Morgan: 13
Walter: 20
"Get the fuck out!" a shrill voice ordered, shoving Walter from the room. The door slammed shut and Walter nearly laughed as he stumbled into the hall. The world spun around him, but it always did nowadays. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had been any type of sober. His hand ran through his hair and pushed it from his face.
"I didn't like you much anyways," he whispered, wandering away from his now ex-girlfriend's dorm room. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of white powder. He hadn't meant to get wrapped up in something so strong. The first time had been a complete accident. He had passed out drunk and one of his friends had injected him with the drug in an attempt to wake him up and ever since then he had been a slave.
He put some of the powder on the back of his hand and closed the bag. He inhaled it before rubbing the excess from his finger onto his gums. The effect wasn't as instantaneous as injection or smoking would have been, but he didn't care or have the patience to mix up such an item for use. This would do the job and once it kicked in, he wouldn't feel like such a failure.
If he didn't go to the gym every day of his life, Walter wasn't sure if unsober him could find it. The cool night air did nothing to cool the heat that was starting to bloom over his skin from the cocaine and the streetlights were a bit too bright when he stepped under them.
He struggled to find the handle to the door and pull it open, but once he was inside, he went to the pull up bar and looked over the height of it as he tugged his jacket from his body. It was dropped to the floor, though Walter wasn't entirely sure where it had landed. But that didn't matter in the long run, did it? He doubted it.
He looked around the room for a moment before he found a box that was used for box jumps and pushed it over to the pull up bar. He stepped back to look over the distance between the two and gave an approving nod at his math skills. If there was one thing the world had blessed him with, it had been understanding numbers to an obnoxious level.
If he had been a little more observant, maybe taken his parents' teachings more to heart, he might have noticed the way that the lights had already been on when he had stepped into the gym, but the thought didn't reach through his fogged brain as he dropped himself down into a pushup to begin a burpee. Once back on his feet he jumped onto the box, then jumped up to the bar, pulling himself up fully before lowering himself back onto the box and wobbly jumping back to the ground to begin the motions once more.
Exercise had always been his go to to release all the tensions that had built up. The fights with his once girl, his grades slowly tanking. The fact that he was bound to lose his scholarship if he didn't step up and start fixing shit. But it was so hard when there were other things out there that he had sunk himself into. Like ropes and gags, alcohol and drugs, and sports. Sports was his savor when the rest of the world seemed to be sinking around him.
His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket to look at the screen that was blurred slightly. Morgan's name stared back at him, but he wasn't in the mood. And he wasn't in the present enough to hide the fact that he had been drinking and was now high. He declined the call and tossed his phone towards where he thought his jacket was before starting his workout again, legs trembling with every movement.
Another few rounds left his heart pounding painfully in his chest or maybe it was just the drugs. He thought he was about to overheat, like his body was going to melt, but he couldn't stop. Not until he worked himself to exhaustion. Then maybe he could sleep for once. Maybe he wouldn't need another person in his bed if he were so tired that he couldn't remember.
He dropped from the chin up and his stomach rose into his throat as he stumbled and fell off the box. He crashed into the floor and the room tilted and swirled with the jolt. His stomach lurched and a tingling filled his jaw as his stomach threatened to expel its dodgy contents.
"I knew you were using," a familiar voice said from somewhere behind Walter. It was distorted, muffled, as if Walter had somehow been dunked underwater. A laugh brought him from the dull ache in his ankle, hip and elbow and he looked up to find his coach with arms folded over his chest and a smile that would have sent Walter running if he could find which way was up and which way was down. Maybe if he spit then he would be able to tell, but he couldn't seem to make himself complete the action. "You can tell, you know?" Walter lowered his head to the floor and exhaled deeply as footsteps came closer to him. "Despite how hard you try to hide it, you can tell. The blown pupils, the erratic behavior."
"Eik šalin," (Go away) Walter muttered as he pushed his head up from the floor, Lithuanian the easiest thing for his mind to try to work in for whatever reason. The coach's eyes only seemed to sparkle, and his smile grew to Walter's dislike.
"How many languages do you know?" the man continued to step forward until he could crouch down beside Walter. Walter's insides squirmed as fingers ran through his hair. He tried to move his head, but the fingers turned aggressive and snatched up a handful to yank Walter's attention upwards.
"Prašau baigti, Rossi." (Please stop.) He hated how weak his voice sounded. How weak his body suddenly felt when just moments ago he was certain he had enough energy to run to the moon and back.
