The sheets still smelled of blood sometimes. Or, some nights when he walked in, they would still be covered in it. Not even settled stains yet, but there had been no other way to get rid of them than to burn them in a dumpster. There was no crime scene. Even in the agent’s hasty judgment, there would be no case even if (or when) Castor decided to press charges on a known criminal.
     Abel knew Castor knew something. The man’s name and even his face. There was just something hanging over them, always, that kept him from talking about it. All those times Abel would bring it up and would only be brushed off. Was it truly for the better, or would he have something to worry about in the days that were to pass…
[[MORE]]
     Castor soon learned to put everything behind him. Abel helped him in his physical therapy and kissed the scars if his lover ever felt bad about them. Castor’s father would visit and Abel would do his best to bite his tongue about the matter. Surely, he knew; but if he did, the man knew how to keep a straight face over the incident. As if he wouldn’t bat an eye even the news was presented to him up front.
     However, despite all of this, Abel still found some peace tracing the scars in Castor’s back when he slept beside him. Those nights where the agent’s mind refused to shut up about his life—be it his father with a man younger than his own son, or Castor struggling to sit correctly at times. It was rare for him to come to love such a man, but he was bound to be the silent romantic like his father. (Or maybe something “magical” had happened when he had had Castor bend over his own desk?)
     After every single slash in Castor’s back was traced, he’d find some peace in himself. Some inner silence. Everything would be sorted and said to be alright, even if he had to ask Castor in his sleepy daze. His arms slipped up around the man’s torso to meet over his heart. The steady thrumming was what brought him down to earth, back into this bed that had been once been covered in the blood of a man better off dead. Or, at least, that had been the intention.

Abel found his arms empty when he awoke. A noted surprise for him. Castor never left for work early… and it was the weekend, wasn’t it? These were their days off together when they would sit around and watch bad movies and or Abel would try not to argue with his father who had invited them to some gala or another. It was odd for a rich boy to be living with his boyfriend in a crime scene apartment.
     You can always come home. We’ll always have a place for you.
     You always have a place in my heart…
     Abel rolled over and checked the clock on his bedside table no. It wasn’t early, just a tad bit late. Thank goodness for connections or he would have found himself a little worried in this sudden situation. Castor had let him sleep in, huh?
     There was the slightest rustle of noise. It wasn’t in this room, though. The bathroom? Abel sat up, holding the sheets over his naked form just in case it was something (or someone) else. This apartment wasn’t in the safest of districts, but he wouldn’t have expected to be held hostage in his own home without being woken up with the initial break in.
     “Cas?”
     Having thought that, Abel was aware that Castor had been attacked in his own home… even if the details overall were a little fuzzy. And by overall, it meant there was absolutely nothing to go by. The only lingering worry was that Castor had invited the man home on his own will. Expecting something. (The thought of him with anyone else, past or present…)
     “Castor… come on, is that you?”
     It was within the white-biased theorem that he try this one tactic out. Even if it was a killer or a homeless junkie rustling around in the other room, this instinct to make sure was that itself—and instinct based on fear. But as another noise sounded, an opening door, Abel couldn’t help but brace himself against the backboard, staring off in the direction with blank eyes.
     Hawaiians didn’t tend to show up in slasher films…
     A body appeared in the doorway and Abel blinked. Oh, it was Castor. He stood there, naked, using the towel he probably used to wrap himself up with to dry his hair. He stared at Abel without any trace of a current emotion. His lips were curled into a smile, but his eyes seemed absent of all cause.
     Had Abel seen this sort of look before? Maybe, but he couldn’t put his finger on. Slowly, he sat forward, letting out a relieved little scoff.
     “Christ, don’t do that. What are you doing up so early? We’ve got plenty of reasons to turn in late all the time. You know my dad won’t choke us out for it…”
     “Choke us out?” Castor replied, voice sounds off in the darkest of ways. It made Abel flinch and nearly get out of bed, before the other man’s gaze kept him down.
     “Are you sick or something?” They stared in brief silence. “I mean, are you okay? Did you hit the back of your throat with your brush?”
     There was no response from Castor, who dropped the towel behind him and went to the bed, taking a knee up on it and leaning over. In turn Abel sat back a bit, a steady smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he was just having a moment to himself… sometimes the trauma still took a toll on people. Abel, although it was rare, sometimes felt contempt for his mother because of the divorce. (Although he was known to pick fights with his father more than anything.)
     “It’ll be alright,” he said, reaching out to him. Castor crawled over him, staring him back down into his pillow. The movement was slow and sure, Abel’s hands moving over his ribs. The two stayed like that for a moment before Castor’s eyes narrowed.
     “What’s wrong?”
     Abel slid his hands to Castor’s spine, wanting to trace the scars while the man was awake, but all he found under his fingers was smooth, untouched flesh. He hesitated, hands lifting. In the moment he was spared, Abel met the eyes of the other and thought of only one thing—
     “Remember that there are different people out there,” Jon had said, placing a hand on his son’s head. His wife’s dark eyes peered out from under the boy’s shaggy bangs. “There are good people, Ben, but there are also bad people. They’ll want to take you away and hurt you… or hurt a lot of other people. That’s what I do, Ben. Sometimes I hurt people… sometimes I help. I still love you.”
     Abel felt the man’s teeth sink into his neck, his body immediately bucking with the pain. Abel may have been strong and Castor only in physical therapy, but that didn’t mean he was completely defenseless. The bite was nothing like he had ever felt before, having been under such protection of his father’s position as CEO. No one sent Abel where he didn’t want to go… but it was where he had ended up, very nearly pinned under his own boyfriend.
     The bite was released, and Abel tried to call out to Castor, reassure that this was only an episode. (Who was he trying to reassure here, actually?) There was no sound, a good section of his throat crushed and stifled under the force of teeth breaking into his skin. Another bite fit securely on his shoulder, brief, but with still the same tremendous power. Abel could only feel himself breathing and still trying to push Castor off of him, hands sliding suddenly in his own blood.
     The pain rolled as one wave, back and forth, as his entire body became a teething ground. For whatever reason Castor’s teeth felt sharper than a human’s, or why he would do this to Abel, it was unclear. Trauma, nightmares, hallucinations… they changed a man, but how could this be?
     He no longer felt the bites, or the pressure, his dark eyes having turned up to the ceiling. He focused on his own breathing. In, out. Exhale—inhale, focus. A face slid into view, Castor’s mouth smeared with blood. And, oh God, was he still smiling? Abel closed his eyes, mumbling that he would be alright. The showed over him now overtook his senses.

