Marcus took it willingly. Instead of speaking he opted for draining the whole cup of water, looking over at Cyrus for a moment.
“Lots of things… Marx, arson, things…” he leaned his head against Cyrus, showing off a new set of cuts on the back of his neck. They appeared to be from a jagged knife, or something broken and sharp.
“I feel like I’m numb… Like I don’t even care that he did something to me again… but I want to care. And it bugs me that I don’t. I don’t enjoy it. Not one bit. I don’t like the ropes and blindfolds and force. But I can’t say anything about it or he gets angry… he brings knives and sharp things to punish me.”
Cyrus started carefully with the cut on his leg, taking a washcloth and cleaning dirt from the area. He dabbed rubbing alcohol on it, watching Marcus’ expression for any sign of pain.
“Understandable… I… don’t know how to… How do I even start to comfort you?” Cyrus asked, “What if he… killed you on accident?”
Marcus let out a yelp, gasping at the pain the alcohol brought. His hand jumped to grab Cyrus’s wrist, but the action was gently. “Ouch… that hurts.” He whined, biting his newly bruised lip.
At the question, he gave up nearly all the struggle, releasing Cyrus’s hand. He curled back in on himself. “I don’t know how you can either…. and if- if he kills me… I’ll let him.” He murmured softly, hiding his face again. “Got nothing else in this world to live for besides you.”
"Sorry… Gosh, that's deep…"
Cyrus continued working on the wound. He shook his head.
"That's… that's horrible."
Cyrus gritted his teeth.
"I'm going to kill him…"
“I might need stitches. I can do those myself.” He promised, stealing a glance at the wound and scowling at it.
“Please… just stay away from him. I don’t want you hurt either.” Marcus lifted his head slightly, revealing the watery tears that tried to fall. He wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t let any tears far, ever. He was stronger than they were.
“Please leave him alone… I can deal with it! I can deal with it all.”
Cyrus bit his lip.
"I won't do anything rash. I promise. But you don't have to go through this alone, okay? You really don't."
He reached out to stroke the other's arm, but realized he had a bit of blood on his hands and lowered it.
"I can take care of the stitches. I've got a lot of practice too."
Marcus nodded softly, shaking lightly as he wiped at his eyes, cursing at the wetness on his cheek. “O-Okay…” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut so they’d stop leaking.
“The stit-stitches are in the med kit.” Marcus didn’t fight it. He didn’t have the energy to rebut the other and so he leaned back against the wall, his breath heavy and slow.
Cyrus kissed Marcus on the forehead.
“Breathe, love. You’re okay.”
He washed his hands and went into the medkit to find the stitches. He unwrapped the packaging and carefully prepared the other.
“Alright, bear with me here.”
“I don’t feel okay anymore…” he admitted sheepishly, almost treating it like it was a joke. “I hurt and I smell and I can’t stand up for myself. I’m just a shitty gang member.” He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and groaned loudly.
“I’m bearing with you… I’ll try and keep still. I’m sorry.” He murmured, sniffling. “I was a fucking idiot today!” He growled, his mood suddenly swinging. “Such an idiot! I’ve always been an idiot… the day I decided to trust Marx was the day I signed my own death certificate. What an ASS. He does whatever he wants to do to me! And he gets away with it! I’m a coward!”
"Marcus, you did nothing wrong," Cyrus soothed, "Abuse is not your fault. And ultimately, something horrible just happened, and you're in a bad state right now, mentally. You're not a coward. You're not an idiot. Marx is manipulative. Abusers just… are terrible people, and they have their ways to make you feel at fault."
He steadied his hand and started to work on the stitches, lowering his head so he could see what he was doing better.
"Let me know if it starts hurting too badly. I'll try to be quick."
“But I lead him on. I let him push me around and now he thinks he can keep doing it.” Marcus found himself sobbing suddenly, his fingers gently touching the line of tears that fell down his cheeks. “Aren’t I at fault?! Isn’t this just punishment for my awful existence!?” His father’s words drifted into his mind. Horrible and sharp words never seemed to end whenever he was at his father and brother’s place; they always blamed him for everything, told him he was a waste of a human. If he hadn’t been born a cripple he would have been fine. He could have actually been loved and his mother might still be alive.
He tried to quiet his wracking sobs as Cyrus bent down to get a better look. From this angle Marcus could see how crooked his leg was, the bone and muscle twisted in an ugly direction. It only got worse with age and hurt like hell when he overused it. The slash in his skin happened to be on that leg. It made sense. He was lame there and often the pain was so bad he blocked it out, causing the nerves to feel numb.
He couldn’t feel much in that leg now other than the pain of everything. It made him sob harder.
“If I wasn’t such a cripple I might’ve been someone…” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Then I wouldn’t have needed pain meds… and we could’ve paid for mom’s treatment… maybe she would be alive…”
Cyrus started to feel choked up.
"Marcus… I'm so sorry… I don't know everything you've been through, but I can promise it's not your fault. I've been there. Self-blaming is absolutely destructive."
He continued to work on the stitches. At this point he was only about a quarter of the way done, and he could tell Marcus was in pain. However, that was going to be the case, stitches or no stitches.
The male fell silent other than his quiet sobbing, flinching slightly each time the needle went through skin.
“That hurts!” He wailed, sounding more like a child than a grown adult. He grit his teeth as the pain grew, whining.
“I know, I know…” Cyrus whispered, pausing for a second so Marcus could gather himself better before he continued.