"The way you say my name." The fingers released Walter's hair and trailed down and over his face until they snatched up his chin. Those green eyes would forever haunt him. He knew them in his nightmares even if they were only ever attached to a dark swirling mass of nothingness. He had never hated green more in his life. It filtered his world until everything was a hue of green and he couldn't escape. A thumb pulled at Walter's bottom lip and he shut his eyes tight, wishing that all of those years of training would snap back to the forefront of his mind, but they were lost in the denseness of the fog. "Say it again."
"Sustabdyk tai." (Stop it.) Walter swatted at the hand that held his face at attention and there was a laugh as he fell back to the ground, willing his body to move. Begging that it obeyed him, but maybe he had already given up and that's why he could only push himself up onto his hands and knees, but no further. He hid his face in his forearms, body trembling through the effort.
Walter did his best to ignore the way that Coach Rossi stepped around his body, circling it like a vulture. He thought that maybe he had almost succeeded in erasing the footsteps from his mind when a hand rested on his back and trailed down lower and lower until it caressed over one of his ass cheeks.
That gave him the strength he needed. No one was allowed to touch him like that, especially not a man nearly the same age as his parents. Not a man with bad breath and greying hair. No man would ever touch him like his mother's boyfriends had. Never again.
He pushed himself up onto his knees and shoved at the hand that had been touching him. He got to his feet, stumbling slightly, but gained his balance enough to throw a punch. It wasn't his best by any means, but he hoped that it would hit the mark that he needed it to. He must have been more screwed up than he thought because Rossi took his arm and used the extra momentum to shove Walter forward and into an elliptical.
He could feel the sharpness of the machine colliding with his chest and he gasped for air as it was knocked out of him. Spinning, swirling. The room blurred and came back into focus harshly as he once more found himself on the ground, blood turning his shirt sticky from where he had hit the machine.
"You're into the hard stuff," Rossi's voice said from somewhere behind Walter. Walter used the machine to push himself back up onto his feet and turned to find his coach with a small bag of white that almost could have passed for flour if it were a bit more sifted. "You know that I could get you expelled for this, don't you Grant?" The taunt turned Walter's blood angry, but he held his tongue. He couldn't fight this. He needed his scholarship. He needed this school. He needed to prove to his parents that he wasn't worthless like he constantly felt. "Of course I wouldn't do that to you though." The words were cooed and Walter squeezed his eyes shut when his face was once more taken. "Not when we could come to an agreement, just the two of us." Walter shook his head, but there was a tutting. "Come now, Grant. Una mano lava l'altra." (One hand washes the other/ You scratch my back I'll scratch yours.)
Walter opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, two fingers coated in white shoved themselves into his mouth and over his tongue. He seized up Rossi's wrist, but the man only shook his head.
"Behave now, Cerbiatto," (Fawn) Rossi instructed and Water did his best not to gag on the fingers that were forcing more drugs into his system. More drugs than what he should have. Drugs that wouldn't only make the haziness lift for a moment but would shove him so much further into it that he doubted he would ever find his way out again. "You have such a talented tongue, Grant. It knows so many languages and so many commands." Walter choked as the fingers pressed deeper into his mouth and he stumbled back. "I can show you what I would like you to do with your tongue."
"Atstok nuo manęs." (Get off me.) Walter coughed and spit, trying to get the taste of bitter salt from his mouth, watching as the bag was closed and added back to his things. "Atstok nuo manęs," he repeated as he straightened himself up, tears lining his eyes that were beginning to burn.
"You belong on your knees, Cattivo." Walter shuttered at the name in disgust, body obeying when fingers pressed into the bloody line of his shirt. Breath was stolen from him at a harder thrust into his wound and he dropped to his knees faster, the movement sending an ache through legs that had never truly been the same after being broken multiple times over and over. Walter could only stare, a sob leaving his throat as a belt was pulled slack. "Silenzio ora." (Naughty boy.)
Walter's hair was caught up in a fist once more and in instinct, Walter's hands reached out for balance as he was pulled forward. His hands found themselves upon the jean fabric holding Rossi's thighs. If he thought he felt dirty before, he had been wrong. The sly comments during practices and in the locker rooms. Lingering glances when passing by the showers. Touches that were more painful than anything else and often left him bruised and bloodied. But this was worse. Having his face pressed into Rossi's hardened length, even if it were still trapped beneath fabric was more than enough to make Walter want to scrub himself clean.
"Get the fuck off of me!" Walter yelled, knowing that his sudden clarity would only be short lived. He shoved at Rossi and fell back to the ground, his skull aching with how harshly his hair had been held. "Don't touch me!"
