living dead girl

by nortyorphy (orphan_account)

When Norton opens his eyes, he knows where he is.

 

He was lying down, a dull ache pulsing in his lower back. Warm sweat bathed him, yet his body still trembled. His eyes blinked a few times, his blurry vision becoming a little clearer. He could make out a few spots of mould, a couple of cobwebs, a large crack he’d been swearing to patch up when he got paid. With a groan, the raven raised his hand and aggressively rubbed his eyes, the unpleasant reminder of his situation returning to him.

 

A sharp stinging feeling punctured his chest as he inhaled, the air ice cold in his rotting lungs. His breathing stuttered, fighting between refusing to take another piercing breath and his dwindling will to live. He placed a hand on his chest, feeling his ribs threatening to cut through his tanned flesh, the skin rough and rubbed raw from hours of labour that he’d tried to force out of his memory. Norton’s hand ghosted over his skin, feeling the curve of each bone. If only he could reach in and take out an organ or two. It would be a mess, and he'd have to waste the day on his hands and knees, scrubbing away. But he could probably survive without a lung or a heart. He’d heard that they were valuable if you found the right people. 

 

He tensed, and then stretched his body weakly. A numb sensation tingled in the very tips of each of his limbs. And then it spread further, traversing through his body, spreading like a disease as it intensified, bringing the prospector back to a painful reality. The chilling numbness slowly turned into scorching agony.

 

His back hurt. His head hurt. His arm was numb, the wound on his leg was itchy, it hurt to close his hand, it hurt to move and it hurt to breathe. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling. No matter how he lay when he rested, pain would be his alarm. 

 

He was so tired. He wanted to sleep.

 

But he had to get up. He had to get up and work. He had to get a head start, he had to eat, he had to pay his rent, he had to do something . Those thoughts lured him out of the depressive fog, his body moving before his brain had the chance to catch up. He lurched forward and sat upright, his body limp and slanted, staring at a tearing poster of some scantily clad woman that did him no favours. Swinging his legs off the bed, he grunted as he rested them on the hard floor. It was cold. It was always cold.

 

If you saw Norton, he’d be working. And if you returned a week later, he would still be working. Life made no room for luxuries. He couldn’t afford to sit back as the others stole his work, and it wasn’t as if he had anything else better to be doing. All he had to do was work, eat, and sleep; it was a beneficial schedule that Norton had grown used to at this point. Conversing fell out of the pattern, not that he wanted to be acquainted with anyone. Having people surrounding him meant they would be watching him, judging him, laughing at him and wondering how they could make him snap. Talking used energy. He needed energy to work. If he didn’t have energy, he couldn’t work. And if he couldn't work, he’d die. 

 

Somedays, dying didn’t sound so bad. There were times where he thought about jumping into an unknown pit he'd just buried down into, or fighting to death in a drunken rage, or smashing his head against the rocks until he couldn't feel it anymore, but then he would be seen as weak for giving up, wouldn’t he? And his old man would greet him at the gates of hell, to belittle him and tell him exactly that. 

 

Even more importantly, the others would ransack his living space and take and take until there was no trace of his existence. Not that they would find much anyway. A few scraps of food, dirty clothes and a pile of stained books would mean nothing to them. Most of them wouldn’t understand the fancy shit he’d found himself being unusually drawn to. Even so, Norton would worry that they’d take them for the sake of it. So when he’d finished working, he’d sit by the door and wait. And wait, and wait, and wait until someone either came to try and rob him, or deliver his pay. He had nothing else to do. Going outside would cost money, or his life.

 

When he’d get his pay, he’d snatch it and slam the door shut, all wrapped up in a grotty brown bag. He’d watch the money fall through his fingers, being wasted on things he detested his body for requiring. Clothes, food, another stupid fucking book that left him questioning everything, a new candle to light his home if he was lucky, and rent for the shithole he called a home. And after he’d been robbed for his basic necessities, he’d be left with a few pennies and a pitiful look. Sometimes he’d buy more food. Sometimes he’d eat the paper bag.

 

And then he’d do it all over again, curling up on top of his dirty sheets as he prepared his body for another day. He was so tired.

 

But his life was a perfect copy and paste. It was familiar. He followed the herd. He kept out of sight. He tried to stay in line. He couldn't make a difference. He was everything the old man detested.

 

It was never enough.

 

Norton rubbed at a bruise on his hand.

After a little while longer of staring at the wall, he finally stood, his vision going black for a second. He carefully balanced himself, placing a shaking hand on the wooden nightstand as he held his head. He hadn't eaten well the last few days, a contributing factor to the tingling in his body. He hadn't even remembered getting into bed, and he was still somewhat clothed. It wasn't uncommon for him to pass out these days. One might think it is easier by not having to dress in the morning.

 

His scarred hand fumbled to do up his shirt buttons, the other raking itself through his greasy hair. Strands of hair glued themselves to his forehead, making him scratch his face in irritation. Was his hair getting long again? He gathered it up in one hand, a temporary relief as he felt the breeze kiss his sweat soaked neck. After a few seconds, he let the black locks fall, huffing in annoyance as it curtained around his face. He could only guess how unkempt he looked - the mirror on his wall had cracked long ago, and it's not like there was a barber just around the corner. His fingers served him as his only comb, pulling at the knots until they finally surrendered.

 

He couldn't imagine himself with hair like the ones he saw in paintings. Washed, clean cut, cared for…none of those words could describe him. A majority of his colleagues would fix their problem with a pair of rusty scissors, and Norton had considered it too. But when the winter came, any protection from the cold was vital. He'd done it once, trimmed the long strands away until he felt like he could finally breathe. But when the cold bit at his ears and fingertips, the pain red hot to the point where he could do nothing but curl up with his palms on his head, he knew he wouldn't be attempting it again. He could put up with the sweat, the discomfort, the pulling and abuse he endured from those around him, as long as he could be warm.

 

A scratch at his bare wrist took him out of his thoughts, making him look behind him at the nightstand. His watch lay there, dormant. The one thing he took pride in caring for, the last remnants of his old man. Picking it up carefully, he rubbed his aching eyes before checking the time. He wouldn't be needed at the site for at least another hour, but he couldn't settle by doing a half assed job. He needed to be more than punctual, to get a head start. Norton placed the watch on his wrist, shuddering at the chill from the metal.

 

He got ready like usual, haphazardly throwing on the rest of his equipment. The worn and familiar helmet stared at him from the floor, where he'd thrown it the night before. The candle had a deep crevice carved into the middle, the wick burnt halfway. Just another purchase to add onto his mental list. It squeezed onto his head, pressing his hair back onto his flushed face and making his scalp itch slightly. Norton couldn't remember the last time he'd scrubbed everything down, and it was apparent from the scent. At this point, he was fully convinced that no amount of washing could ever get rid of it. In this life, he couldn't pick and choose what he wore or how he looked and smelt. And in this life, it wasn't as if it even mattered anymore.

 

Breakfast was a piece of crusted stale bread and pint of air to wash it down. Showering was a gloved hand wiping across his brow. 

 

With one last check over, Norton finally approached the door, unbolting the lock and gripping the rusted door handle. It protested at first, squeaking and fighting again the man, before finally giving in after a harsh tug. Pieces of rotten wood chipped off and fell to Norton's shoes. 

 

After a cautious analysis, the prospector took a step outdoors, cold air stinging his face. The porch creaked beneath his feet, mirroring the owner's dwindling will. One last look was thrown over Norton's shoulder, looking at the empty kitchen, the lonely bed, the piles of books, before the door slammed shut.

 

A farewell was silence.

Norton kept his eyes firmly shut.

 

His hands were around his head, curled into a ball, trembling in the dirt. 

 

The cackle of far away laughter could be heard in the distance, before it diverged into foul chatter and gossip about gore and sex. As if nothing had happened. 

 

HIs head hurt. His wrists hurt. His hands hurt, nails piercing into his flesh from where he kept a tight grip on a single coin. It wasn’t until silence fell onto him that he slowly pulled his hand away from his chest, peaking at the contents. It was enough for dinner. His stomach hurt, but he could eat. Yet he didn’t even feel happy. 

 

Hell, he couldn’t feel anything. 

 

What was he supposed to feel? Anger that burned through his soul until the rage was uncontrollable, tearing apart those that wronged him? Or gratitude to whatever God had blessed him with this reward for putting up with the misery? 

 

It was basically a ‘job’, wasn't it? 

 

A weak smile rested on his stained lips.

When Norton opens his eyes, he thinks he knows where he is.

 

He’s laying on his front, his clothes unbuttoned, dishevelled and sticking to his skin. A deep pounding in his chest makes him squeeze his eyes shut in agony, his head feeling heavy but light. He felt like he'd finally let go, but also like he'd taken on the weight of the world. 

 

A sour, tangy, bitter taste coated the corners of his mouth, and his nostrils were drowned in the scent of booze. Had he gone drinking again? A knocked over bottle and a puddle of liquid answered his question. Had he gotten into a fight? A light press of his bruised cheek answered that, too.

 

Heat slowly flushed across his face, making him sweat yet again. Water, he needed water. But his body refused to move, as if he was glued to the bed. Norton weakly shifted his limbs, trying to shrug off the sticky shirt that clung to his back. An irritated kick of the legs revealed that his pants were pulled, locked around his ankles like shackles. He felt dirty.

 

Norton groaned, pressing his forehead into the covers. His head felt as heavy as the rocks he'd crack open everyday. Right now, he wanted to give his head the same treatment. A sound escaped Norton's mouth, somewhat embarrassing him. He sounded so pitiful, so far away, so helpless. If he was sober, he would have slapped himself for letting it slip out. 

 

Finally, Norton's body moved before his brain could catch up. His vision went black, feeling his legs stagger forward, ending up against the wall once he could see again. He panted softly, pressing his forehead into the cold stone, desperately seeking relief. He was so hungry, but the idea of food made him want to throw up whatever he'd drowned his sorrows in. He couldn't throw up, he simply couldn't. For his body to reject food, it was simply out of the question.

 

He wanted to curl up on the floor, but he'd be cold. He wanted to get back into bed, but he'd be hot. The miserable sound escaped Norton's mouth again. 

 

He wanted to sleep.

A rap on the door snapped him out of it. It was Friday, payday, if he could even call it that. Of course his body would react to that. He aggressively rubbed his eyes, sniffling from one of the illnesses he’d contracted, before leaning over and pulling his stained pants back up. His hand reached for what was left of his shirt, but another knock halted his movements, urgent, sharper, more aggressive this time.

 

“ Ya vengale güey, te estoy oyendo! ” he snapped in response, rage crawling up his spine and sparking his nerves. The last thing he needed was someone thinking they were better than him, thinking they could dangle the promise of pay in his face and enjoy having him at their beck and call. They absolutely did, and he knew it. 

 

Norton stumbled to the door, the other reaching for the handle. It easily clicked and pulled open in his grasp. He’d forgotten to lock it? No, maybe it was broken again. Had he slammed it shut?

 

“ Qué coño quieres …” Norton began, but his eyes immediately dropped to the floor. 

 

Instead of the regular paper bag, a small, neat, beige envelope was placed before him, contrasted against the moss and rotten wood. It looked delicate, untainted, as if someone had taken great care in creating it, only to then leave it to be soiled by Norton’s diseased hands. A heavy silence hung in the air, a complete oxymoron to the last few seconds. Norton’s brow furrowed, craning his neck as he looked around. 

 

“¿ Hola? ” he reluctantly spoke. He didn’t dare take a step outside, a small part of him screaming that it was bait. No response. Nothing could be heard other than the gentle patter of the rain, the letter catching a few dump spots. Nothing could be seen other than the pitch black of the night sky. Norton could only feel himself getting irritated again.

 

“¡Oye!” He barked out, louder this time, just as harshly as the knocking that had beckoned him to the door like a dog. He was rewarded with nothing. No-one was there to take his wrath.

 

He looked back at the letter, kneeling down cautiously and keeping his head up as he finally retrieved the letter. His body fought against him as he shakily returned to stand upright, his knees clicking in protest. Turning it over in his hands, he noticed a small red seal holding the envelope closed. There was a strange symbol embedded into it, carefully created with no imperfections, a perfect circle.

 

Norton held the letter to his nose and sniffed. It smelt like smoke, wood, and something else he couldn't pinpoint. It felt heavy in his hands. Whatever it was, it wasn't his pay.

 

“ Este güey no para de chingar… ” Norton muttered under his breath, slamming the door shut and discarding the letter onto a pile of dirty clothes. He took a step forward, then stepped back, hastily clicking the lock shut.

 

After a few more curses and some slaps to the face, Norton found himself with a tin cup in his hand. The liquid was going down his throat before he could even process it, rotating between chugging and gasping for air. God knows what shit came out of his pipes. Another serving was poured, going right where the last one went, and a third was splashed over his face, running down his neck and pooling in his clavicle. The air immediately chilled his body, temporarily relieving him. 

 

Norton raked his fingers through his hair before glancing at his watch. 2am. Shit, he'd been sleeping for a while. How much did he drink? He cursed again; he couldn't even remember the succulent taste of his precious liquor.

 

With a huff, it was carefully unclipped and placed back onto the nightstand, resting on a stained piece of cloth. The bed covers were still damp, but he didn't care. Norton laid back on the sheets, scratching at the stubble on his chin before turning onto his side. There wasn't much he could do but go back to sleep, lest his schedule be ruined. Arms wrapped themselves around his body, holding himself in a self soothing embrace. Luckily, his body was already accepting the proposal, his eyes feeling heavy and sore. The water had nulled his pounding headache for now, and he needed to sleep before it dared to return.

 

His eyes darted to the door one final time, double checking to make sure he'd definitely prevented anyone from coming in. A low sigh escaped him when he was satisfied, his vision becoming spotty and hazy. A glimpse of red caught his eye before he finally closed them. 

His brow furrowed in confusion.

Who the hell delivered mail this late?

When Norton opens his eyes, he hates that he knows where he is.

 

He was lying down, an agonizing, cold, sharp pain gripping his lower back. Cold sweat bathed him, but he was too tired to shiver. His eyes blinked a few times, but he quickly shut them, covering his face. He didn't want to be reminded of this hellhole. He wanted to wake up somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here.

 

The air pierced through his lungs as it entered his body, making him curl into a ball and grip his chest. 

 

This time, Norton couldn't hold back, coughing hard until he felt some form of liquid bubbling in his throat. His hand immediately covered his mouth, quickly preventing the bitter, vile spit from making its way out. After a few seconds of hesitation, the hand peeled itself off, running down his chin, neck, until it settled on his collarbone. It felt sticky.

 

A question regarding the previous night floated around in his head, but he was too tired to properly acknowledge it. Who fucking cared what happened anymore? He'd gotten pissed beyond his own comprehension, and then probably thrown up somewhere in his room. What else was new? 

 

His fingers absentmindedly clawed at his chest. 

