Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was Wednesday, and the slut had been missing for three days.

Whitney’s lips curled as he exited his third class. He’d been bored as fuck the last three days; the gap between classes were usually prime time for him to mess with the slut. He’d tease him, the slut would snap back, and they’d tussle a little as foreplay. 

Strange. It wasn't out of the ordinary for the slut to ditch school for one day, maybe two, but three days in a row was pushing it. And the little shit sure didn’t say anything when they were at the pub last Sunday.

Damn that slut.

But irritation turned to a twisted sort of amusement as Whitney swaggered down the school hallway, his gang trailing behind like loyal hounds. He didn’t even bother hiding the mockery in his snort when he saw the loser Robin wandering the hallway, drifting in the sea of people with his head craning left and right.

The rest of the students keep eyeing them; some with fear, others with envy and lust. Brainless sheep, helpless against those with power.

The slut was different. People expected a brat of his rep to be submissive, docile, weak ; but he was in fact the exact opposite. Whitney saw fire whenever the slut was fighting him tooth and nail, and he felt fire whenever their bodies meshed together. That’s why he was a fun pet to mess around with.

Fuck, Whitney had seen the cash the slut tried so carefully to hide; of course he’d ditch classes. School was nothing but a chore when messing around for a day could rake in what most folks earned in a week.

Whitney stepped onto the empty rooftop. Leaning against the railing, he lit up a fresh cigarette and gazed up at the bright blue sky as the cool breeze swept through his blonde hair. A smirk grew on his lips.

Worrying was dumb. Wherever the slut was, Whitney knew damn well he was living it up.

He’d just have to find other plaything for now.

Chapter Text

It was Thursday, and Whitney’s slut had been missing for four days.

Now it’s Math and Whitney found himself listless with an itch he couldn’t scratch. This was usually the time he’d ruffle his slut’s hair, watch him squirm and struggle while trying to pay attention to River’s lecture. Sometimes his slut would let him have his way, even return the favor sometimes, and the memory of it made Whitney’s groin stir just as the absence made his chest ache.

Worse, the atmosphere in the class felt like a damn funeral. Other students whispered and stole curious glances at Whitney. Meanwhile River’s lecture bore no teeth, and the teacher’s gaze kept fluttering back to the classroom door as if waiting for someone to enter. 

And Whitney got it. Really. His slut’s rep outside school might suggest otherwise but he was actually a damned good student. Top grades, won all the fairs, starred at the school play, all that jazz. He even wasted time being fucking friendly on top of all that, saving students and helping the teachers without ever asking for easy As. 

Everyone loved him enough to ignore his perversions–if anything, the stories and the videos only seemed to ground him, make him look normal.

No wonder the freak Kylar was obsessed with his slut; Whitney had caught him literally stalking his slut before and if not for the death glare Kylar had given him today when they passed each other Whitney would have assumed the freak had something to do with his slut’s absence. Kylar sure looked messed up in the head enough to do that.

But Whitney wasn’t about to flip out; that shit was cringe. He said nothing until school was over and went to the school gates to smoke in peace.

Damn shame that not even his gang couldn’t leave him alone. 

“Where is he?”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Are–are we going to look for him?”

Whitney snapped his head, and the questions immediately stopped. “You think I give a fuck?” 

A lissome boy flinched back with a whimper. “I-I just thought he’s your–”

“He’s my fucking pet, yeah.” Whitney dragged his cigarette. “And I know he’s always getting into shit. Bet he’s kneeling down in some alley right now, slurping their dicks like the slut he is.”

His gang exchanged glances and said nothing; if Whitney didn’t give a damn, then neither should they. Yet the absence lingered. Whitney’s slut may have started as a plaything but every single one of them had the experience of being helped by him. Being heard. Being rescued.

The weighted silence started grinding against Whitney’s nerves. Exhaling a puff of smoke in an irritated huff, he stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “Pathetic, all of you,” he muttered. “Leave me alone. I need a break.”

Whitney turned around and entered the school, angry footsteps echoing the empty hallway. These sheep talked about his slut as if he was a helpless prey in the sea of predators. They were wrong; this town may be fucked but Whitney knew full well his slut wouldn’t fall prey to any of those perverts outside–not without his consent. He wasn’t like all the others. He wasn’t weak.

Teeth clenched, Whitney let his feet carry him around school. As the remaining students stayed away he thought about leaving from the back door when suddenly he heard voices ahead at the English classroom.

“None of my customers saw him,” Whitney heard Sirris sighed. “Of course they could lie to me, but usually I’ll still hear some hearsays every now and then. Lately, nothing.”

“...I talked to the church, and none of the nuns and monks had seen him either,” said River. “But with Sydney’s help, Brother Jordan agreed to send people to look for him. At least that’s a start.“

Whitney inched closer, stealing a peek with his back pressing against the wall. He saw all the teachers inside the empty classroom, looking all stressed out as they talked to each other. 

“I’m just afraid something happened.” Winter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was so used to him bringing me all sorts of artifacts that I forgot he was still a child. Did he… did he come to your house, Doren? Did he say anything?”

“Not for a while.” Doren ruffled his shaggy red hair and groaned in frustration. "I've been wracking my brain, trying to recall if he mentioned something, anything, but nothing came to mind."

“I’ll check the lake today,” said Mason. “I know sometimes he dived into the temple ruins underwater. I just hope–”

A snarl ripped through Whitney as he walked away. These fuckers–these fucking sheep . They knew nothing about the goddamn misery of being powerless. They never felt how suffocating it was being trapped in this damn school–no, this damn town.

His slut understood this slow death. Fought it with his literal blood, sweat, and tears. Better to be out there, carving your own damn way no matter the cost.

Whitney slammed a fist against the wall. He was pissed off, and he fucking hated it. Hated himself for letting anger get the best of him. That shit was, again, fucking cringe.

He wasn’t worried. Not at all. 

They just didn’t understand.

Chapter Text

It was Friday, and Whitney’s pet had been missing for five days.

By now, even those in different years had something to say about the missing student. Sydney, that religious freak, decided to start a prayer circle in the library. And some of those idiots actually joined him.

Everyone was keeping their distance from Whitney and their gang again, but now there was an edge behind their gaze. Almost as if they all thought Whitney had something to do about this. 

His gang grew restless, whispering behind his back, and Whitney didn’t have to be a genius to know what they were thinking.

The chatter reached a fever pitch. A lit-up fuse ready to explode.

And amidst all that fuss, that loser Robin wormed his way and stopped Whitney in the middle of the hallway.

“Do you know where he is?”

Suddenly, silence. 

Everyone, even his gang, were looking at Whitney as if he was an animal in a freak show. He held back his snarl, meeting the loser’s trembling glare with a mocking sneer. “Worried, loser?”

“I–I…” Robin's voice cracked, fists trembling at his sides. “Everyone is worried. Even your friends.”

“So you’re playing hero now?” Whitney’s voice turned sharp. “A fucking knight in shining armor, protecting your dear friend’s nonexistent chastity from all the big bad wolves out there?”

For once, a flicker of anger flashed in Robin’s eyes. “You–!”

“Please stop, both of you.” Sydney stepped in from the crowd, looking like a stick in the ass as always. “This isn't helping anyone. We're all tense enough as it is."

“What, you want in on this too, freak?” Whitney barked, waving his arms as if beckoning.

Murmurs and whispers exploded from all over. Sydney tensed for a moment, deliberating, before he ended up slowly shaking his head. “Please, Whitney, there’s no need for all…of this. I understand if you don’t know where he is either.”

Well fuck that shit.

Whitney shoved Robin aside, almost sending the smaller boy to the floor as he stomped his way to Sydney, grabbing the bespectacled freak roughly by the collar. 

“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice a dangerous growl. "Say. That. Again," 

“You don’t know where he is either, do you?” Sydney repeated, his voice soft. As much as he tried to keep his gaze neutral, it still reeked of pity . “And that’s why you stayed quiet. You called him your property, but you don’t know much about him either.”

Whitney's fist clenched tighter. “And what the fuck do you know?”

“He’s been looking forward to this week’s tests,” the freak replied, his voice sad. "Did you know that? Do you even realize how much effort he's put in since the last one?"

“That doesn’t fucking matter,” Whitney spat.

“...Maybe for you, but it does for him.” Sydney wrenched his eyes shut and turned away. “He wants to improve his Math to help him in his work. And he wants better English so he won’t be caught speechless out there.”

"And yesterday," A trembling Robin spoke from the sidelines with an equally trembling voice, "was a kid's birthday at the orphanage. Even if he doesn’t care about the tests, he wouldn’t just ignore that. He wouldn’t ignore us. And if something were to happen to him–”

Whitney spun around and slammed his fist into the loser’s face.

Robin crashed into the floor with a sickening, delightful thud. Sydney gasped, and Whitney was about to lay into him next when he felt people holding him back. No, not people–his own gang were grabbing him from behind. Shouts and screams echoed all over him, blurring into background noise against the relentless pounding in his head.

How dare they say that. How fucking dare. They were the ones who didn’t fucking understand.

Almost everyone was gone from the hallway when Whitney’s rage faded.  Only his gang and a few students remained–and fucking Leighton, standing right in front of them.

“Well, well, well. Quite the spectacle we have here,” the headmaster sneered. "But I suppose emotions are running wild today."

"Damn right," Whitney shot back as he pushed his gang away. "And here you are, looking all high and mighty as if nothing happened.”

"Oh, I'm aware of everything," Leighton flashed a creepy-ass smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've made inquiries with my... associates outside of school. Unfortunately, no one has seen our dear student for the last few days.”

Whitney returned the sneer. “And I’m pretty damn sure it was unfortunate.”

“It is. He is a well-loved student.” The smile widened. “So I’ll cut you all some slack this time. Return to class and let the grown-ups handle this.”

“Nah.” Whitney turned around and gave both his gang and Leighton a dismissing wave as he walked away. “I don’t trust any of you.”

“Whitney!”

He kept walking without looking back. From the corner of his eyes he saw the creep Kylar hiding behind a pillar, glaring at him with eyes full of hatred. Their eyes met.

Whitney flashed a smirk and raised his middle finger.

“Last warning, Whitney,” warned Leighton from behind, his voice sharper. “Go anywhere else but your class, and I’ll make sure your detention will be one to remember.”

Whitney snorted. “When my pet goes back, sir , I'll go to your detention with a big fucking smile on my face.”

Fine.

If people kept nagging him about his pet, then he’d fucking oblige them for once. He’s gonna hunt down the brat and teach him a lesson for stirring up all this bullshit. 

Yeah, it’d be the perfect way to stop this gnawing inside his chest.

Chapter Text

It was still Friday, and Whitney’s pet had been missing for five days.

The police station was empty, with only one bored cop waiting at the counter.

"There's a queue," the fit, tanned man drawled.

“Fucking where?” Whitney waved his arms wide.

“There’s a queue.”

“Is that your fucking response to everything?” Whitney slammed his fist down on the desk, leaning in close. "A damn student is missing, and you choose to sit on your ass?"

“You call him a student but we both know what he actually is.” The pig also leaned in, returning Whitney’s snarl with a sleazy grin. “It’s only been five days. You sure he’s not shacked up with a nice man somewhere?”

Whitney bared his teeth in anger, but he couldn’t retaliate. He could feel his earlier confidence stabbing him at the back.

Something was afoot. He saw no signs of his pet–not in the usual spots, not in the alleys, not even in the dirty exchanges between strangers. The pigs being useless was a given, but if his pet was being a menace then they would have moved by now; nothing pleases those pigs more than putting someone in the pillory as a show of their hard work.

And neither was his pet in the hospital. That meant whatever happened to his pet happened outside their scope.

Something captured him, defeated him. Left him hurt somewhere with no one to help.

A mass of feelings coiled wildly inside Whitney’s guts, a frustration that only grew stronger when he exited the hospital. It was noon, yet Nightingale Street still lay deserted under the midday sun. No cars were passing by, and the few people loitering on the sidewalks did so with bored faces and unhurried steps. A couple other buildings stood silently under the heat, choked by the stillness lurking in the air.

This fucking town. As lifeless as ever, its people caught up in their own bullshit. For them his pet would have been nothing but a young body in a sea of young bodies, another fresh meat ripe for the taking.

Fuck that. Fuck that shit. No one’s taking his pet without his permission.

With that thought searing his mind, Whitney grabbed his trusty baseball bat and barged into the orphanage.

The old mansion stood desolate, its usual inhabitants either stuck in school or out there on the streets. A stack of papers was present near the main door, with a picture of the missing orphan badly printed on each page. Whitney folded one of those papers and stuffed it into his jeans pocket before heading upstairs, stomping loudly, not caring about noise because there’s no way the bastard he’s seeing didn’t realize he’s coming by now.

Whitney kicked the door open. “Where the fuck did you take my pet, old man?”

Bailey, the man in question, didn’t bother taking his eyes away from his computer screen. “Shouldn’t you be in school right now? I don’t remember giving you any task.”

“I’m asking you a question.” Whitney growled as he strode forward, planting the blunt end of his baseball bat on Bailey’s desk with a loud, metallic thud. “Where. The fuck. Is he.”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had the answer.” Bailey finally shifted his eyes to Whitney. “In fact, maybe I should ask you ; where are you keeping my ward?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Whitney leaned closer, snarling with open hostility. “These brats might not know the kind of shit you’re up to, but I do.”

“And I know what you’re putting my boy through; you shouted it loud enough for everyone to hear,” Bailey retorted flatly. His eyes were cold and unfeeling. “Doesn’t change the fact that neither of us had anything to do with this situation, does it?”

“You lying fucker…!”

Whitney raised his bat, ready to smash the old bastard–

–and next thing he knew, the bat clattered to the floor as Bailey twisted his arm and slammed his head onto the cold hard desk.

“Little punk.” Bailey muttered from the top. “Strutting around like you own the place when you’re nothing but a cocky twat who's bitten off more than he can chew.”

A loud ringing pierced Whitney’s head as his heart hammered inside his chest. The old man’s strength was overwhelming. He growled and struggled, feet pounding the floor, yet couldn’t find any sort of leverage against the iron grip.

“You think you know darkness? Then allow me to enlighten you.” Bailey leaned in closer, whispering right beside Whitney’s ear. “There’s a whole underworld out there itching to put arrogant punks like you in their place, Whitney. They know you, and if you keep being a little shit, you might just find yourself down there with no one to save you."

There was neither malice nor superiority in those words–just the cold certainty of someone who can, and will hurt him if given enough reason. Whitney could taste fear and iron at the back of his throat, the trembling in his body taking on a new meaning as his mind finally caught up with what happened.

“So?”

“Fine.” Whitney gritted his teeth against the pain. “I get it. Now let me go.”

“Not so fast,” Bailey said, his breath hot against Whitney’s ear. “You just ditched class, barged inside my place, and disturbed my work. Surely even little shits like you know what to say after that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Wrong.” Bailey's grip on his arm tightened, dull fingernails digging into Whitney's flesh. “Last chance.”

“Okay, okay!” Whitney shouted, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry!”