"Your defiance is beautiful, Cerbiatto." There was a deep sigh. "But if you don't want to be reported to the school board, I would suggest you learn to be submissive velocemente." (Quickly) Walter shook his head and went to get to his feet, but stopped as Rossi continued to speak. "You stay on the floor and behave or I will be getting a hold of the Dean and letting him know that I found you on school property after hours, causing damage while intoxicated. I'll make sure you lose your scholarship and that every school you could possibly get into will never accept you. Do I make myself clear?"
A yell clawed at the back of Walter's throat, but he held it down. He bit his words back. He couldn't lose this. He would only sink further if he did. He could shut up for a few minutes, hold his tongue. He doubted the man would last long anyways. Predators or rapists sometimes had issues keeping it up. Maybe it would earn Walter a punch or two, but then it would be over and he could go back to his dorm.
"Yes, Coach," Walter hissed through his teeth.
"Good. Now sit still so that I can take in your beauty."
Walter's stomach churned and he looked away when he could hear the sound of a zipper. He just had to pretend that he wasn't here. He could do that. Anywhere was better than here, but there was one place that would have been far better than this. Home. It was so odd tht even if he had never left the Italian Villa and would run away there every so often to detox himself, he didn't consider it home. No. Home was in Sweden with his parents and that annoying little kid that liked to cling to him. The kid who liked to steal his shirts and hide them, even though Walter knew Morgan did it.
That was something he could hold to. When he went to visit and shared a bed with whatever girl he dragged along with him, Morgan was in his own room, cuddling a piece of Walter. Walter let him steal the shirts. He understood perfectly how horrible it was to try to sleep alone. He didn't think it would bother him as much as it did. He shouldn't have let Morgan share his bed for six years. It had ruined both of them.
So any part of Walter that helped Morgan sleep, he could let the kid use it. If it were a shirt or a jacket or even a pair of socks, it was all fine. He had found comfort in the idea that on lonely nights he could pretend that that kid was still beside him, kicking him in his sleep, drooling while clutching a stupid bunny.
Walter was pulled from his head when something a little heavier than rain hit him. Over his face, down his neck and shirt. His throat constricted and his stomach jumped up, trying to exit his body. He kept his mouth shut tight, forcing his body to not turn itself inside out as grunts that he had been able to ignore bounced through his head.
"You're even prettier now." A laugh from Rossi about ripped the soul from Walter. The click of a phone camera wasn't subtle. Pictures of him that he never wanted to exist popping into life against his will. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Walter forced his eyes open and could only watch as Rossi picked up his jacket, phone and drugs. He shoved the items into the pockets and then stepped over to Walter, taking his arm. He was pulled to his feet and dragged towards the locker rooms. HIs body was shoved onto the floor of a shower and he jumped when cold water was turned on over the top of him.
"Get yourself cleaned up. I'll see you at weight training in the morning." Rossi tossed Walter's jacket aside on a bench and Walter watched as the man left, his back hitting one of the walls of the shower as water tumbled over him and turned his clothes heavy and clingy. "Buonanotte Cattivo." (Good night, naughty boy.)
When the door to the locker room shut, it was as if all of his self control had snapped. He screamed and punched at the shower wall. Over and over and over again until his knuckles began to hurt and turn bloody. A sob racked up his body and his stomach quickly followed it. He threw up until his throat burned from acid and then pushed himself to his feet.
He turned off the shower and slopped over to his jacket, snatching it up and leaving the room. The outside air did an odd mix of chilling him from how wet his clothes were and not being cool enough with how incredibly hot his skin felt.
He wasn't sure how he made it back to his dorm, but he did. Somehow he got the door open and was able to turn on the light. He shut the door behind him and looked around. Giovanni wasn't here, which was just fine with him. He didn't want anyone else here, especially since he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell his secondary school friend that he was being abused by their coach.
Instead he went to the fridge and pulled his whiskey bottle from it, the bottle nearly empty. But it would do the job. The whiskey would make him forget and that's all he wanted to do. Giovanni had dealt with a drunk him more than enough to handle it when he came home. Walter dropped onto the couch and did his best to ignore the sticky that still covered him that the cold shower had done nothing to clean.
He took a long drink straight from the bottle. Forgetting wasn't enough. Feeling so incredibly dirty wasn't his idea of a good time. He reached for his jacket and dug through the pockets until he found the powder. A smile covered his lips at the idea that sparked through his head. He tipped the powder into the bottle and watched as it attempted to dissolve in the amber liquid. He shook the bottle about until it turned a milky honey color. Euphoria and forgetfulness. He could deal with that. It sounded better than where his mind sat now.