 

If only he could reach in and take out an organ or three. Maybe it would feel good, pulling his lungs out and relieving himself from the agony of being alive. He could barely fucking breathe anymore, so surely they weren't even working. Why did he need them? Then again, they were ruined. What would they be good for? Maybe they'd be thrown into the street for some flea ridden mutt to enjoy. Were organs a delicacy? Why was there a market for them again?

 

Norton groaned, stretching his arms before sitting up, putting his head in his hands. Moving hurts. Everything just fucking hurts.

 

 

He was so tired. He wanted to die.

 

But he had to get up. He had to get up and work. He had to get ahead of all those fucking bastard that beat him, destroyed him, laughed at him. He had to eat the shit that was rotting in his cupboards. He had to pay his rent, lest he be tracked down and dragged out into the street for all to see, because oh, look at Campbell, he can't afford rent again.

 

He had to fucking do something . 

 

Those thoughts made his hands slide from his face, staring straight ahead at the same old poster. It hadn't fallen down yet, which was surprising. Why was it still there? It wasn't as if it could help him get off anymore.

 

Swinging his legs off the bed, he grunted as he rested them on the hard floor. It was cold and wet. Norton scowled in discomfort before standing. He picked up the watch and clipped it on, not even bothering to check the time as he made his way to the kitchen. The soles of his feet glued themselves to the floor with every step. 

 

Somedays, dying didn’t sound so bad. 

 

He pushed his hair back, blinking his eyes hard before reaching up for the cupboards. The door was hanging on for dear life, a few mites scrambling away to escape the light. Shit, he'd forgotten to go shopping. No, his pay didn't come. Why didn't his fucking pay come?

 

Norton followed the herd, he stayed in line, he did everything he was supposed to, didn't he? So what did he do wrong? Why hadn't they paid him yesterday? Were they fucking with him?

 

The cupboard door was slammed shut.

 

He got ready like usual, doing up his shirt buttons, combing through his hair with his hand. Strands of hair clung to his sticky fingertips, resulting in them being pulled out. Fuck his stupid fucking hair. Maybe he should just pull all of it out now and save himself the trouble every morning. At this rate, he wouldn't make it to winter.

 

Breakfast was nothing.

 

He wouldn't be needed at the site until late, but that would mean no-one else would be there. If he got lucky, he might be able to find something without being watched like a hawk. And even if he didn't, it was better than rotting away in his bed. 

 

His equipment was littered around the place, only making him more irritated. The helmet was easy enough to find, but his gloves were another story. It wasn't uncommon for him to throw things around in his drunken state, so they'd probably made his way down the side of his bed. Or maybe he'd lost them outside. Maybe he'd thought they were dirty, like everything else.

 

Norton's head turned to the growing pile of clothes stacked in the corner. On any normal day, he would have torn the pile apart, then kicked it back into place and then gone about his day. 

 

Was this normal?

 

His brow furrowed, picking up the previously discarded letter from the night before. It felt heavier than he remembered, not that he remembered much of what happened at all. Anyone else would have just left it, chalked it up to an incorrect delivery, and waited for someone to come and collect it, for a price of course. Norton turned the envelope over. There was no address.

 

Curiosity got the better of him. No address, no recipient, so no-one would miss it. He picked at the wax seal , hooking his finger under it and ripping it off, a chunk of paper coming off with it. It was a decently made thing, and he could probably get a few cents for it. Pocketing it with a huff, he tore into the envelope, sending the contents sliding out and falling to his feet. 

Norton's body went numb. 

 

Money, in the hundreds. Below his feet. Crisp, new bills, as if they were just printed, designed to be handed to him. Just there for him to take. 

 

His knees gave away, sending him plummeting to the ground, grabbing a handful of the notes and immediately dirtying them with his hands. He held them to his nose, inhaling deeply. Fuck, they were real. They were actually real. He'd laugh if he had the energy, and he'd cry if he wasn't dehydrated.

 

“ Gracias a Dios… ” Norton croaked out, taking another deep breath. 

 

Whatever unfortunate soul had delivered this letter had saved him. He could eat. Shit, he could do more than just eat. 

 

The letter was still clasped in his hand as he gathered all the money close to him, forcing it into his pockets. He'd hide his pants somewhere, maybe under the floorboards, so no-one could come and take it while he slept. His hand dug into the envelope to fish out any he'd missed, but instead came out a sheet of paper, neatly folded. Norton hesitated before opening it. 

 

There was a date written on the top left, a few weeks off the current day. There was no sender name, either. The words were carefully handwritten, a little flick added to the end of each sentence. He felt like he'd seen this before, something felt so familiar, so normal, as if he knew who had written this.

 

“ To Whom it may concern.

 

I pray this letter has found you safely. In regards to your new job briefing, we have matters to discuss.”  

 

Norton couldn't help but snort. Finding a new job here was next to impossible. The risk of being unemployed was too dangerous, as there was no guarantee you'd find another anytime soon. Maybe there would be a slot open for a new mailman.

 

“ Attached to this letter, you will find your deposit. Consider this as compensation. The amount has been directly calculated to aid you in your travels for the role above, where we will proceed to discuss any inquiries you may have. ”

 

Traveling? Shit, he hadn't done that in years. Sure, it could get him a train out of here, but where would he go? There wasn't an address, and it wasn't as if the letter was actually for him, so the job wouldn't be either. The money was enough to feed him for a month or two. Once that ran out, he'd probably kill himself. What better way to die than after living a life of temporary luxury?

 

“ Rejection to this role is acceptable, and my contact with you will cease should you not comply. Your contract will be terminated and you will be deemed unable to work. Though, it would not be understandable, Mr Campbell. A stable revenue would be promised to you, a chance to leave and not look back. No-one would find you, so long as you accept. Or would you prefer to stay here, slaving away day in, day out, breaking your bones for mere pennies, being treated like the dirt under the feet of your peers? Being reduced to nothing but a doll, an object…yes, I am talking to you. You understand what I mean, do you not? Do you really want to settle for this? You may not see me, but I see you.

 

Your will is commendable, my friend. I see you, and I see your pain in ways the others do not. I can promise you a life of warmth and wealth, should you prove yourself to me. How you do this is your decision. I will be keeping track of your every move, so do not think I will not notice. I do not believe a man like you requires much motivation, but someone else will take your place should you refuse my offer. You were my first choice. Do not take this proposal lightly.

 

Your deadline is the date above. After that, I will be returning to my home country, and we shall not speak again. You will be left with the life you’ve chosen.

 

It can only be you. I look forward to seeing what you can do.

 

Warm Regards. O.’

Norton finally let go of the breath he didn't even know he was holding.

 

His blood had run cold paragraphs ago, his brain finally acknowledging it. The letter was crumpled from where he held it in an iron grip. He didn't know what to feel or think, swallowing hard as he read the letter again. He slapped his face, reading it a third time.

 

Being a ploy to mess with him was out of the question. No-one here would just throw this much money at him for a reaction. No-one here would speak so deeply to him. No-one here would know his name. No-one would write in such a way that left Norton desperate to read more.

 

Norton swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry throat, his mouth and tongue going numb. The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears, deafening the world around him. Was he scared? Yes. Was he confused beyond his fucking mind? Absolutely.

 

There were no faults in the author's logic. The words were spoken as if they came from his own heart, pandering to him and only him. Shit. He was losing his mind. It had to be a sick joke.

 

A shaking hand covered his mouth as he inhaled slowly. How was he meant to prove himself to someone he'd never met? Was forcing himself to live not enough, or was it just mandatory in the eyes of others?

 

Norton's gaze returned to the money surrounding him. Sure, it was enough for now, but the letter promised him that and more. He was the first choice. If the instructions were clear, he would have followed them immediately. But never before had he been given the reins in his work. He had nothing left to forfeit to prove himself. His perfect routine had been ruined, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to do. 

 

Seriously, what the fuck did this mean? What did any of it mean? Norton anxiously chewed on his nail. He had nothing left to give, and nothing left to lose. What the hell did this guy want from him?

 

The hand slid from his mouth. It wasn't shaking anymore. His head turned back to the envelope, raising it to his face again and sniffing. It smelt like smoke, wood, and something else he could finally pinpoint.

He had nothing left to lose.

When Norton opens his eyes, it takes a second for him to know where he is.

 

He was laying down.

 

Smoke. Ash. A beautiful night sky. He could see the stars. He tried to grab them. Was that his blood? Why was his face sticky? Why wouldn't he move?

 

A grin tugged at his lips, and Norton started laughing. He didn’t know why. It drowned out the sound of the crackling fire, echoing off the rocks. He laughed until his lungs gave out, his body still convulsing in ecstasy. 

When his eyes open again, he has no idea where he is.

 

He's still laying down, but now he's in a room, a white room. A dark, white room. The ceiling is clean, without a single crack or imperfection, at least from what Norton can see; he was blinded in one eye, his left one. Was there something on his face? Was his hair growing again?

 

He tried claw at whatever was wrapped around his head, but he couldn't feel his hands. He couldn't feel his arms. Come to think of it, he couldn't feel anything at all.

 

Shit, was he finally dead? Was this hell? It was nothing like how his old man described it. Pits of fire and flesh, screaming that would make you beg for deafness, memories that would repeat in a neverending nightmare. Yet here he was, laying in a soft bed, silence enveloping him like a warm blanket.

 

Maybe he’d finally lost his mind. Was he hallucinating? It didn’t sound too bad, deluding himself into believing in a better life. Where he didn’t have to work himself to the bone, day in, day out. Barely making ends meet, forfeiting to becoming a human punching bag or living sexdoll for some spare change. But a hospital? He’d be much happier in a pool of riches. 

 

The chatter of passerby's echo down the hall catches his attention, before he realizes it's just meaningless drabble. He wasn’t alone here, at least. Did someone find him and take pity? They would have broken into this house to find him. Then did he forget to lock the door again. Fuck, he hadn’t even cleaned up the place. That was embarrassing. 

 

His head lolled to the side, ready to find solace in sleep. He couldn’t move, so there was no point in wasting energy. Hell, he was dreaming anyway. When he was awake, he’d feel nothing but agony in every step, every breath. Now, he couldn’t feel anything. Eyelashes fluttered on his cheeks.

 

Something smelt sweet.

 

Norton’s eyes cracked open again.

 

A single flower was placed in a glass vase, healthy and cared for. A gladioli. Next to that was his watch, carefully placed on a clean cloth, as if he'd placed it himself. Relief washed over him as he saw the hands ticking, making him glance back up at the flower. He'd seen them around the mines, crushed, dead and withered from dehydration. Norton wanted to reach out and touch it, but his body wouldn't even grant him that. Did someone leave that there for him? Was it actually real? Was he losing his fucking mind?

 

Why was he here again?

Norton’s chest stopped moving. He was too scared to take another breath. 

 

His head slowly turned to the side, staring into the darkness.

 

And the darkness stared back, gleeful, infatuated, hungry.

Norton rubs his eyes.

 

The warmth of the sun coated his face, making him feel even more tired. On a day like this, he should be alert and ready, but he'd probably still be sleeping if he was allowed.

 

With a huff, he rested his chin on his palm, staring out the moving window. In the past, he would have been gawking at the new sights, face pressed to the window like a child, but he'd grown used to the sight. 

 

For the last few months, he'd been ordered to stay dormant. Before that, he'd been directed to attend interviews, cater to journalists, the whole nine yards. Norton was never a social person, even less so to strangers who only wanted him for the newest scoop. For free, for exploitation, he never would have done it. But it was his first job, told to him with shining eyes and a grin to match. 

 

The first weeks had been hectic. Sometimes, he wished he hadn't survived the accident. But once the reporters grew bored of him, once they had sucked him dry of all the information he was willing to give, he was whisked away onto a plane and flown to god knows where. For his next job, he was told. Not through words, but through another letter left on his bedside table. 

 

Packing took him less than an hour. He was provided with a case, but he'd probably only filled it up by half. What was he supposed to even pack? Half of his clothes were rotting into the floor by now. 

 

Another yawn ripped through him.

 

Despite his internal discomfort, he really couldn't complain. Sure, it had been a pain in the ass, but he'd been left to his own devices once everything had died down. His hospital bills were paid for, his travel was covered, and the only instructions were to stay put and follow orders when they came. And so he did, waiting day in, day out, inside a tiny flat that overlooked the streets. When he first arrived, he'd almost drowned himself in fresh water, chugging gallons until he threw up. It was cold, soothing his insides until the burning pain in his lungs cooled. And then he'd sit by the tap for a few hours, turning it on and off. 

 

Food would be brought to him daily, in the morning and evening, with a knock at the door to summon him. Most of the time, there would be no-one there, only a full bag to feed him and another sealed letter to give him attention. Sometimes, he would be there.

 

In hindsight, his orders were a little strange. He wasn't allowed to leave the apartment, wasn't allowed to look at the window before 10, wasnß't allowed contact with the outside world. Strange, but could he really complain?. Norton was being looked after, being fed and cleaned for doing nothing. Being put on standby. Time to recover, was what he called it.

 

Light scratching. The sound of ink seeping into paper.

 

At first, Norton was baffled, honored even. If he was delusional enough, he might have called it fate. It wasn't something he noticed immediately, only realizing when he had taken one of his books from his suitcase and turned to Norton, eyes crinkled in a strange delight. 

 

“Is this yours?” he'd asked Norton, voice dripping in sweet honey.

 

Norton had snatched it back. It earned him a chuckle.

 

“Oh, pardon me. I am flattered.”

 

He definitely wasn't stupid, but it wasn't until he saw the smile on his face widen that he truly understood. He understood why the letters left him thirsty, desperate. He understood how all of his expenses were whisked away in the blink of an eye. He understood why he blindly trusted his words.

 

While it was shocking, it wasn't at all unrealistic. The man was rich, successful. Norton knew their kind. Too afraid to get their hands dirty. They needed someone disposable. Keeping someone on standby, like a robot, or a dog, feeding them and keeping them happy until they needed them to be useful. Acceptance of the hospitality was also a silent acceptance of the job. He wouldn't be able to refuse now. But he was finally able to rest, to eat. Whatever it was, he'd do it to maintain this life.

 

The more youthful side of him shivered in excitement. Oh, how he wanted to ask him how he did it, how he crafted his words in such a gorgeous, fruitful way, making him hungry for more. But he held his tongue. ‘ Never meet your heroes ’, or however the saying went.

 

Despite all the promised care and protection, he couldn't relax. The first night was a living hell. He was shaken, curled up by the windowsill, head resting on the cold glass. The soft glow of the streetlamps provided him with some comfort, but it wasn't enough. He'd felt sick, and he couldn't pinpoint why. More accurately, he didn't want to admit weakness. Why was he scared? 

 

When he came to visit, just as he promised the day before, Norton was in the same position, staring at the door, hugging himself like a threatened animal. He saw something on his face, an unrecognizable expression, before that sickly sweet smile returned. The sight of food perked Norton up somewhat, but it wasn't enough. He must have seen it, not taking his eyes off his employee for one second. 

 

“Say…” he finally spoke to him. A chill ran down Norton's spine. “You seem distressed, my friend. Might it be something I could fix?” 

