Okay, it's time to turn a little (a lot, actually), more serious. For the people who have followed me for a while, and who know my writing style, I have to confess one things—this is not the sweet story you are expecting from me.
As you know, I have some very special ideas when it comes to writing, and mostly I stick to Hurt/Comfort because, c'mon, these charcters deserve to be happy, but every fandom needs someone that asks questions everyone was better off without, and I want to be that someone (no, not, really, this fandom already has a wonderful author to do that, some that run by the name of thatoneshippyblog and whose account I strongly recomend you to check out). It's precisely because we all know that the Isle could have gone ten times words but didn't because it's a movie meant for children that I'm writing this.
Remember when I wrote "Sweet Words and Harsh Actions"? That I said more stories with a similar theme would be coming? Well, this is one of those stories. For all of those who did not read the one-shot I just mentioned, this story is darker than my other works, it includes something that gave mechills and that often made me want to throw up while writing. This story is rated M because one, it has child abuse, but more importantly, it has sexual abuse and child prostitution. I want to think this is not very graphic, but the definition of 'graphic' is different to each people, so I'll leave it to your own discretion.
The only reason that pushed me to finish this story is that, sadly, this is a reality in which more than seven million of children with ages between four and twelve years old live everyday around the world. I convinced myself of writing this merely because writing in itself is a way of expressing one's thoughts and concerns, and I wanted to bring attention to this issue.
Also, there are some things going on with Frollo and in his speech that somewhat explains his sick deeds I include something about God and sins. Personally, I'm not Catholic, but my intention with this is far from offending anyone who does practice this or any other religion.
No religion, in itself, is evil, that's a fact. Evilness is something that everyone has within, just as goodness, and it's by our deeds that we decide which side we want to overweigh the other one, regardless of our nationality, religion, raze or anything else.
However, we cannot deny that several crimes have gone unpunished merely because they were committed by someone in a high power position. With this story, I want to express that, and i really hope none of you, beautiful people, gets offended by this because that's far from my intention.
I promise you there's a happy ending because, of course, bad habits never die, but if this is not your cup of tea, please just wait until tomorrow, when I will publish something happier and full of cheer.
Wednesday-Isle Stories
Inner Demons and Memories
It all started way before Carlos could even realize how bad things would get over time. Although, true to be said, how could he not guess it, how could he not expect it? This was the Isle of the Lost they were talking about, after all, and if there was one thing you could always be sure of in that rotten place, that was that there things always worsened, never bettered.
Now, the intermittent lovers of his mother weren't something unknown to him. For as long as Carlos could remember, he'd seen her spend the night with anyone that was drunk enough to bed her. And he hated it, every bit of it―the way, even more noticeable than ever in which Cruella ignored him, the hazed look alcohol gave his mother's eyes, the disdainful smile in the men's lips, the way mean considered in the right to get their own back with him whenever something didn't go as they wanted with Cruella, and, lastly, how his mother blamed him whenever something disappeared as a product of those lovers' everlasting love of a night.
He should have been scared of something else, he dwelled on years later, he should have been terrified of something other than his mother's incessant beatings or hurtful words―he should have feared the men in themselves, with what they could do and what they could steal, with how they could be the thieves of something that wasn't material to touch but that could all the same be sold at the bazar.
That time wasn't the first one Gaston walked Cruella to Hell Hall. That time wasn't the first one Gaston stayed to spend the night with the crazed woman. That was, though, the first time Gaston sent him a glance, as if to acknowledge his presence. That was, though, the first time, Gaston wasn't stumbling and tripping on his own feet. Oh no, that was the first time in which Carlos saw a close-enough-to-sober person draw an arm around Cruella's waist.
On the nights his mother brought someone to the house he could never sleep. Even as a kid he was just too frightened, too used to anticipate a fight or a shouting match to rest assured when there was someone other than his mother ―same that was already bad enough― in the house. Even when they were alone, Cruella was simply too unstable on a regular basis to know what to expect from her.
However, he just barely knew what lying awake in his make-fun-of a bed, clutching the covers in an attempt to find some comfort in the contact because he was too terrified to sleep was. He just scarcely understood what panic, what terror even meant.
Cruella and her company, on the other hand, never seemed to have such a problem, and thus it was almost calming to listen to the adult's snoring breaths―not because they sounded peaceful, but plainly because, if they were asleep, then that meant that they couldn't hurt him.