“Good.” And just like that, Bailey released his hold and calmly walked back to his seat. “Take your bat when you’re leaving. And close the door.”

“Fuck you,” Whitney spat. Both his muscles and his ego were screaming as he retrieved the baseball bat from the floor. “So do you have any clue where he is, or is this your fucking answer?”

“He’s not in the farmlands, that much I can tell you.” Bailey resumed typing on the keyboard. “I told you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had the answer.”

"Big words for someone charging two fucking grands a week.”

The tapping didn’t stop. “What about it?”

“Spare me the bullshit.” Whitney’s scowl grew deeper. “Are you saying you won’t do shit if he doesn’t pay you?”

“Of course not.” More tapping. “He’s worth more than his weight in gold. Don’t act like you don’t know that.”

Whitney couldn’t retaliate, again. Gnawing his bones in place of his rage was something malformed and heavy.

“Rest assured I will do my best to find him. I’ve never liked losing a good investment,” said Bailey.

He could only let out a weak snort and left the room.

He misread the situation. He was mistaken. And now his boyfriend is missing.

Chapter Text

Whitney stood in silence.

He stood by one of the many windows that lined the orphanage loft, surrounded by piles of dusty boxes, staring down at the small garden through the glass surface. Whatever was planted on the three flower beds looked a bit dried and withered; weed had started to grow in some spots.

He could also see a large cardboard box near the newly built pond, filled to capacity with old birthday decorations. A weathered banner proclaimed “Happy Birthday” with fading colors and tattered edges, laid at the top of the box alongside images of cartoon figures that were the hottest shit over a decade ago. 

So the loser Robin didn’t lie. There was a birthday. Whitney could easily imagine his pet sitting down there, happily planning with the loser Robin and other children by his side. Carving a slice of innocent joy in this corrupted town. 

He misread the situation. He was mistaken. And now his boyfriend is missing.

Whitney took a long drag of his cigarette. The taste of defeat filled his lungs, heavy and bitter in the back of his throat. He should’ve thrown that shit away, yet something inside him urged him to keep inhaling. 

Take it, take it all; the shame, the stupidity, the loss. That's all he's good for. 

Except–

Memories trickled in, merging with awareness.

He remembered lying in his uncle’s couch, desperately fighting the exhaustion seeping through his bones just in case someone texted him.

He remembered barging to his uncle’s home because he had taken his boyfriend there before and maybe, just maybe, his boyfriend might have gone there.

He remembered scouring through alleys and streets with his gang, looking like lost dogs, futilely plastering one poster after another.

He remembered taking the missing poster from the orphanage before meeting with his gang.

He remembered Bailey. Barging into the orphanage. The middle finger he raised as he ditched school. The loser Robin and the religious freak Sydney.

He remembered his boyfriend.

And then a bell tolled.

This was a dream, and Whitney’s boyfriend had been missing somewhere.

The loft melted upon that realization, leaving Whitney stranded on an endless street. Distant buildings and blurred passersby surrounded him right at the edge of his peripheral vision. This was in no way a place Whitney had ever visited, and yet they were also infuriating in its familiarity. 

Whitney tried to speak, to shout, and it felt like a ball of cotton was lodged inside his throat. With a snarl he then tried pinching himself, slamming his own palm against his skull, even biting his own hand.

He barely felt a thing.

Well, you know what? Fuck it. 

Whitney broke into a run and dashed forward. 

Every time he blinked, he could feel blurred figures around him staring. Watching. Feasting on his young physique with eyes like starving lions. Whitney wanted to punch them, smash them with his bat. Wreck the fuck out of this goddamn misery of being powerless.

And yet powerless was exactly what he was. 

“There’s a whole underworld out there itching to put arrogant punks like you in their place, Whitney. They know you, and if you keep being a little shit, you might just find yourself down there with no one to save you."

A violent shiver ran down Whitney’s spine, red-hot and flash-like, akin what he felt back at Bailey’s office but tenfold. The feeling seared through all his projected bravado, a brutal reminder that he was nothing but a shitty brat in a fucked-up town. 

The streets narrowed. Buildings with no doors and stores with no names slowly crept into Whitney’s peripheral vision while the blurred figures whispered amongst each other. There were no signs of his boyfriend in the usual spots. Not in the alleys, not even in the dirty exchanges between strangers. 

“I know he’s always getting into shit. Bet he’s kneeling down in some alley right now, slurping their dicks like the slut he is.”

Desperation boiled Whitney’s chest from inside and he ran as quickly as the weathered and cobbled surface would allow, but no matter how fast or how far he ran, the street kept stretching endlessly beneath his feet. Everything started to blur into each other.

His breath grew sharp and shallow while his legs screamed and screamed until it could scream no more–

And then Whitney lost his balance and crashed into the cobbled streets. 

He was too late.

The world narrowed until they all loomed above him. The blurred figures were circling around Whitney now, pointing and laughing. They began to distort to unnatural shapes.

“And that’s why you stayed quiet. You called him your property, but you don’t know much about him either.”   

It’s becoming harder to breathe. What remained of Whitney’s defiance urged him to get up, to crawl, to do anything but stop, but his body was filled with lead. His ears were ringing with distant laughter. 

Idiot. Weak. Helpless. Just a pretty face with no future.

Whitney’s body trembled and his breaths shattered into little gasps. He couldn’t look away. Not even closing his eyes worked; something malformed and heavy was taking shape in the darkness of his eyelids. His mind went numb, but didn’t grant him the mercy of suppressing the dread.  

It was time to receive the judgment upon him.

He wasn’t ready. 

And then a bell tolled.

All at once, the streets and the buildings peeled away, revealing utter emptiness as the figures fell to the ground, clutching the sides of their heads where their ears used to be. 

Whitney couldn’t hear wind in his ears, or against his skin, but somehow he knew he was falling. The world around him began to shift.

And when it was all over–when Whitney finally opened his eyes–he was alone, kneeling right by the lake. 

Red moonlight casted dire shadows all around him.

Whitney didn’t really like going to the lakes. That place reminded him of better times, back when he was blind to all the depravity that occurred in this cursed town. Back when his parents still cared.

Now the hazy sight of it filled his heart with dread. The lake was quiet, unnaturally so.

And standing in the middle of it all was his lost boyfriend.

Slowly, his boyfriend turned to face Whitney, his body swaying in the gentle current of the lake. Gone were the fire and defiance in his eyes, replaced by a vacant blankness–as if the person standing there was nothing but a slab of meat.

A slow, soul-sucking death.

Panic flooded Whitney’s senses. He tried to shout, to rush towards the smaller man, and yet he couldn’t. All that came out from his throat were half-choked whimpers. He suddenly felt like he was walking through waist-high water. His arms and clothes grew heavy, and his feet didn’t seem to hit the ground anymore.  

In desperation he scrambled to the ground, clawing the dirt, crawling like a dog, fighting the heaviness weighing his body down to get to his boyfriend now, quickly, as fast as possible, before–

Writhing hands slowly emerge from the water, pale and translucent.

A strained scream wrenched free from Whitney’s throat as these hands started dragging his boyfriend into the water. The silent orphan did nothing to resist the pull; his body lurched and splashed into the water, his head tilting up. Casting silent prayer at the blood red moon in the middle of this debauched feast.

Whitney dived into the water just to see his boyfriend sinking fully into the water. He sank, and he sank, and further he sank still while Whitney watched it happening helplessly.

Their eyes met.

His descent was beautiful.

Whitney cried out, and shot up. He was on his uncle’s couch, sweating, and breathing heavily.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

He looked pale

Chapter Text

“Whitney!”

It was Saturday, and Whitney’s boyfriend had been missing for six days.

Whitney ignored his uncle’s worry-laden call. Gripping his bat tightly, he stormed out of his uncle’s place and slammed the door behind him.

He ran and ran, past Domus Street into the sleeping mansions in Danube, ignoring the soft pitter-patter of rain, ignoring the way his shoes splashed against the puddles, ignoring the tenseness in his jaw and the rapid pounding of his own heart.

No way in hell that dream was real. No way in hell his boyfriend was there. Mason would’ve found something if he was actually in the damn lake. Someone would’ve seen him.

Still Whitney ran and ran, ignoring the way his breathing grew heavier, ignoring the way his jacket grew damp and wet, ignoring the darkness ahead and the rustling sounds around him.

Fuck, he’d forgotten how many years had it been since he’d visited the lake. That place reminded him of better times, back when he was blind to all the depravity that occurred in this cursed town. Back when his parents still cared. 

Now, even with the newly built road the path remained dark inside the lightless forest. The rustling leaves gave the impression that something was lurking inside, hunting, ready to strike him if he ever let his guard down.

Still Whitney ran and ran, ignoring the way his lungs and heart ached from the strain, following the sounds of running water, thinking about nothing else but the image of his boyfriend in that dream.

The translucent hands pulling him down. His vacant gaze, beautiful yet empty–as if the person standing there was nothing but a slab of meat. That blood-red moon above.

No way in hell.

A veil of mist and a reddish gray sky greeted Whitney when he reached the lake. Nothing seemed changed, at first, but the more his eyes roamed the more he couldn’t shake off the feeling of something . 

Were the trees always this gnarled? 

Was the water always this dark? 

Was the dawn always this red?

A shiver ran down his spine and his bat trembled in his grip. His body felt like lead. 

Still Whitney approached the lake, dragging the bat in one limping step after another until his legs suddenly buckled beneath right at the edge. He dropped to his knees, his eyes fixed on the hundreds of little ripples covering the water surface. There’s no way to see what’s at the bottom right now. If his boyfriend was actually there –

A rustle broke the silence. "Leave."

Whitney turned just to see a towering figure stepped out from the dense foliage, clad in a hunting outfit and holding a rifle in his hands. He immediately tensed up, his bat ready to strike. “And why the fuck should I do that?”

Instead of answering, the stranger just walked past Whitney until he stopped at a rocky alcove. He bent down and looked inside.

Whitney snarled. This was different from Bailey. There were no hints of superiority coming off this man. No–it felt like he wasn’t even worth noticing. “Who the fuck are you?” 

The rugged man stood back up and, without saying anything, pointed his rifle skywards and fired into the air. The shot boomed through the rain. Rustling sounds moved away from the forest.

“Right. Message fucking received. Too bad I’m not going anywhere.” 

Whitney slung his bat over his shoulder and stomped his way towards the rocky alcove. He didn’t have to be a genius to know why this stranger was here.

“You’ve fucked him too, haven’t you?” he grimaced at his own words. “You’ve fucked what’s mine, and that’s why–”

Before he could finish, the stranger roared and lunged at him. Whitney barely dodged the attack, jumping to the side just in time to avoid a straight jab to the face.

Whitney immediately jumped backwards and took his distance. “The fuck–”

“I’ve kept him safe from bastards like you,” the stranger hunched forward, growling in a low, bestial timber. “Predators, leeches who only know how to take and take and take.”

Slowly, deliberately, Whitney took a step forward, locking eyes with the towering figure and swinging his baseball bat a few times. “So you’re the one taking my boy?” he sneered, ignoring his own thundering heartbeat.

The stranger bared his teeth. “He's not yours.”

“Say whatever you want. Seems like he’s not yours either.” He forced a laugh and pointed his bat at the stranger. “Now listen, tough guy. He’s gone, and neither of us liked that. If you think I’m wasting my time here, then tell me what the fuck have you done to help him.”

“There’s nothing to say,” the other man growled again. “Leave.”

“Guess we gotta do it the hard way.” Whitney readied his bat. “Bring it on.”

The sound of rainfall faded into a distant murmur. Whitney’s gut screamed for action; smash this motherfucker, bolt, do anything but stand there like a fucking wimp.

Any sane person would’ve bailed, but fuck that shit. Fear was not an option. Not here, not now. 

Whitney charged at the stranger, swinging his bat in a fit of rage. It was a mistake; the stranger dodged the attack in a swift turn before slamming his elbow into Whitney’s stomach. The pain was brutal, leaving him gasping. 

But he couldn’t go down here. Planting his feet on the muddy ground, Whitney steadied himself just to see the stranger charging at him like a boar. With a feral grin he shifted to the side, using the momentum to slam his bat right at the stranger’s back. 

The attack connected with a delightful crunch. The stranger dropped to the ground.

“Got you, asshole!”

Whitney charged, ready to slam his baseball bat down–

–only to see the stranger pointing the rifle up, right at his face.

Another shot boomed in the sky.

Chapter Text

Whitney staggered back just in time to feel the bullet slicing the rainfall ahead of him. He had never heard an actual gunshot before. It sounded nothing like the movies—louder, sharper, more damning.

For a precious second, he couldn’t do anything. The booming echo rattled deep within his bones. 

His opponent, the rugged stranger with the rifle, immediately took advantage of the blunder and rose to his knees. Whitney noticed what happened a second too late. He rushed his counter, lunging at the stranger before he could fire another shot. 

The bat clanged off the rifle. A metallic ring rattled deep within his bones.

He raised his bat next, preparing a follow-up attack. But the stranger unleashed a thunderous roar and shoved his hunting rifle into Whitney’s chest, knocking him back several steps and taking all breath away from his lungs.

For a precious second, his vision blurred. A choked gasp rattled deep within his bones.

Whitney tried to steady himself, his bat trembling, far from ready yet knowing he had to move . But it was too late. All he managed to do was catch a glimpse of the stranger’s violent snarl before the rifle butt slammed right into his jaw.

A thousand invisible knives passed through his skull and he crumpled into the muddy ground. Crushing pain rattled deep within his bones.

Darkness, the downpour, then a loud cocking sound coming ahead of Whitney. He could taste iron in his mouth.

“Stay down,” the stranger growled.

Fuck that. Fuck this shit. He must get up. He must not lose. His boyfriend was missing.

Whitney blinked the stars away and found himself staring down the barrel of the rifle. In the hazy background, the rugged and imposing figure of the stranger loomed over him against the rainy sky.

“Mutt,” the stranger growled in barely restrained anger. “I already gave you a warning–”

Somehow that made Whitney so pissed off. “Fuck your warning!” he spat back, blood spilling from his mouth. “My boyfriend is gone! You think I'm just gonna turn tail and run just ‘cause you got a gun? Fuck you!” 

The rugged man frowned deeper, disgusted. A smarter guy would have stopped here.

Whitney kept yapping. “I wouldn't even be here if you’re worth shit, you asshole! You said you’re protecting him, well, where the fuck is he now?!”

The stranger’s grip on the rifle trembled violently before it tightened in a clench. For a moment Whitney thought this was how everything ends…

…except nothing happened. Rainfall filled in the silence again as they stared at each other. 

Their eyes finally met. Up close, past the stranger’s drenched hair and wild beard, Whitney could see an intense anguish etched on his scarred face. 

He briefly wondered if he’s making the same face right now.

Slowly, the stranger lowered his rifle. “...This won’t bring him back,” he said in a pained sigh, his head and shoulders hanging low. “Shouldn’t have let him go. Should have kept him safe with me.”

Whitney stayed still, alert, ready for an ambush and finding none. He slowly got up.