 

Norton swallowed what was in his mouth, turning his head to face the other. Fix? Fix what? Hell, Norton didn't even know what was wrong. His mouth fell open to speak, but nothing came out, earning him a soft chuckle.

 

“What I mean is…you are my guest.” He continued, taking a seat beside Norton. “I have offered my hospitality to you. It would be impolite of me to leave you uncomfortable, especially if it is making you lose sleep.”

 

Norton's brow furrowed, looking back down at his meal. He didn't feel that hungry anymore.

 

“...s’kinda hard to be comfortable, sir.”

 

He smiled.

 

“I see. Would it be better if it was more familiar?”

 

Familiar? What the fuck was he talking about? Norton came here to get away from what was familiar. Wasn't that the whole fucking point?

 

“What I'm referring to is your door,” he continued, raising a hand to draw Nortons gaze back back to him. “Would you prefer it to be locked?” 

 

At first, Norton didn't know what to say. The answer was blatantly clear in his mind, sure. But admitting it out aloud to, well, basically his boss, was a whole other story. He poked at his meal with his fork.

 

“You ain't locked it before, sir?”

 

“Don’t mind the pleasantries. We're friends, are we not?” He smiled, starting to unpack the contents of the bag of food, carefully placing them on the small dining table. “But I am sure you would feel happier with a lock on the inside, no?”

 

Norton didn't know what to say. How did he -

 

“Please, do not think about it too much. You are not the only one who fears the dark.”

 

The hairs on the back of Norton's neck bristled. Fear? Anyone else who dared say that would have been smacked around the face before they could think, especially if they spoke with such a chipper tone. Any other person, but him . Norton wasn't scared. He had nothing to be afraid of anymore. No matter how much he'd trembled the night before, Norton believed he wasn't a fucking coward. But right now, to get what he wanted, it was easier to just agree. 

 

Even if it definitely wasn't true.

Days turned into weeks. He'd eat basic meals, lay in bed for hours, stare out the window, yet Norton felt like royalty. He could bathe whenever he wanted. He could sleep whenever he wanted. For the first time in a long time, he could feel weight on his bones.

 

It wasn't a lot, but it was more than he could have dreamed off a few months ago. He'd leave the plates spotless, even finding time to wash the dishes in the same night. Sometimes he'd double wash them, simply because he had the time to. 

 

And yet, despite the care, the food, the warmth, it wasn't long until he found himself wanting more and more. Norton truly was a selfish being, but it was still a human desire. He would notice, and would bring Norton things. Another lamp. Another book. An extra portion of those beef pieces he really liked.

 

What did he desire from him?

 

The question kept him up some nights. Sometimes it was a lingering thought, but other times it made anxiety grip at his chest. What was he here for, really? For a man like him , it could be anything. A bodyguard? That wouldn't explain the drastic measures. Besides, Norton couldn't even protect himself. A muse? He was an author , wasn't he? It didn't sound all that bad, to have Norton's sins immortalized in his ink. He'd make Norton's life sound like heaven.

 

While they weren't exactly strangers, the man was still a mystery to Norton. It baffled him. He'd read his stories, listened to them, met the goddamn creator himself, but it felt like Norton had never truly met him at all. Then again, they hadn't spent that much time together, and when they did, they didn't really talk. At least, not to each other; it seemed like he loved the sound of his own voice, allowing Norton to just sit and listen. 

 

And then he'd leave until the evening, bringing Norton another meal and another update. Really, he didn't mind at all. He could get used to this. The goods outweighed the odds. Even if the odds were really odd.

 

Then again, it wasn't as if Norton felt desire too.

 

Desire, the type to make him cower in shame. The desire to be near him , undoubtedly caused by his isolation. Norton doubted it was his intention, but there were times when he'd sit a little closer than normal, or push his stupid glasses up slowly with his slender fingers, or brush his hand against Norton's hand, or speak in such a sickly sweet tone that left him drooling. Sometimes, he was fucking ravishing.

God, Norton was so depraved. It was humiliating.

…but seriously, what kind of boss watches you eat?

“Hey.” Norton finally inquired, tilting his head to the side. “How much longer?”

 

The gentle scrawling of the pen stopped, being replaced with a small chuckle. 

 

“Nervous, Mr Campbell?”

 

“I ain't nervous.” Norton scowled. “Got nothin’ to be nervous about, since you ain't told me shit.”

 

He laughed in response, clearly amused by Norton's impatience. “I’ve told you enough, have I not? Besides, this makes the grand reveal much more exciting, no?”

 

God, it was hard not to roll his eyes. 

 

“You know what I need you to do.” he continued, tapping the paper with his pen. “Just…try to converse with the others, or you will look even more suspicious. I know you hate it, but you need to do this for me. No-one knows you're coming, and they're already on high alert.”

 

Norton sneered. “An’ who's fault is that?” 

 

A rare look of defeat appeared on his face. It definitely made Norton feel some sort of pride.

 

“I will admit this…was handled rather messily. But you'll pick up the pieces for me, won't you?”

 

“You're makin’ it sound like I have a choice.” Norton huffed, looking out the window again.

 

“Hmm.”

 

Both men fell silent, the gentle scribbling resuming a few seconds later. The area had changed now, turning more rural than before. Trees stretched high, filtering out the sun. 

 

Back in the mines, Norton rarely saw the sun. The dust kicked up from the workers would blanket the sky in a thick gray, and when the sun did finally come out, Norton would be burrowed almost deep enough to reach the bowels of hell. No wonder his eyes were so sore.

 

“...do I really gotta call you that?”

 

“Call me what?”

 

Norton shot him a look. 

 

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten...” His tone was chipper, a smile on his lips. Fucking hell. 

 

“...Mr DeRoss.”

 

The smile widened. “I couldn't hear you.”

 

“Don't push it.”

 

Another soft laugh, and the book was closed. “If anyone finds out we know each other, that would cause problems. Though, I would take immense enjoyment out of you calling me ‘Sir.’”

 

Yeah, Norton's sure he fucking would. Prick. 

 

“Or maybe, you never know,” he continued, much to Norton's dismay. “One day, during our time here…we could get to know each other on a first name basis again.” 

 

Norton scoffed.

 

“Sure. Fuck off, Orpheus .”

 

Orpheus smiled in delight.

When Norton opened his eyes, he truly began to wonder where he was.

 

He'd definitely expected more out of his first day, but nothing except the location had really changed. Orpheus had left him to his own devices as soon as they'd stepped into the building, his only instruction being to ‘ get along ’. 

 

With Orpheus' description, he expected the place to at least appear occupied. Norton thought it would be like the past, where you couldn't get a single moment alone, where you had to fight just to get seen. But the building, no…the entire area had been akin to a ghost town. The drive in had been quiet. The entry had been quiet. Not that he really tried very hard to find anyone else.

 

That morning, he was the first one at the dining table, feeling starved the moment he saw the plates. The jackass hadn't even let him have breakfast, not that Norton managed to sleep peacefully to earn one. The anxiety of what awaited him here had kept him on edge, to the point that he was dressed and waiting by the time Orpheus came to pick him up.

 

A butler came out a little while after he took a seat, staring at him hopefully. Not even a greeting, and he looked just as tired as Norton. Was he also Orpheus' employee? Seemed like he had a type. 

 

It wasn't until some awkward glances that he was finally given the option to request a meal, which he took without a second thought. Norton had never been a man of fancy taste; if he didn't recognise the ingredients, it wouldn't go in his mouth. It was a new rule that he'd established in the weeks of being gifted food, which Orpheus had catered to without hesitation. It felt weird, being treated with such care and compassion. And it only made Norton wonder just how bad this job would be. 

 

His dish was placed in front of him a few minutes later: warm, thick crusted bread, and a pint of milk. The first meal he'd left for him, on the hospital bedside. Another dish was placed further up the table.

 

He was a few bites in before the door finally, finally opened behind him. A flash of blue strode past him, staring at him with bright, golden eyes, before sitting down. He spared them…oh, her… a fleeting glance before cramming his mouth full again. 

 

It must be her . She was just as Orpheus had described. The first person, other than him , that he'd been around since the incident. And yet, he felt nothing.

 

“Good morning, Mr Campbell.”

 

Norton stopped, looking up again. She acknowledged him, but he knew it was from a place of pity. The way her brow crinkled in confusion. The way her back was pressed up against her seat, as if she wanted to flea. Oh, she even sat like him . She hadn't even touched her food. 

 

Get along. That's what Orpheus said. That's what Orpheus told him to do.

 

So Norton had raised his eyebrows, grunting in acknowledgement before chugging down the pint.

Wow. She'd looked repulsed.

“My sister. Her name is Alice.” He’d told Norton one day, completely unprompted. “And I need you to…take care of her .”

 

At first, Norton didn’t react. Take care of. So he wanted his sister gone. Was he surprised? No, not really. He’d expected something twisted like this out of the novelist, some inner turmoil or hatred towards someone close. Their first interaction had been Orpheus begging Norton to prove his worth, prove his will to keep living, no matter what it took. You wouldn’t ask that if you simply wanted a maid or gardener. A bodyguard, maybe. A murderer, most definitely. 

 

“Mhm.” He’d finally responded, forcing another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. They sat together in silence, the only sound being Norton’s mouth as he ate life his life depended on it.

 

“...that’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Orpheus finally asked, his eyebrow curled upwards in amusement. “No…no questions? Nothing?”

 

Norton cast Orpheus an annoyed, tired glance before looking down. The other just blinked, and then chuckled, covering his mouth to stifle his laughter. And he didn't say anything after that. 

 

Norton kinda wished he did.

He sat up in bed. God, he was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He wondered what Orpheus was doing. He hadn't seen him, not when he'd taken a walk around the manor, and not even at dinner. When the novelist hadn't turned up, Norton had brought his plate back to his assigned room. He didn't feel like talking. 

 

After a few minutes of pondering, Norton pulled his suitcase out from where he'd kicked it under the bed earlier. Tossing it onto the bed, Norton undid the clasps and opened it. Shit, he really did have nothing.

 

A handful of clothes were balled up and tossed into the corner. Books were piled in his hands before they were dumped onto the desk. Norton turned away, then turned back, grabbing one of the books before shoving the suitcase off the bed and laying back down, flipping the book open.

 

He hadn't finished this one yet. Orpheus had gifted it to him around the time he'd first been brought here. He'd seen how worn down the others were, and God, from the look in his eyes, Norton thought he was about to explode. He'd never outright admit to being a fan of Orpheus' stories, and would chalk it up to them being the only books he could get his hands on because they were ‘cheap’, which was definitely a kick to Orpheus' ego from the way his smile wavered. Knowing who the author was definitely changed his perception of them; he couldn't read a single line without it being in his voice.

 

It wasn't exactly something he could complain about. 

 

The more he read, the quicker the hours passed by. It really was strange. Orpheus' words were indescribable, as if written by something not human. Full of passion, full of desire, full of want, full of things that spoke directly to Norton. He found himself jealous of the characters, wishing that someone would describe him in such ways, that someone would write his fate so carefully. Orpheus himself, on the other hand, seemed to have no emotion at all. 

 

He did have different tones, facial expressions and all that. But Norton could never tell what he was really thinking. It was confusing. It was annoying.

 

Sometimes, it was mesmerizing.

Norton closed the book and squeezed his eyes shut.

He wasn’t sure if he ever opened them. 

 

Norton waited every minute, every hour of the day, just waiting for something to do. He’d do what he was originally told to do, of course; he’d go to breakfast, make bland conversation with her and the… other one …and then he’d return to his room, feeling full, bored, and strangely docile.

 

He knew there was something more. He knew the food tasted different. And he knew this wasn’t just about getting rid of her.

 

For the whole time he'd been here, he'd only crossed paths with Orpheus once. And when he'd pulled him to the side and asked about what the fuck was doing on, Orpheus had just smiled, patted him on the shoulder and whispered something into his ear that made him shudder.

 

One day turned into two. Two turned into three. Norton didn't feel well. 

 

In the past, he would have thought this would have been a dream. Too good to be true. Getting paid and fed for doing minimal work? Maybe he was still sleeping back in his rotting house. If he woke up now, it would probably be the tipping point, and he'd definitely be dead by dawn. But luckily, Norton wasn’t much of a dreamer. The events were too elaborate, too detailed. Too fucking boring.

 

Three was about to turn into four.

 

Norton groaned and rubbed his eyes, putting the book over his face. 

There was a knock at the door. Norton jolted up, almost tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to the door like a dog awaiting its owner.  Finally, finally, he was meeting with his boss. 

 

And Orpheus stood before him, as perfect as always, hair brushed to the side, that empty smile on his lips, fully dressed in a blinding white, as if he hadn't even considered sleep. Norton noticed Orpheus' gaze move from his face to behind him, his demeanor changing slightly. Dirty stacked plates. Dirty clothes. Dirty bed. Oh, how disappointed Orpheus looked. 

 

“Would'a cleaned up if I knew you was stayin’ the night.” Norton mumbled, scratching a knot out of his hair. He expected Orpheus to at least reciprocate the mutual banter, as he had before. But this time, the novelist stared right through him. And he had a look in his eyes. A look that Norton had been waiting for. 

 

“...come with me.” 

Norton was whisked away again, Orpheus' grip on his wrist. 

 

He was taken to Orpheus' room. It was dark, except for the gentle glow of a lamp on the spotless desk, which Norton silently feels gratitude for. Two seats are already arranged, facing each other. No where else to look.

 

“Please, sit.” Orpheus invited, stroking the fabric of the empty seat as he walked by it. Norton frowned, but obeyed, slouching in the chair with a huff. The novelist dusted imaginary dust off the desk, sorting through a small jar of pens. Norton rolled his eyes, resting his chin on his palm and looking around the room.

 

It was definitely more homely than Norton's room, as if Orpheus had been here for a while. It was clean and smelled a little fruity. A pile of clothes were neatly folded, separated into darks and whites and placed on his bed. In the cupboard, he could see a row of white blazers, which made him want to roll his eyes. Did Orpheus only have one outfit? He acted like he was playing a character.

 

“I have to apologize,” Orpheus interrupted Norton's thoughts, sitting in the seat opposite him. He had a book and pen in his hands, unopened. “I had quite a lot on my plate. It would've been difficult to contact you discretely.”

 

“Wow. An’ here I thought you'd forgotten ‘bout me.” the raven grunted, pulling at a loose thread on his trousers. Orpheus pouted a little.

 

“Don't be like that. I've been working as fast as I can.” When Norton said nothing, Orpheus sighed again, adjusting his monocle. “Anyhow…I wanted to talk to you. Think of it as…a wellness check.”

 

Norton cocked an eyebrow, a smirk of disbelief on his lips. Shit, Orpheus must be REALLY bored.

 

“So,” Orpheus started, crossing his legs and flashing that fake smile. “How have you been doing? Have you been getting on with everyone?”

 

“I guess,” Norton mumbled. “Saw her, first day.”

