He wasn't sure what time it was, but he knew he was alive.

Only being alive, being conscious, could feel like dying.

The boy didn't attempt to move, though he could still feel himself trembling, vibrating with fresh agony as his backside, his face, his everything seemed to sing in white, hot pain that he felt his mouth contort to scream, but nothing came out but a hoarse cry.

However, a boot in his side would shift him, catching his breath as the boy tried to twist out of the way, though his meager squirm did nothing but press the boot firmly on him, right on a bruise that seemed to blister with anger. Allen stood above him, smoking a cigarette before flicking the butt onto him, chuckling as the boy flinched violently away from the burning tip, but couldn't, wrenching out a weak whimper as it dotted his cheek, leaving singed flesh behind.

"Wakey, wakey, little Mikey. Don't you think it's about time you get that little assignment done, huh?" Pressing in harder, Allen grinned at the sound of his cry, his tiny, broken cry, but that wasn't enough as the child didn't move, only motioning to curl up into as tight of a ball as he could, but it didn't work, the older man sending a more vigorous kick into his side, then again, and again, still.

And again.

And again, until he could see dark red blood pucker on his son's lips, and he ceased, kneeling down to grab his hair, yanking his head up even as his neck twisted at an odd angle, the boy, still making no move to, or more like, he couldn't move.

Not when his body had been painted so many shades of blue and purple.

"Now, do I have to ask you again, hm? I don't mind demonstrating it for you, you know, but honestly? I hate repeating myself, but you knew that, right, Mikey?" He leaned in as the boy began to speak, lips only parting a bit as a small, raspy voice danced on stale air.

"Y-yes...D-Dad. I'm...I'm sor-...," Just barely choking it out, Dash squealed as he felt his head wrenched upward, forced to his feet as he tripped over his pants that still lied around his ankles, fluid still stuck to his thighs, but Allen didn't seem bothered, directing the boy to a chair and forcing him down into it when, finally, a shrill scream tore like hellish claws through the air, fresh blood marking the seat as Dash tried to squirm out of it, but it was no use, his father pressing down on him to keep him in the chair, applying the full brunt of his weight on his shoulders.

His father's hand to his cheek was even more deafening, sending dribbles of blood dangerously close to the oddly pristine stack of papers before him, like buds of snow amongst the dark and dirt that just didn't seem to fit.

Nothing clean fit here.

"Hey, now! What did I tell you about that fuckin' noise, huh?" Leaning down harder, he laughed as the boy twitched and shuddered beneath him, and Dash couldn't help the long stream of burning tears that poured down his remaining eye, the other still terribly swollen.

All the while, the voices still screamed, and screamed. It was beginning to get difficult to tell if they'd ever stopped, but the boy tried his best to listen, to heed his father's words, even as they they tore through him.

It's too loud.

"See? Why is it so hard for you to just do what I want you to, huh? Why? Why can't you just be better? I say 'be quiet' and here you are, makin' a whole bunch of noise and for what? Because you can't handle me, huh? And just who's fault is that?" Pushing the boy forward by his hair again, he pressed him onto the kitchenette table and him along with it, putting his full weight on top of the boy, simply ignoring the way that he tried froze, unnaturally still.

Huh.

That was new.

Pulling the boy's head back to look at his face, Allen saw...nothing.

Just a blank, empty stare where his son's terror should be.

Where fear should be making him squeal, but instead?

He was crying, but his face was...vacant.

Strange and devoid of...anything.

Allen smiled crookedly as he released the boy, leaving him sprawled out on the table as he thought to himself.

'What the fuck's up with him? I didn't do anything to 'em...yet.' The man began to think, pulling the boy back into the seat, noticing the residual flinch as his back end touched the seat, but nothing more than that. Nothing, even as threw his hand at his face, remarking the growing redness and the worsening bruises as his hand sailed upon both of his cheeks, and yet still, nothing.

Nothing but that strange, blank look.

Oh course, Allen knew what that was.

How could he not, the older man mused, seeing that expression pretty much each time he felt like 'playing' with the boy, feeling the distinct beginning of an erection at the thought.