“Y’know what– damn right,” he grunted through his pain, leveling a hard gaze at the rugged man with what remained of his courage. “None of this means a damn thing. We can keep squabbling like idiots, or we can do something real about this."

“There’s nothing–” the stranger stopped and stared at the lake with a hardened gaze that definitely knew its share of violence. “He’s not in that lake, I’ve checked. Multiple times.”

“Cool, now we’re finally getting somewhere.” Whitney spat the blood in his mouth. “Guess that means you’ve looked through the forest too.”

“I have.” The stranger craned his head up, eyes closed as if trying to listen to the forest. “The wolves are… agitated. The blood moon does not help.”

“The blood moon,” Whitney muttered as he rubbed his most likely bruised jaw. “Is it connected?”

For a while the stranger didn’t say much of anything. When he did, it was more of a soft muttering to himself. “Everything is connected. This town is damned.”

“Tell me about it.” Whitney would have snickered if it didn’t hurt like hell. Instead he just carefully grabbed his bat from the ground. “I’ve looked at the police station. The hospital too. Nothing.”

He waited for a reply, but got none. The stranger slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped into the woods, mumbling all the while.

“What?!” Whitney shouted. “That’s fucking it? You just tell me cryptic bullshit, and then walk away?!”

The stranger said nothing. He just kept walking.

“Well fuck you too.” That should have been the end of it. But Whitney still felt like he had to have the last word. “...You’re dead wrong, by the way.”

Somehow, that stopped the rugged man. He turned to give Whitney one last look. The silence hung heavy, his gaze a loaded gun.

“That boy… You know he’s not that kind of guy,” Whitney finally said. “He doesn’t need anyone’s protection. He’s not weak.”

The stranger snorted at that remark–a heavy, boar-like noise. “That’s just a lie you tell yourself to feel better,” he said before walking away. “Don’t you ever show your face here again.”

And then he’s gone.

Whitney stood there by the lake, accompanied by nobody else but his pain and the unyielding rain. Hushed silence rattled deep within his bones.

Gone were all illusions of blood red. All that remained was an overwhelming stretch of reality; of stark gray clouds, rolling into each other as the sky continued to wept. Hundreds of small ripples drummed on the lake’s surface, spreading, twisting its reflection into a murky mess. He still couldn’t see the bottom of the lake.

He lost again. First Bailey, then this guy–two losses in less than a day. Worse, he yapped like a fucking wimp. That was disgustingly cringe.

But what else could he do?

One thing’s for sure–at this hour anyone could have walked here. Unsuspecting hikers, or worse; Mason . No point sticking around.

The walk back to town was a funeral march of one. Whitney dragged his baseball bat uselessly by his side, drenched to his bone, looking like a stray mutt and feeling like one. His better part knew he should doubt everything that was said and done. But try as he might, he could only find rage.

At the stranger or himself, though, he couldn’t say.

Did it even matter?

Still Whitney walked and walked, ignoring the cold water seeping into his bones, enduring the blinding pain searing his senses, following the newly built path until he reached Nightingale Street.

He could have seen the freak Kylar running desperately across the street, but he couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it. Need to check his phone. See if it’s broken, see if there’s any updates. Maybe his mates had found his boyfriend.

Still Whitney walked and walked, trudging down the quiet street, ignoring all the worried eyes from the few passersby there, flashing an angry snarl at those who dared to approach. 

Need to stop at the hospital. Snag some painkillers. Check the admission list again; maybe someone had found his boyfriend.

Still Whitney walked and walked, gritting his teeth–

–until the pain grew unbearable and he crumpled down on the rainy street.

Too much. Too weak. Too–

Whitney found himself snickering through the pain. Fuck, he was so pathetic. His boyfriend was missing, and he could do jack shit.

He was worth jack shit.

It was Saturday, and Whitney’s boyfriend–

Whitney’s pet–

Whitney’s slut–

The slut–

It was Saturday, and an orphan had been missing for six days.

Chapter Text

Whitney opened his eyes.

He was lying on a hospital bed, with bandages encasing his torso and feeling the tug of an IV in his hand. As he touched the cold compress on his bruised cheek, a flicker of what the fuck flashed inside his clouded head before his memory could catch up.

Right. He reached town, overcome by pain. Somehow found the strength to drag himself to the hospital before creepy perverts could get their hands on him. Demanded answers about his missing boyfriend before the nurses gave him painkillers strong enough to knock him out immediately.

His boyfriend. Fuck. What time is it now?

He found his phone on the nearby side table, the screen cracked but still working. A couple hours had passed; it was past lunchtime and as expected, there were tons of texts waiting for him. Questions, concerns, plans; from his gang, from his uncle. 

No reports. No news. No answer to the uncertainty weighing his heart.

It was still Saturday, and an orphan had been missing for six days.

Whitney slipped the phone underneath the hospital’s worn out pillow and hissed–a tired sound, coated in frustration and weakness. Fuck if he knew where to go from here.

Safe spaces, yes, spots his boyfriend likes.

But he didn’t even know where those were. 

All he knew about his boyfriend was the fire in his eyes and the heat of his skin. He never bothered to ask where he usually spent his days. His likes or dislikes. What he’s fighting for, what he’s running away from. 

The things he cared for. The people he cared for.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t fucking know.

And the helplessness pressed tightly around his head like a crown of thorns, piercing the haze carried by the medication flowing in his bloodstream. Nobody was there. He was bound to the IV machine in a prison made out of curtains. A murmur of noises haunted beyond his sight; the only judgment came from the cold fluorescent light above.

He was used to instant responses; whether the blissful release of an orgasm, or the sting from a swift punch to the face. He wasn’t used to this silence, this nothingness . 

There was neither punishment nor comfort. Just him and the consequences of his failures.

Slowly, he opened his parched throat and uttered a name. Not slut or bitch or boy ; his boyfriend’s actual name. The sound felt so alien in his tongue.

His boyfriend –what bullshit. He probably never deserved that title.

But Whitney wasn’t only wrong about the orphan. 

He heard a startled gasp outside, quickly followed by the sound of footsteps. The curtain on his side fluttered as whoever that was stopped right in front of it. “...Are you awake, Whitney?”

It took a while before the blond realized the owner of that soft voice. “What do you want, freak?”

Sydney’s gasp was faint this time, yet still audible in the quiet space. “I…brought you some dry clothes.” A pause. “And some food.”

“Fuck off.”

“I…Your clothes are dirty, and I’m sure you must be feeling hungry right now,” he replied, voice tempered and rehearsed. “I’ll just put this inside, and then I’ll leave. It won’t be long.”

Whitney scanned the curtained space around him. He found his muddy clothes, all piled in the corner with his baseball bat. Cool. Fucking great. Not embarrassing at all. 

“Whitney?”

“Do whatever you want,” he grunted, turning away from the curtains. The pressure around his head grew unbearable. Seething. “Why the hell are you here?”

“...Everyone at church is taking turns checking the hospital. My turn was this morning.” The curtain fluttered as the freak slipped inside, placing something on the side table. “How are you feeling?”

“Stop playing saint,” Whitney snorted. “Just admit it. You like seeing me all messed up, don’t you?”

“I…” Another pause. “...I don’t find any amusement in other people’s pain, Whitney. You’re no different.”

“So you actually pity me. Great. Just fucking great.”

Whitney grimaced again, a twisted combination of mirth and pain. More silence. More pity. The pressure squeezing his head gathered on the base of his neck. Simmering.

“I went to the lake,” he finally said quietly.

“The lake?” Sydney repeated. “Why–”

“He wasn’t there. And he’s not in the forest either.” Whitney shut his eyes and, as if it wasn’t enough, covered his face with his free arm. Bile was leaking from the tip of his tongue. Boiling. “Now go away and leave me alone.”

“Whitney?”

“I said go away!” He finally exploded. “You were right! There! Happy now?!”

Fuck, it felt awful. Cringe. But also…good. Cathartic. He had no more strength to stop the words from spilling out.

“I don't know shit about him! I couldn’t even realize he’s in danger, and now I have no clue where he might be!” His voice died down to a hoarse whisper. “...You were right.”

Whitney grabbed the pillow and smashed it against his face. A choked sound escaped his throat, muffled by the cheap cotton. He refused to call it a sob .

For a moment he had hoped the freak would get the hint and walk away, but the opposite happened. Faint murmurs drifted in from the hallway as someone rushed into the emergency department. “Did something happen?” a male voice asked. “I heard shouting–”

“No.”

A chilling voice spoke. Sydney’s.

Whitney turned around just in time to see a male nurse entering the curtained space. Almost immediately Sydney stepped right in front of the bed, putting himself between the nurse and him.

“Nothing happened.” Sydney said tersely. “Everything’s fine. You can leave.”

The nurse took a cautious step forward. “Um, I’m sorry, but now that he’s awake we need to–”

“I said you can leave.”

The nurse flinched in shock. So did Whitney. He had to prop himself up with both arms to see everything properly.

From his new position he could see Sydney facing the chubby man, his shoulders hunched and fists clenched tight, frowning deeply as if preparing for a fight he’d regret. His eyes glared with anger–no, hatred .

“I’m fine,” Whitney blurted. “We’re fine. Just talking about the missing orphan. We’re cool.”

Whatever had caused the normally soft-spoken wimp to act like this was not something Whitney wanted to deal with. Not now, not ever.

The nurse’s eyes darted at him, nervous and hesitating, clearly calculating his next step. “...O-okay.” He gave Whitney and Sydney one last concerned glance. “Just… find me outside if something happens.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Sydney replied, shutting the curtain swiftly with a smile so forced it looked more like a sneer. He waited and waited until the nurse had walked away and closed the door before letting out a loud exhale, all tension leaving his body like a puppet whose strings were all cut at the same time.

“...The fuck was that?” Whitney asked.

“Don’t ever trust them,” said the freak, wrapping his arms around himself. “Especially Harper. That asylum…what happened there…”

“Harper–the doctor?” Whitney shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had heard about the asylum before, but he didn’t get the connection with his boyfriend at first. “...Is that why you’re here? You thought the people here could have taken the sl– him to the asylum?”

“Most decent people would have brought him here if something were to happen.” Sydney said with a trembling voice. “I can’t let them do that to him. I won’t.”

A pit opened up inside Whitney’s stomach, swallowing all the pressure inside him until only a gnawing void was left. “...Well, shit,” he chuckled wearily and stood up. “Guess I don’t know anything after all.”

“Whitney…”

“C’mon, what else is there to say?” Whitney spread his arms wide, ignoring the pull on his IV tube. “I don’t know anything about this town, I don’t know anything about him…All I know is me.”

In contrast, Sydney lowered his arms. Yielding. “...I hear you, I feel your frustration. I feel the same. If I knew more about him, then none of this would have happened.”

Whitney waited.

“But, as satisfying as it may feel, self-flagellating won’t improve our situation.” The freak’s pitying smile returned, but it didn’t seem to be targeted at Whitney this time. “There are things you know that will remain a mystery for me, and so is the opposite. None of us can know everything that is out there to know, but it doesn’t mean what we do know lacks value.”

For some reason Whitney thought of the stranger at the lake. His heavy, boar-like snort. “That’s just a lie you tell yourself to feel better.”

“More like a prayer to keep me sane, to be honest.” Sydney looked away as he chuckled, bitter and hollow. “But I do believe what I just said. And most importantly, they keep me going.”

Whitney let those words settle. “...You mean, even if we don’t know everything about him, we still know something .”

“Exactly,” Sydney replied with a smile. “Don’t let our despair blind us to hope.”

Nothing much to say after that. The religious freak left, quickly replaced by another monk who patiently watched the chubby nurse check Whitney’s vital signs. He was fine. Battered and bruised, but fine. That was enough.

“Get me outta here,” he simply said. “I got somewhere else to be.”

While the monk helped process the discharge papers, Whitney finally stole a peek at the tote bag Sydney had left on the side table. On top of a plain, used set of clothing was a smaller paper bag bearing the Ocean Breeze Cafe logo. Somehow he could guess what it contained.

A milkshake. And some random sandwich–but most importantly, a milkshake. Probably knew it from his boyfriend–Whitney could easily imagine him telling Sydney about it while they were together in the school library.

He took a sip. It tasted bland, somehow.

But he didn’t care. He couldn’t. He finished everything in silence and then changed his clothes. His body still felt heavy and sluggish, and as much as he knew sleep would be impossible, his eyes begged him to try.

He didn’t care. He couldn’t.

There was neither punishment nor comfort. Just him and the consequences of his failures.

He couldn’t give up. Not now, not ever.

Chapter Text

It was Saturday, still Saturday, and…

All the colors of spring had faded under the gray afternoon sky. The rain had also emptied the park, leaving the benches empty and the joggers scarce. No one noticed the boy underneath one of the trees, bundled in a plastic raincoat that was slightly browning on the edges.

No one except Whitney, that is. 

“Back off, freak. That spot’s mine.”

Kylar glared, eyes red and puffy, yet said nothing in return. He watched Whitney, dressed in hand-me-down clothes and a plain hoodie, come closer with a half-broken umbrella in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

“You’re not moving. Fine.” Whitney planted the baseball bat on the damp ground and slightly leaned into it. “So, the hell are you doing here? Not to stare at me, that’s for fucking sure.”

Still no reply. No movement either.

“Spit it out,” he grumbled. “What? You think he’ll come here? Planning to grab him for yourself before anyone can?”

“S-shut up,” Kylar finally hissed back with a frown. “I’m here to protect him from you. You…you’re just going to hurt him.”

Huh. Okay.

Whitney’s heart skipped a beat, yet all he deigned to give in return was an arched eyebrow. “So that’s what you think about me. Cool, fine, whatever. How are you any better, freak?”

The frown exploded into a snarl, and the shorter boy lunged with a punch. “I won’t hurt him!”

But there’s no way Whitney lost to this creep. He easily sidestepped and jutted his bat into the boy’s path, a loud clang echoing as Kylar tripped and crashed face-first into a muddy puddle.

“Yeah, yeah. You could have protected him, kept him safe. Heard a lot of ‘em today.” Whitney rolled his eyes. “What bullshit.”

Kylar turned around to glare again, teeth gnashing in rage. “I’m not like you! You’re just a bully. I could have–”

“Shut up, creep. You think I didn’t see the way you look at him? The way you leered ? You’re no different than everyone in this fucking town. You just want to keep him to your own. Filthy. Self.”

“No! I’m not like you!”

Their eyes met, a glare with a glare. Slowly, deliberately, Whitney flashed a sneer.

“Oh, we’re nothing alike, freak. For one, I’ve never bothered acting all romantic about what I feel.”

Whitney saw Kylar’s hand slipping inside his raincoat, and for a moment he thought finally he’s in control this time.

That didn’t happen. The freak just got up and walked away, his footsteps splashing loudly in the gathering puddles. 

“Running away, you creep?!” Whitney shouted. “Coward.”

Of course, there was no answer other than a dull throb from his bandaged jaw. Its sting felt like a mocking laugh.

Whatever. He couldn’t give up. Not now, not ever. Just had to figure out where to go next.

