"Lovi-?"
Something hard and heavy smashed against his temple.
Bright white pain.
All he saw were bright white flashing lights.
"Matthew!"
The last thing he heard were the children's screams before sinking it blackness.
Lovino. Feliciano. Alfred.
I'm so sorry.
When Matthew's eyes fluttered open, he gasped.
His head was throbbing, like a baseball was bouncing hard against the inside of his skull, trying to break free. He wanted to put his hand to his temple, just on an impulse, but his hands were numb and he couldn't feel them. He frowned and tried to move them, get the blood flowing again. But found he couldn't.
Matthew's hands were tied behind his back, ropes around his wrists, tied to something hard. Tape had been pressed against his mouth, effectively blocking any words. He struggled, wiggling like a fish on the hook, but the ropes, though they did allow for some movement, didn't loosen. He had been tied to something, some kind of bar, probably a vertical-barred metal headboard, judging by the soft surface he was sitting on that felt like a bed. He was tied in a sitting-up position, which didn't allow for much thrashing or movement at all. He made a muffled grunt as his struggles intensified. He thrashed, testing to see if the ropes would hold. But they were flexible and strong and his flailing did nothing but chafe his wrists. The headache he was feeling intensified with every movement he made, but he couldn't just sit there like a corpse, could he?
Something was tied around his eyes, preventing him from seeing anything, but for a moment, he thought his eyes were still closed and that he was still asleep. For a moment, he willed for it to be true, that he was dreaming. He tried to believe, for just a moment despite all the evidence, that none of what he remembered had happened. That he'd run upstairs and had been knocked unconcious, had been attacked by some stranger who'd, presumably, made all of the phone calls, who'd kidnapped him. Had he simply fallen asleep? Was it all a dream, all of this? The whole night? No scary stranger, no scary phone calls, no suicide attempts? All a nightmare? The likes of which dwelt in his subconscious and only presented itself when he was asleep? The kind of stuff that you saw in movies or read in books?
But no.
The ropes were real. The blindfold was real. The fear was real.
And the danger was certainly real.
Matthew stopped moving, trying to think rationally and not panic and flail and scream as was his first instinct. But that was foolish. He didn't know where he was and it would be stupid to draw attention to himself yet. Who knew where he was or who had taken him? Making noise might only bring them back to... wherever he was currently. He'd see if he could escape on his own first.
Carefully, his fingers fumbled with the cool metal his wrists were bound to. Matthew tried to reach the knots, tried to somehow pull them around so that he could get to them, but it just wasn't possible. With a frustrated grunt, he tested the metal, yanking on it to see if it would hold up. To his consternation, the metal bar was perfectly solid and firm, not bendy or weak enough to manipulate. His long legs lashed out as he struggled to free his hands, his back arching and bending against the frame. He tried to swing his legs to the side of the bed, but his arms bent and stretched painfully when he tried and he had to quit. Matthew fumbled at the wall, trying to loosen the knots in some way, but no matter which way his fingers moved, no matter how flexible he made his hands, no matter how bad his chafing became, they wouldn't budge.
With a frustrated sigh through the tape, he relaxed, simply laying his back and his head against the metal bed frame. He was breathing hard from his activities, his wrists were burning, his heart hurting from the stress it had had to deal with all night, his head buzzing from the nasty throbbing lump on his head.
What the hell had happened?
What the hell was happening?
He'd been taken from the Vargas residence, from the kids he was babysitting, to some unknown location where, while unconscious, he'd been tied to a bed and left alone. What was happening? Had his captor simply abandoned him? No, that seemed unlikely. And a trifle too lucky.
He'd been... toyed with. Harassed before being taken captive. What was it the mysterious stranger had wanted? Scare him? To tease him? Like the cat toying with the mouse before killing it? Was it just some sick game? Was he going to die?
But most importantly, if it was all a game and he was nothing more than a toy to some sick, perverted sicko, then why, why oh why, had he'd been saved?
Because as much as he hated to think it, as confusing and strange as the notion was, the man that had been terrorizing him, had pulled him out of the lake.
It couldn't have been someone else.
But at the same time, it couldn't have been him.
There was a giggle.
"You're rather adorable when you wiggle like that, did you know?"
That voice!
Matthew jerked in alarm, his head protesting at the sharp movement. He winced, grinding his teeth, as he waited for his pain to recede. When it did, he let out a sigh of relief.
Then shrieked as the tape was roughly torn from his lips. He coughed violently, his lips tingling. When he was done, there was another giggle. Then silence.
A deadly kind of silence, not the comforting, safe, and relieved kind.
Matthew was almost afraid to break it. Almost.
"Who are you? Why am I here?"
Matthew tensed as something soft brushed across his cheek. A hand. His hand.
"No where am I?" the voice said teasingly. "Because I would tell you if you asked."
"Fine! Where am I?" Matthew asked, impatient but not willing to be too aggressive. He was nervous, but it was kind of a pent-up energy kind of nervous.
"You're in the Beringsworth hotel."
"Great. That means nothing to me," Matthew snapped. Quaking as he felt those dreaded fingers on his cheek again, running down his chin and stroking his neck rather sensually. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Why so aggressive?"
A strong accent. He thought it sounded familiar... German? No, it wasn't as harsh or guttural as German sounded. It came off as more of a purr. This stranger, his captor, sounded Russian.