 

“Oh!” The novelist immediately perked up, as if the freak hadn't hired a man to most likely murder her. “That's good. Such an inquisitive lady, isn't she?” 

 

“Hmm.” 

 

Orpheus continued to smile to himself, looking down. He seemed to ponder before glancing up again.

 

“How about you? Have you been feeling okay?” 

 

Norton sighed, rubbing his temple. What the fuck was he talking about? Was he okay? He didn't know how he was anymore.

 

“Fine.” 

 

Orpheus' shoulders slumped a little. He really was trying. How embarrassing.

 

“Well, that's good. I hope you've been eating well. I wanted to invite you to dinner one night, but I assumed you didn't want to be disturbed.”

 

“Hmm.” 

 

“...right.” Orpheus' leg began to jiggle slightly. Was he fucking nervous? God, he actually looked disappointed. Did he think Norton would ask the same back? “Have you been sleeping well?” 

 

“Not really.”

 

Orpheus nodded, his finger tapping on the book. He still hadn't picked up the pen. “You had trouble sleeping when you first came here…I feared this would happen here, too.” 

 

“Mhmm.” 

 

The two sat in silence, awkwardly regarding each other. After a while, Orpheus broke the gaze, starting to fidget a little. It was definitely a sight, watching him try to act like a normal person. After a while, he laughed. It was a shy laugh, awkward, as if he was lost for words. 

 

“Oh, look after me, asking all the questions. I'm sure you must be dying to ask your own questions. Please, be my guest.” Orpheus intertwined his fingers, resting his chin on them and hunching forward. 

 

His demeanor had changed faster than Norton could process, feeling himself instinctively want to look away. But Orpheus didn't, his eyes boring holes into Norton's very being. He wasn't going to back off until Norton spoke. 

 

“...sure. Got a question.”

 

God, did Orpheus' face shine brighter than any candle. He looked ecstatic, shuffling forward in his seat, clasping onto the book and pen excitedly. Norton finally reciprocated, leaning forward to meet Orpheus' gaze.

 

“...do you think I'm fuckin’ stupid?”

 

And just like that, the light was smothered out.

 

“It’s been three fuckin’ days, and you won't tell me fuck all. Busy? Shit, you've been so busy you had time to do your fuckin’ laundry.”

 

Orpheus opened his mouth, but Norton continued.

 

“You kept me in a room for fuckin’ months, now you're doing it again. An’ you won't tell me shit. You wanted me for a job, and I still don't fuckin’ know what this job is. Shit, what am I supposed to do with her ? Do you want her fuckin’ dead or not?”

 

Orpheus' eyelids drooped a little, glaring at Norton now. Oh. He definitely didn't like that. 

 

“You’ve had all the time in the goddamn world to come to me. There's only four of us here, an’ I doubt the maids get paid enough to give a shit. Besides,” Norton's eyes darted downwards, and Orpheus' grip on the book tightened. “You've been runnin’ your mouth and asking me shit, but you ain't written down a single fuckin’ thing.” 

 

The two sat in silence, the gentle ticking of his watch counting away the uncomfortable seconds. Norton felt himself growing hot, the tension making his hands sweat as he gripped the chair. And Orpheus hadn't moved an inch, staring at Norton like he hated him. 

 

If you told Norton this was a different person entirely, he would have believed you.

 

“My, my…” the novelist finally spoke, his voice low and dripping with honey. He held the notebook close to his chest, pocketing the pen before standing. “You certainly can be inquisitive when you want to be.” 

 

Norton shrunk back in his seat. Orpheus smiled down at him. 

 

“Yes, I didn't bring you here for meaningless questions.” Orpheus strode over to the other's chair, his fingers tracing along the arms. Norton's eyes followed them. “I wanted to consider it to be more of…an ice breaker, I suppose.” 

 

A harsh thump echoed in the room as Orpheus tossed the notebook onto the desk, placing his hands on the sides of the chair. Norton stared straight ahead, almost feeling too anxious to look up and meet Orpheus' piercing gaze.

 

“That's what normal people like, isn't it…?” Orpheus whispered, his voice dropping to Norton's ear. The raven shuddered, his neckhairs tickled by the brunette’s warm breath. “Mindless chatter to establish…what's the word…some sort of connection.”

 

Norton snorted. “You ain't exactly what I'd call normal.” 

 

Orpheus only chuckled in response, his hands moving to trace along Norton's shoulders. “Neither are you.” 

 

The former prospector could only huff, Orpheus' touch sparking something within him. God, yeah, he wasn't normal. But he wasn't a freak like Orpheus, at least he hoped. Not yet. 

 

He tilted his head away from Orpheus. 

 

“You're comin’ on strong.” 

 

He can practically hear Orpheus' lips crack into a smile. “Oh, I suppose I am…conversing isn't exactly my strong point. Was I too boring before…? You actually took your attention off me…I'm so used to you staring at me when I walk in. It flatters me, actually. Am I truly a sight to behold?” 

 

The novelist's hands moved to Norton's neck, playing with the scarf knotted under his shirt collar. He could practically hear his heart pounding.

 

“But it's understandable…I’m sure you’re anxious. Maybe you've gotten used to me…that's why your thoughts are elsewhere.”

 

Norton raised an eyebrow, cocking his head back in Orpheus’ direction. “Get used to you? You, Orpheus? Or the one playin’ the act ?”

 

That earned him another chuckle, nails tracing up his throat.

 

“Let's get to know each other properly this time. It’s my duty as your ‘boss’ to try and communicate with my lovely little employee. I can’t have my subject stressed out, can I…?” 

 

Norton grunted, going stiff as he felt the other's index finger press into his neck. It would definitely leave a mark for a few minutes. No matter where he looked, Orpheus' presence was there, so he meagerly closed his eyes. Another soft puff of air  blew on his cheek as Orpheus laughed, trailing his finger on Norton's chin.

 

“Or…maybe…it's the opposite.”

 

The finger curved into a hook, turning Norton’s face towards him. He dared to take a peak, and fuck, he shouldn't have. Norton wasn't exactly what he'd call ‘easy’, but the sight of Orpheus' face, so close to his, eyes glinting in the dim light, his skin fair and soft to the touch…

 

“Are you enjoying this…?”

…shit. When did this start doing it for him?

 

Norton opened his mouth, gawking like a fish as he struggled to form a thought. Depravity fought with common sense. After a few more seconds of silence, he finally croaked something out.

 

“What do you want?” 

 

Orpheus' smile twisted into a grin.

 

Something pinched his arm. A strange, pitiful, embarrassing whine escaped Norton's lips, a flush spreading upwards to his face.

 

“I want you .”

When Norton opened his eyes, he couldn't see where he was. 

 

He was sitting upright, that much he knew. Sitting on something firm, uncomfortable. There was an itch at his lower spine. He tried to remedy it, but he was stopped, his arms refusing to move. He tried again, feeling a rough grip around his wrists.

 

“Unh…” he groaned softly, his head spinning. His spine hit the back of the chair, making him grunt in pain. It felt like the wood had torn through his shirt, scratching painfully at his scarred flesh, his body aching in…

 

…oh, his shirt was off.

 

Norton snapped awake almost immediately, gasping softly. His arms were bound to the arms of the chair, preventing him from getting up or even moving. It was so dark, the only source of light coming from a small lamp on a faraway desk. Was he alone? Where did Orpheus go? Fuck that, where the hell was he? And why the fuck were his arms bound? He wanted to cover himself up.

 

His feet pressed into the floor, trying to push the chair back, but it was firmly bolted into the ground. Great. Norton rapidly looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. A gentle shuffling sound came from behind him, and Norton whipped his head around. 

 

“Hello?” Norton questioned, unable to properly see behind him. It was too dark back there, so he turned his head the other way, coming face to face with a cabinet of dubious looking bottles. They had strange symbols all over them.

 

The sound of metal clinking together, followed by soft humming could be heard. So there was definitely someone else here. Norton's head painfully twisted back and forth, desperate for a glimpse. All that greeted him was darkness. Pitch, black darkness, wrapping around his bare body. His breathing got a little heavier.

 

“Orpheus…?” he whispered, praying for an answer. When he received nothing, he began to panic. “O-Orpheus…” His breathing rattled in his chest, and he leant forward , crying out. “Orpheus!” 

 

A force slapped around his mouth, making him shake in the chair and mumble in distress. Norton's head was then pulled back, and he felt soft hair against his cheek, a chin on his shoulder.

 

“Shh…” 

 

Norton's fighting died down immediately. He was so pathetic.

 

The hand on his face slowly moved to the back of his head, gently threading through his hair as he was pet into submission. Norton didn't make a sound, tilting his head in the direction of the other. Here he was, imprisoned against his will, trapped in the dark. He should be shaking, begging, pleading for his life. But Orpheus was here, so he couldn't feel alone. Come to think of it, he couldn't feel anything at all.

 

“...where the fuck are we…?” Norton eventually croaked out. Orpheus chuckled softly, letting go and returning to the location behind him. Norton's head lolled back limply.

 

“We're still in the building. Don't worry.” The sound of gentle tapping against glass echoed in the room…no, basement? Norton couldn't fucking tell. His head hurts.

 

“What the fuck is…what is..” Norton fought against his restraints. “What did you do to me…” 

 

Orpheus just laughed, a sharp, cackling laugh like a bird. Norton could hear the smile on his lips.

 

“Ah, so now you're finally asking questions.” The novelist responded. A cold finger pushed in between Norton's shoulder blades, making him sit upright and shiver as Orpheus trailed it up to his neck. “I'm surprised this is all it took.”

 

The hand brushed over Norton's skin, over his shoulder, before resting on his collarbone. The raven looked up warily at Orpheus, and…jesus, was that Orpheus? 

 

After the silent exchange, Orpheus brushed his thumb over Norton's skin before kneeling in front of the man, staring him into the eyes.

 

“I have to apologize for my…forceful behavior.” The hand smoothed over Norton's forearm, tracing over his veins. “I just want to see what you're capable of.” 

 

Norton grimaced. “Can't do much…when you fuckin’ tie me down.” 

 

A smile stretched across Orpheus' face. “You'll be free soon.” 

 

He stood again, walking out of Norton's field of view, and this time he didn't even bother to watch where Orpheus was going. He didn't know where the fuck he was, but he should have known it would end like this. The man was a freak. 

 

Harsh scraping filled Norton's ears, a chair being placed in front of him. With a huff, Orpheus sat again, his legs crossing between Norton's legs.

 

“Mr Campbell.”

 

Norton cocked his head upright. Orpheus was still smiling. 

 

“I'm giving you a choice, my friend. Don't worry, you will leave with your life, no matter what you choose. If you so wish, you can go. You can walk away from this manor.  I'll pay for your travels back to your home. I won't contact you, and you won't have to worry about me meddling with your life again, so long as you never speak of this. Everything will go back to…your ‘normal’.” 

 

A hand smoothed over his thigh. 

 

“Or…you can finally see what you're capable of. You'll see the truth, Mr Campbell. You'll make a change. You'll be rewarded handsomely, I might add.”

 

Orpheus leaned closer, making Norton hold his breath. His eyes were glowing in the dim light, a gentle squeeze at his leg, warm breath ghosting across his exposed flesh. 

 

“You won't have to go home. You could stay here, with me. I know what you are. Don't you want to know who I am, too? Truly, it could be fate, you and I. We'll discover ourselves. I'm willing to bet my cards on you, Mr Campbell, should you do this for me. But if you walk out now, you'd be curious, wouldn't you? And the thought would haunt you, just like the screams of those you damned to get this far.” 

 

Orpheus' lips brushed against Norton's ear, the warm hand moving up to his chest. Norton's neck craned to the side.

 

“I know you want to get something out of all of this. It could be more than money. More than what you were destined for. And I know you hold something within you.”

 

The syringe was presented to him. A soft whisper.

“...aren't you sick of all this shit, Norton?” 

Such a fake sense of equality.

“...yeah.”

Norton had never been one for medicine, or drugs for that matter. It was expensive, either a waste on something he could recover from or a pathetic temporary release. So when he felt the cold metal pierce his flesh, wriggling under his skin, the warm flow of something flushing up his arm, he did feel rather queasy. His eyes squeezed shut on his instinct, every neutron in his brain firing off at once, telling him that this was wrong, that he should be fighting off this freak, that he shouldn't be fucking excited, that it was really wrong. But when had it ever been right?

 

The man before him hummed softly, the foreign object slowly exiting his body. When Norton finally looked up, Orpheus looked extremely satisfied. Proud of him, or maybe just proud of himself. No words were spoken, but those bright eyes continued to bore into his soul. 

 

They sat together, their breath mingling. 

 

It took a minute, maybe a minute and a half, until the warmth in his arm began to spread, reaching across his chest and gripping his heart. Norton coughed, then gasped, hands gripping the chair as he desperately tried to ground himself. It was hot, getting hotter, so hot that he swore he felt sweat running down his forehead. A soft, pitiful whine left his throat as his back slammed against the chair, knowing that he would throw up whatever he ate that evening if he leant forward.

 

And then it stopped. Just like that, a cold chill growing in his lower stomach, crawling up through his ribcage, sticking together like glue. It gummed up his lungs, making his body tremble, and Norton couldn't breath. No, he could, but every breath was a fight that didn't know he could win. But he tried, god damnit he tried, and he didn't know why he did. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room, slowly turning into panting. Everything was spinning, so he closed his eyes. And then, in the peak of his suffering, he heard something. 

 

Pen hitting paper.

That prick.

If he could, Norton would have probably smacked Orpheus. For sticking him here, like a little lab rat, using him for entertainment. He wanted to fight, he wanted to show that he wasn't so easily won over. And most importantly, he wanted to stop fucking enjoying it.

 

“Orn…” was all Norton managed to get out, his hand weakly clenching into a fist. His shoes pushed against the floor, held down by his restraints. “Orpn…” 

 

Everything felt cramped. Everything felt too small, and it needed to get out, whatever it was. His jaw hung open, wanting to say something else, but everything felt so, so heavy. Moving was now out of the question, as he feared he would fall if he tried. The numbing feeling in his knees was bordering on agony.

 

It felt like his body was falling apart.

He couldn't breathe. It was so tight in his throat, leaving him gawking like a fish out of water. Everything felt hollow, like he was so empty, starving for something. Ringing in his ears, driving him to the brink of insanity. Black dots crowding his vision, reminding him of the soot he'd used to clean out of his clothes back at home.

 

Home? Home seemed so far away now. He wondered if it was still even there. Could he even go back now? Did he even truly want to go back? 

 

Despite everything, the pain and agony as he crumbled away in this rotting chair, if given the chance, would he go back? 

Norton smiled.

 

The scribbling stopped.

He couldn't see anymore, the world a mix of ringing and darkness. But he felt like he was falling. His body felt limp and heavy at the same time, and he couldn't control anything anymore. Was he going to fall onto the floor? That would hurt. No, Orpheus had restrained him. Then where was he falling to?

Hands, soft and inviting, pressed against his skin. They curled around him, cradling him into something firm. Too hot, it was too hot. He wanted to pull away, but the touch was intoxicating. Ragged breaths left his lungs, heavy and desperate.