Unfortunately for him, that night it wasn't much after the loud noises had died in the next room that he heard the heavy footfalls of Gaston standing up from the crunchy mattress and walking around the house.
He tried to ignore them, ignore the way in which his breath was caught up in his throat by the movement that signalized someone else was awake, to ignore how utterly terrified he was because he had heard steps in that house for his whole god dammed life, and yet, nothing had happened, nothing would happen. He needed to believe that, to cling to that trembling hope.
That night he wasn't as lucky, and so the steps did not turn to the restroom or followed to the kitchen, instead continuing to his parody of bedroom. They didn't stop when Gaston found the door closed either, as the man had no problem opening it or with the rustling of the hinges, for that matter. No, far from that, those dreadful steps didn't stop until they reached the dirty rags Carlos called a mattress, and when they did end it was already too late for the boy to even think of running.
He wouldn't have been able to do it anyways, as he was too panicked to move, too tense to think, too agitated to concentrate on anything other than his ragged breathing.
True to be said, though, Gaston made sure that soon enough he had something else to worry about.
The uneasy feeling of sickening worry didn't start when Gaston touched him, oh no, it was way before the man's calloused fingers traced his skin, venturing where he shouldn't have, taking what wasn't his. It begun just as soon as Gaston leaved over, inclining the mattress towards him under his weight.
"Now, now, young man" Gaston started over the loud beating of Carlos' heart. "We're going to do a couple of things and we're going to be careful of not waking up the bitch of your mother up, aren't we?"
"Mister… Gaston, I don't think… If you need anything, I―" Carlos manage through the tight knot that had become his throat, only provoking the villain to chuckle, a look of complete contempt in his eyes.
"You think I don't know what I'm doing, don't you, kiddo?" he muttered, smirking with teeth wretched by alcohol, by rotten food, by putrid insides, his left hand finally directing to Carlos' shoulder, holding him down in place with a strength unexpected from a drunken man.
"Gaston―I… I…" but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth, the whole idea couldn't even begin to form in his mind. This wasn't a beating, not a normal beating at much, but Carlos felt utterly terrified, every single muscle in his body was shouting him, pleading him to run away, to leap off and flee, but Gaston's grip, too close to his neck for his liking, to close to just snap it, impeded him of doing so.
It only got worse as Gaston shot him one last, twisted smile before directing his right hand to his belt and unfastening it.
That was the moment the boy understood.
Of course he recognized the position, the look of lust in Gaston's eyes―of course he knew he had reasons to fear for his future.
It wasn't that he had found himself in that situation before, it was the mere fact that he had seen it enough with his mother to actually recognize it from before his mother closed the door of her own bedroom, except for the times in which she and her company were both too drunk to remember it or to even mind it.
"You're going to enjoy this, kiddo" Gaston's husky voice spat next to his ear, his nauseously alcoholic breath tickling over Carlos' skin until it made the boy dizzy, forcing his breathing to become more labored.
Had it been a normal beating, he would have shut his eyes closed, crossed his arms over his chest and curled up into a ball, in a desperate attempt to protect his vital organs. Had it been a normal beating, he would have breath more evenly because, wrong as it sounded, had it been a normal beating, he would have known what to expect, but on his current situation, he was at a loss, too horrified of thinking what would happen to even dare do it.
Had it been a normal beating, he wouldn't have attempted to beg, but this wasn't a normal beating, this was darker, scarier, and left him feeling even more impotent than any previous problems he'd had, and so he decided that it didn't matter, none of it mattered.
"Gaston… Gaston, please" he let out, the first of many tears falling from the corner of his eyes, his back shaking under violent sobs that he hadn't realized climbed his throat. "Gaston, please, I-I… I'm sorry" he whispered, knowing full-well that it was better to just say those words, even when if he didn't know why he needed to say them in the first place than to risk the other's wrath.
"Bet you won't be for much" the villain snarled before breaking into those cruel make-fun-of chuckles, just as he gripped Carlos' shoulder, forcing him to turn around, the same hand that had unfastened his belt feeling free to sneak beneath the boy's underwear, roaming in inappropriate places as he shot a disdainful grin when his rude actions caused the child under him to whimper.
"Gaston, I―" Carlos tried one last time, before Gaston finally silenced him by taking the boy's short and pulling it down his knees harshly, not seeming very concerned when that provoked a panicked yelp from his victim.