'I could use a little 'me-time', right? It's not like he can do the assignment anyway, and I need a good fuck right about now. Mira...Mira isn't what I want...' Moving the boy to the ground, it was just when Mira came in that he was given pause, regarding her with nothing but agitation as she stepped meekly forward, almost appearing to not even notice the battered teen lying there at her feet, sobbing quietly as the two of them talked.

"Allen, there's, uh, someone that wants to talk to you. Outside, I mean. Yeah, outside. It's...it's important, you know?" All the while, she was fiddling with her hands, but at no time did her eyes fall upon the boy, decidedly ignoring him as she waited for the man's response, unbothered as he'd already had his pants down, swollen member engorged, but he sighed irritably, then stood, shoving it back into his boxers, straightened his shirt, and smoothed out his hair, descending from the trailer, and into the face of an older man.

Liver-spotted skin, frosted white hair that made even the paper in the trailer look dim, and sharp, green eyes that seemed to pierce; all things the man knew too well.

"Gerald. Nice to...see you. But, uh, why are you here? We just paid the,-" Gerald put his hand up, twisting around to fetch something from the small bag that he'd been carrying, a thick, Cuban cigar laced within his old but nimble fingers, and a lighter to boot, and Allen immediately knew that he had to wait. The older man hated to talk when he lit them.

Waiting there, standing there, as he got it going, the tail ended red and angry with each tentative puff he took, and then, his voice, raspy and tired, cut thinly through the air, but it commanded Allen's unwilling attention.

Anything to get him to leave faster.

"Now, you see this community, Ale? What do you notice about this fine, fine community?" Gesturing broadly to the line of beaten down and weathered trailers, and Allen found that he could think of a few things.

The broken concrete that made driving here a living hell, the wildlife that loitered about, the mildew, the mold, that rested in what he liked to call 'pieces of shit trailers', the people, too. All just rats, fuckin' rats that no gave enough of a shit about because they couldn't be bothered to be anything more than a bunch of rednecks in the middle of no-fuckin'-where.

Yeah, he could think of a few things, and in the back of his mind, there, resting where his youth lied, was the vague memory a grander childhood home, and the thoughts of grandeur and wealth that had once been his.

That is, if his- never mind.

None of that mattered now, anyway.

"I, uh, don't know, Gerry,-" The older man stopped him short, shooting a quiet, hard look before speaking up, taking a drag as he blew a thin ring into the former's face.

"Gerald, Ale. Gerald." Taking another drag, he watched him carefully, this time grinning, but the look held no warmth.

Just disdain.

And Allen was glad the feeling was mutual.

"Gerald, I mean. I don't know, what do you see? Maybe you could..." Pulling in a breath, he let it out, squeezing his hands in his pockets until they could go no further to hide that they were balled into fists, and he looked up, regarding him coolly though inside, he felt his agitation grow.

"...enlighten me." The older man grinned as if looking at a child, Allen refraining from the tempting retort that rested in his throat, waiting to hear what he had to say.

'Just go along with it, Allen, just go along with it.' He would think to himself.

That he would constantly have to remind himself of each moment he stood there, staring at his smug expression, repressing that deep-seated urge to slam his fist into it.

But he needed a place to live more.

"See, I notice one thing that these folks want, and that's peace of mind, Ale. Peace...of...mind. Now, tell me; what's one way to get that, huh? What do you think is a good way to make sure they get that?" Part of Allen wished that the old fuck would just get out what he wanted to say, but he would remind himself as many times as it took that he had to wait, to be patient.

He would have someone to take this out on, anyway.

"I don't know, Gerald. I really, really don't." In one swift movement, a hand was placed on his shoulder, the younger of the two bristling at the touch.

"I figured you wouldn't, but I'll tell you what it is: it's making sure they can get the quiet they need, not want, but need, even when certain individuals try and take it from them. Sound familiar, Ale?" Allen hadn't even noticed how quickly the older man had finished his cigarette, decidely flicking the butt in the sparse grasses that surrounded the little shack, tumbling free in the tiny strands as the man kept his eyes on it, but made no move to pick it up. Instead, Allen remained still in the older man's presence, still as he tried to look interested, intrigued; really anything that would make him stop talking, to get this over with, yet despite this, here he was, still, harboring the latent desire to both flee and stay with the satisfaction of punching him in the face.

But he did neither of those things.

No.

He didn't.

He listened and responded, gave him his time, just like the older man wanted him to.