For now, he occupied Kylar’s previous spot. Closed the umbrella and left it leaning with the baseball bat against the tree trunk. Pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes and a new lighter he bought right after leaving the hospital.

Click, click, and then he closed his eyes and took a long drag.

Nicotine joined the remaining painkillers, washing over the pain in his body into blissful quiet. It still did nothing to soothe the heaviness pressing down onto his chest. 

His boyfriend, the orphan, wasn’t here. Just as expected. His gang had also stopped texting him. Also just as expected. Whitney knew some of them stuck with him for fame; the rest probably thought they had done their best at this point. 

Briefly he wondered if they would bother looking for him if he went missing, but he quickly shook off the thought.

“Not like I’m making much difference, at this point.” He muttered with a tired chuckle. “I’m getting too used to the disappointment.”

Fuck, he wasn’t even sure why he’s here . Routine, maybe. Or maybe some part of him was still hoping. Hoping that the orphan would have shown up somehow.

“Nah, I’m getting too mopey. Enough.” 

Whitney drew his hoodie over his head. As droplets of water seeped into the hoodie, he took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a long, snaking plume. Kylar’s words echoed alongside the hazy threads of gray.

“I’m just a bully, huh,” he murmured. “He’s not wrong about that.”

For the orphan, he should have been nothing but a bully. The bully . All they did since their first meeting at school had been fighting. He’d tease him, the slut would snap back, and there was no foreplay to talk about. Not at first.

“So what changed?”

The orphan found him here. And then he started invading this space with pitiful eyes and endless questions, as if being alone without his gang meant Whitney was bearing a secret pain.

It didn’t take too long for the orphan to change his approach, though. That boy was quick to learn and quicker to adapt. Soon, the pity disappeared, replaced with a quiet smile and a cup of milkshake. The questions changed too; no longer judging but open ended, curious, like the orphan genuinely wanted to hear more about him. He’d even hold back his judgmental response whenever Whitney was about to pick some coins from the fountain.

They started…hanging out. 

Oh, they still came to blows elsewhere, but here, under the rain, they weren’t the bully and his orphaned victim. They’re just two people, existing together in a fucked up town.

By then, getting to this point was just a matter of when .

Whitney tossed the cigarette stub away, muddy shoes pressing down against the damp soil. There was no peace, no satisfaction. The new cigarette smoldered in quiet neglect, its smoke trailing listlessly into the open air.

“I’m just going to hurt him…” he finally took a half-hearted drag. “Well, the freak’s not wrong on that part either.”

For all the time he spent together with the orphan, he told him nothing and asked him nothing. All he knew about his boyfriend was the fire in his eyes and the heat of his skin.

He was undeniably an asshole. Except–

“Why…did he keep coming here?”

For all the times Whitney had forcefully dragged the orphan all over town, he’d never brought him here even once. And the orphan was damn good at dodging him and his gang. He could have just stuck around with the freaks and the creeps and the losers and stayed the hell away from this park if he really wanted to. 

Yet he chose to go here, one rainy day after another. School days, weekends, the holidays–he’d faithfully go to the cafe, buy a cup of milkshake, and take the bus back to the park just to see Whitney.

He told Kylar the truth. He never bothered acting all romantic about how he felt.

And yet, this… 

“This should mean something. Right?”

Whitney clutched his blonde hair in confusion, then yanked it tightly in frustration. He had to force himself to unclench his teeth.

So many things he didn’t know. About his boyfriend, about himself, about this fucking town they live in. So many things he wished he could understand.

Silently, he allowed himself this one moment of weakness.

And then, once he’s done, he pulled out his phone and sent a couple texts. 

First, a king’s order to his subjects. Then, a nephew’s request to his uncle. I need your help. Can we meet?

Slipping the phone back into his pants pocket, Whitney grabbed his baseball bat and opened the umbrella. His gaze wandered around the park, fluttering from benches, trees, fountain, puddles, before finally settling upon the sky above. A tinge of orange had smeared the gray; thunder rumbled in the distance. 

It was Saturday, and an orphan had been missing for six days.

“...Guess I really have to pick you up, huh,” he murmured before walking away.

Chapter Text

Saturday felt like a million years, and an orphan was still missing for six days.

After circling around High Street, Whitney closed the umbrella and slid into his uncle’s beat-up sedan. “...Sorry for interrupting your rest.”

“A pleasure to see you too, Whitney. Here, some cuppa.” His uncle smiled wanly as he handed a warm thermos. He’s not in his work clothes anymore, but the faint scent of sweat and imitation cologne still clung to the car interior. “Also got you something in the back.”

Whitney turned around to see the duffel bag his uncle usually used for yoga, blue and white, stuffed to the brim and sitting on the back seat.

“Got some food, medicine, a change of clothes, my portable power bank…” The older man scratched his graying hair. “Oh, and my raincoat. Looks like the rain isn’t stopping anytime soon.”

“There’s no way I can carry all of this,” Whitney grunted as he sipped the tea from the thermos. “You don’t…have to do this.”

“Nonsense. Do you know how worried I was when you suddenly left this morning?” the older man said with a stern frown. “And look at you now.”

“Yeah, I know. I look like a damn orphan.”

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah...Sorry,” Whitney mumbled, touching his bandaged jaw. The sting was less painful now.

“Don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re not badly hurt.” The old man sighed. “I get why you’re doing it. I’ve heard that a student was missing, but to think it was him…”

“Yeah.” 

Okay, good. Let the conversation end there. Stay chill. Stay in fucking control. Stop being cringe.

But he couldn’t. There’s one more thing he had to admit. One more sin he had to confess.

“I was the last one, Uncle.”

“Huh?”

Whitney clenched his teeth and buried his face in his palm, in futile hope that it would make him look less cringe. “Everyone else had looked for him. I was the last.”

His gang, the losers, Bailey. The stranger in the lake, the teachers. Even fucking Leighton have moved to look for the orphan before he could be arsed to follow.

Forget being cringe. This was fucking shameful.

He misread the situation. He was mistaken. And now his boyfriend is missing.

At first his uncle said nothing, letting the quiet space between them linger with the weight of Whitney’s confession. And then the old man slowly reached out and gently patted him on the head–a gesture that reminded him of years long passed, the same touch that had once soothed lonely days and childhood nightmares.

“You must have trusted him,” his uncle said softly. “You believed he could handle himself, that he didn’t need anyone to hold his hand. That’s not a bad thing, Whitney. It means you saw strength in him. It means you cared enough to think he’d be okay on his own.”

“But I still can’t do anything,” he hissed. “I’m helpless.”

“I don’t think so. There’s a difference between being helpless and failing after doing the best you can.” 

Whitney’s uncle kept patting his head, as if trying to take some of the pain from the young man sitting beside him.

“Maybe you could have stopped all this. Or maybe you can’t. What matters more now is that you’re here, owning up to your mistakes and trying to fix them. That means more than all the what-ifs we could think of.”

“...I don’t believe you, but–” Whitney released a trembling breath and gave a little nod. “Appreciate it.”

“That’s okay, at least believe that I’m here with you,” said his uncle calmly. “Now if you’re ready, I’ll start the car.”

The car rumbled to life, its engine groaning loudly as it pulled away from the curb. By this time, the sun had fully disappeared from the sky, leaving only the rain to weep in the dark. An old American song began to play on the radio. An easygoing jig about not letting life kick you in the ass.

“So I’ve asked people from work,” his uncle spoke as he absently tapped the steering wheel. “Unfortunately, none of them knows anything about your boyfriend. Luckily, I got the dock ID.”

“Thanks,” Whitney murmured. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” His uncle gave a wry smile. “I doubt the folks at the docks will look kindly at a bunch of kids sneaking around.”

“Couldn’t give a damn about it myself.”

“Well, I do. And I’m sure your friends’ parents will care as well.” The song stopped. “So I say, take your friends to somewhere less protected and I’ll go to the docks in your place.”

“...Uncle.”

“I know. It sucks–”

“It’s not like that. This town is fucked.”

“Language.”

Whitney sighed. “This town is dangerous. And you’re bad at fighting.” 

“Maybe there won’t be a fight. Some things are better handled with age and experience.” His uncle turned the steering wheel. “I know it’s not easy for you to trust another adult, Whitney, but let me help you. As your family.” 

Whitney stared down at his phone, bile gurgling in his guts. He could keep voicing his disagreement. Make his uncle stop seeing him as a brat. But at the same time, his gang were all waiting for his orders. He had a decision to make.

“...Okay,” he finally sighed. “But keep this between us. Please.”

His uncle quickly caught the implication. Who exactly should he keep this secret from. “Only if the situation doesn’t get any worse,” he finally said.

A reasonable compromise. “Thanks.”

“No, I should be thanking you. Again, I know giving up control at your age isn’t easy. I’ve been in your shoes,” he said. “Besides, I also want him to be saved soon.”

“You always liked him,” the blond chuckled weakly.

“Well, he’s different from the rumors. A little wild, maybe, but who isn’t? All that matters is that he’s not letting his hardship turn him sour.” A faint smile appeared on the old man’s face. “He’s a good influence for you, kiddo.”

“Shut up,” Whitney rolled his eyes with fondness. This was a constant banter between them, ever since he had introduced the two of them a while back. 

But ironically, good influence was also his own reason. After meeting the piece of shit that was Bailey, Whitney thought the orphan might benefit from seeing a decent adult—a sheep, maybe, but still a good man he could trust.

Well. While they were at it– “Is there anyone else you trust? Anyone who could help?”

“I wonder.” His uncle paused, thinking. “Some of my mates, maybe… at least they aren’t the violent kind, from what I know.”

“That’s not enough.” Whitney frowned. “Nevermind.”

He abandoned that train of thought and turned to stare out the car window. He could see a faint reflection of his uncle on the glass surface. His world-weary face. 

Thing is, they both knew trust was a rarity here. Someway, somehow, this town has its way to get the meekest sheep to do the sickest shits. Even both of them shared a silent understanding not to discuss anything they might have done to others, and the thought of it caused Whitney’s insides to gurgle again. 

So the rest of the drive was spent without words. Only the radio was left playing, a soft crooning about lost loves and regrets.

Before long the Ocean Breeze Cafe stood glowing like a lighthouse, one of the few signs of life in this rain-soaked town. Whitney spotted his gang through the windows, huddled together, nervous–a pack waiting for their alpha.

“Alright. The evening shift at the docks should end pretty soon,” said his uncle as he handed the duffel bag. “You stay safe, ok? Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” Clutching the fraying straps, Whitney stepped outside his uncle’s beaten-down sedan and opened up his umbrella. “Thanks, Uncle. I…”

“Don’t sweat it,” replied the older man with a faint smile. “I’m just glad I could be there for you.”

Whitney closed the door and stood on the sidewalk as he watched the old sedan disappear into the rain. A relieved breath exhaled itself from his chest, followed by a flicker of memory. Of his boyfriend, the orphan, talking on the school rooftop about his uncle. The exact words were a faint blur but he remembered the orphan’s smile, the relief in his breath as he told Whitney how glad he was to meet the old man.

He was glad too. And some parts of him would like for them to meet more often.

But that part has done its job. Now he had things to do. Subjects to order. An orphan to find.

Clutching the umbrella handle, Whitney turned around and walked to the cafe.

Chapter Text

Saturday continued its relentless march, and an orphan was still missing for six days.

Endless rain. Splashing water. Desperate footsteps alongside frantic breathing. Some people were running into an alleyway. Two orphans.

“Quickly!”

“No, wait, that’s–”

A deadend. A towering wall loomed ahead of them, cold and unyielding beneath the night sky. Shadows clung to its surface.

Two other men crept through the dark alley. Older, much older. Grinning. Their words were hushed by the pouring rain, but the sinister curve of their teeth said everything that needed to be said.

Behold, the kind of wankery that happens almost everyday in this fucking town.

Get this, though–these fuckers looked nothing like thugs or creeps. No weapons either. For all intents and purposes they were NPCs; one of those forgettable extras in the background of someone’s sad little story. But the callous disregard in their eyes was proof that the story being woven was not a happy one. Not at all. 

And the would-be victims? They were afraid because they knew . They knew the kind of bullshit that goes on in this town; they’ve seen it, suffered it, maybe even participated in one of their own. Someway, somehow, this town has its way to get the meekest sheep to do the sickest shits.

Now, as their backs were pressing against the brick wall, these orphans had a choice to make–to fight and be defiant, or to be submissive and hope it ends quickly?

There’s a lot of things Whitney doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

Too bad he wasn’t in the mood to deal with bullshit.

He slammed his baseball bat against the wall, letting the ringing noise pierce the humming rain. “A gangbang this early? Someone’s eager ,” he said with a cocky grin.

Both men quickly turned around, familiar emotions on their ugly mugs. Fear. Shock. The predator just turned into prey. Good. This wouldn’t take long.

“Two choices, asshole.” He stepped closer, his face shrouded by his uncle’s waterproof coat, the baseball bat slapping his palm. “Read the fucking cue and scram, or stay and be my punching bag. Your call.”

He knew full well how dangerous he looked. So were the fuckers; they traded a fearful glance and ran like a bitch the next moment, cursing as they passed Whitney and his baseball bat. He barely gave them a glance. They were nothing compared to the stranger from this morning.

Only the orphans still remained, wary and guarded, their backs pressing against the wall. “T-thank you?” said one orphan, a young lissome boy.

The other looked more surprised, his plastic raincoat rustling as he put himself in front of the other orphan. “...What are you doing here, Whitney?” asked Robin.

“What? This is my turf.” The blond spread his arms wide until the tip of the bat grazed the nearby wall with a clank. “Now what the hell are you doing here, loser? The beach is your turf.”

Said loser pouted and clutched the other orphan. “We’re all trying to–”

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me. There’s more of you out here.” Whitney facepalmed. “Do you idiots want to add another missing orphan? Or do you think offering your flat ass to randos helps anyone?”

“Shut up.” Robin’s lips curled in distaste and he clenched his fist. “You don’t understand.”

“That’s right. I sure as fuck don’t.”

They locked eyes, glaring, with Whitney feeling more annoyed than anything else. Struggling with life is bullshit, but to keep pushing on when you knew it was pointless was a whole different kind of bullshit. The idiot kind.

It took the other orphan’s whining to break the tension.

“Guys, c’mon…!” he cried, tugging on the loser’s sleeve like a nagging child. “I don’t like staying here. Selling myself is one thing, but this…this…”

Robin’s face broke into sadness and pity. He must have known how bad it felt.

As for Whitney, he folded his arms and rolled his eyes. Annoying as it was, it also reminded him that he had much more important things to do.

Perhaps it was all the cringe he’d suffered today that made him say his next words.

“Okay, look. Let’s make a deal. Some of my mates are sticking around this street. So how about you lot give ‘em a place to rest and I’ll make sure they look around really hard.”

“You will?!” asked the other orphan excitedly. “That sounds good!”

Robin kept his eyes fixed at him, doubtful and apprehensive. “What about the other streets? And the alleyways?”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time, idiot? That’s my job.” Whitney pointed at himself with his thumb. “What, you think I’m gonna bail?”