Pollox watched blood roll down the bridge of his nose before it dropped and speckled the man’s cheeks. Was it still breathing? He could really only read people that were already dead, and the process before was practically unknown to him. The link between ceasing anddeceased was a blur.
     Whatever the case, the man wasn’t getting up to save himself. If he died, Pollox assumed his father would have his head. Or Castor might try, perhaps. It was Death, however, who hinted that the polar effect may not only explain the boys’ personality. When Castor was up, Pollox was down. When Castor had been attacked, Pollox only wished what pleasure he may have felt or been feeling…
     This was another chance to feel his brother’s pain from the other end of the spectrum.
     He took what he assumed to be Abel’s phone and put into his bloodied hand. Slowly, he maneuvered his fingers to press what buttons he had to first open contacts and then fine Castor’s number. There were only a few other names whose significance was unknown to the brother star. He pressed in Abel’s thumb in order to dial the number shown, moving to hold the phone up to the barely conscious man’s ear.
     Abel looked at him dumbly, finding his arm held in the position that it was until it locked and stayed that way.
     “Cas,” he whispered, but Pollox only shook his head and left for the bathroom. He washed his hands, his face, manually picking at the flesh and blood that gathered between his odd, shark-like teeth. If Castor had perfect teeth, Pollox got no such thing. Once he was clean, he put his clothes back on and peeked into the room.
     Abel’s arm had dropped over the side of the bed and the man was still. The phone lay now, on the floor and out of reach. He couldn’t tell from this angle if someone had answered or if it had left a message. Either way, his work here was done. He ran his tongue over his teeth and turned away, making sure to slam the door on the way out of the apartment room.
     Abel’s eyes hadn’t closed correctly. He now floated in a constant state of not-yet-dead. Although his sight failed him and the only thing he heard was ringing and pink noise, he had a sense of living still left in him. The ceiling above him was stark white, so clean, but he knew his own blood had ruined the room this time.
   The sheets still smelled of blood sometimes.