 

A sharp piercing in his arm made him choke out a whine, squirming anxiously. What was going on? What was Orpheus doing to him? Was Norton not useful enough? Was he finally dying?

 

Fingers threaded through his hair, and a soft humming reverberated through his skull. It resonated through his body, down into his chest, like a soothing melody. In any other circumstance, Norton would have been terrified; stripped down to his core, bare and vulnerable, unable to defend himself. But those hands, so cold, so understanding. Norton's head slumped into the other's shoulder.

 

He felt so tired. It would probably be rude to sleep now, but if Orpheus didn't want him to, he should have dropped a bucket of water on his head instead of cradling him like this. It was humiliating how easily Norton's resolve crumbled, but he was too tired to be embarrassed. His eyes felt heavy, not that he could feel if he'd managed to close them.

 

But he could feel Orpheus. He could feel the pain and agony being drawn out of his body, replaced with a cooling flush. He could feel his body getting heavier and heavier. 

 

And he could feel himself giving in.

When he opens his eyes, he can't feel anything.

 

He was standing now, at least he believed so. The world was spinning too fast to tell. It was dark and cold. His body felt heavy. Was he dead? This didn't look like the hell he'd heard of in those books. It was supposed to capture you, punish you, imprison you. But he felt…free.

 

Where was he? From what he could see, it looked like he was home, but the mines were as bare as he was. How did he escape? The chair was strong, stronger than him. Orpheus could have freed him willingly and sent him home, but he hadn't finished his job, so there was no reason for him to do that. So then where was Orpheus? It wasn't like the brunette to leave him unsupervised. Should he find Orpheus? Norton didn't want to be alone. Maybe Orpheus could-

 

A step forward resulted in him falling to the ground. 

 

Norton groaned, laying there on the cold, hard floor. He couldn't feel his arms, or his legs, or his face. It didn't even hurt. He should probably get back up, but he didn't know how. 

 

He blinked hard a few times before focusing his vision; his gloved hand was flopped in front of his face, firmly grasping a pickaxe. Oh, right. Norton was supposed to be working. Seeing his hand aided his movement slightly, allowing him to draw it forward, trying to use the object as a crutch to haul himself up. But failure came to him quickly, collapsing down onto his back.

A low groan was the only thing he managed to get out. If he could call out, maybe someone would find him and finish him off. Maybe Orpheus would come back. 

 

How long had it been since he'd eaten? He'd never been this weak before. There were days when he'd forced himself to work to the bone, no matter how much his body cried in agony. So why couldn't he cope now? It's not like he could feel the pain of being alive. Or anything, for that matter. 

 

Something was wrong. 

 

Norton tried to move his head, but it felt like it weighed a stone. His hand came up, gripping his hair…had he forgotten to put his equipment on? He prided himself in being punctual, was he unconsciously giving up? The hand clenched tight, forcing his head to look down.

The silence was deafening.

The hand released its hold, and his head thumped back onto the ground. 

 

He wasn't there.

 

It wore his clothes, but it wasn't him.

Piles of rotting flesh, layers and layers on top of each other, red and raw from exposure. Twisting around itself, dripping blood, all connecting to his head. The host. Norton retched. Nothing came out. 

 

If he could feel, he'd be screaming. If he could move…

 

Its legs slowly moved, feet flat on the ground. The rest of its body eventually followed suit, hauling itself up. Rocks rattled around it , drawn in like moths to a flame, forcing Norton to move against his own will. He was helpless, a spectator to its actions, head slumping in defeat as the pickaxe slammed into the ground, aiding it as it pushed itself to stand. 

 

Norton wasn't a dreamer. He was dead. Dead, rotting, a host, perfect for something to infest. There was no other explanation. Its leg moved, taking a step. This time, Norton didn't fall. So it took another. And another.

 

He supposed he should be angry, shouldn't he? Transformed into a monster after being promised a life of protection. Anyone else would at least be crying. Its body stumbled, sending Norton clashing into a tree. He slumped against it, head against the rough bark. 

 

Then maybe he should feel sad? He'd lost every last remnant of his humanity. His actions weren't his own. His mind wasn't his own. His body wasn't his own…right? Its body trembled, letting out a puff of hot air from its lips. It didn't hurt to breathe. It didn't hurt to stand. It didn't hurt anymore. Norton couldn't feel anything. 

 

“Ah…aha….haha….”

 

The silence was drowned in laughter. 

 

Norton's head slumped back as he howled in delight, its body…no, his body setting itself upright again. He continued to walk, the pickaxe dragging through the dirt. Another step, and his knee buckled slightly. He couldn't feel anything, and it felt amazing. 

 

He seemed to be going somewhere, nowhere that he knew of though. So he let his body lead him, feeling giddy with delight. He felt like he could run a mile. Should he try doing that? His body obeyed, speeding up his steps before his ankle cracked and twisted, dragging limply before he straightened his leg again. Maybe not.

 

The area began to look somewhat familiar, reminding him of the caves he'd ventured into everyday. But this time, there was no-one else there to push him around, to hurt him, to steal what was rightfully his. Walls of stone beckoned him into the pit, and Norton accepted. Traversing the tunnels was easy; everything was right where he left it.

 

This was perfect, this was so perfect. Working would come to him easy, no sickness to hold him back. In fact, he no longer felt tired; he could go for hours, days even. 

 

His spare… hand …traced along the rocks as he walked, scraping blood and gore along the surface. The memory of this place was so distant, but it came to him naturally. Deeper and deeper into the cave he went, feet occasionally tripping on the mine tracks, before his body stopped.

 

The soft glow of an oil wicker lamp, placed carefully on a workbench. Books stacked on top of each other, a notebook open on that list. Norton knew this place. He'd carved this place out himself, a hideaway to escape from all the shit he'd dug himself into. He ran his hand over the wood. It was damp.

 

Norton remembered sitting in this very chair, hunched over as he buried his head in another book after an exceptionally long day of hard labor. He’d sit and read into the late hours of the night, only leaving when he was finally released from the words that chained him to his seat. He’d pack everything up, pushing all the books into a crate and hiding it under the desk, a grotty piece of cloth draped over it all. And then he'd return the morning after and find the place ransacked, robbed while he'd been working for hours on end, and he'd have to spend the night on his hands and knees, cleaning everything up with trembling hands.

 

But now he could take, he could steal, just like those bastards did to him. He'd laugh at them as they succumbed to exhaustion, and he'd make them feel what he no longer could. He'd make them beg for forgiveness.

 

His arm was raised before he could process it, and the pickaxe came down, plunging into the workbench. He did it again. And again. The surface that he’d spent hours huddled next to was being reduced to splinters. The books were his next victim, whacking them to the floor alongside the lamp, stomping on them for good measure. 

 

To say he felt nothing now would be a lie. Watching his old life crumble to pieces by his own hands was euphoric. Every swing made him shake in delight, hot panting coming out of him, louder and louder. His jaw hurt, stretched into a smile, and he was still laughing.

 

The left side of his face was bright. Was there a fire? Should he even care anymore?

 

He raised his arm, and the axe tore into the notebook.

 

Days of planning, destroyed in a second.

 

He couldn't stop laughing. It felt so good.

 

It was brought down again, slamming into the gentle carvings Norton had made into the wood as he'd struggled to keep awake.

 

Head thrown back in uncontrollable laughter, body shaking as he gripped the handle with both hands. It felt so fucking good.

 

The axe broke through the desk, embedding itself into the ground with a crunch.

 

He was choking on his own breath. The ecstasy was unreal. He felt so alive .

 

Pickaxe yanked out of the ground, ready to swing again. Nothing could hold him back anymore.

“Nort…on…” 

His arm froze mid swing. 

Blood, blood everywhere. On his worn shoes, on the axe, on his hands, on the ground. Dripping off the stone…no…the grass. A gentle breeze.

 

And there, between his legs, was his Orpheus. Shaking, staring back up at him, choking on his own fluids. A beautiful shade of red painted across his face, dripping from his nose and onto his lips, his left eye glued shut. Soaking into that pristine white blazer he wore everyday, into that cravat that Norton so desperately wanted to grab him by. He looked just like Norton did.

 

Puncture holes in his shoulder, his chest, his throat. Nothing could be heard apart from Orpheus' wheezing. He still chose to live.

 

“N-Nort…” The sentence was left unfinished, drowned in blood and mucus. 

 

Orpheus was at his mercy. He didn't need to blindly follow Orpheus around anymore, waiting for a command, waiting for attention. He was better than Orpheus. He was stronger than Orpheus.

I don't need you anymore.

 

His grip on the handle tightened.

 

What a fool Norton was, for not realizing sooner. This was his ticket out of here. The gateway to a good life. He didn't have to be a plaything anymore, didn't have to sit by and obey orders like a ‘good boy’. No, he could take, and take, and he wouldn't have to listen anymore. They couldn't stop him. Orpheus couldn't stop him. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, and he wanted more .

 

You're in my way.

 

Norton's arms raised, holding the pickaxe above his head. Blood ran down his arm, dripping onto his face. Orpheus' blood. And Orpheus continued to stare up at him without a single flinch. If Norton had blood, it would be boiling.

 

I'll kill you.

“Norton…”

 

It's your fault. I'll fucking kill you.

“ Are…”

 

Shut up.

“...you…” 

 

Shut the fuck up.

“...okay…?” 

A hand was reaching out to him.

After so long of feeling nothing, he finally felt everything.

He feels amazing . 

 

Everything was a distant memory. Nothing could hold him back now. He was free from the hell he was born into, free to choose his own path, free to destroy, to tear his fate to shreds and force it back together with blooded hands.

 

Norton was no longer him. Norton was a coward, a fool, thinking everything would come to him if he was good enough, if he behaved, if he took hit after hit for the pleasure of others. Only those who make a change get what they want, and he will get what he wants.

 

He feels angry . 

 

He wanted to fucking tear Orpheus apart, feel his blood on his face, on his hands, in his mouth. He wanted to bite into Orpheus’ flesh, he wanted to eat him, for their bodies to combine, so the two of them would be stuck together in this fucked up world Orpheus had brought him into. He'd drag Orpheus everywhere, so he could see the monster he created. He wanted to fucking break Orpheus and tear him limb from limb, make him feel the pain he did, sculpt him into one of them. He wanted to fuck Orpheus. Watch him twist and squirm until he cries.

He felt sad .

 

Orpheus was staring back at him, reaching out, as if he was his savior. Beaten, bruised, bloodied, but still searching for a beacon of light. Was he so delusional, so helpless, that he sought it within Norton? No…what was left of Norton. He wasn't Norton. He was a monster. That's what they all said. In the newspapers, in quiet whispers after every interview, in his head. They'd hurry away, stammering out some excuse as he was ushered into a taxi, a grate in-between him and the driver in case he dared take another life. They all feared him, because he was a monster .

 

Yet there was no fear in Orpheus' eyes.

 

“Norton…”

He feels like laughing. No, he feels like crying. He wants to cry.

The hand holding the pickaxe fell limp, weakly dropping to his side, while the hand outstretched to him was strong. Inviting. Comforting. 

He wanted to break Orpheus’ fingers.

Norton wanted to kiss them. 

His knees gave away, collapsing to the ground and slumping over, the novelist's fingertips inches from his face. What was he doing? Was it instinct to just fucking accept his fate? To give up? Of course, just like before. High on ego, high on power, just to be beaten down by those around him until he feels nothing again, returning to being a slave, waiting for his-

The hand cupped his face.

You don’t mean it.

 

It felt so warm. It felt like home.

Please stop.

 

He can't move. Orpheus is still looking at him. He looks so worried, so sympathetic.

Stop looking at me…

 

A thumb caresses his scar.

And the pickaxe clatters to the floor.

A strange, pitiful sound fills his ears, coming out in pained, agonizing breaths; it takes a few seconds for him to notice it's coming from him. It fell out of his mouth uncontrollably, making him want to throw up as he struggled to take in air. He felt so small, so scared, so weak, so guilty. Too much for him to accept. 

 

The hand on his face began to pull away, but he immediately slapped his own gloved appendage over it to keep it in place. He could feel the flesh, feel the blood flowing through Orpheus' body, the warmth seeping into his…oh, his cheek. Why could he now feel?

 

Norton wanted to cry. He tried so hard to cry.

 

But all he could do was wail. Scream. Beg for forgiveness. Those eyes were never taken off him.

 

The rest of his body gave up, head collapsing onto Orpheus' shoulder. And he was welcomed, those same fingers brushing through his hair again, soothing him. As if Orpheus knew what he needed. Just like he did back then.

 

Norton felt everything, and nothing. He felt anger, he felt rage, he felt hunger, he felt pleasure, he felt lust. But he also felt sad. Scared, Fear. Lost and alone. 

 

Another hand moved to his chest, and he felt that too. Norton really wanted to cry.

 

“I don’t know what to do.”

 

Norton's voice was pathetic. Small. Weak. It wasn't him anymore.

 

“I know.” 

 

“Everything hurts.”

 

Orpheus' voice cracked.

 

“ I know .” 

Norton was so tired.

“I don't hate you.”

 

A crack, and sizzling filled the room, followed by the smell of cooking oil. It had only been a few months, but Norton had gotten used to it. Before, he'd flown into a panic, fearing that this life was burning down too. Now, it smelt good. The crackling quietened down, followed by a soft chuckle. 

 

“I know. But you look like you do.”

 

Norton looked over his shoulder. “Will that be enough?”

 

The other looked back at him, smiling softly. “It’s a little late to be asking for coaching, isn’t it?”

 

The raven rolled his eyes, picking up the metal fork from the table. He tapped it rhythmically, before attempting to carve something into the wooden surface. There was already a hole, so he chiseled into it more, deepening the wound.

 

“Hey.” Orpheus turned around, scowling a little. “Stop that. I’m the one who has to pay for the damage costs.”

 

“Then give me something to use it on.”

 

“You are…” Footsteps came up behind him, a gentle pinch at his ear. “...so impatient.”

 

Norton’s head rolled back, looking up at the other. He watched Orpheus’ scowl melt away. “You’re realizing that now?” 

 

The novelist huffed in defeat, squeezing his ear before letting go. “Scrambled?”

 

“Yeah. With cheese.” 

 

“We’re out of cheese.” Orpheus backed away, returning to the stove. The sizzling came back as he folded the egg over. “A certain someone forgot to use the last block I got him.”

 

Norton turned, arm draped over the chair. And Orpheus was smiling back at him. He always found a way to look mischievous. He really wished he could see what went on inside Orpheus’ head, especially in moments like this. 

 

“S’not my fault.”

 

“There’s an expiry date. I showed it to you.”

 

“I forgot.”

 

Orpheus raised an eyebrow, finger tapping on the countertop. After a few seconds of staring at each other, he turned his back on Norton, removing the pan from the stove. 

 

“I’ll get you a calendar next week.”

Norton chuckled. 

