Not Even a Mouse (Open - Boy's Restroom)

Why hasn't she called?

The car should have come by now. Shouldn't it?

God... I just want to go home...

A Christmas dinner and dance. Yes. Yes, Highgrove was officially hell. All the pomp and circumstance of home with none of the privacy, and one-hundred percent more psychopaths. Cecil had quickly made himself scarce from the herd the moment dinner was officially over. After necking the frankly teasing amount of red wine he was allotted, and picking at his dinner, they had all been released to wander the halls between the dining hall, the solarium and the functions hall. Dance? That would surely only ever lead to the sort of ultimate embarassement that he'd already had his fill of, these last few days. Not to mention, he was dreading the appearance of a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed sociopath. If he could just make it through this night without being noticed, it would be a small victory. The car would come for him soon, after all. His mother would save him.

And so he closeted himself away in the only bathroom stall in the boy's restroom nearest to the dining hall and solarium, and locked the door. Seated upon the closed toilet cover, he pulled his feet up from the floor, hugging his knees to his chest in some effort not to be seen, in case -like some Hollywood monster- Harry might see his shoes under the stall door, and bust his way in to wish him a Happy Christmas. And as he sat, alone, listening to the first melodies and beats of the music drift down the hall from the functions room, he thought of home. He thought of his own room. He thought of the awkward, stiff family Christmas breakfasts and the painfully emotionless ritual of gift-giving. When he'd been younger -much younger- there had been a magic to Christmas. His parents had allowed him to indulge in the silly fantasies of childhood. First thing on Christmas morning he'd been able to bound down the grand staircase to find that Father Christmas had left him a number of brightly coloured and meticulously wrapped gifts. But it hadn't been that way in many years. He was an adult now, and a stiff upper lip was mandatory. Smart appearance, cool indifference. Still, all the same, he was a boy of only sixteen years, far, far away from home and everything he knew and loved, and for as cold and distant as they were, he wanted his mother and father on Christmas. Instead, he had the promise of running into Harry, and the sheer worry that his roommates were going to snap one night and smother him in his sleep.

His glasses began to fog up as bitter tears filled his eyes. He fancied he'd never felt as alone as he did now, even if his parents were estranged. At Highgrove, he'd been filled with a mistrust and fear of everyone around him, and as the little boy that -by all rights- he still was, it was too much. Quietly as he could, he began to cry, burying his face in his knees and hugging his shins tight. Father Christmas was a lie. For if he'd been real, he would have taken Cecil away on his sleigh. Anywhere. Anywhere away from Highgrove. Without dispute, it was the worst Christmas Cecil had ever experienced.

---

The holidays had been constantly smothered in a thick fog of melancholy since Isaiah could ever remember. When it was with his mother and sister, there was at least some feeling of security that differed from when it was Isaiah, Charity, and Seth. Usually, there was nothing to be forced into expecting so there was no immature feeling of disappointment on Christmas day. Presents were never expected because they simply were out of bounds for the isolated trio. Money had been short and Isaiah grew to ignore the silly, wishful thoughts of gaily wrapped presents under a decorated tree. Things were a lot different when Mother left and Seth was added into the picture. The loathsome day now would take place in a different location. The new flat was clean with muted colors and the healthy, green tree always looked ironic whenever Christmas crept nearer. Now, happiness was forced and you were expected to be excited to open a bunch of useless things.

Still, as Isaiah sat near a table with refreshments, he couldn't help but grit his teeth and wish to be in that bland flat once more. Of course they would be throwing some sort of idiotic Christmas party, of course. It was supposed to be happy for the kids, he knew this, but still, his hatred for the place grew immensely. Isaiah couldn't say if the dinner had been good or not because instead of eating it, he merely had pushed it around on his plate. He never had much of an appetiate anyway. It wasn't excruciating pain to be sitting there, but then they had to throw in a silly little dance. Dances were always stupid in his eyes. They looked awkward and who would want to jump around in a large group of people?