"Listen, boy, I said be quiet, did I not?" the man snapped, suddenly turning more violent, his voice not really angered, but instead denoting that disconnected state people had after drinking too much to care for their deeds but not enough to not remember them later either. "And if you don't want to feel worse you'll do as I say!"
With that, Gaston's left hand moved to Carlos' head, pushing him down towards the pillow, his right already on the boy's back, holding him still just in case the odd idea of escaping crossed his mind, which was unlikely, as Carlos was too paralyzed with fear to correctly process anything.
When the first thrust came, Carlos ―needless to say― wasn't prepared. Jeez, he didn't even know what to expect, how could he… How could he even…?
The pain, Carlos discovered, was a good replacement for fear. The feeling of intrigue came when you awaited something bad to happen, expected paralyzed because you didn't have anything else to do. Pain, on the other side, was the consequence of what had caused that panic in the first place.
It was almost relieving to feel the hurt after all that unease. Carlos knew pain, he could deal with it, with cuts, with open wounds, with blood, with bruises.
In the end, this wasn't but a normal beating, perhaps a little harsher, perhaps a bit more hurt-provoking, perhaps more unexpected, but a normal beating at last, and Carlos had plenty of experience in those, and thus he could only shut his eyes and bite his lower lip until he was able to taste blood in his mouth, the crimson liquid the one thing he forced himself to focus on instead of everything that was happening on his backside.
It wasn't but a normal beating, he told himself, if only it left him feeling much worse, more like a useless leftover and less than a like a wounded person.
When it was finally over, when that infamous white liquid was left dripping on Carlos' legs as Gaston brought himself to his feet and walked over to Cruella's room again, that sinister grin plastered on his crooked lips, the broken boy was too tired, too numb to even raise his head to watch his victimizer leave. He was too used to wounds to even dare do anything other than expect the next attack.
—*—*—
The next morning Carlos stirred just as the sun raised, much in contact with his internal alarm to allow his exhaustion to avoid him from waking up. Not a single muscle from his body was safe from the burning ache that inundated him and the very thought of turning around on the ripped mattress made his insides sick.
It wasn't until several hours later, when Cruella woke up too, the hideous sunlight entering through her window, that he was forced to actually bring his messed up legs to the ground and walk.
"Carlos! Carlos! You filthy piece of garbage, come here right now!" the woman squeaked, her high-pitched tone more like the one of a magpie than a human.
The boy, on his side, was too hurt to even feel anything towards his mother's usage of words. It would be better if he ignored her, anyways, and at the moment he was too tired to say anything, thus he limped out of his room and into the dining room, where he found Cruella and Gaston sitting at the table, no food placed in front of them, of course not, but a good bottle of God-knew-what that they seemed to be sharing.
"It was about time" Cruella let out in a snarl, taking one long gulp of the glass bottle. Nodding slightly, Carlos tried not to flinch too much when he felt Gaston's eyes roam shamelessly over his body.
"See, this is what I meant, Cruella, you're too soft on the kid" the man opined. At the mention of those words, the old dalmatian thief stood straighter, her head held high.
"Well, I guess I shall accept your offer then, if it's still standing, Gaston" her squeaky voice said, contemptuously turning to her son. "Now, now, Carlos, Gaston here had a wonderful idea. Yesterday night ―no, wait, just now, a moment ago― he proposed that he taught you how to fight. Might come in handy if someone breaks in at night and wants to steal my furs".
"Will rough him up, too" Gaston chuckled, focusing his eyes on the bottle he had just snatched from Cruella's hand, who didn't seem to mind the ruthless action, as he smirked.
Time stopped and Carlos had yet another opportunity to confirm that what was already bad could only turn worse.
—*—*—
To be honest, the young boy didn't know what to expect other than an attack like the previous night's from Gaston, but he hadn't anticipated for what would come next.
After the adulterated whiskey was finally over, Gaston dragged him through the aisles of the bazar until they reached the make-fun-of chapel, where he knocked―still, Carlos wouldn't notice that until much later, after visiting that breath-snatching place numerous times, too busy forcing himself to keep his eyes downcast at the time.
What he did note, though, was the worn off robes and polished shoes of the person who opened the door.
"I brought him" Gaston announced, only to receive a warning glare from the former Parisian minister, Claude Frollo.
"Don't pronounce such heedless perfidies while standing in the street, Gaston, I've told you" the old man scolded, muttering through gritted teeth, moving aside so Gaston and Carlos ―who was pushed inside by the previous― could enter the place. The hunter merely smirked.