The first shot went down bitter, but Walter didn't care. The next drink sent his skin ablaze. His chest began to pulse and clench up as his heart picked up its pace. But no matter how much he got down or wasn't able to get down, those green eyes popped up.
They swirled around him with a lust that he couldn't escape. It was choking and hot and made his breathing shake and his stomach churn with nausea.
His hand found his phone through the green and before he knew it, he could hear Giovanni's voice on the other side of the line. "Hey man. What is going on?" Walter frowned at the laughter in the background. He must have taken too long to answer, because the name that followed was a bit more concerned. "Grant, what's happening?"
"I'm going to melt." Walter wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but they weren't a lie. He was on fire and the flames were green. Only green.
"What are you talking about?"
"It's so hot."
"Grant-"
"I don't want to see green anymore!" Walter's hands shook as he pressed it to his eyes. "Please!"
"Did you start taking again? I thought you stopped."
"His eyes won't leave me alone!" They danced, twisted and turned all around him. Green the color of bottles shattering and rebuilding themselves over and over again, only coming back with a stronger gaze. "Help."
"I'll be there in a moment. Just hol..."
The voice trailed off as the phone slipped from Walter's hand and he was consumed by licking green flames.
"I'm home!" Morgan called as he stepped through the front door, grocery bags in hand. He wandered through the house until he reached the kitchen where he placed the bags on the counter. "I couldn't find any truffles though."
The silence of the house gave Morgan pause. His parents hadn't mentioned going out and they were always sure to let Morgan know. Morgan's brows furrowed and he stepped carefully through the house, food forgotten.
The house was more than familiar to him. He knew it inside and out, using the many rooms in the house to hide away and read when he wanted to be left alone, though he doubted his parents would care much if he were to just stay in the living room. They would probably leave him alone, but he didn't want to be interrupted during a story if he could help it.
The only place he had never been allowed was the door under the stairs. He assumed that the door had been meant as a pantry or cupboard of some sort. Maybe for food storage or coats, but sometimes there would be a light on that covered the floor in a glowing type of color. The same light that he found now.
In every house they had lived in there always seemed to be some place, one room in the house where he was never allowed. Walter had been allowed in after Germany, but ever since that moment, Walter hadn't exactly been the same. Which begged the question, what was behind this door? What was so horrible that Walter returned a different person and he wasn't allowed anywhere near it?
They were home and that's all that truly mattered. For now he could focus on putting groceries away and maybe getting dinner started. Then he had some more homework to finish. Morgan stepped away from the stairs and went back to the kitchen where he began to do just that. He had just pulled out a cutting board and some green onion to start chopping when a body rounding the corner caught his attention.
"I didn't hear you come home," Hannibal said with a small smile. Morgan lowered the knife and looked over Hannibal who had removed his suit coat and was simply in his button up with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His tie was missing and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. Working. Physically working. "How were the shops?"
"I couldn't find any truffles," Morgan answered, brows furrowed. He hadn't seen Hannibal dress like that unless they were cooking. If they did any sort of work at all, Hannibal had become a bit more casual over the years, wearing clothing appropriate for such work. So unless there was a hidden kitchen in that cupboard, then... "What are you doing?"
"Your dad and I have been working on something special for you." There was a smile on Hannibal's lips, one that was a bit larger than normal. Morgan slowly stepped around the counter, straightening his dress shirt that suddenly felt a touch too tight. Hannibal left the kitchen and Morgan followed after him, back in the direction of the stairs. "We finally think that you're old enough to begin more..." he paused as if deciding on a word, though Morgan knew Hannibal had already picked exactly what he wanted to say, "intensive medical training."
"Oh?" Morgan asked, unsure of what else to possibly say in response to that. He had been working hard. Everything had been on textbook and paper. Sometimes on cadavers, but he was used to working on cadavers. He had been doing such a thing since he was a child. "As in...?"
Hannibal didn't give him an answer though. Simply stopped beside the stairs, where the cupboard door was sitting wide open. Morgan glanced between his father and the door several times before stepping closer.
He couldn't lie and say he had never been curious. He had always just pushed his curiosity aside in hope that he could cling to their family dynamic a bit longer. He knew that whatever his parents did in their free time wasn't something that the world would smile on, but he didn't dig. Didn't want to fully understand. Didn't want to ruin the facade he had lived in all his life.