Isaiah wondered if Charity was happy that she didn't have to buy him that same, stupid collared shirt that he seemed to get every year, just in a different shade of blue or yellow and if Seth was slimily grinning to himself in his stupid little office that he didn't have to be bothered to buy a silly tree. It was a horrible thought but it almost comforted him. At least Isaiah wasn't being a nuisance any longer to the one he longed so much to just be near. Maybe he'd taken his sister's unconditional love for granted. Now Isaiah was almost certain he had.

Looking at the bowl filled with some liquid Isaiah was positive that was just highly sugared water dyed red only made him groan. His body had been telling him to use the restroom for about an hour now but he couldn't bring himself out of his stubborn state to just go and relieve himself. Now, foot tapping harshly on the floor, Isaiah wanted to scream. His eyes followed someone as they went to the bowl, retrieved some of the beverage from it, and took a long gulp. A bit of the blood red drink dribbled down their chin and that was it.

Isaiah was positive that his shoulder was really going to be sore tomorrow considering he just threw himself into the boy's restroom door, but all he could concentrate on now was getting into that stall. Before he could fling open the stall door though, a soft noise broke his thoughts entirely. It was very quiet, but it was definitely there. It was a soft sniffling and unmistakably the sound of someone crying. Isaiah stopped, backed up and stared at the door. Why would someone choose to sob in the bathroom, of all places? Shrugging, he knocked twice on the door.

"Uhm, hello... I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, but..." Isaiah started cautiously, not to anger the anonymous person beyond the door, "are you alright in there?"

---

When Cecil heard the door of the boys bathrooms swing open, there was a moment where he fancied his life flashed before his eyes. This was it. Harry had found him after all. Somehow, some way, the blond had tracked him down. Maybe he'd always known. Maybe he'd been watching him throughout dinner, planning his attack, planning the moment when he could get him alone. And like an idiot, Cecil had chosen the one place to hide that would make it easier for him to get what he wanted, some place where they might not be discovered. His arms tightened around his legs, his face burying deeper and harder into his knees, as if he could just make himself small enough to disappear entirely. If only it were possible. it was all he wanted in that moment, as he considered what might be to come now. What if a member of staff didn't check the bathrooms soon? Would he be subject to more of the ongoing emotional torture that the blond boy seemed so able to exact upon him?

Try as he might to fall as quiet as a mouse, it just didn't seem to be happening. The more his brain worked out the details of this disaster, the harder he cried. He wanted to shout, to scream out for Harry to go away, to choke on something, to die. But he couldn't. No more than he'd been able to since the blond had caught him out at the barn that fateful day, and shown exactly what he was capable of and, in turn, just how easy it was for him to control and manipulate the cowed masochist.

But when the voice that sounded was not that self-confident, smug tone he so associated with Harry, his breath hitched into momentary, awkward silence. If not Harry, then who? Were they a staff member? Was he going to get in trouble for not being a part of the preordained Reindeer Games? In afterthoughts, he stupidly considered that he was occupying the only private stall, after all. it was inevitable that someone would come along during the evening, wanting to use it. Certainly, he of all people was most loath to use the urinals that lined the far wall, preferring to be far, far, far away from the prying eyes of his peers. Silently, he cursed himself and then just as miserable as before, choked out another sob that he was unable to fully smother.

"I'm fine..." He ventured in a meek and not-at-all-convincing tone. It was cracked around the edges, pathetic really. But he couldn't help it. The magic of Christmas had seemed to sputter it's final death rattle that night, and as a boy he was mourning its passing with all the intensity for which any child who'd known a better life before this might. And it wasn't just the passing of the magic of Christmas. It was everything. Everything and just one thing. Harry. His very own personal demon, come to torture him for his sins. Come to bend him and twist him and hurt him... And make him like it. Make him want it. It was the ultimate violation, to be forced upon and be unable to say that he fought against it, or that he hadn't reacted in... certain favourable ways.

