along the way Arkin forgot this lesson and he casually waited as the fearsome beast behind him slowly ran his hands up his shoulders and through his hair. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of those large fingers running across his scalp. The comb began running through his shaggy, overgrown strands and Arkin lost himself in the sensation which had once been as natural as sleeping in a bed but now it was more precious than gold. The fine teeth tidied his matted hair and The Collector reached for the scissors. Arkin would have filched as he caught the glint of the sharp edges just before they disappeared behind him but he was far too relaxed. In nature, pray like him would never survive. Once the self-preserving instincts were stripped out of a creature that creature was domesticated and domesticated animals were dead in the wild. The Collector could have driven those fine points into the base of his skull and Arkin would have died a happy animal.
Brown hair littered the floor as the scissors snipped and snapped until Arkin no longer had a fringe. The comb ran through his hair once more, cleaning any loose strands left behind. The cut was almost identical to what he'd had when he and The Collector first met. He felt the killer run his fingers, sans the gloves, through his short cut and he sighed in contentment. The killer left his post behind Arkin and returned to stand in front of him once more. He grasped his chin and tilted his head up, then to both sides, staring attentively at the scruff left unattended across his jaw and neck.
If there was one thing Arkin learned about The Collector it was his flawless personal hygiene. He had no problem watching his victims squirm in their own filth but if he truly cared about something, he kept it clean. The specimens who were ready to become part of his collections were all treated to a cleanse worthy of the finest spas. The vital question finally dawned on Arkin. Was he finally chosen to enter the collection? Was this the beginning of his metamorphosis? The thought thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. On one hand it meant the approval of The Collector but on the other it meant the final loss of his humanity. For some reason Arkin hadn't been changed in any significant way, unlike some of the other potential pieces. He still owned all his toes and fingers. Still had a fully functional face and all his organs were still inside his body. He'd been the hardest to break and yet suffered the least traumatic punishments, physiologically speaking. Arkin wished he could ask why but he simply had to trust he'd get his answers in time. Either way, whatever the man had in store for him the thief was willing to accept.
The Collector shaved his face with precise, careful movements few professional barbers could boast of. The sharp blade, so sharp it could cut paper, moved up his Adam's apple and a single bob could have been devastating yet The Collector didn't knick him once. Once his skin was smooth and clean, towelled off of any excess shaving cream, The Collector dabbed his hands in the aftershave. The cologne was strong, masculine, and Arkin nearly scoffed when he realized it had been in his own house. It was a present from Lisa once upon a time. He'd never used it because it was expensive and he didn't have many expensive possessions. Furthermore his particular set of skills didn't usually require the use of cologne. The Collector having this meant he'd been inside his house. It meant he'd studied his habits and learned about him. It meant he knew about Lisa and his daughter. That little bottle was a threat, a warning and a reward all mixed into one and Arkin swallowed heavily. His eyes misted and he wanted to ask if his family was okay but didn't dare. He wasn't supposed to care about such banalities anymore. His whole life, his whole existence was for The Collection and her master. He didn't need to relearn that particular lesson so he hardened his resolve and blinked away the tears. He hoped his daughter was still alive but if she wasn't there was nothing he could do anyway.
The sharp scent clung to his skin and insidiously entered his nostrils. Arkin wished there was a mirror he could look into. He wondered how he'd react to seeing a human face stare back at him again. He wondered if The Collector was pleased with his transformation and he got his answer when the man drew Arkin to his feet. He reached for his dirty shirt and pulled it up over his head, pulling out a clean tee from his bag and handing it to the thief. Arkin accepted the gift with a small, shy smile. He realized it was also an item from his house. An old but much beloved AC/DC tee he loved sleeping in. Arkin stared at the faded logo and began sobbing in earnest, clutching the material to his chest because it was the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for him. The Collector pulled him against his chest and rocked the broken man like child, softly shushing him until the tears subsided.