"Well, you see, Frollo, I carried out my part, but I haven't seen none of yours, so I get to say whatever I feel like saying" he replied, pushing Carlos forward ruthlessly, almost making the boy trip over, but not even then did the boy dare raise his eyes. "The kid's here, good as new, now get my money and stop losing my time".
"Gaston, I don't like your tone and neither do I like your price. I'm offering you my place, letting you go off with no payment for your infamous deeds with the sole condition that I get to use the boy for a lower price and instead it seems I told you to raise it!" he continued, shooting a glare full of contempt in Carlos' direction. The boy hardly even flinched.
"Oh, and I've lowered the price, Frollo, but what I'm offering is something you'll never see again in this God-forgotten place" he muttered, proposedly choosing his words in a way that would make them too tempting to resist for Frollo, his voice so alike Jafar's when he haggled something that it almost scared Carlos, at least it would have, had he'd still knew a piece of himself that wasn't afraid already.
Just as he finished talking, Gaston extended one hand towards Carlos' chin, forcing him to raise his frightened eyes and holding him in place as he tilted it for Frollo to analyze the merchandise.
"Just look at it, Frollo" Gaston continued, nonchalant. "So innocent, so guiltless. I'm sure your God wouldn't have it any other way…"
That much, Frollo had to recognize, that boy still had the audacity to look scared, his eyes too full of pain instead of dim and sunken, like the ones of the previous candidates Gaston had brought.
"And you are true, Gaston, but I'm saving all of you sinners by having contact with this filthy riff-raff, although at that price I'm thinking of reconsidering doing such a thing" he repeated, to which Gaston merely rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"Think it well, Frollo, because you won't find nothing like what I'm offering you" Gaston continued, immutable, tightening his hold on Carlos' chin until the boy grew numb. "Look at what you're letting go, Frollo, so young and innocent, barely eight years of age, so guiltless, so―"
"You win, Gaston" Frollo yielded, practically snarling. "But just you remember that the only reason you won't go straight to Hell after you die is me making this sacrifice for all you, sinners!" and with that a pouch filled with tinkling coins was thrown into Gaston's disproportionately big hands, after what Frollo took the young boy by the shoulder, directing him to a separate room.
When the door closed behind them the only thing Carlos could feel was panic and unease swell up inside him, not even pain being enough to push away the anticipation of more suffering, of what would come next.
And he wasn't wrong, for once he wasn't wrong, because, for once, Carlos had only expected things to turn worse, and worse they turned.
This time there were no words, no threats to stay silent and not wake up the bitch sleeping in the next room, no calloused hands holding him down with strength, no warning before pain flooded him―only one simple statement that haunted his mind while Frollo's careful hands roamed over his skin, tracing it, marking it.
"I'm doing this to keep you all sinners from Hell, boy. Sacrifice is what Lord values the most. And you should be happy that you have been the one chosen".
And so that was it, in Gaston's words as they walked back to Hell Hall, his "new job", his new manly activity, of which his mother mustn't listen of, because, well, she wasn't a man, not like them, but a mere whore. Oh, but he wasn't like her, was he?
It was, surprising, to be honest, the amount of people that suddenly frequented the chapel in search of "coming clean from their sins", at least for Carlos, that was, who dutifully awaited Gaston's orders next to the entrance of "God's temple", his eyes never daring to raise.
Cruella, on her side, wasn't very impressed when his son returned home limping or covered in bruises and fresh cuts, not even when he appeared with burn-marks. This was in favor of her furs, she thought, the boy came out as being insignificant. A weakling as he was she could have beaten the crap out of him with ease herself.
—*—*—
It was long, long before Carlos met someone else that was even slightly bothered by it.
It happened shortly after his twelfth birthday, shortly after he had helped Mal with everything about the Dragon Eye.
After what they had been through he had actually started hanging out with the other villains' kids, even if they all kept to themselves most of times, which allowed Carlos to continue with his lucrative trade.
It was during one of those times in which Carlos stood by the wooden door of the chapel, silently awaiting for his victimizer to come, his eyes trained to remain on the ground.
He was standing so still that Jay almost didn't notice him, but in the end the match of colors that he was now used to search for among the crowds of the school finally allowed him to spot the son of Cruella out of the horde. Fortunately, the young thief stopped himself from grinning or publicly calling Carlos as he realized Frollo came out of the chapel, gripped the boy by the waist and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut. Overall, Jay didn't like Carlos' resigned expression one bit.