Watery blue eyes drifted miserably around the inside of the stall. Inevitably, he'd have to leave it sooner or later, but now it seemed to him that he was half trapped. What if this mystery other saw him crying? They might mock him for it. They might know Harry. Or if they were staff, they might ask him why, and then try to head-shrink him. Sniffling and wiping his nose on the back of a lanky hand, his gaze rose eventually to the stall door, toward the mystery intruder.

"I'll.... I'll be out in a minute.... I just..." He shook his head to himself. Pretending to be engaged in some unspeakable bodily function was just about as embarrassing to him as being caught crying. So with reluctance he slid from the toilet seat to unlatch the door, and tried to sneak past the mystery other without meeting their gaze. If he could just get to the sink and splash his face with cold water, maybe the evidence of his emotional instability might be washed away.

Fine? Isaiah almost wanted to scoff at the very choked and doubtful reply, but he stopped himself because he sort of knew this other boy's position. It's not like he never cried and then tried to clear it up, which usually ended up to be fruitless in all senses. Crying wasn't something boys were supposed to do, anyway. Stereotypical, obviously, but it was just that thought that everyone seemed to mutually agree on. Sure, girls weren't very open about crying in front of others either. It was embarrassing for both genders, but girls got off with it much easier and Isaiah wondered if the boy behind the door thought the same. Either that, or he just was one to be very embarrassed over his emotions, something Isaiah could also relate too.

After the click of the stall reassured him that it was empty, Isaiah almost pounced right into it without a second thought, but then the sight of the boy brought him back to his senses. While the stall did look inviting enough, to hide him away from the others because he always hated those cursed urinals, Isaiah's conscious made him think twice of just leaving the other boy to just be something to ponder over later that night. Something had made him feel horrible enough to lock himself away in a bathroom and that something was what Isaiah couldn't help but feel curious about.

Stepping over to the sinks slowly, but not close enough to make the other feel trapped, Isaiah looked at him. It was obvious that he had been crying, blue eyes red and puffy and a twinge of sympathy ran through him. The other boy looked around his age. Taller, but his face didn't look more mature than his own by a lot.

Would it be rude to inquire further? Isaiah couldn't make up his mind. The other boy surely was not okay and was very blatantly lying for reasons he was still unsure. Just to not be in embarrassed was Isaiah's first thought, but it could be anything, really, considering where they currently were. Maybe this kid wasn't all as innocent as he seemed. The still nameless other could attack him right now and no one would have any idea of where the two were. He could be being strangled to death this very moment by some random, post-sobbing psycho that he was just trying to, and doing a horrible job so far, console. The thought terrified Isaiah and he could feel himself leaning backwards as to get out of that bathroom as quickly as possible, but something kept him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Isaiah questioned shyly. If the other was going to admit to him, it surely would not be by Isaiah using force, this he could already tell. Part of him hoped the other would just brush him off quickly so he could continue on his first set journey to use the restroom, but the other was curious as to why the boy was so upset. Maybe it just the fact that they were now trapped in the ultimate hell, or something else really could have happened. Did another resident threaten him? Isaiah hoped not because while the boy was a complete stranger, that seemed like the biggest threat at the moment and what he does not want done to himself, he has a hard time wanting it down to others. "You don't- I'm... I'm not going to make fun of you or anything. I mean, if you thought I was."