“No–” Robin clenched his fist and looked away. “...But I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Great!” Almost immediately, the other orphan pulled the loser towards the exit. “Let’s go, Robin! We need to tell the others!”

The loser resisted the pull for a moment, turning to face Whitney for one last time. “I guess...Thanks for saving us,” he said before he followed the other orphan out the alleyway.

The blond looked away, lighting up a cigarette in his best attempts to look nonchalant. Some people may like being a helpful sheep but for him it was like wearing a neon sign that screamed FUCKING WEAK-ASS LOSER. And today, tonight, it felt like he was staring at a mirror, admitting that he, too, was too weak to do this alone.

But that’s not enough to stop him. He quickly shifted his focus to scan the alley. No movements. No missing orphans. He adjusted the hoodie and quickly crossed the open streets, a young man with a mission.

Something was off. Unnerving. The tension in the air was way creepier than the dark forest this morning. It was enough to make him walk faster, clench his bat tighter as he passed the fancy spa at Danube Street. 

Back then, the lurking threat was the possibility of being ambushed. Right now, it was the certainty of being hunted. But by who? And where the hell are they hiding?

Too many questions, and the more they remained the more danger he felt.

However, it wasn’t any of them that made Whitney stop.

He stopped only when he saw a wall plastered with rows of missing posters. His boyfriend’s face smiled back at him, cropped from a recent photo. 

Not the area they covered yesterday–must’ve been the orphans’ doing, then.

Whitney pressed a palm on the damp paper. The orphan looked happy, unknowing, one cheek pressed against someone else, clearly clueless about the shitstorm he was about to walk into. Or maybe he knew and just decided to live it up while he could.

Either way, he had to pry his eyes away and continued his search. 

No point staring at a copy.

Chapter Text

Saturday was inching to its end, and an orphan was still missing for six days.

A loud, metallic clank pierced through the night rain, followed by a painful shriek.

“My leg, it hurts…! It hurts!” cried a taut man.

“Now are you going to fuck off, or do I need to smash your other leg?” said Whitney, swinging his baseball bat.

“Fine! Fine! I get it!” The creep turned tail, one faltering step after another. “You fucker…!”

The blond rolled his eyes. Another encounter done. In a perfect world this would ease his nerves but right now the hair on the back of his neck was still prickling in caution. Whoever caused this lurking tension weren’t the creeps, that much was obvious.

Only a couple hours left before midnight. He shot a quick message to the group chat before reading his uncle’s message.

Believe it or not, the workers here are also concerned about your boyfriend. They have been looking for him for a while. How are things over there?

Nothing much so far , Whitney typed back. Are you with them rn?

Yeah. 

Be safe.

A single thumbs up emoji ended the quick check-in.

Leaning against a brick wall, Whitney lit up a cigarette and closed his eyes as he took a long drag, letting nicotine and the hushed rainfall wash over him for a few precious seconds. His head felt like lead. The weight pulled him lower and lower with every breath, eyelids drooping until he was on the verge of passing out on his feet.

Footsteps splashing through the puddles jerked him awake. Two of his gang appeared, bundled up in hoodies and carrying a wooden plank each. They looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“Bro, this street’s giving me the creeps tonight,” said a robust boy as he shivered.

“No shit,” replied a lanky boy. "I’m not feeling this, man. Honestly, I don’t get why you’re still so deadass about this.”

Whitney stared at him, and the boy’s mouth clamped shut. You don’t question the king ever unless you wish for a swift, brutal payback. Everyone in the gang knows that.

But no payback ever came. The two boys almost flinched as Whitney walked towards them, giving the robust boy a casual clap on the shoulder.  "All warmed up? Good,” he said. “I got the orphans to lend us their spot. You and the lads can crash there, but keep at least three of you watching these streets. Don’t be a fool and separate–tonight’s vibe is rancid.”

“I, yeah, sure,” the robust boy stammered. His body was equally trembling in fear. “Thanks, bro. I’ll let the others know.”

Whitney didn’t bother offering a response. He just turned on his heel and walked away, the bat scraping the pavement with a low, ominous rasp. An asshole like him knew the game too well. They all did. Everyone was out of themselves and the only thing keeping them in line was the knowledge of what he was capable of, what he’d already done. 

Sure, whatever. That was more than enough. They were never that close anyway. As soon as they stopped searching for the orphan by themselves, he knew the road he’s walking has become more lonesome.

Whitney’s footsteps were loud as they splashed on the puddled street. Shit, at this point he couldn’t even focus on feeling pissed off. Exhaustion and stilted recovery made his muscles throb repeatedly with no promise of stopping. Neither the nap at the hospital nor the time in his uncle’s car was enough to heal him; the more he walked, the more his body complained. The street lamps started blurring into the rain as he had to literally shake himself off like a drenched mutt to keep himself awake.

Forget cringe. All he wanted now was to rest, to make his body stop hurting. But he knew that was impossible.

Entering Connundatus Street scattered the strange tension, replaced almost immediately by bold-faced envy. The street had always been the busiest part of town come night and even the rain couldn’t change that. 

Look at all these sheep. From the restaurants, the night market, even the strip club; they were all full of people escaping the rain, beacons of life and warmth. So blissfully ignorant.

Wankers.

“The lads are going wild in the group chat,” said a voice from behind. “You chill, Whitney? Your wounds acting up?” 

Whitney whipped his head to see his second-in-command, his wingman, carrying his uncle’s duffel bag over his shoulder while holding a cup of something from the nearby night market. An athletic boy, he’d always loved the cold and even now he was clad only in a plain raincoat over his t-shirt and jeans.

“Here, coffee.”

“Thanks.” Whitney took the cup, eyeing the other boy. “What’s the vibe here?”

A frown. “Not much happening. Just a nice rainy weekend.”

“Nobody gives a fuck about a missing orphan anymore, huh?” Whitney snorted, the sound coming off more bitter than he thought. “Fuckers.”

They moved under the canopied roof of a semi-crowded restaurant. Faint traces of music and laughter were floating out from inside. The air was fragrant with the scent of food, and the coffee in Whitney’s hand was warm against his chilly fingers, but he still felt cold and hollow for reasons way past his five senses. Everything felt distant–inviting, but not for him. Not with the empty gaze fixed on him now, colder than the night rain.

“What’s good, mate? You keep looking at me.” the blond finally said flatly. “Flattered, thank you, but you know you ain’t my type.”

The athletic boy didn’t break eye contact. “You’ve been weird since you called us to the cafe, Whitney. Spill; what the hell happened?”

“Nothing important.” Whitney shrugged. “I got it handled. Chill.”

He watched the other boy facepalmed, grumbling a frustrated noise. “Bro, please. I’m not blind. You look fucked up. You are fucked up.”

“So your eyes are working. Good.” He sneered. “So what’s your deal? Are you worried for me? Kinda cringe, if you ask me.” 

“Yeah. I am.” The other boy started messing his own hair in frustration. “Be so fucking for real, Whitney; we’ve been looking for him for three days. If we were gonna find him, we’d have done it already.”

“I know. Shit, are you going to ask if this is a good idea? Fuck no!” A snicker burst from Whitney’s throat, sharp and slightly manic as he flailed his bat downwards. “If this was a horror movie, we'd all be fucking dead by dawn. But what else can I do at this point? Give up like a fucking pussy ?”

Some diners stepped out of the restaurant and gave them a wide berth, shooting uneasy glances as they left. Whatever. This was just normal—the kind of dumb shit that happened when the gang got into it. Guys mouthing off, goading, daring each other to snap, all because God forbid anyone thought you couldn’t handle it.

It was different now. The athletic boy rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, wincing as he clenched his teeth in a tight hiss. “You know what? Sure. Call me a pussy, a bitch, whatever. You know this is more than just that.”

At that point, Whitney could feel something shifted. 

“I do want him to return safely, Whitney. I don’t know what others are saying about him and I don’t really care. I’m worried too.” His voice came off trembling and shaky, so different from the loud back-and-forth they usually had. “But does that mean I want to see you all fucked up like this? Fuck no! Shit, do you think he’ll be happy watching you get hurt o–or worse?”

The athletic boy bit his lips and violently wiped his eyes with his sleeves. He looked…young. Like a brat they actually were. That sight was enough to make Whitney bite down his retort.

He thought his gang no longer gave a damn about all of this. He thought this gang of his were nothing more than brats too big for their britches, tethered together only by circumstances. 

He thought he knew his gang.

“So this is how you feel,” Whitney finally muttered, resting his bat against the glass wall so that he could comb his hair with his free hand. “Can’t say I disagree. Fuck, can’t even say I don’t get it.”

“...But?”

“I just–” He kept shaking his head, as if the words he sought were fruits hanging tight up on its tree. “I just gotta do this, man.”

“You stubborn fuckwad,” the athletic boy growled, closing in and grabbing Whitney by the collar. “Since when are you the kind of wanker that’s so damn ready to do the heavy work? What makes this time so special?”

Cringe, so damn cringe. But fuck if his bruised ego couldn’t understand the desperation. He would have done the same with the orphan if it could bring him back.

“It’s fucking stupid, yeah, but I–” he lowered his head as he weakly snickered, averting the other boy’s gaze. “I know he’s gotta be in the alleys. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t do anything now.”

He might not know where the orphan was, but he knew his boyfriend’s knack for finding trouble. And he also knew his boyfriend’s knack for wearing the most ridiculous outfits for the degrees of lewdity he’d gotten into. Combined, he didn’t need to know where the orphan was to know that there’s no way he would keep his clothes intact through this. So if–no, when the orphan managed to break through he’d have to duck in and out of alleys.

There’s a lot of things Whitney doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

The air was full of things to say without the maturity or bravery to voice them. Whitney felt the grip on his uncle’s coat loosened as the athletic boy pulled back, frowning with his arms crossed. He found himself unable to do anything else other than finishing his coffee in silence. The liquid was cold now, but the bitterness still lingered at the back of his throat.

He thought for a second that his wingman was going to dip too, before the dude suddenly pulled him in, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. 

Wait, was he...hugging him?

“Promise me one thing.”

Fucking hell, he was.

“First, go to the damn hospital and get yourself checked. Yes, again. And don’t play the hero. You told everyone to keep checking the group chat. Do the same. Tell us if you need help.”

Still very cringe, no cap. But kinda unexpected. And what’s more important is that for once in this whole bullshit, Whitney finally felt the word his gang actually meant something.

Slowly, he closed his own arms around the other boy, clutching the raincoat tightly around the back. “Fine. Guess I’ll also swear in my dead Nana’s name, if you were so pressed about it.” 

“You wanker.” The other boy pulled back and lightly pushed Whitney by his shoulder. 

He returned the act. “Hey, I’m not the one going all weepy over here.”

He’s grinning–they both were. Again, cringe, but it was already the mood of the day anyway.

Whitney wrapped an arm around his wingman’s shoulder, and dragged him towards the night market. The tension between them eased off in a snap. He got himself another cup of espresso, and caffeine was soon joined by nicotine as the two of them passed the rows of market stalls.

“Again, don’t get yourself hurt just ‘cuz you wanna play hero, yeah?” said the athletic boy as he sipped a cup of hot cocoa. “Normally I’d shut the hell up, but clearly today’s different.”

“Chill, mate. I know.” Whitney sipped his own drink. “I’m not the hero of this story. He is.”

The other boy’s eyes bulged, but he quickly swallowed whatever words he was about to say. “Good,” he only said.

By now they had wandered away from the commotion, stopping right at the edge of Connundatus Street. His wingman, his friend , clutched his uncle’s duffel bag tightly as he flashed a faint smile at him.

“Take care, bro.”

“You too.” A pause. “...and thanks.”

It felt strange to thank anyone else that’s not his uncle, but he swallowed the feeling anyway. He knew this would become a core memory, a sign of a change that he wouldn’t understand until later. Much, much later.

For now, he had things to do. An orphan to find. 

See you later, bright lights and warm drinks. See you later, ignorant sheeps. 

See you later, friend.

Chapter Text

Saturday almost ended, and an orphan was still missing for six days.

Yet another disappointment.

Sitting on a worn-out couch, Whitney cracked open an energy drink and downed it in one go. He’s holding his phone on the other hand, the baseball bat laid carelessly on the floor.

At the hospital yet? asked his wingman.

yeah

nothing new of course

And hb urself

Whitney stilled for a moment before saying, all g

The reply comes after almost a minute of watching the typing dots pulsing on the screen. Explain

they checked my head. said no need for any scan.

need some rest but we both know that aint happenin

Okay, fine, cool

I’ll back away. Be safe

yea thx

A sigh escaped Whitney’s throat as he leaned his head against the lobby wall. This late, the small hospital was almost dead, the sole receptionist half-asleep while swiping his phone. Fluorescent lights flickered over scuffed linoleum floors while the entrance to the emergency department opened wide in the distance. There was only a drunkard inside, snoring loudly after one pint too many.

A few people in the hospital recognized him by now. They’d been helpful enough; not only did they make sure he was good to go, the energy drink was even a freebie from one of them. That still meant jack shit when it came to tracking down the orphan.

More disappointment. More exhaustion. More “what now?”.

Also, side note, that strange tension hit him again the second he broke from the crowd. Whitney was sure now it wasn’t the creeps lurking around; nah, if anything, it was everything else.

The pedestrians, bundles of darkness bathed in unnatural lights, coiled tight with sharp eyes as they strode to their destination. The night rain, a cacophony of noises as raindrops crashed upon everything on its path. The wind, howling through the narrow path–loud enough to swallow his footsteps, loud enough to hide anyone planning to stalk him down.

“Shit, I’m way too cracked for this,” he chuckled to himself. If his overdrive instinct was correct, then something was actually out there.  And if that something was why the orphan went missing, then–

A shiver shot down his spine, and yesterday’s nightmare flashed in his mind—pale so pale, and tinged with deep red. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in the antiseptic-smelling air and reaching for his bat like it was his only lifeline.

Fuck it. Fuck that. The answer was out there anyway. He had enough desperation to last him for a lifetime. If he wanted change…he had to make the first move.

There’s a lot of things Whitney doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

Shutting down his brain with that thought, he left the hospital and headed for the industrial district. He could feel his blood boiling under the ceaseless rain, kicking his senses into clarity as each step of his muddy shoes splashed against the wet pavement.

And right on cue, he heard a loud clattering sound echoing behind him.

“Who’s there?!” Whitney whipped around, bat ready, just to see the small figure on a cat standing near a knocked over trash can. 

The lid rolled over in front of the blond’s feet. 

“...Are you fucking kidding me?!”

He kicked the lid hard, sending the lid flying into the darkness and making the cat leap away at the same time. A loud bang could be heard in the distance, rattling until the sound slowly faded.

“Wankers,” he growled. “This is really a cheap-ass horror movie. Fuck!”

Irritation gnawed his insides and he had to clench his teeth as he pushed forward, heading through the web of alleyways that connected this little town. He pulled out his phone as he walked. Midnight was closing in. The group chat was full of chatter; memes, reports of creeps being chased off streets, pictures of the orphans in their shared home.