Arkin was getting used to his new gilded cage and he was becoming more and more confortable. The Collector visited him every night and sometime he stayed with him until Arkin fell asleep, sitting on the edge of the bed or in the chair, simply watching him. He vaguely recalled when this would have made him incredibly uncomfortable but now it brought him a huge amount of relief. At first he'd been unable to sleep on the comfortable mattress, his senses on constant alert for something cruel to snatch him up and gnash him between its powerful jaws. The Collector made no mention of it until bags began appearing under his eyes. One evening the man let himself into his room and went right for him, grabbing his arms and pulling him towards the agitated killer, shaking him until Arkin's bones rattled. He grabbed his chin and pressed against the black circles harshly, making it abundantly clear that he wasn't pleased.
Arkin shook his head, unsure of what to do and cowered. The Collector struck him, adding more black to his skin and struck him again. He felt his lip burst and blood run down his chin but the killer wasn't appeased. He stopped short of injuring Arkin's face too badly, just enough to bruise from all angles, and moved to work on his body instead. He jabbed his core with a merciless uppercut, trapping Arkin's breath in his lungs. He staved off for exactly four seconds before he punched him again and again and again. Arkin knew nothing was broken but from the way his abdomen screamed in despair with every raspy breath he could only imagine the horror show his skin had become. A mouthful of blood threatened to escape his lips and he quickly swallowed it back. He was just above the white carpet after all. One beating was enough.
When his vision began to swim, The Collector yanked him up by his hair, forcing their eyes to meet. What he saw there was anger but also regret. It was as if this was hurting his punisher just as much and Arkin wanted to comfort him, to tell him that it was okay. He could take it and wouldn't break and The Collector had nothing to be sorry about. He sobbed and leaned in towards his captor who'd bent low enough to be at eye level with his stooped body. Their foreheads met and The Collector held him there, allowing the connection between them to linger. He ran his hand lovingly over the fresh bruises, pressing into them until Arkin whimpered, before standing tall. He was still holding the thief upright because Arkin's legs sure as shit weren't. He grasped at The Collector's hand, holding onto it, as he was lifted up and thrown onto the bed. His poor body bounced on the soft mattress and the agony was exquisite. His frame curled back into a foetal position, his arms winding around his slight build to offer some form of comfort as he sobbed, waiting for The Collector to descend back upon him like a bird of prey.
He felt a dip behind him and if he wasn't paralyzed by pain he would have hazard a glance. Large arms wound around his waist and he was pulled flush against a solid chest. He felt The Collector's body mould around his own, his masked head resting on top of his. He felt his breath and smelt the minty freshness of it and he wound his fingers with the killer's when he was prompted to do so. He couldn't stop the shaking but The Collector didn't seem to mind. He stopped making noises for fear of displeasing the other man who had a very low tolerance for most whimpering, unless he himself was the cause. He waited with bated breath to be abandoned again, for the man to get bored and leave him, but The Collector didn't move a muscle. The only sign which showed he was a living creature was his steady breathing and Arkin counted every single one in order to calm himself down.
At first he hadn't comprehended why The Collector turned his displeasure on him but eventually he recalled a very simple fact. It was a fact which had been beaten into him so many times it boggled the mind he'd forgotten it in the first place. Everything he had was owed to The Collector. His life. His nourishment. His body. Even his voice. The room he was in as well was a gift from his good master and he'd dared show anything less than utter gratification. It didn't matter if he did it on purpose or not. His lack of appreciation for the gift he'd been given was a transgression The Collector simply couldn't overlook. The bed was given to him so he would rest and he'd dared imagine he had a choice in the matter. Arkin wanted to curse his own stupidity. He didn't want to go back to the chains and the concrete. There had been a time when that had been enough but putting him back there now would be cruel. He grew to love the sunlight and being able to tell time. He loved listening to the birds sing, though usually it was crows cawing but even that was music to his ears. And yet he'd nearly fucked it all up because he couldn't sleep in the comfortable bed. That level of stupidity deserved a beating.