A bowl was placed in front of him, followed by a glass of water. Orpheus couldn’t cook very much, and many of the meals he did make were simple and repetitive, but damn did he know how to cook an egg. By the time Orpheus joined him at the table, coffee and toast in hand, half of the contents were gone. 

 

“Good?” Orpheus inquired, stifling a laugh. He got a nod in return. “I’m glad.”

 

The two sat together in a comfortable silence. It came naturally, finding solace in each other without words. Orpheus, the man who craved any shred of peace and quiet he could get. Norton, the one who lived in said quiet. He couldn’t really complain about the novelist’s presence. Orpheus wouldn’t push him to talk, or answer questions, or do anything. Norton wondered if he wasn’t the only one viewing this place as a hideaway. 

 

“...I’m fond of you, too.” 

 

Norton choked. Orpheus chuckled, reaching over to pat his back gently. 

 

He wiped his mouth. “Don’t jus’…say shit like that.”

 

“Sorry. What I mean is…I would like to be civil with you during this job. But if we were, they’d know we have a connection. She would know.”

 

When Norton said nothing, Orpheus continued. 

 

“Look, I…I’ll put it bluntly. I don’t hate you, either. Quite frankly, I do enjoy your company. But for this to work, we need to follow the narrative. It’ll only be around the others, just enough for them to believe it.”

 

The former prospector looked down. The novelist frowned, leaning forward.

 

“There’s no telling how long this will take. But I need you to follow your role, just as I need to play mine. You understand that, right?”

 

Norton’s finger picked at the dent in the table. He dug his nail into it, scraping out pieces of dirt.

 

“Mr Campbell?”

 

Orpheus only knew what was on the surface. Hell, he only knew what the novelist wanted him to know, too. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for Orpheus to flip a switch the moment they stepped foot inside that building. Keep him wrapped around his finger until he couldn’t escape. And then use him, manipulate him, push him to his limits, knowing that Norton couldn’t refuse. That he couldn’t just unlock the door and run away-

A warm hand was placed over his.

 

“ Norton. ”

 

Norton’s head whipped up immediately, going stiff. He stared at Orpheus, and Orpheus stared back.

 

“Whatever you’re thinking, I assure that you should stop.”

Don’t touch me.

HIs hand tightened into a fist, but the other kept his hand there. 

 

“You’re telling me you’re gonna hate me.” Norton finally spat out. “Act or not, what the fuck am I supposed to think?”

 

Orpheus smiled softly, his head cocking to the side. “What reason would I have to hate you? I know who you are, Mr Campbell. I’ve seen it all. If I truly did hate you, I would be doing so already. I wouldn't be sitting here right now if I did, and you would be in prison.”

 

A snort left Norton, turning his head away. “But you can jus’ do it like its nothing, yeah? ‘Cause actin’ is so fuckin’ easy for you.” 

 

Silence followed. Orpheus huffed, then snickered, covering his mouth. It was like a punch in the face.

 

“Well…yes, of course. Thousands of eyes on you will do that to a man. You should know.” His little finger attempted to hook around Norton’s. And the raven allowed it, unclenching his fist slightly. 

Stop touching me.

“I’m not like you, Orpheus.”

 

Orpheus smiled softly. “We’re more alike than you think.” 

 

Norton ripped his hand away, ignoring the way Orpheus’ shoulders slumped. He felt sick. This bastard, born with a silver fucking spoon in his mouth, sitting here, pretending like he knew shit about the world Norton lived in. Sitting there like a kicked fucking puppy because he wouldn’t buy his bullshit. 

 

“Go fuck yourself.” Norton hissed. “You’re…fucked. In the fucking head.” Acting like a fucking character.   So desperate for pity. “You…will never be like me. And I will never be like you. You were fuckin’ born to succeed. Putting it in your fuckin’ stories, about how thankful you are for everyone who helped you. ‘Cause mommy and daddy built that fuckin’ castle for you. You know what I was born for? To be up to my elbows in shit, every fuckin’ day, and make in a month what you do in a day.”

 

Stop talking.

 

“I’m only here because you threw cash at me, on day fuckin’ one. And it turned me into a monster. I got blood on my hands. The only thing you’ve ever had in yours is a fuckin’ check and a pen.”

 

I need to stop talking.

 

“The last thing my old man ever told me was that I was a disgrace. I didn’t have no fuckin’ family coddling me. No matter what I did, it wasn’t fuckin’ good enough. Shit, the only reason I got anywhere was because I…I killed people, Orpheus! I fuckin’...all of…!” 

 

Why do my eyes sting?

 

“...you have no idea what I went through for it. It ain’t like it is in your fuckin’...shit books. A-an’...an’ I can’t even forget about it, either! Every fuckin’ day, they’d be in my face, ‘cause you told me to just deal with it, an’ you n-never even…” 

 

Why am I telling you this again?

 

“No-one…gave a shit. It could have been anyone. But you, you jus’...write, an’ it’s only you who could do it, and they love you for it. You...sit there and look pretty, an’ you get to be you, because everyone fuckin’ loves Orpheus DeRoss! So you don’t get to say you know shit about me, ‘cause you don’t lie awake every night wishing t-that…that-”

 

“...that someone would love the real you.”

They fell into silence. Stone cold silence. 

 

No, Norton could hear something. Who was crying?

“Mr Campbell…” Orpheus began, not even giving him time to process that thought. “...there’s a reason I'm so accustomed to acting like I do.”

 

He uncrossed his legs, slouching in his chair. He looked so miserable.

 

“I only let them see what they want to see. This is what they turned me into. Orpheus DeRoss, the world renowned author.”

 

The man stared up at the ceiling, seeming to be lost in his head. Norton felt something run down his lip, quickly wiping it away with the back of his hand. Orpheus’ eyes flickered to him before looking away again. 

 

“Sometimes it’s fun, but…” Orpheus reached out, pulling Norton’s bowl over to him. He poked at the now cold contents before fishing out a forkful, putting it into his mouth. “...it gets boring really fast.”

 

Norton watched the other eat, wanting to respond, but he didn’t know what to say. What was he supposed to say?

 

“We might not be exactly the same, that’s true.” Orpheus raked his fingers through his hair, loosening the style. A few stray strands fell over his face. “But…I’ve never met someone I’ve felt so close to.”

 

Their eyes met. And the fork was held to his lips. An offering.

“...I’m sick of all this shit, Norton.” 

Norton accepted it.

Both of them were uncertain with what they should do next. Norton’s face was uncomfortably sticky, but he felt too tired to fix it. He was too tired to even move. He wondered how disgusting he looked. Surely, too hideous to be worthy of Orpheus’ presence. Humiliation settled in his gut; he was so pathetic. He tried so hard to bury his emotions down, but he couldn’t even do it when it really mattered.

“Can I touch your face?”

 

The question caught Norton off guard. He glanced up at Orpheus, looking like a threatened animal. Orpheus quickly reworked his proposition, pulling a handkerchief out of his blazer pocket. 

 

Oh. 

 

Too exhausted to refuse, the raven nodded, closing his eyes. A tiny smile appeared on Orpheus’ lips again, and he stood, leaning over the table. A hand gently brushed Norton’s bangs to the side, glued to his face from the sweat and tears, before the fabric was gently dabbed on his cheeks. It was strange. He could hear Orpheus’ breathing. 

 

When Orpheus was done, Norton opened his eyes again. They were close, so close, a boundary that should have never been breached. Neither of them could look away. 

 

Orpheus looked at him like he was the only person in the world.

 

The hand returned, this time hovering over the left side of his face. Norton couldn’t help but flinch slightly, looking at the other warily. Orpheus froze, keeping his hand in place. The question was obvious. 

 

Norton stared at Orpheus.

 

Why?

 

Orpheus stared at Norton.

 

Because I want to.

Norton’s head slumps into Orpheus’ hand. The other starts in surprise, as if he was too scared to move. After a few seconds, a thumb slowly caresses the scarred flesh. It felt so close, yet so far away. It was too much.

“I’m a monster.” Norton finally whispered. “I ruin everything I touch.”

Orpheus sighed, smiling sadly. “I fear that I do, too.” 

When Norton opens his eyes, he knows exactly where he is.

 

The room was almost pitch black, but he knew he was lying down in a bed. After a few hard blinks, he saw the walls, undecorated and drab. So it must be his own room. And his body felt heavy and sore, as if he'd been worked to the bone. The relief was gone. The pain every time he drew a breath was back. It had all gone back to normal.

 

Was it all just wishful thinking? Was he still waiting to be given a purpose? Was he losing his mind?

 

It made sense that his mind would begin playing tricks on him. Was it boredom? Was it the food? Was it the urge to be needed?

 

Norton squeezed his eyes shut again. He wanted to go back to sleep. 

“...how do you feel?”

 

His eyes snapped open again.

“What…?”

 

No response. Norton lazily turned his head, staring into the darkness. Pinpointing the source of the voice was difficult, considering he could see but a few inches in front of him, but he craved the presence of another. He needed to know he wasn’t imagining it.

 

His head felt heavy, eventually flopping back onto the pillow with a sigh. He couldn’t really describe how he felt. Norton was never a man of words; his vocabulary was his actions. But now, he was tired. Too tired to move, too tired to open his mind. Embarrassingly docile.

A soft sigh. The cracking of a chair. Pen hitting paper. 

 

Of course.

 

“I see…your body seems to struggle adapting to its new conditions. It’s quite understandable, given the extent of the changes. As I recall, a similar thing happened to me. Or maybe it could be down to it being your first time. I have no doubt you’ll grow accustomed to this.”

 

The words began to trail off into muffles. All Norton could do was stare at the ceiling. His eyes hurt. So he raised his arm, trying to remedy the itch. 

 

An object as solid as rock scratched his face, threatening to tear into his skin. Dark and lumpy. It hurt. 

 

Without warning, a hand shot from the darkness, gripping his wrist with immense strength. He couldn’t feel it, but it prevented him from moving. And it looked just like his hands…or how they used to look. A scar, deep and raw, carved into it, skin gray from disease, palms rough and calloused- 

 

Norton froze. 

 

Three fingers. 

“Don’t exert yourself, Campbell. You don’t know your own strength yet. You might hu-”

 

“Orpheus…?”

 

His voice was so small and pathetic. 

 

Silence was his only response, the clawed hand slowly moving Norton’s hand to his side and retracting back into the darkness. What had Orpheus done to himself? What had Orpheus done to Norton?

 

So, he asked. “What did you do to me..?’

 

“Can you see clearly?”

 

Norton grunted, weakly nodding.

 

“Do you want to see yourself?”

 

The raven said nothing, but he tilted his head towards the direction of the voice longingly. A shuffle, and someone stood up, that same deformed hand reaching out again. It slipped under his head, gently tilting his head up. Norton hesitated before his eyes flickered downwards.

 

Rocks. Pilled on top of him. No. It was him.

 

A hole in his leg. A hole in his arm. A hole in his fucking stomach. 

 

And he was stripped bare. Stripped of his humanity.

He was too tired to care anymore.

“Your hand,” Orpheus finally speaks, snapping Norton out of his depressive trance. “Can you move it again?”

 

A mockery of a hand, it really was. 

Norton’s brow furrowed. The rocks quivered, as if trying to connect together, before being pulled in like a magnet. His body shook, desperately trying to keep the shape, before the hand behind his head joined his, clasping over it.

 

“You’re struggling. We’ll work on that.” The hand was pulled back, and Norton’s fist fell apart. “My goal for today was to get you up and moving, but now I see that’s out of the picture. Are you feeling well enough to answer some questions?”

 

“You're makin’ it sound like I have a choice...” Norton responded, closing his eyes. 

 

A soft chuckle. “This time, you do. If you’re tired, I can come back-”

 

“No.” Norton’s head whipped to the side, eyes wide. “I…I can talk.”

Please don’t leave me alone.

After a few seconds of silence, the other took a few steps closer. 

 

“First of all, I…unfortunately can’t see what you do. To me, you appear as human as ever. It’s always a pity…I wish I could see my masterpiece, but alas…”

 

The hand returned, gently stroking the raven's hair. Norton accepted it.

 

“I know words aren’t your strong suit, but be as descriptive as possible. Every detail is necessary in order for me to understand you better. We can stop whenever you please. I understand the toll this has taken on you. But for now…”

 

The touch moved to his cheek, then down to his neck, tracing along his collarbone.

 

“Please…”

 

Brushing down what was left of his chest.

 

“Tell me…” 

 

Nails gently scraped along his torso, then back up, and Norton groaned softly, his head tilting to the side as he tried to reject the pleasure that brought him. And then, right there, he saw Orpheus. Face covered by a beaked mask, eyes glowing in the dark, his body shaking from his excited panting.

“What do you…look like?”

The air between them was suffocating. Orpheus stared down at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak, hands moving to his chest.

 

“It’s…it's rock…my body…” Norton started, trying to raise his hand. Orpheus took it, rubbing his thumb over the cold stone. “It's…all of me.” 

 

“Rock…” Orpheus parroted, bringing Norton's hand to his mouth. “Can you describe what type?” 

 

“It's…I think it's pyrite. I used to, uh…find it. A lot.”

 

“Hmm. Pyrite…” Orpheus examined each of Norton's ‘fingers’ before lurching forward. Copper filled his nose. It hurt. “Also referred to as ‘fool's gold’.”

 

Norton felt a lump in his throat. “...yeah.”

 

“Even here?” Orpheus whispered, his hand caressing Norton's cheek. 

 

“No, it starts…more…down.”

 

Orpheus understood, tracing his hand downwards to his artery. “Here?”

 

“Lower.”

 

“Here?”

 

“...mm.”

 

The man whined, softly and longingly, before resting his cheek on Norton's chest. His finger continued downwards, tracing circles around the hole embedded in his stomach. The raven's breath hitched.

 

“You react when I touch you here.” Orpheus inquired, continuing his actions.

 

“I-I…” Norton cleared his throat, trying to keep himself together. “There's a hole…” 

 

“A hole?” 

 

“Uh…in…my stomach.” 

 

Orpheus' hand stopped, the two of them sitting in silence. 

 

“Does it hurt?” 

 

“...no.” 

 

He could practically hear the smile on Orpheus' lips. “The opposite?”

 

Norton didn’t need to respond.

Without warning, a finger dug harshly into his abdomen. Norton couldn't stop the sound that left his mouth, and Orpheus was thriving.

 

“Does it feel good…?”

 

The thick appendage curled around one of the rocks, as if trying to pull it out. As if Orpheus was reaching into his very soul. It was mind-blowing. So deliciously euphoric.

 

“Please…tell me.” 

 

Their faces were so close, Orpheus' breath hot and heavy from behind that layer of leather. Desperately pressed into Norton's cheek, desperate for answers. Desperate for approval.

 

The hand touching Norton closed around one of the rocks, squeezing it, toying with it, threatening to crush it. 

 

“Don’t…” Norton finally croaked out, his voice weak. The way the hand immediately loosened made something within him thump. “D-don't stop.” 

If Norton could see his face, he knew what expression Orpheus would be wearing.

