Marcus only nodded, trudging down the road with a slight limp. His body felt like it had been drug through hell and in a way it had. There were plenty of new scratches, burns, and bruises. He was pretty sure his leg needed stitches, as he had cut it pretty badly on something inside the home he had just burned down. He had gotten clumsy in his hurry.
His thoughts were interrupted by a text. He opened his phone and grinned at the contact.
Yes, I’m on my way back. How was your day?
Cyrus perked up when he heard his phone buzz.
Thank god, he thought.
He started typing back.
Slept for most of the day, I ate and drank some water, and now I feel sort of alright.
Good! Rest some more I’ll be back in about five,
He replied, picking up his speed.
It took him more like ten minutes to get back to the apartment. He wobbled up the stairs and turned the key in the door, grinning as he looked around for Cyrus. “I’m back!” He called, glancing down at himself suddenly feeling slightly alarmed.
He had forgotten about the ash, soot, and blood that stained his pants and boots. He had forgotten that the place he had been cut, where the pants were torn wide open to reveal the deep cut that oozed blood.
“Ah whoops.”
Cyrus looked up from where he laid on the couch.
“W-what the fuck, man?! Did Marx do this to you?! I’ll- I’ll kill him!”
He stood up to go make sure Marcus was okay, giving all of his wounds a good look.
“Go lie down, I can help you treat your wounds,” Cyrus said soothingly, reaching for the other’s arm.
Marcus pressed a soft kiss to Cyrus’s cheek. “Only the bruises and the scratches on my sides are from him.” He murmured gently. “I’m alright. I just cut myself while on a mission.” Marcus leaned against Cyrus, closing his eyes tiredly. He smelled heavily of smoke and gasoline.
“I’m tired… my body hurts… I feel gross and violated.” He complained loudly, nuzzling into Cyrus’s neck.
“Sorry,” Cyrus murmured, “Here, let me help take care of you. Let’s clean out that cut and get it fixed up. It looks pretty nasty. And feel free to keep venting to me. I know it must be tough.”
He nodded, unable to fight the smile that bloomed across his face. “You’re so kind.” He hummed. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer. It’s been an awful day. First I thought he wasn’t going to do anything to me. I thought it was just some stupid gang thing I’d have to do. And then he-“ he paused, his voice cracking. “Long story short, I have blindfolds and ropes. And then after all that he made me go and burn down a house…” he huffed. “I always get away with my arson. The police are dumb as hell.”
“Honestly, yeah…” Cyrus trailed off.
Behind his kind eyes, if one looked closely, was seething anger. He was very terse, trying to fight back the rage that bubbled under the surface.
“Go to the bathroom and start cleaning up. I can grab some medical supplies, if you have any, and I’ll meet you there.”
“The medical stuff should be in my room, under the bed.” He murmured, smiling weakly at Cyrus. Marcus may have seemed to be put together, but there was something utterly broken in his own eyes.
His defense mechanism had already kicked in. It was a rather horrid thing. He became distant from himself, detaching his mind from the situation. He was just barely coming back.
He made his way into the bathroom and sat down on the floor, shaking gently. He rubbed at his sore wrists, rubbed raw by the ropes that bound him to the bed.
He shut his eyes, hugging his knees close to his chest. It felt awful. The smoke on his jacket and in his hair reminded him all too well that what had happened wasn’t just a fever dream.
Cyrus went to grab the supplies and some water for Marcus. He came in and sat on the bathroom floor next to him. Cyrus offered him the glass of water and began to unpack the medical supplies.
A worried look had passed over his face.
“What’s on your mind?” Cyrus asked gently.
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.”
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