Arkin melted further into the embrace of the other man, mapping him out through the radiating heat across his back. He felt the cording muscles tighten further and Arkin didn't even care the hold was pressing into his fresh bruises. He continued counting The Collector's breaths until he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He staved off sleep for as long as he could because the other man would be gone when he woke up and Arkin didn't know if he'd get to be so close to him again. He wanted to feel the shape of him for as long as possible.
Eventually the fresh abuse and sleep deprivation became too much however and Arkin returned to his dark room. He heard all the demons snarl and growl but none approached him. There was something wound around him which seemed to act as a barrier. Arkin looked down but it was too dark to see. He tried to figure it out by touch but all he discovered was a reassuring heat radiating from it and it was implacable. Arkin could tell the demons were scared of this new monster which entered the sombre prison because it was stronger, crueller and so much more vicious. It was protecting him now but Arkin sensed it would turn on him at the drop of a hat and where his demons had torn him apart this unnameable creature would destroy his very soul. Still, Arkin found peace.
Arkin wandered through the various displays swimming in formaldehyde and only The Collector knew what else. He eyed them leisurely like a spectator in a museum, noting the intricate designs and macabre shapes which held a fascinating beauty to them. Most normal people were too afraid to admit the beauty in such crude things but it was undeniable. Nature understood as much so why couldn't man? Beauty was in the predator ripping a young foal apart in front of its mother because it wasn't strong enough to run yet. Beauty was in the humble earthworm burrowing inside a freshly popped eyeball as it endlessly revitalized the earth it traversed day in and day out. Beauty was in the madness waiting inside the brain of every infant until that creature was ready to embrace it because the world was a mad place and the sane died with less dignity than swatted flies. Normal people, sane people, refused to see those beauties because it would force them to admit how truly powerless they were. Someone like The Collector however broke the mould. He saw the beauty and accepted it. He ruled it and shared it, though very few dared open their eyes to see what he saw.
Arkin stared at a new specimen with rapped attention and marvelled at the creativity it took to orchestrate such a masterpiece. It had once been a woman or maybe two women. It had once had a head. It had once been missing the grafted scales and protruding bones along her vertebrae. It had once been ordinary and now it was so much more. Arkin looked at her and wondered what her name should be. The Collector always named his pieces but only he knew them. There were no written records or name plates. He decided to call her Lisa because he liked the name though he couldn't recall why. It felt familiar on his tongue but he couldn't remember why. He turned to the other man in the room and The Collector stared back at him expectantly. Sometimes he was brought here, when The Collector felt especially kind and this time he was asked to name the exhibit. An extraordinary privilege.
'Lisa.' His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. He didn't use it much since The Collector preferred silence. He couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken a sentence. Sometimes he begged but only when The Collector let him. This one meaningless name tasted strange in his mouth and Arkin wished he hadn't spoken it out loud. It felt so wrong to hear it between those walls yet so right. It was beautiful in its contradictory nature though Arkin didn't understand why. There was a taboo there his brain couldn't process anymore. The Collector did however. He stared at Arkin, considering his decision, before nodding once. This new creature would be Lisa and she was now part of the family.
The Collector approached Arkin and embraced him from behind, staring up at Lisa with open fondness. Arkin only saw that look on his face when he was working with one of his pieces. Sometimes for brief moments he saw it when they were together and Arkin knew he was also part of the family. He wasn't drowned and displayed like a pinned butterfly but he was part of the collection and he was loved. He was loved and he would never be left behind. The Collector leaned slightly down and Arkin turned his head to meet his lips in a lingering kiss. He was loved. The Collector didn't always show his affection in conventional ways but Arkin understood him far better than anyone ever had before. It was a gift just to be in the man's line of focus. If he deemed someone worthy of his mark, weather with a hand or a rod, it was a blessing. If he deemed one worthy enough to keep alive it was a blessing. If he chose Arkin to keep physically intact and share his bed most nights it was a bounty.
Arkin was loved and he loved in return. Nobody could take that away from him. Arkin felt tears of gratitude run down the bridge of his nose only for The Collector the gently wipe them away. He was loved. He was loved. He was loved. He was finally complete.