On the other tab, his uncle was sending him a couple pictures. Most of them showed various workers searching the dock with flashlights in their hands. A selfie showed him standing in-between rows of metal containers while the workers around him were checking the locks. They looked grim and rugged in the darkness, yet determined.

Fuck this, he thought as he swiped from picture to picture. He couldn’t stay helpless like this. He needed to do more.

Even if that means dealing with the fucking devil.

Whitney pressed his back against a graffiti-covered wall, readied his bat in one hand, and scrolled through his contact list with the other. He looked around, making one final check before tapping Call.

The call got through in seconds. “What now?”

He put the call on speaker and slipped the phone into his coat pocket. “Missed me, fucker?”

“Heard you had a little run-in with my kids,” said Bailey calmly from the other side. “And now, your gang friends are hanging out downstairs. Normally I won’t give a damn about it, but considering the circumstances… I’m guessing you want something.”

“Guess being a good fucking Samaritan doesn’t pay in your books, huh,” said the blond with a tense chuckle.

“In this world?” The supposed caretaker raised his tone to melodramatic levels.

“Heh.” Whitney closed his eyes. He can do this. “I need your help.”

“Hm?”

“You have a pretty wide reach in this town.” The words felt like sand in his throat. But again, this was not for him. “I know you’ve been keeping an eye out of this whole thing. Tell me what you know, and…I’ll do the same.”

Bailey’s answer came a few seconds too long. “...Well, that’s a refreshing humility coming from you. Could have spared you some pain if you came with that attitude yesterday.”

Whitney swallowed his indignation. “...So?”

“No harm in sharing in this case. Give me a moment. I’ll open everything I have so far.”

As the sound of clicking and typing echoed through the line, Whitney released a trembling breath. On one hand, good. But on the other hand, that meant even someone like Bailey didn’t know anything about where the orphan went.

He could feel a chill running down his spine, and his body forced him to move,  now , marching through another alley towards Mer Street and heading to the dock entrance until he could find safety right beside his uncle’s parked sedan. There’s only a single security sitting snugly inside the guard post, eyes fixed at his phone–wanking, probably.

“I can hear your nerves from here.” Bailey’s voice was sharp through the loudspeaker. “Is the little baby scared of the dark?”

“Shut up,” Whitney said between ragged breathing as he sat on the car’s hood. The old metal creaked under his weight. “So what do you got?”

“Right, I’ll give you the basic rundown first.” A few clicks. “The good news is, he’s still inside this town. The bad news is, he's somewhere outside my reach.”

“And how the fuck can you tell?”

“Let’s just say that there aren’t many ways to leave this town undercover. But at the same time, even I have my limits. For example, the woods are out of my reach.”

Whitney’s heart skipped a beat. “I met someone there.” 

“You did?” The reply from the other side came a beat too fast. “Male, huge, bearded face, holding a suspiciously well-cared for hunting rifle?”

“That exact motherfucker, yeah. Told me he’s already searched around the area.”

“So you survived Eden.” A faint chuckle, followed by a few more clicking noises. “Alright, so we can cross the forest off the list. I’ll also go ahead and cross the lake and the asylum in that case.”

“Sounds like you know the asshole,” Whitney grunted. What a joke of a name. 

“He’s an old acquaintance,” the older man replied, almost sounding soft , and thinking about it made Whitney want to puke. “Either way, that’s a surprisingly good start. Where else have you been, brat?”

Whitney bit back his retort, shifted his attention to look around the street instead. The guard inside his post really was wanking. "I’m at the docks now. The workers are on the lookout for him too."

"Figured as much. The kid sometimes works there. Anything else?"

“The church is also involved. They’ve been watching the hospitals longer than I have.”

“So they’re just as blind as we are.” A sigh, barely audible. “Now that’s unfortunate.”

That simple remark was enough to make the hair on the back of Whitney’s neck stand up in caution. “Why?”

“To answer that, I need you to do some simple elimination,” Bailey said. He started typing something. Fast. “Keep in mind all the places you’ve been to today. All the people who are looking for our darling little orphan.”

Whitney adjusted the hood of his raincoat and gripped the baseball bat tighter. The strange tension returned. He had to move.

“Now I’m going to tell you what I’ve found.” Click click click. “First, from the day he disappeared, my men have been keeping an eye out around the brothels and the strip club. And then I started moving, and from there I can tell you that he’s not with the police, the yoga class, the hookah parlour, or the dog pound.”

“What about your so-called customers?” Despite his brain’s urge otherwise, Whitney left the car and moved away from the docks. “Any chance one of them turned psycho?”

“...Unlikely.” Bailey sighed, like he’d rather not answer the question. “But I did ask them. And from what they can find, our missing orphan is not in the landfill, the farms outside town, or the nearby moors.”

“Do you trust these rich-ass wankers?”

“More than I trust you,” Bailey said coldly. He didn’t stop typing. “A classless brat like you might not know this, but people like them are slaves to their own reputation. With this amount of noise and scrutiny, there’s no way they would risk gossip and ridicule by doing anything reckless.” 

Whitney made a mocking snort. “Guess being good entertainment has its benefits, huh?”

“As absurd as it may seem, they all loved him dearly. Don’t act like you’re any different.”

That last remark was bristling enough to make Whitney walk faster, heading towards Harvest Street through another alley. 

“Lastly, I’ll repeat–it’s unlikely he’s being smuggled or sold outside town,” Bailey paused. “Not without me knowing about it.”

“And there’s no way he’d escape this town,” he added back. “Not without telling anyone about it.” 

Even if he doesn’t care about the tests, he wouldn’t just ignore that, Robin had said yesterday at school. He wouldn’t ignore us. 

“So hopefully you can see where I am going with this,” Bailey hummed as he resumed typing. “Think about all the people we have talked to. Consider their own reach. If they don’t know anything about our missing orphan, then–”

“Whoever pulled this off is either a pro or a nobody.”

“More or less. But we haven’t received any ransom demands, so money’s probably not their goal. At best we are looking at individual criminals, at worst…as you said, some sort of psycho.”

For a brief moment, a vision of the freak Kylar flashed in Whitney’s mind. But then he remembered how angry the freak looked in the park. 

I’m here to protect him from you, Kylar had hissed. You…you’re just going to hurt him.

It’s not him.

"That’s all I’ve got for now,” Bailey finally spoke again. “I’m going to reach out to my contacts. Unless you’ve got something else, we’ll wrap this up here."

There was nothing worth saying, and the rain soon consumed the silence once more. Whitney exited an alley and found himself right in the middle of Harvest Street. The pub sat on one side, the brother another, neon-bright lighthouses in this rain-veiled night. Did one of the creeps here take the orphan? Or was he chained in Elk Streets, hidden amongst the rows of factories and warehouses?

No. No way in hell someone like the orphan would stay quiet if he was held nearby.

Bailey was right; someone did defeat the orphan, did take his boyfriend away. However, he also knew that this was not his boyfriend’s first rodeo.

It wasn’t just himself. Bailey, Kylar, the stranger at the lake, the creeps on the streets, on the dance floor, all over the town–so many more had tried to douse the orphan’s flame, and they never succeeded. Whitney saw fire whenever the slut was fighting him tooth and nail, and he felt fire whenever their bodies meshed together. 

The slut, the orphan, his boyfriend–no matter what names Whitney called him with, he kept burning bright. 

There’s a lot of things Whitney doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

“Where the fuck is it?” he muttered, pacing from one alley through another. "Close enough to town, but out of earshot. A place where he can’t make a sound. Somewhere we haven’t searched."

He craned his head up and saw droplets of rain gathering at an overhang up above. Overflowing, dripping down steadily into grimy puddles, slowly trickling along the cracked pavement…

…until it disappeared into the dark grates of the sewer below.

It took Bailey a few seconds to answer his call. “What now?”

“The sewers!” Whitney shouted as he burst into a sprint. “Get your men down there!”

Of course it was the sewers. Who’d ever think to look down there?

He ran and ran, sending one voice note after another, going from alley to alley with eyes darting all over the street. A manhole sat on the paved road ahead, but it was locked shut.

“Fucking dammit!”

Sparing no time, he rushed towards Elk Street, giving no damn about the stench from the nearby compound. There should be another entry point here. There must be.

He finally found it in the fourth alley, the heavy cover pried open and discarded on the wet pavement.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Whitney stood at the edge of the open manhole, staring down into the endless dark. Even from up here, the stench slammed his nose like a vicious right hook, while the sound of rushing water roared like an ancient beast.

Was this his boyfriend’s doing? Fuck, did someone get in or out ? Did someone even live there?

His breath hitched, shaky and uneven, as he frantically tried to figure out his next move. Go down there–no, look around. Make a call. Get others here. But who?

Between all this chaos, he really should have given that horror movie cliche a second thought.

Because the next moment, something heavy dropped a couple metres behind him, and the ground shook with a deafening splash. Whitney immediately whipped around, moving away from the open manhole until his back was pressing flat against the wall. He saw a twisted shadow slowly emerging from the night with a low growl, its eyes glowing yellow.

There’s a lot of things Whitney doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

That was not a cat.

Chapter Text

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The glowing yellow eyes crept under the flickering neon lights.

Whitney’s breath caught on his throat, knuckles white around the bat as his gut screamed: Fuck. Run. Now. He had watched enough horror movies; assholes like him never survived for long.

But that thing shifted ever so subtly, as if knowing what he planned, until it was fully blocking the faint lights coming from Elk Street. Under the dim light, he could see a pair of goat-like horns crowning its hairless head.

Whitney backed away, feeling the rough wall scrape through his uncle’s old raincoat. His phone, heavy in his pocket, was begging to be used, but he couldn’t afford to move too soon. One wrong move and he was done. Fuck.

The thing halted with a heavy thud. Whitney held his breath. Silence fell, broken only by the soft patter of rain. 

Then came the creak—and the thing leaped at him. Whitney let out an undignified gasp and lunged down, barely dodging the tackle as a loud crash boomed right where he stood.

Here, as if in slow motion, he felt his phone slowly slipping from his pocket, hitting the ground with a sharp clatter. He whipped around just to see his phone lighting up by the creature’s feet. 

Fuck. No. He needed his phone, he needed to move, but–

The creature rumbled as it turned around.

Hell nah. Planting his baseball bat on the wet pavement, Whitney pushed himself up and sprinted out of the alley. 

“Hey! Anybody out here?!”

Unsurprisingly, Elk Street stayed silent. With gritted teeth he stopped at a parked van and smashed its back window with his bat, setting off a loud alarm that blared through the rainy night. And then he turned around, to see–

Nothing.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered, scanning the empty street between ragged breaths. “Where the hell is it now?”

He strode to the nearest streetlamp and slammed the pole with his bat. And then he did it again, and again. The sharp ring sliced through his sleep-deprived head, joining the beeping alarm—still, nothing.

“Did it go away?” Teeth gritting, Whitney shook his head at the stupid thought. “No fucking way. It must be hiding.”

This would be the perfect time to call for backup. Shit. Fuck. Losing his phone was a fatal mistake, rookie mistake, and he’d watched enough horror movies to see where that kind of fuck ups led into. Gory deaths–or, knowing the kind of place he lived in, something much worse.

Fuck that. Fuck this. He couldn’t do this slasher flick shit. He had a boyfriend to find. All thoughts and questions dissolved into the night as his body tensed up. He turned around and sprinted towards Harvest Street; people would still be there.

That thing must have known that too, because Whitney saw it leaping from a factory’s rooftop, landing just metres ahead before charging straight at him.

Without thinking, he threw himself to the side at the last second. He hit the wet pavement hard as he rolled, and he could feel his uncle’s coat ripping at its seams with a sickening tear, but he quickly scrambled to his feet and swung his bat as hard as he could.

The attack connected to the creature’s side with a heavy thud, making it stagger a couple steps behind. It also felt like hitting a stone.

Whitney spared no time and ran again. He wouldn’t be so lucky next time. That thing was the size of a bear, probably larger, with scales on his head, neck, and shoulders. And yes, it was a he.

“Hey! Guards! Pigs! ANYONE!”

His lungs burned. He couldn’t run very far before he heard the creature’s footsteps–quick, heavy thuds following him relentlessly. Another loud creak came from behind.

Whitney jumped to the side, again, feeling the creature’s talon slashing the air around him as the creature leaped ahead.

But he made a mistake because now the creature landed right ahead of him, blocking the way, again . Whitney could see the monstrosity in front of him more clearly now. The sharp scales. The teeth-filled face. The twisting cord of muscles wrapped all over his grey-coloured body. The long talons on his hands. 

A single thought sank in.

If his overdrive instinct was correct, then something was actually out there.  And if that something was why the orphan went missing, then–

Is this what took his boyfriend? No, but–

Is this what the orphan has been dealing with all this time? Not the creeps lurking on the street, not Bailey, not the stranger in the lake, not school bullies like himself–

Literal monster like this ?

“You fucker …!”

Whitney gripped his baseball bat and released a guttural yell as he charged, all the chaos boiling inside him exploding in a wave of pure rage. He swung hard, again and again, each hit echoing through the empty street as the bat connected repeatedly with the creature’s arms, shoulders, sides. But it was like hitting steel; nothing gave, not even a flinch. 

His attacks became more desperate, more frantic, more aimless. He’s losing, he knew it. But he couldn’t stop now. Not even when his lungs were drained out of air.

Finally, his body couldn’t hold it anymore and his attacks slowed down, letting the creature catch the bat mid-swing and rip it right out of his hands. No expression, no reactions–just yanked it away like he was some baby with a damn toy. The force pulled him towards the creature, and it slammed its other hand right into his chest.

Whitney crashed onto the wet pavement hard, a loud piercing ring drilling his head as he heaved. Get up. Move. Now. Except–

He can’t. There was something coiling around his limbs. Something wet and slimy. He glanced down to see shadows in the dark, writhing up along his body.

“What the–get the fuck off me!”

The tentacles– because that’s what they fucking are –stretched and slithered as he thrashed on the ground, squeezing tight around his limbs, leaving him bound and breathless as he watched that monstrous thing tossed the bat behind like a stomped-out cigarette stub.

“Someone! Anyone! Help, dammit! HELP!”

A loud clatter echoed in the distance. The creature loomed over him, its eyes meeting with Whitney’s, and the blond could’ve sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smirk before a sharp, curling claw hooked into the rim of his shirt. Whitney froze up in a breathless whimper; the tentacles immediately sneaked themselves through the gap, wriggling disgustingly all over his bare chest.

One lazy pull, and the claw ripped his shirt apart. Whitney gasped, both from the cold wind and from the tentacles’ sudden jerk. The creature growled in response, a rumbling, heart-stopping sound. 

A bitter laugh slipped from his throat. This is it, then. That ever-so-familiar moment when both the victim and the viewer finally see the monster on the movie’s cover—the final beat before the monster charged into the camera and the screen faded to black.

Fuck his nightmare. The real terror wasn’t pale and tinged red. It was covered in darkness and glowing in sickly yellow.

In the end, he really didn’t know shit. He misread the situation. He was mistaken. And now he’s about to suffer without finding out the truth about his missing boyfriend.