“Here, I can’t give you my hand, but grab onto my leg or something and squeeze if you need for comfort. Now, let’s try some breathing exercises before we keep going.”
Marcus took in a few shuddering breaths, his whole body tense and shaken. The stitches hurt, yes, but he himself was tormented by something other than physical pain. A pain not seen physically but one that rested behind his eyes and in his chest. He was suffering from the abuse of many years.
His hand was hot as he set it against Cyrus’s leg, giving it a gentle squeeze as another pang of pain shook his core. “B-breathing… okay. I can do that.”
“Good, good,” Cyrus soothed, stitching up the wound further.
Then he was done. He tied the stitches off and set everything down.
Cyrus leaned in to hug Marcus.
“God, I’m so sorry this happened to you…” he sighed, wiping a tear from the corner of the other’s eye.
Marcus pushed his face into Cyrus’a shoulder, wrapping his arms around the other tightly after his tear had been wiped away.
“I’m so scared… I’ve done so many bad things… I want out. I want to leave the gang but if I try they’ll kill me! Marx said so!” He whimpered. “I keep getting hurt and hurting others… that family had a little kid… I burned down their house for Marx but they didn’t even do anything… now they don’t have a place to stay and it’s my fault.”
"Marcus, this is extortion. It's not your will to do these things. The situation really sucks for this family, but…" he sighed, "God, I know how you feel though. I've also been forced to commit crimes against people who are innocent, and it's awful. If you do, you've done this horrible thing to undeserving people, but if you don't… there are often such hefty consequences…"
Cyrus scowled. "I hate this world we live in."
“I don’t want to do this anymore…” he murmured. “I don’t like this. I hate the fact I exist.” Marcus pulled the other closer, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Will you stay the night again…? I’m afraid if I’m alone I won’t live through the night.”
"I will," Cyrus replied, his voice growing shaky. "P-please don't leave me too… I'll help get you out of this if it's the last thing I do."
He carefully held Marcus back, trying not to hurt any spots where he might have been injured already.
“I won’t. I can’t leave you now. Not after you’ve been so kind.” He murmured gently, nuzzling Cyrus’s cheek. “I need you here with me for a bit… I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”
"I don't either. I don't want to go back. I'm not needed for another few days, but… I don't want to go back ever," Cyrus replied.
He nuzzled Marcus back.
"Let's finish getting you all cleaned up," he suggested, "Then we can lay in bed and cuddle. I can make dinner for you too."
“I want to run away.” He admitted, pulling away to rub at his tired eyes. He looked like a mess, with dried blood from his nose and purple and green bruises across his cheeks and forehead. There was even a small cut under his left eye, given to him when Marx had threatened to remove the eyeball there if he wasn’t a ‘good little toy.’
“Okay… I think I’ll shower. I feel gross.” Marcus slipped his jacket off, showing the angry red marks from the ropes. They went all the way up his arms and even once across his chest, though that wouldn’t be seen quite yet. “I’m so tired.”
"Alright. I'll leave you to that, unless you need help with anything," Cyrus agreed, "I'll cook for you in the meantime otherwise."
Cyrus eyed his arms for a moment, following the marks up his arms until the sleeve cut them off.
"If you need help treating harder-to-reach places, too, I can help you. Careful with your leg in the shower."
Marcus shook his head, rubbing at his arms awkwardly. “I’ll manage. Thank you for your help.” His green eyes dulled as he glanced down at himself, feeling embarrassed to be seen with the marks of what was practically rape.
“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. And don’t worry, I’ll be careful with it.” He promised, looking down at the wound. “Is it safe to get the stitches wet…? Should I wait?”
“Hold up, I have an idea. Do you have duct tape and plastic wrap or bags? You could cover it up while you shower. If not, you might just want to like… wipe down with a washcloth, which isn’t what you want, but better than nothing.”
Cyrus looked Marcus up and down again. This time, he felt sparks of anger in his heart.
I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that bastard…
“I have plastic bags. The duct tape is in my room. I want to shower, get rid of everything on my body.” He dipped his head in shame as Cyrus looked over him again.
He felt like a coward and like a fool. In his mind, Marcus figured Cyrus was maybe disgusted by him or at least weirded out by such an awful display.
It made his heart ache. He wanted Cyrus to be the kind man he had been the night before. “Want me to go get the bags…?” He offered in a near whisper, standing there awkwardly. He didn’t want to undress and show more of the damage Marx had caused. He was too afraid too.
“I can get them if you tell me where they are so you don’t have to walk,” Cyrus offered, ”I’ll clear out soon if you don’t want me to see your body, though. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m just worried about the pain it’s causing you.”
“Next to the sink, in the third drawer are the bags. The duck tape is in my room next to the bed on that nightstand.” Marcus flushed when he was found out, biting his lip. “I don’t want you to see what he does…” he whimpered. “You’ve worried over me enough. I’ll be fine, I’ve been through this before.”
Marcus pulled down on his shirt, nervously shifting from one leg to the other. He knew his story sounded weak. Just before he had been sobbing. Yes he had been through it all before. But the night had broken him beyond what he could deal with it
"You sound like me," Cyrus chuckled, going to the drawer and pulling out a box of plastic bags,"'I've been through this before.' You realize how ridiculous we both sound, right?"
Cyrus grabbed the duct tape from the nightstand and came back in. He pulled the tape and tore off a piece with his teeth.
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