 

It was an invitation.

The brunette was on him faster than he could think. Chest to chest, hot breath on his neck, hands exploring his ‘body’. 

 

It felt so good. He felt adored, worshiped, wanted. 

 

Norton remembered how he felt before. Ashamed. Used. Disgusted. Like a doll, a tool. He'd hidden away so he could become whatever they wanted for a few cents and a smile. But Orpheus was begging him, pleading him to show his true self. Asking for nothing but the dirty, vile description that was Norton Campbell. He loved it. 

 

And he wanted Orpheus to be dirty, too.

 

Hands cupped his face, and something was on his mouth. He couldn't see anything, Orpheus' wild hair blocking his vision. But it was soft and warm, so Norton pushed into it. It left his lips, a sharp inhale being sucked in through the others mask before it came back.

 

Something nudged against his hand, and he stroked it. Rough, like fabric. He moved his hand up. The man on top of him shivered. Norton moved it further. His fingers brushed against skin, and he recoiled. A hand quickly gripped his wrist, moving it back into its previous position, so the raven continued. In return, Orpheus' spare hand caressed Norton's hip.

 

To his dismay, Norton flinched, and the hand was withdrawn. He hadn't been touched or seen ever since…everything. And even though Orpheus had seen it all, even though he lay bare underneath Orpheus, a small voice in his head told him he should be ashamed. That he should cover himself, that he was too vile for the naked eye. 

 

“Norton…” 

 

“Just…just give me a fuckin' minute.” He hissed in response. Still too afraid to admit anything. 

 

He watched Orpheus lean back, head tilting with bird-like mannerisms, bright eyes staring into him. And this time, Norton couldn't look back, head rolling to the side. 

 

Fantastic. He'd made it awkward, because he was weak. A coward. Any minute now, Orpheus would dismiss him, or pin him down, whether he liked it or not. Just like everyone else did. 

 

After a few more heartbeats, Orpheus' body moved. His grip on Norton's hand was released, and it dropped back down to the mattress. Was he leaving? 

 

Please don't leave me. Give me a chance.

 

Norton turned his head back to the other. His hands were on his shirt, fumbling awkwardly with the buttons. He was getting tired of waiting, wasn’t he? So Norton needed to fucking hurry up and snap out of it. 

 

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can do it.

 

One button popped. And then another, creating a path of shining, pale skin. From the peek he was granted, Orpheus looked so flawless, so perfect, everything that Norton had tried so hard to be. He was lean, he was dainty, he was elegant. Norton wanted to touch him, but he was so dirty.

 

And then Orpheus pulled the fabric apart. 

Norton’s stomach dropped. 

Orpheus wasn't lean. No, he was small. Sickeningly thin. Ribs protruding outwards with each breath. Moments of Orpheus standing, only to pause and lean on the table began to make sense. It was like looking at his past self. Scars, too. Drawn straight across his chest, just under his pectorals. Were they self-inflicted? They were far too parallel to be an accident. 

 

He finally looked up at the other. The beaked mask was hung low, as if in shame. Without a word, he shrugged the shirt off, and it slid off the bed. Then, he heard a weak laugh.

 

“...I believe I'm rather ugly, too.” 

Thumping pounded in Norton's ears again. 

He was never a man of words, but a few came to his head. Enthralling. Hypnotic. Beautiful. To call such a being ‘ugly’ should leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth, for the other was simply radiant. Yet he spoke in such a tone that Norton understood, the same that he heard in his head with every glance in the mirror.

 

Did he truly believe that? Was he also sitting here, fearing he wasn't enough for Norton?

 

“... estás divino .” Norton whispered, his stone hands smoothing over Orpheus' hips. He watched the other's head cock to the side.

 

“Hmm…?” 

 

“I said you were stupid. Estúpido .” 

 

The two stared at each other in silence. A small wheeze, and then the writer's shoulders back to shake, small chirping sounds escaping the mask. A hand moved in front of it in a pathetic attempt to muffle the sound.

 

“...stop laughin’.” 

 

“Sorry.” 

 

Orpheus' hands settled back on Norton's chest, where they needed to be, thumbs smoothing over the stone. His body language was expectant, shuffling excitedly on Norton's waist, so he took the initiative, fingers slipping into Orpheus' pants. The other seemed delighted, lifting his hips slightly. 

 

Using his larger hand was…basically impossible, so his right hand got put to use. Thank god Orpheus wore button ups, or he'd never hear the end of it. With some awkward repositioning, they joined the writer's shirt, and their lips met again. 

 

A soft groan escaped Norton's lips as he felt something sharp tug at his bottom lip. A gasp followed, mouth falling open, allowing something wet to invade it. His brow furrowed. Wasn't Orpheus wearing a mask? The question immediately fluttered out of his head as their tongues rolled together.

 

His hands became adventurous, running down Orpheus' lower back, which he seemed to respond to positively. So they went lower, underneath his underwear, caressingly the soft curve before moving to the front. When Norton found nothing, he faltered a little, breaking a kiss. 

 

Wasn't Orpheus a man? 

Why wouldn't he look at him?

Oh .

Well .

He really wanted to fuck Orpheus. And it was still Orpheus, right?

A choked moan came out of the other as Norton’s fingertips rubbed against his clit, as if he was trying to hide it. As if Norton's fingers weren't drenched at a single touch. His once confident movements were now awkward and uncertain, as if he was letting Norton take control. And the raven eagerly accepted the invitation. 

 

It wasn't like Norton was any less experienced with a body like this. He just needed to find what scratched Orpheus’ itch.

 

His fingers moved down, rubbing at the novelist's entrance as his thumb continued working his clit. And the man seemed to be pleased: back arched, head tilted up slightly, hands gripping Norton's shoulders. His legs trembled, as if wanting to squeeze them shut, so Norton's spare ‘hand’ moved to lay flat on his thigh, keeping them open.

 

There was the gentle pressure of Orpheus' head on his shoulder as he continued his advances, removing the last piece of clothing from the novelist. Finally, they were fully revealed to each other. Nothing more to hide. And it felt freeing.

Jesus. When did he start getting sentimental? 

He'd had it before with past ‘lovers’, fooling himself into thinking there was something between them to cope with his actions. And then he'd been forced to turn a blind eye to it, allowing them to shove his face into the covers, making him understand that he always had the wrong idea.

 

Right now, he had no idea. All he could think about was Orpheus. 

His fingers plunged into the brunette's tight heat, earning him the sweetest moan. So sickeningly sweet, Norton wanted to gorge himself on it. First two, and once Orpheus had quietened down, he added another. The man even attempted to help, pathetically rocking his hips. It was an endearing sight. 

 

The tight, wet heat eagerly welcomed the intrusion, slick running down his wrist. And the sounds were unreal, soft whimpers at the smallest movement, clit sensitive to the slightest touch. Orpheus must be…

 

“You, uh…” Norton started, lips to where the other's ear would be. “You done this before?” 

 

Orpheus froze.

 

“...not with another person.” 

It shouldn't have made Norton want to smile. 

You're mine. You're all fucking mine, Orpheus.

“...I'll go slow.”

 

I'll ravage you.

“How noble of you.”

 

 

Norton’s stoney hand gripped Orpheus' lower back, his movements slower, more focused in exploring the insides of the other. He felt…something down there, something hard and wet against where his cock would be. His hips bucked slightly, and Orpheus groaned, grinding back. And Norton reciprocated, the two of them rocking, frotting against each other.

 

“How do you…hmm…feel?” Orpheus whispered, his finger pushing Norton's bangs to the side. 

 

“You’re seriously fuckin’ askin’ that now …?” Norton huffed, his hips jerking up to make a point. 

 

Hands cupped his face, forcing him to stare into those glowing eyes. “...tell me.”

 

Norton sighed, his eyes flickering down at his own body. He wasn’t really sure how he felt. More accurately, he couldn’t put it into words. But the other man wasn’t going to back down until he said something. 

 

“I, uh…” He finally spoke. “I guess…I feel alive.” 

 

Orpheus said nothing. God, was Norton t he freak now?

 

Warm hands moved down to his chest, nails racking against the skin. The novelist began to move again, pushing back onto Norton’s fingers, which made the raven reciprocate the advances. He held Orpheus firmly, twisting and thrusting his fingers into the other. And Orpheus was fucking giggling . 

 

Yeah. He was definitely still had some screws loose.

 

The room continued to be filled with the sounds of slick and panting, until Norton couldn't think straight anymore. He pulled his fingers out, wiping them on Orpheus' thigh before gently patting it. 

 

“Sit up.” 

 

“Hmm…why?” Despite the question, the other obeyed, legs gorgeously spread for the Norton. And he drank it all in, eyes flickering to each spot he oh so desperately wanted to sink his teeth into.

 

“Wanna see you.” 

 

Orpheus' faltered before turning his head away. Norton wished he wasn't wearing that stupid thing.

 

He’d always imagined that Orpheus would be…well…pretty. But he’d always imagined a flawless body under those pristine clothes, like those women he’d see in magazines and posters. Unmarked flesh, curves sloping down into dangerous territory. Instead, Orpheus looked…human. Norton wanted to laugh; he never thought he’d use that word to describe the writer.

 

The position was the one he was used to. It made it easy for his partner to just close their eyes and imagine someone different. Imagine that they were making love to a wealthy man with a heart of gold, and not fucking a monster who could be brought with pennies.

 

But admittedly, he wanted it to be different with Orpheus. Oh, how he'd love to pin the man down, make his eyes roll back as he moaned his name, turn him to a puddle of lust. Or just pull him forward and bury his mouth into that wet heat. He actually wanted to do the work for once. He wanted to take Orpheus how he wanted. Oh, if only his body would just fucking move when he wanted it to. They'd need to do this again. Without the drug, without restrictions. He wanted a clear view of the author he'd unwillingly grown to adore. 

 

“Hey.” He whispered, bringing the man's attention back to him. “Gimme a hand, Mr DeRoss. Ain't I meant to be takin’ it easy?” He could practically see the eyes roll behind that mask.

 

In reality, there wasn't…anything down there. It definitely did numbers on Norton's ego, but only he could see himself like this, right? Besides, he could still feel it. And it felt…really good.

 

It felt even better when Orpheus' hand moved down, the feeling of a gentle squeeze sending bolts up his spine. And the bastard didn't let up, seeming ecstatic to see Norton in such a way.

 

“Norton.”

 

He looked up. And Orpheus moved down, a tight wet heat rubbing against him. Norton's face contorted in pleasure as he groaned, gripping the other’s hips. His own bucked against his will, earning him a small whine.

 

A hand was placed over his own, as if for stability. And then the heat returned, engulfing the tip of his cock, soft moaning filling the room. Norton felt like he was going to implode. There was no way Orpheus was lying; the tightness was inhuman. 

 

It was easier with others, for sure. Widows were his most frequent customers, so they already knew what they wanted. But he could tell Orpheus had no idea what to expect, or how to react. It wasn’t as if Norton really knew exactly how to deal with the situation either. Being gentle definitely wasn’t his forte. 

 

With the way Orpheus whined and gasped, one might think he was being extremely performative. He seemed like the type to finger himself while reading erotica, whispering to himself as scenarios played in his head, never understanding how the real thing would be. How wonderful the sight would be. Legs spread, head thrown back, soft whimpers falling from his lips. And then Norton would come in, and he'd fill up that hole Orpheus had so lovingly carved for him, and then-

 

“What are you…thinking about?” 

 

Nails scraped at his chest. Norton focused his eyes back on Orpheus. 

 

“...the same thing as you are.” 

Sex had never been all that appealing to Norton. Sure, it was sometimes fun, but not really life changing. Hell, his first time was for pocket change. If anything, it was like another job he'd clock in and out of. He'd never understand how people could find ways to create songs and stories about such an act, preaching about love and all that. It was a paid time killer at best. Nothing he thought he'd die without.

 

At least that's what he originally thought. 

“N-Norton…oh my g-god…”  

 

It was intoxicating. It made him feel so fucking alive. The rhythmic slapping, the heat, the tightness, the sounds. Jesus Christ, he understood everything now. 

 

The man sang like a canary. His head thrown back as they grinded together, one hand on Norton's chest while the other raked through his own hair. He looked like an angel. He was glowing. A savior.

 

Watching Orpheus wasn't exactly like how he imagined. A part of Norton expected him to be dainty, quiet, each movement barely an inch. However, the novelist rode him like his life depended on it. It was a little ugly.

 

But frankly, Norton would rather die than have Orpheus off his cock. 

 

So warm. So fucking tight.

 

“Norton…” he whispered. A hand was cupping Norton’s face, and he was leaning into it before he could process it. Norton felt like he really was dying. “What are you…mhm…thinking now…?”

This doesn't mean anything .

“I’m thinkin’...” Their hands broke apart, and Norton grabbed the other’s hips, making the brunette grunt. “If you’re still able…” Pushing Orpheus’ down onto his cock. “To ask me…” Thrusting up. A cry of ecstasy. “Stupid fuckin’ questions…” He did it again, hitting something that made the writer’s back arch in pleasure. “...then I ain’t doin’ my fuckin’ job.”

 

He pulled Orpheus down into him, chest to chest, making the novelist yelp in surprise before he was yet again reduced to sweet moans. He squeezed Orpheus' thigh as he pounded into him. The other cried out in delight, hot breath puffing against his neck. The bed creaked, struggling to support their activities. Neither one of them wanted to stop.

 

“Norton…”

 

This time, he ignored the other’s call. Orpheus shakily sat back up, continuing to grind against Norton’s cock, so there wasn’t any need for conversation. 

 

“ Norton…”

 

A hand was placed on top of his, mindlessly fumbling around, and Norton quickly figured out the purpose. He reluctantly loosened his grip, their fingers carefully intertwining. The reciprocation made the mask face him, but Norton didn’t look back. 

 

Oh, how Norton wished he could look at him.

Don't get the wrong idea .

“ Please… ”

 

He tilted his head to face Orpheus.

I think I love you.

Something black and lumpy dripped onto his chest. It melted away, seeping into the cracks where the rocks connected. Another drop, thicker this time. Norton looked up at the source.

 

And he saw Orpheus' tear filled eye staring back. 

 

The mask, used to hide the other's face for so long, was peeling away. Turning to mush, running down his face like oil. Falling onto Norton and becoming a part of him.

 

He looked so beautiful.

 

A heavy chunk slid off Orpheus' face, quickly identified as the beak, revealing those red, puffy lips. And dammit, the bastard was smiling .

 

Norton felt sick, quickly turning his head away. It was nothing. It came out of nowhere, so it could be put back into nowhere. It was a fleeting thought. Don’t panic. Don’t fucking panic.

 

Orpheus said his name again, and Norton just went harder, making the man choke on a sob and bury his face back into Norton’s neck. He could hear the younger man's heart pounding, hear the blood flowing through his veins. He could hear what he was doing to Orpheus. And he was close, Norton could tell. His body trembled in Norton's arms, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Panting into his ear, his name dancing along his lips. 