The sheets still smelled of blood sometimes. Or, some nights when he walked in, they would still be covered in it. Not even settled stains yet, but there had been no other way to get rid of them than to burn them in a dumpster. There was no crime scene. Even in the agent’s hasty judgment, there would be no case even if (or when) Castor decided to press charges on a known criminal.

     Abel knew Castor knew something. The man’s name and even his face. There was just something hanging over them, always, that kept him from talking about it. All those times Abel would bring it up and would only be brushed off. Was it truly for the better, or would he have something to worry about in the days that were to pass…

     Castor soon learned to put everything behind him. Abel helped him in his physical therapy and kissed the scars if his lover ever felt bad about them. Castor’s father would visit and Abel would do his best to bite his tongue about the matter. Surely, he knew; but if he did, the man knew how to keep a straight face over the incident. As if he wouldn’t bat an eye even the news was presented to him up front.

     However, despite all of this, Abel still found some peace tracing the scars in Castor’s back when he slept beside him. Those nights where the agent’s mind refused to shut up about his life—be it his father with a man younger than his own son, or Castor struggling to sit correctly at times. It was rare for him to come to love such a man, but he was bound to be the silent romantic like his father. (Or maybe something “magical” had happened when he had had Castor bend over his own desk?)

     After every single slash in Castor’s back was traced, he’d find some peace in himself. Some inner silence. Everything would be sorted and said to be alright, even if he had to ask Castor in his sleepy daze. His arms slipped up around the man’s torso to meet over his heart. The steady thrumming was what brought him down to earth, back into this bed that had been once been covered in the blood of a man better off dead. Or, at least, that had been the intention.

Abel found his arms empty when he awoke. A noted surprise for him. Castor never left for work early… and it was the weekend, wasn’t it? These were their days off together when they would sit around and watch bad movies and or Abel would try not to argue with his father who had invited them to some gala or another. It was odd for a rich boy to be living with his boyfriend in a crime scene apartment.

     You can always come home. We’ll always have a place for you.

     You always have a place in my heart…

     Abel rolled over and checked the clock on his bedside table no. It wasn’t early, just a tad bit late. Thank goodness for connections or he would have found himself a little worried in this sudden situation. Castor had let him sleep in, huh?

     There was the slightest rustle of noise. It wasn’t in this room, though. The bathroom? Abel sat up, holding the sheets over his naked form just in case it was something (or someone) else. This apartment wasn’t in the safest of districts, but he wouldn’t have expected to be held hostage in his own home without being woken up with the initial break in.

     “Cas?”

     Having thought that, Abel was aware that Castor had been attacked in his own home… even if the details overall were a little fuzzy. And by overall, it meant there was absolutely nothing to go by. The only lingering worry was that Castor had invited the man home on his own will. Expecting something. (The thought of him with anyone else, past or present…)

     “Castor… come on, is that you?”

     It was within the white-biased theorem that he try this one tactic out. Even if it was a killer or a homeless junkie rustling around in the other room, this instinct to make sure was that itself—and instinct based on fear. But as another noise sounded, an opening door, Abel couldn’t help but brace himself against the backboard, staring off in the direction with blank eyes.

     Hawaiians didn’t tend to show up in slasher films…

     A body appeared in the doorway and Abel blinked. Oh, it was Castor. He stood there, naked, using the towel he probably used to wrap himself up with to dry his hair. He stared at Abel without any trace of a current emotion. His lips were curled into a smile, but his eyes seemed absent of all cause.

     Had Abel seen this sort of look before? Maybe, but he couldn’t put his finger on. Slowly, he sat forward, letting out a relieved little scoff.

     “Christ, don’t do that. What are you doing up so early? We’ve got plenty of reasons to turn in late all the time. You know my dad won’t choke us out for it…”

     “Choke us out?” Castor replied, voice sounds off in the darkest of ways. It made Abel flinch and nearly get out of bed, before the other man’s gaze kept him down.

     “Are you sick or something?” They stared in brief silence. “I mean, are you okay? Did you hit the back of your throat with your brush?”

     There was no response from Castor, who dropped the towel behind him and went to the bed, taking a knee up on it and leaning over. In turn Abel sat back a bit, a steady smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he was just having a moment to himself… sometimes the trauma still took a toll on people. Abel, although it was rare, sometimes felt contempt for his mother because of the divorce. (Although he was known to pick fights with his father more than anything.)