For the younger boy, quite honestly, it was just another day of work, not the best one, but not one of the worse ones either―simply another one. And of course, for the finishing touch, he was still missing Frollo's ever so righteous hands touching him, expiating the sins, Carlos' sins and everyone else's in the isle that had touched him in that infamous way, just to close with a flourish.
It was when Frollo was starting it over, his hands barely underneath Carlos' pants that Jay stealthy entered, too stunned with the sight that welcomed him to even process the information correctly.
Before he even know what he was doing, the son of Jafar was already delivering a punch to the former minister's face, blood tainting Jay's fist almost immediately, as the man fell to the floor on his knees with a muffled grunt. Jay couldn't have cared less.
"Carlos, what―what in hell?" the son of Jafar let out, unable to stop himself, a look not of terror, but surely of astonishment in his own features.
"Jay, I-I can explain!" the boy muttered shakily, lowering his eyes as he fidgeted.
"Better start right now" the older boy demanded in a voice colder than he'd intended.
"Listen, I-I… I know what I am doing, just― Some dealings, I―"
"Wait a minute, did you ask for this?" Jay inquired, the unease in his gut tightening because things were already wrong and they only seemed to turn worse.
"What? No!" came as his immediate answer, Carlos unable to stop himself even though he knew it would have been easier to just nod and lay the matter off.
"Then what in the world is―?" but that was the moment couldn't take it any longer, as he stepped forward, pushing Jay out of his way and taking off, running as fast as his messed up legs would carry him.
And he was light on his feet, and he knew the bazar, so much so that Jay actually strained to keep up with him, until, of course, the inevitable happened, and he lost track of the boy, staying behind with a weird taste on his mouth and a disgusted feeling of restlessness that was unknown to him.
—*—*—
News weren't something that traveled slowly, especially gossip, and especially not in a place like the Isle of the Lost, where soon enough, by some unknown way, half the isle―the half that hadn't known before the incident― was aware of Frollo's lucrative and far-from-sacred trade. Of course, the half that had known was trying to look as surprised and comments like "Such filthy things, for such price!", "Why pay when you can get that for free?" and "It was that de Vil brat, no less!" were only lame attempts of faking obliviousness.
It didn't take long before Cruella heard of it, too, which certainly wasn't good news for the boy either.
For once, though, Carlos wasn't at the receiving end of her wrath. Quite honestly, crazed as she was, a furious Cruella wasn't something anyone wanted to deal with, and a furious Cruella was what Gaston had to deal with as soon as the knowledge of what he'd been doing with her son reached her.
"You've been prostituting my boy!" she screamed, having dragged that same boy from Hell Hall and through the bazar that he knew so well until they reached Gaston's bar. "You've been selling him, using him!" she raged, her harpy's voice suddenly not as high-pitched, instead becoming something along the lines of threatening instead.
She was fuming, Carlos noted in astonishment, standing close enough to his mother to feel the fury she irradiated, eyes downcast. There was something fierce in her posture, in her voice as she appeared, straightened up, making a fuss with her hands, fully facing the former opponent of who currently was the king of Auradon.
She was fuming, Carlos noted, and it was because of him, on his behalf, and not because some silly furs being ruined. He'd never seen her so mad, so annoyed, not even when he broke a plate or forgot to wash her car. For years, he'd been used to see the emaciated and defeated leftovers of what his mother had once been, but looking at her now he understood, he finally understood why the people in Auradon, so weak and useless, would fear her plenty enough to put her away on that rotten island.
"Listen, Cruella, allow me to explain you―" Gaston started, only to be cut off by the very woman she intended to talk to.
Carlos knew that he shouldn't let himself do it, but even so, at the sight of Cruella looking so fierce, so protecting of him, the young boy felt something akin to hope swell up in his breathing.
"You've been selling off my son! What is there to explain?" she accused in a shout, and then, in a lower voice, she added. "And I haven't seen a penny of the money you've raised!"
And so that hope or wistfulness or whatever it had been was transformed into nothing, right then and there, hysterical hiccups climbing Carlos' throat because how could he be so stupid? Still, he didn't cry―he'd ran out of tears long in the past.
"Cruella, if you want a part in the deal, then that can be―"
"Oh, no, you've already done more than enough!" the woman proclaimed, her harpy tone back as she turned on her heels to leave the establishment, her sight, for once, more than enough to make the crowd that impeded her of reaching Hell Hall part and let her go through it.