 

“N-Norton…” Orpheus’ voice cracked. He sounded like he was going to cry.

 

“Orpheus…” Rough, stoney hands gripped the writers soft, human ones. Lured in. Defeated. “I-I got you.” 

Orpheus.

Just a little longer.

Say you love me, too.

Can we stay like this forever?

He could never remember what happened with everyone else. What he felt. How he ended up back in his bed. Memories repressed, for the sake of his own sanity. Forgetting what it felt like to be held, to have degradation spat into his ear, to wish it would just be over. Just switching his brain off. It made it easier.

 

But now, he could recall every touch, every little sound, every caress. Minutes had turned into hours, and Orpheus had professed his devotion that entire time. For once, Norton felt like he was the only one who could get Orpheus like this. And he wanted to remember this.

 

The sight of Orpheus looking at him like he was the only person in the world. The way his cum ran down that smooth, supple thigh. The change in pitch as Orpheus reached his peak.

 

A finger idly traced around Norton’s imperfections, where the wounds met skin. As if following a map, leading to treasure. The finger trailed down, and Norton grabbed it, making Orpheus huff and intertwine their fingers instead. God, the man was insatiable. Norton supposed a first-time fuck would do that.

 

Oh, his left hand was back to normal. When did that happen? 

“I was wondering…” Orpheus finally spoke, looking up at the black haired man. “That entire time, you never kissed me first. Why?” 

 

Norton craned his neck down. “I couldn't.” The expression he got was heartbreaking, so he quickly continued. “No, I really couldn't. You had this dumb fuckin’...mask thing on your face.” 

 

Orpheus’ face lifted a little, leaning closer? “Mask?”

 

“Yeah, like…” He pathetically tried to imitate the curve of the beak with his hand. “...a bird.”

 

“Hm. I fear I didn't ask enough questions.”

 

Norton groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don't start interviewin’ me after sex.” Orpheus just chuckled, shuffling to lay closer to Norton. The silence was comforting.

For a little while, at least. 

“Hey.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “What…does this mean?” 

 

The novelist hummed softly in confusion, fingers gently drawing circles on his skin. Norton bit his tongue, greatly rethinking the intent behind the question. He needed to make up something, and fast. 

“I mean….takin’ notes and shit...you getting material or somethin’?” Norton tried to joke.

 

The finger stopped. He expected immediate denial, for the man to laugh it off and label it as ridiculous. But when he looked down, all he saw was a shocked stare.

 

“...Orpheus.”

 

“They say the best inspiration comes from experience-”

 

“Don't fuckin’ write about this.”

When Norton opens his eyes, he knows where he is.

 

He was lying down, a slight ache itching in his lower back. Warm sunlight gently bathed his skin. He placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart thump. He’d heard that they were valuable if you found the right people.

 

He groaned, and then stretched his body weakly. A numb sensation tingled in the very tips of each of his limbs. And then it spread further, traversing through his body, carefully wrapping around his lumps and ending up in his fingertips.

 

With a sigh, the raven attempted to raise his hand, but was stopped. Pressure, so gently he barely noticed it. He turns his head, and Orpheus is there, sat on a chair, head down on the bed covers, fingers tangled up in his. 

 

It must have been a dream, surely. Orpheus was clothed, and to his relief, he wasn't made of rocks. Was he that depraved that his imagination was running wild?

 

With a grimace, Norton crushed Orpheus' hand in his, attempting to wake him up.

 

“Mmm…” the novelist stirred next to him, pulling his hand back and rubbing his face. When their eyes finally met, the silence was deafening. As if the both of them were too nervous to speak. That look in his eyes. What was that?

 

“Oh.” The look vanished, and Orpheus sat upright, his spine hitting the back of the chair. He brushed a stand of hair out of his eyes, trying to compose himself. That stupid monocle was gone, and his shirt collar was untucked. “You're…you're awake. That's good.”

 

“And you're here, because…?” 

 

“You…fell asleep, Mr Campbell. During our catch-up. Quite quickly, I might add. It was rather pointless to continue. Besides, you were acting quite erratic during your slumber, so I brought you back here to retire for the night.” Orpheus gave him a lopsided smile. “I believe we indulged ourselves on wine. It was a rather strong brand.” 

 

Norton's huffed, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t drink wine.” 

 

“I could tell.” 

 

The raven chewed one his lip before looking back at Orpheus. “An’ you were holdin’ onto me ‘cause…?”

 

“You woke up and asked me to.”

Oh.

 

Embarrassing.

They stayed together for a little while longer before the former prospector began to get restless. That, and…he really needed to piss. He attempted to sit, but pain immediately shot through his body, making him gasp and contort in agony. His head spun, making everything feel too heavy. A pair of hands immediately shot out, stabilizing his body.

 

“Easy, easy.” Orpheus whispered, carefully manoeuvring Norton onto his back again. “I think you had a bit too much, my friend.”

 

“If I was with you…” Norton turned his head to the other. “Can you blame me?”

 

That got a chuckle out of Orpheus, but the look in his eyes gave away his true feelings above that statement. “Oh…am I really that intolerable?” 

 

“Hmm.” Norton smirks. “You got your moments.”

 

The other only smiled, carefully assisting Norton as the man attempted to sit up. It took a great strain on his body, his ribs feeling like they were being crushed. He caught Orpheus glancing down at his chest, eyes focused on his scars. Before, Norton would have hidden away, interpreting the look as disgust. But the gaze was gentle. Understanding. So for once, he laid back and let it happen.

 

Under Orpheus' watchful eye, he felt like a sculpture. The kind they would put in history books, trapped behind a cage of glass so nothing could dirty their surface. For once, he felt cared for.

 

“Do you think you can walk, Mr Campbell?” 

 

The question snapped him out of his trance, turning his head to the side.  “Probably.”

 

“That's not a yes. Don't exert yourself.” 

 

“I need to piss.”

 

Orpheus raised an eyebrow. “And why do I need to know that? Do you want me to hold your hand again?” 

 

“No.” Norton pushed the bed sheets off his body. Being stripped down to your underwear in front of your boss wasn't ideal, but Orpheus had definitely seen him in worse states. He swung his legs off the side, pushing himself up. “Keep your hands t…to…your-” 

 

Everything went black in an instant. Static filled his ears, making his head pulse. He heard something muffled, calling out for him, but it was so far away. Was he falling? Could he stop dying for one fucking second?

 

Hands grabbed him, and he fell onto a solid object. Norton immediately took the silent help without hesitation, his own hands gripping the other. He felt himself being moved backwards, his knees bending as he was pushed down to sit. Eventually, the fuzz lifted, and he looked up, Orpheus' face emerging from the blur. And he looked irritated.

 

“I told you not to exert yourself, Mr Campbell.” 

 

Norton just groaned and rolled his eyes, collapsing onto his back. He entertained himself with a damp stain on the ceiling.

 

“Stay here for today.” Orpheus walked around the bed, pulling open the curtains a little more. The warmth of the sun felt comforting on Norton's skin. “You’re clearly not fit to be up and about.” 

 

“Mmm.” 

 

“I'll bring you breakfast,” Orpheus continued, walking back around. “It's the least I can do for your hospitality and cooperation.”

 

Norton closed his eyes. “Mmm.” 

 

“Scrambled?”

 

“...mhm.”

 

“I'll be back.” Clothing rustled somewhere in front of him, before the steps walked further away. The door was unlocked, before it was pulled open, clicking shut a few seconds later. 

Norton opened his eyes. Rest. That was what Orpheus had told him to do. But he had to get up. 

How the fuck was he supposed to just…do nothing? Too many questions for him to sleep. Too much energy for him to sit on his ass. He'd have time before Orpheus came back. There had to be something he could do, something to look for.

 

Besides, Norton knew he wasn't a dreamer. There had to be some reason why he couldn't taste alcohol on his tongue. Oh, he still needed to piss.

 

He forced himself to sit up. 

Orpheus was still there.

 

“ Lie down .”

 

Norton felt his face flush in embarrassment.

The first bite was like heaven. Creamy, fluffy, melting in his mouth. He felt starved. Sure, the food at the manor was plentiful, but it never had that home cooked touch in every meal Orpheus made.

 

It tasted like he was eating it for the first time, everytime. To be eating with Orpheus as the brunette quietly read and gave him a sense of nostalgia, which was outright ridiculous; he’d known the novelist for five months, not five years. It was comforting. Or maybe it only felt that way because he knew Orpheus wasn’t getting up to no good. 

 

“Say, Mr Campbell…” Orpheus' voice snapped him out of it. The book was closed, and the brunette was awkwardly rubbing his abdomen. “Do you have any plans for the future? After the job?”

 

Norton froze. He hadn't exactly thought about that. “No. Didn't think I'd make it this far.” 

 

Orpheus smiled gently. “Nor did I. I think you're definitely my favorite.”

 

The raven raised an eyebrow before shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. He'd grown used to Orpheus' strange ways of conveying approval at this point. 

 

“M’sure you got plans.”

 

Orpheus' eyes widened a little, before he chuckled softly. “Well, I have a few projects in development.”

 

“Sittin’ on your ass ain't a plan.”

 

That earned him a laugh. “I suppose not. Hmm. Well, I've always wanted to travel.” 

 

Norton sneered. “You ain't traveled? You got money in the bank. Stop being stingy.” He opened his mouth for another spoonful before pausing.

 

Orpheus wasn't smiling anymore. He looked upset. No, he knew that expression. It looked like the way Norton felt when he'd get his pay. Tired. Defeated.

 

“Hmm…I always get told that. That I should use my wealth to explore the world. People say I went from nothing to everything overnight.” Orpheus sighed, his hands gripping the book. “When I received the revenue for my first book, do you want to know what my celebration meal was?”

 

Orpheus' eyes flickered down the spoon in Norton's hand. He slowly put the egg into his mouth, making the novelist smile again.

 

“I've never really felt…worthy of my wealth. It's true; all I did was write a few stories, and people loved them too much. While I am glad that people can enjoy my work, they never see my vision. An exploitation of passion. That's just how it works.”

 

An exploitation. Norton could remember being a child, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, hands shaking as his old man revealed a single piece of gold in a dirty cloth. It had shone so brightly. It had fed them for a month. It was his father's passion. And look where it got them. 

 

“I don't know,” Orpheus continued, leaning back in the chair. “Thousands of people come to me, expressing their own interpretations, and I can only smile and nod. I never normally reach out to fans myself, but I'm glad I did…because I feel happier knowing my books reached a person who truly understood them.”

 

Norton froze, turning to Orpheus. And Orpheus looked back. 

“Would you like to travel with me, Mr Campbell?”

Orpheus said a lot of stupid shit when he was excited. Talking about bringing plants and paintings into the old apartment. Hopping from one idea to another. This new plan was…definitely up there in stupidity levels.

 

“Uh…”

 

“Sorry, I…” Orpheus cleared his throat. “What I mean is…I'd like you to accompany me. As a paid job. I'll take care of everything, the food, the cost, everything. All I ask for is your company. I'm not fond of traveling to new places on my own, and it sounds like you'd be interested in getting away, too. So I just thought that…” Orpheus’ voice cracked, his fingers fumbling together. “We could, you know…actually spend some time together, outside of work, and-”

 

“Alright, alright.” Norton pinched the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes. “Don't make it fuckin’ weird. I'll come.” 

 

Orpheus' face shone brighter than anything. He shuffled excitedly in his seat .

 

“Oh, wonderful. Maybe we could visit your hometown?” Norton shot him an irked glance, making Orpheus stutter. “O-or at the very least, your country. Pardon me, I shouldn’t have spoken to casually about it. I know it’s…not easy to return to what you left behind.”

 

The two sat in silence, Orpheus’ awkward shuffling making Norton want to laugh. Was the man really anxious that he’d pissed Norton off? So he decided to play along, turning his head away. And he could practically hear the sound of Orpheus’ heart dropping. 

 

“Mr Campbell, I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to-” 

 

“Jesus, you’re so pitiful.” Norton cut in, making the novelist freeze. “I’m fuckin’ with you. You already said you’re payin’, so I don’t really care where we go.”

As long as I’m with you.

Orpheus let out a breath Norton didn’t even know he was holding, his stupid face lighting back up again. “Ah…well, I’ve love to know more where you came from. I’d rather visit a place with someone who is familiar with the area than have us both wandering around like idiots. Actually, I’ve heard that the food in Mexico is incredible, and I’d love to try it. Honestly, I’m not a fan of the food this country has to offer, but don’t tell our chefs that. All the effort is put into the appearance, but none of it transfers into the taste.” 

 

“Hmm,” Norton grunted in agreement, waving around the last spoonful of egg in front of the other. “It’ll be better than the shit they serve here. Tastes fuckin’ weird anyway. You ever noticed that?”

 

The room felt cold. 

“Whatever,” Norton continued, looking away. “I prefer your cooking, anyway.” 

 

No response. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

Orpheus just stared directly into him. Like Norton was a ghost, or a monster. Sweat began to bead on his neck. He hated when the novelist got like this.

 

“Orpheus?”

Eyes wide, as if in terror. And then he leant forward, getting closer to the raven. He should probably feel scared. The man was unpredictable, saying and doing the wildest things, like it was a trigger. Whatever was going through that man’s head, it wasn’t-

 

Orpheus lurched forward and his mouth around the spoon. He moved away, the contents of the utensil gone.. 

What?

 

“I’m…’fucking’ with you, Mr Ca…Norton.”

What ?

 

“That was mine!” Norton complained, making a grab for Orpheus. The brunette ducked out the way, completely smug. 

 

“I’m hungry.” The man spoke with his mouth full. He must be rubbing off on Orpheus, too.

 

What?

“So am I! Give it back!”

 

“Give it…back? You’re…” Orpheus paused, seeming to be deep in thought before his lips widened into a grin. “ ...es-two-pit-oh.”

 

The two stared at each other. Norton’s watch counting away the seconds. A ticking time bomb.

 

Orpheus swallowed.

“ ¿Qué chingados?! ¿Estúpido? ¡Tu eres estúpido! Ni siquiera lo dijiste bien, idiota. ‘ Es-two-pit-oh ’, este pinche gringo. Pensando que me puedes hablar así!”

 

The novelist only smiled as Norton yelled, a gentle pink tint on his cheeks. He looked completely enamored. 

 

Norton felt that thump again.

 

It was a lovely sight.

That night, Norton noticed a bite mark on his palm.

Notes:

“Ya vengale güey, te estoy oyendo | Come on man, I hear you

Qué coño quieres- | What the hell do you want

Este güey no para de chingar | That guy wouldn’t stop bothering me

Estás divino | You’re divine

Estúpido | Stupid

¿Qué chingados?! ¿Estúpido? ¡Tu eres estúpido! Ni siquiera lo dijiste bien, idiota. ‘Es-two-pit-oh’, este pinche gringo. Pensando que me puedes hablar así | The hell!? Stupid? You’re stupid! You didn’t even say it right, moron. “Es-two-pit-oh”, this fucking gringo. Thinking you can talk to me like that.