     “It’ll be alright,” he said, reaching out to him. Castor crawled over him, staring him back down into his pillow. The movement was slow and sure, Abel’s hands moving over his ribs. The two stayed like that for a moment before Castor’s eyes narrowed.

     “What’s wrong?”

     Abel slid his hands to Castor’s spine, wanting to trace the scars while the man was awake, but all he found under his fingers was smooth, untouched flesh. He hesitated, hands lifting. In the moment he was spared, Abel met the eyes of the other and thought of only one thing—

     “Remember that there are different people out there,” Jon had said, placing a hand on his son’s head. His wife’s dark eyes peered out from under the boy’s shaggy bangs. “There are good people, Ben, but there are also bad people. They’ll want to take you away and hurt you… or hurt a lot of other people. That’s what I do, Ben. Sometimes I hurt people… sometimes I help. I still love you.”

     Abel felt the man’s teeth sink into his neck, his body immediately bucking with the pain. Abel may have been strong and Castor only in physical therapy, but that didn’t mean he was completely defenseless. The bite was nothing like he had ever felt before, having been under such protection of his father’s position as CEO. No one sent Abel where he didn’t want to go… but it was where he had ended up, very nearly pinned under his own boyfriend.

     The bite was released, and Abel tried to call out to Castor, reassure that this was only an episode. (Who was he trying to reassure here, actually?) There was no sound, a good section of his throat crushed and stifled under the force of teeth breaking into his skin. Another bite fit securely on his shoulder, brief, but with still the same tremendous power. Abel could only feel himself breathing and still trying to push Castor off of him, hands sliding suddenly in his own blood.

     The pain rolled as one wave, back and forth, as his entire body became a teething ground. For whatever reason Castor’s teeth felt sharper than a human’s, or why he would do this to Abel, it was unclear. Trauma, nightmares, hallucinations… they changed a man, but how could this be?

     He no longer felt the bites, or the pressure, his dark eyes having turned up to the ceiling. He focused on his own breathing. In, out. Exhale—inhale, focus. A face slid into view, Castor’s mouth smeared with blood. And, oh God, was he still smiling? Abel closed his eyes, mumbling that he would be alright. The showed over him now overtook his senses.

Pollox watched blood roll down the bridge of his nose before it dropped and speckled the man’s cheeks. Was it still breathing? He could really only read people that were already dead, and the process before was practically unknown to him. The link between ceasing anddeceased was a blur.

     Whatever the case, the man wasn’t getting up to save himself. If he died, Pollox assumed his father would have his head. Or Castor might try, perhaps. It was Death, however, who hinted that the polar effect may not only explain the boys’ personality. When Castor was up, Pollox was down. When Castor had been attacked, Pollox only wished what pleasure he may have felt or been feeling…

     This was another chance to feel his brother’s pain from the other end of the spectrum.

     He took what he assumed to be Abel’s phone and put into his bloodied hand. Slowly, he maneuvered his fingers to press what buttons he had to first open contacts and then fine Castor’s number. There were only a few other names whose significance was unknown to the brother star. He pressed in Abel’s thumb in order to dial the number shown, moving to hold the phone up to the barely conscious man’s ear.

     Abel looked at him dumbly, finding his arm held in the position that it was until it locked and stayed that way.

     “Cas,” he whispered, but Pollox only shook his head and left for the bathroom. He washed his hands, his face, manually picking at the flesh and blood that gathered between his odd, shark-like teeth. If Castor had perfect teeth, Pollox got no such thing. Once he was clean, he put his clothes back on and peeked into the room.

     Abel’s arm had dropped over the side of the bed and the man was still. The phone lay now, on the floor and out of reach. He couldn’t tell from this angle if someone had answered or if it had left a message. Either way, his work here was done. He ran his tongue over his teeth and turned away, making sure to slam the door on the way out of the apartment room.

     Abel’s eyes hadn’t closed correctly. He now floated in a constant state of not-yet-dead. Although his sight failed him and the only thing he heard was ringing and pink noise, he had a sense of living still left in him. The ceiling above him was stark white, so clean, but he knew his own blood had ruined the room this time.

   The sheets still smelled of blood sometimes.

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