"I can go in?" Morgan pointed to the open door hesitantly and at a nod from Hannibal, he inhaled deeply, finding the strength to step through the doorway. There was a staircase that led downwards in a spiral and as Morgan started down it, something cold prickled across his skin and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He hit the landing and came to a stop. A cold sweat started somewhere between his toes and turned his fingers clammy as something out of a horror movie stared back at him. Shining metal, cold and reflective. Something that could be cleaned easily. Drains. Shelvings of different types of chemicals. Some that Morgan recognized as cleaning supplies and others as medical.
Further in the room that was much larger than he thought it would be, stood Will beside a drawn curtain and what looked like a body on a bed of some sort. Morgan took a step back, his back hitting something solid, and he jumped to look up at Hannibal.
"You do not need to be afraid," Hannibal said softly, voice thick with reassurance that didn't quite reach Morgan. "This is simply to help you learn."
Morgan's mouth went sticky and a metallic taste rose from the back of his throat. Hannibal's hand took his shoulder and pushed him forward, causing Morgan's legs to move without his consent.
When he stood next to Will, he met Will's gaze with uncertainty. Will gave him a half smile that he was sure was meant to be comforting, but it only twisted Morgan's insides. The figure hidden behind the curtain, though still blurry, was much clearer now. A man if Morgan had to guess. A man struggling against some bindings on his legs and wrists where he was strapped down to a medical gurney, though his struggling wouldn't yield any sort of progress.
Will stayed silent as he pushed the curtain back and Morgan found himself looking into a pair of terrified brown eyes. The man was no older than thirty if Morgan had to guess, but he didn't look harmed in the slightest. Maybe he had been drugged to get him down here. There was no head trauma, nothing to suggest he had been beaten. But that didn't stop how afraid he looked. A feeling that Morgan could only mirror and swallow down.
"I'm not understanding," Morgan whispered, looking back over his shoulder and to his parents. Hannibal stepped closer and took Morgan's shoulders, subtly angling him back towards the man who was breathing hard under a strip of duct tape. Morgan didn't want to look. He winced and turned his head away.
"What was the topic we were last discussing in class?" Hannibal's tone was still soft and gentle.
"Appendicitis," Morgan got out, his stomach falling and making him want to run and hide.
"This is Mr. Felix Nilsson," Hannibal announced, stepping Morgan closer to the man who was struggling more and grunting behind the tape. Morgan hated the way that the table began to creak under the man. "He is suffering from a mild case of appendicitis. In his case antibiotics would be enough to stabilize the condition, but I don't think that would help you achieve the outcome you are looking for."
Morgan's eyes snapped open and he once more tried to step backwards, but found himself trapped firmly in Hannibal's grip. "I don't want to do this," Morgan whispered as it all came crashing in. "Please. I can keep working on cadavers."
"They will not teach you properly," the doctor explained. "This is going to show you proper medical procedures. How to set up a room, how to sedate a patient, how to perform surgeries correctly, how to clean up after. We worked hard and set this up for you to learn."
Morgan hated the way his insides twisted with guilt. It couldn't have been easy getting the man down here without anyone noticing. In broad daylight no less. They were only trying to help him learn. Only trying to teach him. How could he waste such an opportunity?
"As soon as he's stable, he'll go right back to his family," Will explained from somewhere behind Morgan, but all Morgan could do was watch those brown eyes beg him not to. "We're helping him, son. He's sick and you can help him. That's what you wanted to do, right? Help people feel better? This is your first chance."
"And he really is sick?" Morgan asked in nearly a whisper, wishing his cotton mouth to go away.
"It wouldn't teach you anything if I found someone who didn't have the condition we were trying to fix." Hannibal gave Morgan's shoulders a squeeze and released the boy.
"You said once he was stable. Will he be here for the next two days?" Morgan finally took a small step closer, a frown on his face. "Recovery is two to four weeks after up to two days in a hospital."
"Your father and I will take care of him," Will assured. "There's nothing you need to worry over after surgery."
Morgan's stomach lurched at the word. He didn't think that he could. The man was alive. This was so different from a body that was already long dead. How could he possibly do-"
"Let's help him," Hannibal said with a final push.
If it was helping this man... Morgan couldn't say no. He could help this man and learn in the process. And an appendectomy wasn't such a complicated procedure that Morgan couldn't complete it. If Hannibal stayed by his side the entire time, he was sure he could do it.
"I want to help him," Morgan announced with a nod.