Although she didn't seem to remember her son, not even to drag him back to her mansion, not even to slap him in public after all he'd done and how much he actually deserved that beating, after how much he even longed for it.
And so Carlos was left standing there, in the middle of a mob that looked down at him in contempt, not holding back tears, but not appearing much better than if he'd been either, seeing as his mother's words had become everything he was able to listen, no matter how she had already left.
"You've been selling off my son and I haven't seen a penny of the money you've raised! You've been selling off my son and I haven't seen a penny of the money you've raised!"
Really, why was he surprised?
—*—*—
He woke up with a gasp, his eyes fluttering open with something close to a whimper that he forced himself to swallow as he took in how it wasn't real, how Frollo was far away in the Isle and how his mother and everyone else wasn't real too, but it didn't really serve for much.
It took him a minute before his sight cleared ―from tears or from sleep, he wasn't sure― and he could make out the silhouette of the big window of the perfect furniture that wasn't second-hand. It took him a minute before he smelled the unpolluted air, felt the actual bed he was using and he started believing that in fact he wasn't back at the Isle. That knowledge still didn't lessen the tension on his shoulders.
There was no use in him trying to fall asleep on a new account, and neither did he want to do it, too fearful of bringing back memories he was better off without, so instead of turning on the bed and willing his eyes to close, Carlos de Vil brought himself to his feet, walking over to the window in the hopes that the sight, so different, so perfect, so unpolluted helped him remember, helped him anchor himself to Auradon and not the past.
It never worked, sure. But trying felt better than to just be cowering in a corner.
He was so caught up in himself that he didn't even notice how, with a soft grunt of anticipation, Jay woke up and left his own bed. He was so caught up in himself that he didn't notice Jay standing in front of him until the older boy spoke.
"It's about that again, isn't it?" the former thief murmured, addressing a Carlos that was too tired to even feel startled by his presence anymore, a single tear running down his right cheek.
"It's nothing" Carlos replied in a voice so quite Jay actually had to strain to listen him.
For a moment, the son of Jafar wanted to do something, to say something, but he knew better than to carry on with those thoughts, he knew better than to step forward instead of giving the boy in front of him the space he so obviously was begging for.
"It's over, Carlos" he said, just hoping that would be enough to pull the boy from his trance-like state. "It's over" he repeated, even when, sure enough, his words weren't enough to carry out their duty, only managing to make the son of Cruella finally turn around, his huge brown eyes unseeing and trembling lips being bitten in an attempt to hold back tears, to swallow down a scream, to not appear weak in the presence of someone else.
Knowing all too well that there wasn't much he could do, the son of Jafar merely opened his arms for the boy, incapable of reaching for him because he knew, he knew that no matter how much he craved to do that such an action would only make the matter worse.
For two whole minutes all Carlos did was blankly stare back at him, his eyes scanning him, judging him, until he decided that the chocolate orbs of the former thief lacked that gleam of lust, of contempt, and, at least, he leaned closer to him, letting Jay's arms warp around him as he broke down crying.
"It's over" Jay stated once more in a soft voice. "It's over, Carlos".
"It isn't" the boy replied between hiccups. "It isn't. I-I'm sorry for waking you up, it's just― I… I…"
"Let's get you to bed" Jay cut him off gently, knowing that soon enough Carlos would tart babbling nonsense that made him responsible of absolutely everything, when nothing had been his fault if he wasn't stopped.
The son of Jafar also mentally smacked himself when his poor choice of words made Carlos stiffen, but even so he gathered the boy in his arms ―careful where he touched, careful not to touch― and walked over to his bed, sitting down as he clutched the boy to his chest.
Carlos, fortunately, let him do, too scared, too weary to even fight back. Although Jay really wanted to believe that it wasn't that, that the fact that Carlos was allowing him to touch, to see him like that was that he knew it was him, that he trusted him. Because even though Carlos couldn't command the fear to leave his body he understood, he comprehended that the son of Jafar wasn't like the others.
To be fair, at least, Jay wasn't panicking like the first time he'd found himself in such a situation, he wasn't confused, because, even if he wished he didn't, at least he understood what was going on. To be honest, too, he was still getting used to all that Auradonian thing about love and comfort, it still felt weird to actually act and wipe someone else's tears away instead of plainly turning around or mocking at the weakness display, even when he couldn't deny that it in fact felt better to do something instead of merely walking away from a crying person, especially if that someone looked as broken and helpless as the boy in his arms.