"I don't think it does. Why? Is someone making too much of it? The noise, I mean." Of course, the man had an inkling, he knew exactly who'd he meant.

But that wouldn't stop him from stopping the older man from saying it, just a little bit longer, nor did it stop that particular feeling, that blistering hot feeling, from settling in his shoulders and into his face and fists where they clenched and pull at the fabric of the inside of his pants pocket.

'Be patient, Allen. You'll have a chance to let off some steam in a minute. Just one more minute.' In his view, Gerald look annoyed, as if talking to a child that just wasn't understanding what he was saying, as if looking down as a helpless, irritating infant that couldn't help itself.

Like Allen was an idiot.

"Alright, listen. You're nice guy, Ale. You really are. But I have a vested interest to make sure no one leaves here, yeah? That they're living out their little lives as happily and peacefully as they can 'cause, you know, it brings in..." Rubbing his thumb and index finger together, Allen needed no further explanation to get it across, and Gerald seemed to feel the same way, making no effort to continue, but he didn't break his line of sight with the former.

"I get that, but Gerald...I don't know what that has to do with me. Not unless...", He didn't finish, remarking the dark look the other had given him, and in the back of his mind, he figured that it was something he should have expected, someone asking questions.

But honestly?

The rest of these fucks should their own business.

Or more like...

Michael would need to be reminded to keep the noise to a minimum, and he could do that.

He was a great parent, and an even better trainer.

The boy just needed a little schooling, that's all.

Who would he be to deny him?

"Listen, Ale...," Taking another cigarette from his chest pocket, which Allen hadn't noticed before but payed it little mind, he lit it, taking a particularly long drag before he leaned in, and the younger of the two caughe a whif of what smelled like smoke and cheap cologne, the older man's voice low, ominous, as he spoke to him, "I don't mind so much what you're doin'. What you get up to in your own time ain't my fuckin' business, and honestly, I wouldn't even be bringing it up if these fine folks would learn to mind their business, but they bring in what I want." Leaning away, he took the cigarette from his lips and inspected it, leaving it from his lips with listless eyes that delved from the butt to the other man, who'd clamped down upon his own palms so hard, he could feel his skin become taut with strain.

Just a bit longer.

"Just...keep the noise down, yeah? I'd hate to have to come back out here for this. I can't keep protectin' you forever, you know. I've got interests of my own, so you might want to get a hold on that, Ale. Just as long as you keep up with your rent and you keep the peace..." Taking a drag, he allowed the smoke to spill from his lips like ghostly wisps," I won't have to be back here for along while." Allen didn't say anything, but he nodded, though his eyes remained steadfast on the man, fixed and un-moving even as a heavy hand clasped on his shoulder, then left just as quickly.

Then the man was gone.

Then only Allen remained, his words ringing over and over like distant bells.

'I don't mind so much what you're doin'. What you get up to in your own time ain't my fuckin' business, and honestly, I wouldn't even be bringing it up if these fine folks would learn to mind their business...'

More than the knowledge that he knew what was happening, or at the very least implied that he knew, was the agitation at the man's words, and just how much he agreed with him.

That these fuckers should learn when to keep their nose out of shit.

And even more, the man considered as he turned on his heel towards the door of the trailer, unfurling his white, barren hands upon the handle, was how much of this was his son's own fault.

'But I'll remind him. I always do.' Stepping in, the boy was still there, lying where he had left him.

Just like he should have been.

And he could see the boy looking at him, through eyes that had returned to their fearful, horrified glint from before, shedding that emptiness that filled them just a few minutes before. He could just see the boy begin to recoil as he stepped back over to him, but this time, the older man avoided his body, instead going over to the cabinet and opening it, though his expression contorted at the sight of its emptiness, and he closed it again, seeming to all but ignore the boy until he stopped, and looked at him.

Stared at him.

Staring even as he knelt down before him, and it was only then that he'd noticed the wild, bloodied gash that rested beneath his sullied blonde locks, or the way that he face remained raised and swollen, or the dark bruises that cascaded like dark veils across his skin, some dark purple, other yellowed and old, and many stripped in red and blood.

As a matter of fact, the older man mused with mild interest as he inspected the boy, he was sort of more akin to a doll, a battered one, sure, but a doll nonetheless.