Soaked wet, breathless, and helpless, Whitney winced its eyes shut as the creature leisurely closed in. Just take him and be done with it. Shit, or at least let Bailey’s guys get here first. Don’t do anything to his uncle or his gang. They don’t know anything about this. They shouldn’t know anything about this.

Whitney was so focused on what he thought was about to happen that he didn’t see what actually happened.

Footsteps, closing in fast. The creature’s head whipped aside. A male figure jumping from behind. The metallic baseball bat, glinting under the streetlight.

An orphan, smashing the creature’s head from behind.

A sharp ring cut through the night rain, followed by a pained grunt from the monster that was enough to make Whitney pry his eyes open. For a while, the sight of the missing orphan lingered in slow motion like the cringiest of romance movies. For a while, he wasn’t living a slasher movie cliche. For a while, he was not a fucked-up brat in a fucked-up world. 

The orphan was soaked to the bone, his clothes all tattered out and caked in who knows what. But fuck , even all of that wasn’t enough to dim his beauty and allure.

He looked divine. Perverted. Like he needed to be ravaged right there, right now.

And Whitney wasn’t the only one feeling that way, because he felt the tentacles immediately releasing their grip to pool on the ground. Everything snapped back into motion right as the chaos began to unfold. 

The blob of darkness slithered towards the orphan while the creature turned to face him in half a daze. Sickly yellow eyes gleamed in the dark. The monstrous creature unleashed a rumbling growl that reverberated all over the rainy night with what sounded like enthusiasm. The orphan tensed up and took a step back. 

Whitney’s body moved before his mind could–tearing free from what remained of the slimy grip, pushing off the ground, sprinting with every ounce of strength his aching body could fucking spare just to seize the orphan’s free hand seconds before the monsters could grab him. Ice-cold, trembling, but alive, the orphan returned his desperate grip with just as much strength as they broke into a frenzied dash.

A ragged laughter slipped from Whitney’s throat.

It's now Sunday? Still Saturday? Shit, he doesn’t give a fuck.

The orphan is here. That's all that matters.

Chapter Text

They couldn’t run forever. Of fucking course. But–

The damn orphan.

That fucking slut.

It was now Sunday? Still Saturday? Shit, who knew at this point. Whitney watched with bated breath as the creature attacked his boyfriend, again and again, even felt its claw slicing through the air at times, and how did the orphan himself react?

He laughed.

He fucking laughed.

It was sweet, playful, and worst of all– fucking sincere. The slut enjoyed this; Whitney knew that sound full well from the thousand times they had tussled with each other. But what was goading then was now a grenade pin pulled, a red cape waved at the charging bull. And the stupid creature took the bait. Its growls turned deeper, heavier, vibrating in the air with such a violent promise that Whitney’s knees nearly folded.

Still, the orphan was untouchable. He moved, no, danced like he belonged to the rain. A sidestep, left foot barely touching the ground before immediately switching to the right, followed by a little whoopsie and a little whoa-ha as he fucking traipsed past the creature’s claws. When it lunged for a tackle he twirled around to dodge the charging mass, using the momentum to kick the creature right in the ass and drive the creature right into a nearby brick wall with a rumbling thud. 

What had felt like a slasher movie to Whitney suddenly felt like a choreographed Mr. Bean skit. He quickly found himself caught between what the fuck and holy fuck.

“C’mon!” The orphan shouted, grabbing Whitney’s hand before pulling him away from the hunching creature.

And he may have been the one dragging the orphan at first, but now Whitney was the one gripping the other boy tight. Hanging on for dear life as they tore through alleys, zigzagging left, right, never going straight for more than a couple seconds. 

And motherfucker, it fucking worked . They could still hear the heavy footsteps and that low, rumbling growl right on their heels, but the creature itself was nowhere in sight. The rain soaked deeper and deeper with every turn, clothes and remains of clothes clinging to their bodies like second skin.

And fuck him, the orphan was beautiful. He may have looked like a drenched hobo but he was also alive, unyielding, full of fire and life that it was impossible to tell if he was dancing with danger or leading it on.

And here, some truths settled in. Not only had the orphan danced with this particular creature, but he also lived to tell the tale. He must have done it with other creatures. Much worse creatures. 

And all that’s left for Whitney was to acknowledge just how wide the gap between them actually was.

But that could wait. Because in that exact moment, he also realized they had been moving in the fucking wrong direction.

“Fuck,” Whitney dragged a gasp. “Stop. Oxford’s ahead.”

“What?” The orphan skidded to a halt, spinning around. “Oh no–”

He couldn’t even finish his words before he lost his balance, swaying left and right as his legs gave out.

“Oi!”

Whitney dropped the baseball bat and lunged forward, catching his boyfriend just before he hit the wet brick road. The bat clanged against the road.

“Heh,” the orphan laughed weakly. “Guess I can’t keep that up all night.”

“Shit. You’re freezing cold.” 

Whitney’s next words were caught in his throat. He tried to remove his uncle’s raincoat, but it was practically impossible with the soaked fabric plastered to his skin and the orphan clawing at the sleeves like they were the only thing keeping him upright. 

He found himself shouting. “Someone! Anyone! HELP! PLEASE !”

The orphan lightly punched Whitney’s arm as he slumped his head onto his shoulder. “Don’t do that, silly.”

And of course, no one gave a damn. Whitney’s eyes darted all over the alley, and he saw no one and nothing aside from crumbling brick walls and puddle-streaked streets.

The pounding rain faded into nothing, drowned out by the frantic rhythm of Whitney’s own heart pressed against his boyfriend.

“Fucking dammit!” he shouted. “Is there nobody out here?!”

His voice grew hoarse and cracking, his lungs drained out of air. But still, he gotta do something. They couldn’t run back to Harvest Street–not when his boyfriend’s already reached his limit. The bus stop was nearby but at worst they needed to wait for another fifteen minutes. Could they hide in the school? Could the night guard help, or are they red shirts against this horror-ass monster?

Too late. A thumping sound could be heard in the distance. The next scene has begun.

“Shit. He’s close,” Whitney hissed. “Hey. We gotta go.”

He looked down, and–

His breath hitched to a stop. His boyfriend was turning around and looking up, gazing at the silver moon glowing faintly behind the gray clouds with such a reverence that it felt like he was going to fade into the night.

“Whitney.”

The rain hushed into the background. The orphan lowered his head, staring at him with quiet but piercing eyes. 

“I trust you,” he said simply. “Do you trust me?”

“What?” The blond almost gasped. It was a plain question, but something about those eyes– 

“Do you trust me?”

“Fuck, shit!” Whitney hissed, grabbing the orphan by his arms with just as much desperation as the orphan’s hold on him. “If you have something inside that pretty head, then just do it, you damn slut! I’m right behind you!”

“Thanks.”

Soft words, softer tone. Trembling lips pressed softly onto the corner of his jaws.

When he pulled away, and Whitney saw a quivering smile on his boyfriend’s face, his eyes bulged in terror. He saw enough movies to know what kind of scene was about to play.

“There’s another manhole across the street. Do me a favor and give it a good tug, won’t you?” The orphan released his hold on Whitney’s sleeves, breathed deeply, and walked towards the alleyway’s exit. On the way, he gracefully leaned down and picked up the dropped baseball bat from the ground. “Steady, no jerking, use your elbows instead of your arms. If it’s stuck, give it a little wiggle. Simple and clean.”

Whitney froze, his body reacting much slower than his mind. “No, wait–”

"Hate to say it, but I’m kinda running out of strength.” The orphan turned, and gave Whitney one bright, final smile. “You’re the only one I can count on.”

A loud thump, much closer this time. The orphan gripped the baseball bat and limped out from the alley, his footsteps splashing into the rain-soaked distance. 

And now Whitney’s alone. Again.

The next heartbeat, he immediately ran across the street, catching a glimpse of his boyfriend dodging the creature at the other end of the street before he entered another alley. He immediately saw the manhole in question and knelt down, water splashing into his rain-soaked pants, his hands trembling as he fumbled for a grip on that thick slab of a cover. 

“Fucking shit, fucking shit, fucking hell .”

He’d never opened these pieces of shit before. He wondered if anyone ever did. The surface was rusty and slimy and his fingers kept slipping against the edges.

Behind him, the sharp clang of steel striking brick echoed in the rainy night, followed by a guttural growl and the high-pitched screech of something horrible.

“No, no, no ,” Whitney muttered repeatedly to himself. “He’ll be fine. He ain’t weak. He’ll be fine. I just gotta–”

Thunder snarled overhead. Rain hissed around the alley like a thousand snakes, slithering, snapping, while wet splashes of hurried footsteps darted from one place to another. Then a different kind of crash split the air, something solid colliding into something else with such bone-jarring force that turned Whitney’s freezing blood to razors.

I trust you. Do you trust me?

A joke, coming from anyone else. But from his boyfriend, knowing the shit he’s dealing with, the cards he’d been dealt–

Whitney gritted his teeth. He ignored the way adrenaline made him shiver. Ignored the silent mockery coming from the sewer cover. He rocked the cold, thick slab of steel back and forth, again and again. 

“Move, you asshole,” he planted his feet. “Move.”

Sweat and rainwater made his grip worse, made his palm hurt even more, but again–fuck it all. Fuck his scraped palms. Fuck the cold gnawing his bones. Fuck the fire burning his muscles. If he must die trying, then so be it.

The cover groaned, a reluctant god waking. He pried and pried, leaning his weight into the pull and yanked upward with everything he had.

“If it’s stuck, give it a little wiggle,” he repeated his boyfriend’s words in a grunt. “Steady, no jerking… and use your elbows instead of your fucking arms!”

Another heave, a metallic screech, and finally the metallic cover flipped over and jumped upwards, slamming into the floor ahead of him with a loud, heavy clank.

“Fucking finally !”

But he was too slow. A sharp, grating noise shrieked in the far distance. The sound of metal bending, he realized the next moment.

Whitney darted out of the alley just in time to flinch as his baseball bat, now bent in half, clattered to the road just a couple steps away. 

Eyes bulging, he looked ahead and saw his boyfriend trapped between the humongous monster and the writhing tentacles. 

Instinct and panic drove him forward. He snatched the bat in a single fluid snarl of motion, running towards the living darkness. By the time the tentacles sensed his presence, he was already swinging, the bent metal rod whistling as he hooked that thing ’s inky mass and hurled it sideways. 

“Get the fuck away from him!”

A splat, a wet smack. Fucking vile.

But it’s not the end. He used the momentum and spun, slinging the bat like a comet right at the creature’s skull.

CRACK.

The sound was violence given a voice–loud and visceral and bad in every sense of the word. The bat flew away. Now the creature switched attention, yellow eyes burning with feral rage like little suns.

Terrified as it was, trembling as he was, Whitney had no plans to run. “Come on, motherfucker!” he stomped on the puddled road, bloodied fists slamming into each other, his face grinning like a cracked windshield. “You gonna do something, or are you just here to stare?”

Round who-the-fuck-knows, here we go.

But then he felt a hand clapping his shoulder from behind. Freezing, steady, and alive. Before he could turn around, he saw the orphan staggered past him, smiling so warmly.

“It’s fine, Whitney. Let me take care of the rest.”

The rain hushed into the background for the second time. Every cell in Whitney’s body yelled at him to stop the orphan. Be the hero, you pussy–or at least keep your wits. Be the fucking final girl if it helps.

He couldn’t. His legs felt like concrete and his lungs, fire. All he could do was watch as the orphan– his boyfriend , all poise and steadiness–took one stumbling step after another to approach the creature. 

And it grinned, all jagged edges and malicious hunger as gleaming yellow eyes stared down the approaching human.

And the orphan didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. Whitney couldn’t see his boyfriend’s face, but he watched the other boy crane his head until he’s staring at the creature’s ugly mug.

“Sorry if this is not as fun as usual. Not every night can be a party,” the orphan said gently between his own ragged breathing. “But hey—save me a dance next time?”

And then Whitney finally noticed the small canister between the orphan’s fingers. That damned pepper spray.

“See you soon.”

He didn’t even see the orphan press the nozzle.

All at once, the creature’s shriek split the air—the unholy child of nails on a chalkboard and a shitty guitar riff. It backed away and flailed its arms aimlessly, alternating between raking at its own eyes and attacking the air around it. Whitney saw the orphan exhaled, a ragged sound that was half-laugh, half-surrender, as his knees finally buckled and lost their strength. 

The canister clattered to the pavement. 

He lunged forward and caught the orphan mid-collapse, the other boy’s weight slamming into his chest. All retorts in his throat died when he felt the orphan’s icy skin against his own. Coldness drenched him from above, sank its fangs inside his heart. The world narrowed into the bass-like fuck-fuck-fuck of his own pulse.

And from the corner of his eyes he sensed movement–writhing, pitch black darkness lashing like a frayed clothesline in the middle of a storm.

Whitney hoisted the orphan up, deadweight in his arms, and ran . Mud-covered sneakers skidded on wet concrete. Static in his head. Street lights and an empty street replaced with a dark alley. The sewer, open.

He clutched his boyfriend tight and jumped down.

“Please,” he found himself whimpering–

A loud crash. Whitney barely managed to land on his two feet. Knees buckled—ankles screaming, lightning up his shins. The impact rattled his teeth, sent a crack through his spine that wasn’t entirely metaphor. But his boyfriend–

Was unharmed. His body was shaking, and his breaths came up in hitches, but he was unharmed.

He lowered the orphan and immediately climbed back up the ladder. Rusted iron shrieked with each step. Somewhere above, the creature’s roar warped into something wet and guttural.

 “Not today,” he hissed. “Not fucking today.”

He saw the metal cover right where he left it. He reached out and dragged it right as heavy thumping approached the alley. More shrieking metal.

Clang.

Chapter Text

Gone were the sound and scent of rain, replaced with rushing water and the ungodly stench of shit .

The orphan curled on the sewer walkway, eyes wrenched shut, arms drawn tight to his chest as he shook like a leaf in the rain.

“Hey. We did it,” Whitney almost shouted as he jumped down the ladder, holding back the urge to gag as he tore off his uncle’s raincoat and his own tattered shirt. “Fuck those motherfucking creatures, we got away–”

Roaring water nearly drowned out the orphan's voice. Whitney had to press close to hear the fractured breaths between his chattering teeth—each gasp a knife to Whitney's ribs. “...Are you…still lonely, submerged in that cold lake?” the orphan whispered, blue lips trembling.

Whitney’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“We may never reach the bottom, we can only hope.” The orphan’s chest hitched—in, out—each grunt a struggle behind closed eyelids. “I shall remember you–like you asked. Not as you are, but as how you were.”

“No,” the word spilled from Whitney’s lips unprompted. “Look at me, you slut. Wake up.”

He didn’t remember when he started cradling his boyfriend’s body, one palm coming up to tap-tap-tap against the too-pale cheek. Cold, so cold, yet his boyfriend was somehow colder.

“Fuck all that shit about remembering–you’re not fucking dead,” the blond choked, his other hand squeezing the orphan’s arm. “You’re here, not in the bottom or wherever it is you’re dreaming of. So wake up already!”