"Carlos, c'mon" he called once more, rubbing circles into Carlos' back. "It's not real. Not anymore"
"Please, please" the boy sobbed as he gripped the fabric of Jay's shirt. "Don't do it. Not… not now… Please".
Not really understanding what that was about, all Jay would gather was, in truth, Carlos was still too wrapped up in himself, in his memories to understand that he wasn't at the Isle anymore.
Refraining a sigh, Jay for once was thankful that he couldn't go back to the isle, because how badly he wished to get a grip of Cruella for being so stupid, of Frollo for his stupid bigotry, of Gaston, for… Of… How badly he wanted to make them suffer, to see them in pain. Whether or not if that made him as bad as they were, he didn't know. But he didn't care either.
Snapping himself back to reality, Jay took a deep breath before he directed his left hand to Carlos' chin and gently pushed it up in a failed attempt of making him raise his gaze.
"Carlos. Carlos, look at me" he asked, this time being successful, although he cupped the boy's face carefully, forcing him to stay in place. "You aren't in the Isle anymore and even so I wouldn't do it. I would never hurt you like that, alright? I wouldn't hurt you".
At his words, spoken softly, with kindness, with fondness, with the passion of rage Jay felt whenever he thought of what had happened gave to his tone, as if Carlos deserved to be treated with some kind of care, with some kind of gentleness, all the son of Cruella could do was cling to that, to the long overdue affection, to a touch that didn't burn, to a caress that didn't hurt.
"It's alright, you're safe now" Jay continued to murmur softly, playing with Carlos' hair gently in an attempt to let him know he wasn't alone.
It was long before Carlos' sobs finally started to diminish, long before his breathing stopped being so ragged, long before Jay's blood stopped boiling.
"I-I'm sorry" the younger boy mumbled as soon as he got a grip of himself, gesturing to jerk away, but Jay merely held him more tightly.
"Don't be. None of this is your fault, are you listening? It's not you that has to be sorry" the son of Jafar replied as he leaned down to press a kiss to Carlos' forehead.
For a second, the remnant of fear that still existed in Carlos' body made him freeze, shut his eyes closed before he even noticed there was no danger, before remembering that this was Jay, that he was safe―but as he did, he nodded with thankfulness and let the older boy do, hiding his face in the crook of Jay's neck, taking in that familiar scent.
It wasn't until Carlos' breathing became nothing but a soft sound that Jay felt the knot in his chest undo itself and he could sense himself at ease on a new account.
He sighed, trying to push the rage away as he continued drawing soothing circles into the boy's back and arms.
True to be said, it wasn't the first time the son of Jafar found himself in that situation, even if not counting the ones in the isle, and they were more than he wanted to remember, instead, Jay had learned to push away the fury and rage and the impotence merely because that was what Carlos needed someone to pick up the broken pieces.
And honestly, that was about everything Jay needed to do.
They both had inner demons―that was a fact, and just as many nights as Jay had spent soothing a crying Carlos back to sleep were the days that Carlos had spent refraining him from doing something stupid he'd regret later, like stealing or saying heedless words, because just as much as he could ―and did― hold Carlos in a silent promise of support, Carlos had held his hand whenever a princess wearing a necklace shiny enough to capture his attention passed by in front of them, whenever one of those pampered princes spoke about something that they didn't know about.
Because they might have not known or understood a thing about love or care, not before Auradon and not even then when they actually lived there, but if love felt as good as the Auradonians said it was, then Jay could honestly say that such a thing was what he felt when he was with Carlos, that security, that feeling of belongingness, that peace.
And, while it was something bizarre to say, as long as he had Carlos by his side, Jay didn't mind the inner demons that he had to fight as a regular basis.
Now, this is the end of this little something, if you actually enjoyed it (which I kind of hope), thank you very much for getting this far! At the end, of course, I went for a cheesy conversation because these two cinnamon rolls deserve the happiness, alright?
If you want to read something with a similar theme please don't hesitate to let me know your opinions in the comments! And if you want to read something very, very awesome, feel free to go check out a story called "Nothing in This World But Myself to Protect Me", by thatoneshippyblog. There are a lot of warnings there, but I'm sure you will love her story as much as I do!
Thank you so much for reading!