He figured the boy would very much enjoy being left alone, left to rest as his body healed.

But that didn't stop him from gripping his head and slamming it back upon the ground.

Again, and again, and again.

When he heard the distinct crack of something on the boy's face, he dropped him, easing around to yank Dash from the ground as the boy flopped about, making no move to cover the torrents of blood that dripped from his nose, the appendage bent at an odd angle than before, and worse yet, a massive splotch, like dark ink on a sheet of paper, laid bare for all the world to see.

No.

That wasn't enough.

"Now, I want you to listen very closely, see, because I've been getting a hell of a lot of complaints. Do you want to know why, huh, Mikey?" Pulling the boy along to the floor and tossing him onto the couch. The boy didn't move, almost appearing to not even breathe in his presence, but he could spot it, the most delicate and unnoticeable of movements that told him he was still there, that he was still awake, just conscious enough to hear what he had to say. Even enough to groan, going to cup his face when Allen swatted his hand away, keeping him from holding the broken appendage.

"Come on, Mikey. Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know how much trouble you've caused me?" With every other word, he could feel it.

The crunch of his son's face beneath his fist, the way that his dark, red blood squelched in his fist, sticky between his fingers as each punch grew in intensity, but he didn't stop, not even when his clothes, his face, his...everything...had been sprayed with red.

The couch, too.

The wall, as his head had been sent back, drooping down softly as he sat there, wheezing quietly as if trying to still his own breath, the boy's face taut with red and dark with bruises that Allen just realized that he would have to cover up later.

But he would worry with that when it came time to do so.

He was still angry.

Angry at Allen, angry at Michael.

And horny.

All of those things that wouldn't rest until he felt like it, not until he felt sufficiently placated.

"D...D-Dad...pl...please...," He could hardly see the boy's face, but Allen could immediately tell he was crying, whimpering softly as he picked up his body and took him to the back bedroom, the mattress still red and crusted with unspeakable things, but the older man didn't mind it much.

He just hated when the little shit begged him.

What was he begging him for?

Didn't he know that he had brought this on himself? That he was the one that allowed this to happen to him? Maybe if he hadn't made him mad, maybe if he wasn't so fucking irritating, he wouldn't have to discipline as much as he did, but still, even now, when he was clearly in the wrong, he still made it out like it was his fault.

If anything, the older man thought darkly, he should be thanking me for giving enough of a shit to discipline him at all.

To want him to be better, though he couldn't deny that in some part...it just felt good to smack him around a bit.

As a matter of fact, he mused as he tossed the boy on his back, listening to the crunch of old body fluid, though he didn't care to much about the state of it, so long as it did it's job.

The boy didn't make it hard for him when he began to finish what he'd started, unbuckling his belt and removing his trousers in a single fluid movement, little regard for the whimper his son voiced as he entered him, but he didn't resist.

He never resisted.

Not anymore.

He broke him out of that young, made sure he knew that wouldn't be tolerated, and that he ought to just give it to him anyway. That he deserved this and that, hell, he wanted it, which maybe the boy believed.

Maybe.

It wouldn't matter if he did or not, or whether it hurt him or if it didn't.

Just as long as he didn't fight, and the boy wouldn't, he knew, because that would piss him off. And if Allen knew anything, distantly lulling in his mind as he quickened his pace, the boy long since stopped screaming, becoming deathly still as that still, empty look filled what he could see of his face, he could feel a warm pool gathering beneath him and on his thighs where his son's bottom sat, but that didn't stop him.

He kept going until he felt that same pressure build, swarming and growing like a boiling until he exploded inside of him, and he was done, shoving the boy away as his body collapsed.

Still, un-moving, and delightfully compliant when he went in for another kiss.

Then another.

And then he left.

The anger was still there, still bubbling, though, but looking at that stack of papers upon the kitchenette table, be remembered suddenly that they were still incomplete, and somehow, still pristine and white despite the mess that they, or more like he, had made about the place, a mess that, he noticed, was beginning to get him hard again.

Looking at the boy in the other room, he considered it, then back at the papers, and then the boy again.

Taking the stack, he did the only thing he felt would be befitting of them, chucking them carelessly in the trash, all the while, Mira leered in and out of consciousness at the peak of her high.

Trekking back to the room, he closed the door this time.