His hands jerked nervously.
"You-you kidnapped me!" he squeaked.
There was a pause. Matthew could almost hear his smirk. To his disgust, the stranger pressed his lips against his neck, so that he could actually feel his smirk, curling around his sensitive skin. He shuddered in revulsion.
It was as if he was wordlessly saying, and?
And-and
"W-why?"
There were many whys he wanted to ask.
But one was all he could utter, because at that moment, he felt lips on his, effectively cutting off any other words he wanted to speak.
For a few seconds, he stopped breathing. His heart beat like a jackrabbit and a hum built up in his throat, a scream wanting to be released. He was too shocked to jerk away or do anything but sit there, feeling cool lips on his. His brain felt like a deer in headlights, like death and destruction were bearing down on him but he couldn't move or do anything but stare them in the face.
The man didn't force anything. Just kept his lips firmly pressed against Matthew's for a few seconds. Then pulling back, studying his face.
Matthew didn't have a mirror (and his eyes were closed), but he was pretty sure that his shock was clearly displayed on his face. He felt his mouth tremble. Seconds before...
"Why?" the Russian asked amusedly. "I already told you, my sweet. I suppose... I suppose you wish for me to say it again, da?"
"What-what are you talking about?"
"You said you wanted me."
"What? What the hell are you-?"
"You said you wanted to hear me say it."
"I don't know what you're-"
"I love you, Matthew Williams."
Matthew let out a gasp, maybe of shock, maybe of disgust.
But his captor didn't really know which. And he didn't particularly care.
He pressed his lips against the young teenager's and took the oppurtunity to push his tongue inside, groaning at the soft, warm heat of his new lover's mouth.
He, Ivan Braginski, had slept with many people. Felt lust for most of them. Simply wanted to hurt a few of them. Enjoyed their screams, in pleasure or in pain. Had even felt fond or passionate for a few.
He'd even told an even smaller few that he loved them.
But never before, had he ever wondered, as he did right now, if he actually meant it.
And that was as scary as it was thrilling to him. This new captive, this new toy, was different. And perhaps that was why his plan changed from simply wanting the boy's body, to falling in love with that pale, smooth, markless skin, those sweet, quiet lips, and those wide, innocent yet tortured violet eyes. He fell in lust with the boy's body (and who wouldn't? He was truly a fine specimen), but it was the soul he saw reflected in those tortured eyes that he fell in love with at first sight. Maybe he was simply responding to the suffering he saw reflected in those eyes, that unbearable loneliness he often saw in the mirror, in his own eyes. Maybe it was simply those eyes. Maybe it was seeing Matthew fall, those violet eyes calm and sweet with a complete lack of fear or pain as he fell, that truly prevented him from simply feeling lust for him. Seeing his thin, lean body falling to the water as if he were a fallen angel. A fallen angel, cast down from Heaven, hurtling towards death, but accepting it with a wide heart, and forgiving the one who'd cast him down from heaven.
Perhaps that was why.
Still. Ivan wasn't sure. Crazy? Yes. Sadistic? Yes. Obsessive? Yes. In love?
He wasn't sure. Which was why Matthew was currently his experiment.
First, questions:
Was love possible?
Could someone like him, whose emotions had been abused, crushed, and burned beyond repair, feel love ever again?
Would it be worth it? Would it feel the way it was supposed to? Warm and soft and compassionate rather than sick and cruel and abusive? Would it feel the same as lust? Or would it be totally different, a whole new experience?
Was it even love at all, was the main question.
Hypothesis: None. This was a research-gathering experiment.
Results? None yet, but he had several experiments in mind and he would analyze these results for the-
Conclusion? What would it be?
That was a good question. How would it end?
Ivan would be lying if he said he'd never felt an attraction to someone who was broken, like him.
He liked them broken. He liked them hurting on the inside. He liked that hollow, emotionless stare.
But for some reason, this boy, this angelic being on earth, had struck a chord inside of him, a chord he'd believed had been cut long ago. Seeing that boy throw himself off a cliff and plummet to the earth like an angel cast down from heaven, was too much for his dead heart to handle.
He'd mindlessly saved him.
Saved him.
How strange. He'd never saved anyone.
Then again, he'd never loved someone before either. Never even considered that he might. Never experimented with something he didn't believe could exist, co-exist, with a world of hurt he'd grown so numb and accustomed to.
Well, there was a first for everything.
And a first for him.
Because when he'd been holding that boy in his arms, his drenched lithe little body in his arms, a living, breathing corpse, husk of a human being, he'd felt his heart beat.
For a moment, just a moment, he'd felt his heart leap with joy.
And that alone, was enough for him to wonder.
Not as long as I'd like, but I'm satisfied with it. For a long time I wrestled with this chapter. I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted in it, you see. I actually had three thousand words of this chapter written, but then I got frustrated that I couldn't find the ending I wanted, so I deleted 3/4 of it and started again. And I think it's better than it was before, because it seemed to flow more naturally from my mind, you know? No? You don't know? Maybe I'm insane. I don't know. I'm just glad I managed to update with something that wasn't forced or unnatural (or at least, seemed forced and unnatural to me, which is most important because writing is MY hobby, meaning I should enjoy it, right? And it's my belief that if the writer doesn't enjoy it, then the readers won't enjoy it).