Each sway became more desperate, each contact sharper than the last, until he was practically slapping the cold skin while rocking the unconscious body back and forth. 

He distantly remembered all the frantic calls he made. Shouting for Bailey, his gang, his uncle. How long has it been since those calls? Where the fuck were they?

It’s too much. He’s too tired.

“Someone–” he whispered. “Anyone.”

Tiny earthquakes shook Whitney’s entire being as he yanked the orphan, their ribs knocking together against his chest. The dream he had this morning returned in full force. 

The translucent hands pulling his boyfriend down. His vacant gaze, beautiful yet empty–as if the person standing there was nothing but a slab of meat. That blood-red moon above–

“No," Whitney snarled, desperation masking as defiance, his voice rising above the sound of sewage. “I won’t let you go, you hear? You’re stronger than this–I know you’re stronger than this.”

Hollow, fragile, rootless. His voice started to crack as he felt all the ways the cold dug its nails deep into his body. 

And in the end, all that’s left was a plea. “You’re not like the others. So please. Not like this,” he finally sobbed. “Don’t do this to me.”

At that, the orphan made a chuckle–more air than laughter–followed by a distant reply murmured as if a prayer. “It would be maddening, to only know one end of the ordeal.”

Whitney flinched at the words. But it also gave him hope. He wrapped his arms tight, the orphan’s frozen frame against him. Fuck if he knew what his boyfriend’s rambling about, but speaking is good. Speaking is alive. 

Body heat. Skin on skin. That’s how you stop hypothermia, right?

Breathe in. Breathe out. The closeness brought another memory. Sunday night, sticky pub air. Cigarette smokes and the gang toasting pint glasses. Both he and the slut were also this close back then. Whitney was messing around a little, touching a little, and his boyfriend–shit, forget playing along, he was basically an accomplice at that point. The slut leaned into every touch, rolled his hips, smiled like he didn’t know what it’s like to be kicked out of that pub. 

Now he was so quiet , but Whitney clung into this new hope like a motherfucker. He knew the orphan ain’t weak. Just need to keep going, keep holding, wait until his body warmth was transferred into his boyfriend–

And the orphan slowly wrapped his arms around his back. “...That’s the saddest I’ve ever heard you.”

A gasp. And then Whitney released a deranged, slightly wet chuckle as he buried his face to his boyfriend’s neck. “You slut.”

“Sorry for making you worry.” The orphan pressed a kiss to Whitney’s forehead—light, fleeting, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. “Look at you,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over Whitney’s bruises, the frayed edges of his bandages. “All this…because of me.”

Whitney tensed at the touch, the scrutiny burning him from within. “What? You didn’t think I’d notice when my favorite slut goes missing? ” he laughed–forced, awkward. “ You’re my slut, remember? I’m not letting some pervert muscle in on my territory.” 

Wrong. Bullshit. Any other time, sure; he’d said these, probably word by word. But now, a creeping shame gnawed inside him, almost forcing him to rise up if not for a frail hand pressing on his chest. 

“It doesn’t really matter why.” The orphan gazed quietly, weakly, firmly, and smiled despite everything. “Thanks, Whitney…You saved us both.”

A sucker punch straight past Whitney’s ribs.

The blond gritted his teeth, looking at his boyfriend, taking this moment of quiet to drink in every filthy detail. Streaks of half-washed mud smeared across his face like war paint. His hair was plastered in matted strands. His skin was riddled with scratches and what remained of his clothes—shredded leather, threadbare cotton—hung like trophies from a fight the world didn’t care to witness. Cut here. Torn there. A map of hits-and-misses.

Pathetic. Tragic, even.

And yet, so beautiful. The smile on his face was nothing but kind. Open ended, curious, like the orphan genuinely wanted to hear more about him. Like none of what happened to him mattered. 

Whitney raised his hands, cradled his boyfriend’s cheeks, his thumb soothing the part he repeatedly slapped in his panic.

“We’re not even playing the same game, are we?” he asked. “Here I am, just a fucking bully, when you’re–”

A loud clang echoed through the sewer tunnels, interrupting his words. Heavy. Deliberate.

His boyfriend’s smile shattered. Hands were pulled back into fists, curling tight onto his chest as shivers that had nothing to do with the cold wracked through him. “We need to go.”

Whitney immediately snapped into action. With a loud grunt, he turned around and hoisted the gasping orphan onto his back.

“Whit–!”

“Stop arguing and play along. I know shit about this stinky-ass place.”

A brief silence. His boyfriend felt too light on his back.

“Okay.” The orphan wrapped his arms and legs properly around him, his lips pressing hard on Whitney’s nape. “...I’m going to rely on you for a bit longer.”

Wordlessly, they started moving. Dim light, the rush of rainwater, and the clatter of shoes on metal followed them as they began navigating this shitty place. Every now and then the orphan would point in some direction and Whitney would follow, from one dirty corridor to another, two scampering rats in a maze of sludge and filth.

“So did those creatures find a way down or what?” Whitney asked as they moved.

“No, not them,” the orphan replied as he pointed to the left. “But the new sewer should be safe. Unless…”

The word trails away. Whitney felt the orphan’s trembling breath behind his neck. “Is this why you’re MIA for this long?”

“I–” A loaded pause. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he only said in response. 

They passed a battered sign, INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT pointing to their right. They went right.

And through it all, Whitney felt absolutely wrecked. Forget the second wind –by now he’s probably in his seventh or eighth wind.

Layers and layers of pain and exhaustion piled upon him like a cake out of shit, with his muscles screaming while his brain squeezed itself dry just to keep his limbs upright and moving. The stench was so thick it’s almost visible, thousands of sharp needles that prickled the back of his throat so badly he kept gagging to stop himself from puking. 

And yet everything felt right as rain. Proper fucking fine, even. For the first time since leaving his uncle’s house this morning—after everything —he felt calm. He could spend all day just like this, running with his boyfriend safe and sound on his back. 

As long as his boyfriend is safe and sound on his back.

“Almost there,” the orphan said. “A couple turns and we’ll reach Harvest Street.”

“It ain’t over until it’s over, slut,” Whitney grunted. “Keep your guard up.”

This time, he was right. The moment he took a left turn into a long corridor, a male voice—nerdy, hoarse, unfamiliar —cut through the sewer’s hum.

“Charles?”

The orphan tensed up. “Morgan,” he breathed, eyes bulging. “Shit, we can’t—fuck—we can’t go there.”

His fingers dug into Whitney’s shoulders, squeezing the muscles as if steering a car. Turn around, go back.

Whitney released his hold on his boyfriend instead.

“What are you doing?!” the orphan shout-whispered as he landed on the walkway. He reached for Whitney’s hand, grip tight like iron, trying to drag him back the way they’d come.

The blond didn’t budge. “Morgan, huh?”

Whoever pulled this off is either a pro or a nobody.

The orphan kept yanking his arm, trying to drag him away.

Meanwhile, the voice moved closer. “That is you, isn’t it, Charles? Do you have any idea what time it is?” 

Hurried footsteps, an increasing anger. “You're in serious trouble, you reckless brat." 

A pause, then the tone pulled an 180. “Don’t worry. I won’t be too rough. And then we’ll eat Daddy’s scones together and everything will be alright. So come out now.”

The closer the voice got, the more desperate the orphan became. In any other time, he would have succeeded. But the poor slut must have been even more exhausted than he was. 

With a sharp tug of his own, Whitney easily yanked himself free. “Stay put.”

“Whitney—!”

The orphan’s panicked hiss dissolved into the roaring water as Whitney stormed his way forward, the corridor yawning before them, concrete walls casting ominous shadows under the flickering lights above them. The darkness ahead stretched endlessly like the inside of a giant snake. His vision blurred at the edges, spinning around, tunneling into a pinprick of focus, but his thoughts crystallized into a single, razor-edged thought.

There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know, but he at least understood this.

The slut was different. People expected a brat of his rep to be submissive, docile, weak; but he was in fact the exact opposite. Whitney saw fire whenever the slut was fighting him tooth and nail, and he felt fire whenever their bodies meshed together. For fuck’s sake, he laughed when he danced with that fucking creature up there.

So when someone made him look like this, act like this–

Every muscle in Whitney’s body tightened like an overwound cable. The air reeked of rust and rain and rotting things, but his breaths came steady. Calculated. He turned the corner–

And immediately threw his arms open with a too-bright grin. “Daddy!”

Daddy was a lanky, ginger-haired nerd, drowning in a suit ripping at the seams, stained with fuck-knows-what, blinking behind cracked glasses in pure, unadulterated what the fuck . “Who–?”

“It’s me, Charles, your beloved son! Who else can I be?” Whitney dropped his arms, cooing as he stepped forward. “Oh, Daddy. I’m so glad you’re here! It’s so cold, and there’s so many monsters out here!”

He might have been powerless against monsters and creatures from fuck-knows-where, but a deranged maniac? Dime-a-dozen in this crazy town.

Just out-psycho the psycho. Simple logic.

And it worked. The ginger man took a cautious step back. Good . “No, wait, but—”

“ Pwease, Daddy, I miss you so much!” Whitney closed in, dragging his voice upwards into an almost manic level of squeal. “Give your dearest son a hug?”

He could smell the man’s funk from here. Nauseating. 

Another step closer. Just a bit more. Until the man finally stopped, his doubt replaced by anger. “...No. You’re not Charles.”

Whitney grinned. “Like hell I am.”

Right then, he kicked the fucker square in the balls.

Daddy crumpled with a strangled wheeze, and Whitney spared no time. He lunged, swinging wild, knuckles cracking against bone.  

But the psycho recovered too fast. Before Whitney’s next punch could land, the fucker caught his wrist, eyes flashing with something unhinged. Then—

A kick.

Right to his bandaged ribs.

Right where that asshole at the lake had slammed his rifle.

Pain ripped through Whitney like a live wire. “Guh—!”

“WHERE IS CHARLES?!” The man’s voice was half snarl, half shriek, rising about the sound of rushing water. His glasses had slipped down his nose, barely hanging on. “WHERE IS HE?!”

Whitney barely dodged as the fucker lunged again. He stumbled, instinct jerking him away from the ledge, pivoting fast to face him—

Too late.

The psycho tackled him, bony frame hitting like a wrecking ball.

Whitney’s back smashed against the slimy concrete, knocking the air out from his lungs. And before he could gasp it back in, bony hands were clamping into his throat.

“TELL ME!” The psycho’s breath was hot, reeking. His grip squeezed tighter. “WHERE IS MY SON?!”

"Whitney!" The orphan’s voice rang from somewhere behind.

“Stay right fucking–there, you slut!” Whitney yelled in a strangled voice.

He clawed at the fucker’s grip, kicked blindly, wrenched at ginger hair, but the psycho was just as rabid. He clawed at Whitney’s face, snarling, spitting, neither of them fighting like men—no, this was something uglier, something desperate and raw.

And Whitney was losing.

His limbs felt heavier. His vision blurred at the edges. Somewhere far away, the psycho was grinning.

“You won’t hurt my son.”

Then—

“Morgan, let him go!”

The orphan’s voice snapped through the chaos.

The grip on Whitney’s throat disappeared in an instant. The psycho spun, breath hitching, eyes wide and teary. “Charles…! You’re here…!”

Whitney didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed the nearest chunk of fuck knows what filth on the floor and smashed it into the bastard’s face.

“He’s not fucking Charles, you lunatic!”

The psycho crashed into the floor with a sickening, delightful thud. Clutching his own face as he howled.

Whitney pulled himself up. A gleeful, violent grin stretched across his face. He could taste the sweetness of victory at the tip of his tongue. The psycho’s howl blurred into background noise against the relentless pounding in his head. 

The situation flipped. And now, it’s time to–

Fuck.

Him.

Up.

Whitney strode forward, bracing for the final shove; one hard hit, and he’d send the psycho straight into the water—

And a pair of weak, desperate arms was holding him from behind.

“Don’t, Whitney,” the orphan whimpered, breathless, begging . “Don’t do it. Please.”

The fragile voice stopped Whitney in a heartbeat, a proverbial bucket of cold water to his burning self. 

And in that sudden sobriety, Whitney had to properly look at the writhing man on the walkway.

“My son,” the man called, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please–my son. Charles. Don’t leave me again.”

Whitney flinched, stepping away from the man. The coiled rage, the bloodlust, the euphoria–everything shattered into pieces until nothing was left except a gaping void that reflected his own ugly mug. 

The orphan pulled him by the wrist and he just let it happen, leaving the mournful calls to echo around these filthy, lonesome walls. 

Everything moved in a haze, slow motion , his legs feeling like they weren’t fully his as they pounded against the slick metallic walkway. The floor beneath him felt unsteady. The sound of rushing water threatened to drown him. Black spots crept at the edges of his vision, blurring everything into smeared streaks of brown. He gasped, and gasped, and still came up short of air, his throat burning where the fingers had squeezed the life out of him earlier. His ribs— fuck, his ribs —felt like something inside had shifted wrong, stabbing with every heaving breath.

And through it all, the orphan never let go of his hand as he ran ahead of him. Cold, so cold, yet the orphan never faltered as flickering lights passed above them like shooting stars. Whitney clung into the sight ahead of him, into his boyfriend , moving on autopilot through the haze claiming over his senses.

Doren’s voice echoed in his head—part of his dusty lecture about some boring-ass poet. Back then he had said an old-ass word in a hush, so cringe at that time and yet so true now.

What was the word again?

Right.

Steadfast.

Whitney followed the path ahead and felt himself grasping on a ladder, soft fingers replaced by cold hard metal. Something screeched—metal on metal. And he kept climbing. resisting the pull of gravity upon his aching body. Left foot up, right foot up.

One rung.

Then another.

More noise, familiar noise. The clank, the rattle. A grunt, strained and desperate. 

Step by step. Up and up. 

Then—a gust of cold air rushed in, slicing through the stench clinging to his skin. Droplets of water soon followed, cold against the bruises and tiny cuts blooming all over his skin.

Rain. Once more with feeling.

Whitney’s head broke past the manhole. Through his flickering visions he saw streetlights, cars, the colorful glow from the pub’s neon lights casting smudged colors onto the rain-slick pavement.

Then— suddenly, hands. Warm hands. Clean hands. Grabbing one arm, then another,  hauling him up until he was collapsing onto solid ground, the asphalt unforgiving but real beneath his naked back. He could hear voices in the air. Too many. Distant, overlapping, familiar yet blurred. 

A silhouette leaned over him—a shape Whitney knew all too well from years of watching him bathed in TV static late at night. His uncle.

Not just him. Other people too.

Shouting. Names, called. His own, the orphan, some other names, all blurred into gibberish. Fuck, so noisy.

His gaze flickered sideways. The orphan was lying beside him, just as wrecked, just as drenched, but here . Their hands found each other again, fingers curling together, grounding him.

The orphan grinned. Full of fire, full of life. 

And Whitney tried his best to return that grin—just before he let the world went dark.

The shitty B-movie had ended. Zoom out, pan to the sky, cue the end credits.

It was Sunday, and the orphan was finally found.