Twas evening of Christmas, and despite what’s been told
A creature was stirring, cocky and bold.
He sat through the dinner, eyes burning bright
waiting for the mouse to slip out of sight.
His weeks had been ruined by the doctor with pills
And he was fed up with seclusion up to his gills
He wanted some fun on this cold Christmas Day
And was bound and determined that he’d have it his way.
So when the meal ended and the residents did scatter
He left in the crowd to attend to this matter.
He wandered the halls, eyes scanning each face.
He was looking for Cecil but found not a trace.
On a whim he turned, eyes spying the door
That led to the mens' room and its cold tile floor
A perfect place to hide, he thought in his mind
and where I’d go if I were meek and almost blind
So he walked to the door and let himself in
And immediately his lips split into a wide grin
But all was not well, things were a miss.
and Harry was not about to have witness.
He glanced to Isaiah, his gaze a cold stare
If Isaiah valued his life he wouldn’t stay there.
He turned back to Cecil, his search at its end
And in his charming voice whispered “Hello friend.”

Isaiah's reassurance that he wasn't about to mock Cecil for his fairly obvious moment of weakness was little consolation to the boy who'd been raised to seem cold and indifferent to everything. Weakness was frowned upon in his home now that he'd grown older, and worse, such weakness had too frequently attracted the attention of his peers, and resulted in mockery or worse. Even if Isaiah was not going to say a word about it, he still felt humiliated, and if he was honest, a little afraid. Crying in front of other people made him feel like a baby, which was annoying because most of the time he couldn't help it. He was acutely aware of how meek and pathetic he must look to others, and he hated himself for it. Almost as much as he hated those who had taken advantage of it. If he'd just been able to be bold and brass like his father, maybe most of his troubles would have been avoided. Instead, here he was in a nut house for kids, all because he couldn't stand up for himself. Because it's definitely not because you shredded yourself with an exacto knife, genius.

Cecil cupped cold water between his hands once he'd made it to the sink, and bending down closer, he splashed it up into his face before he had much chance to think about it. He just wanted the evidence of his breakdown to go away. Unfortunately, in his haste, he'd neglected to remove his glasses first, and when he righted himself and glanced toward the mirror, the world was something akin to looking through a thousand snowglobes. He ought really to have just cussed and dried them off, and be done with it, but in his fragile state, the one little slip had a fresh torrent of tears escaping from his eyes, and a muted sob issuing from his lips despite best efforts to hold it back.

"I hate Christmas!" He eventually barked, the tone as cracked and betraying as before, and followed closely by another hiccuped sob. The onyl thing that could make this situation worse now would be running into...

Hello, friend.

Oh no! Noooo!

The speed with which Cecil turned from the sink and the mirror almost had him tripping over his own foot, and he searched desperately through his water-speckled glasses for the door. Maybe he could make a run for it! But no, Harry was in the way, and Cecil was at a disadvantage. Hastily, he snatched the spectacles from his face and wiped them on his smart blazer jacket, hands fumbling anxiously in the process. His breathing quickened as of a child left alone in the dark, waiting for the monster to come out from under the bed. He missed the look that Harry gave Isaiah, a look that no doubt demanded he get out if he knew what was good for him. Cecil only managed to put the glasses back on his face in time to confirm that it was indeed Harry and that the door had closed behind him now. They three were alone in the bathrooms, and the stall was free. And Cecil was determined that he would not wind up in that stall if he could help it.

Awkwardly, he shuffled along the row of sinks with his back to them and his eyes trained on Harry. He was moving away from the stall, towards the far corner of the bathroom and the row of urinals. His hands groped behind him for each sink as he passed it, and his red, puffy eyes and rosy nose betrayed that he'd been crying. Now there were still tears in his eyes, but he'd fallen into shocked, frightened silence and looked rather like a rabbit, frozen before the jaws of a wolf.

"Leave me alone," he squeaked, in a tone far less forceful than he would have liked. He wanted to shout at him, bellow like his father could. If he could just do that, maybe Harry would leave him alone. But it just came out as a meek little whimper, not convincing enough. His gaze shot to Isaiah briefly, a frightened flash of begging blue eyes, then fixed back on Harry, afraid to miss a single moment, in case Harry did... something. Anything. He was obviously there for a reason after all. "I'll... I'll tell on you! They'll... believe me, because you're.... you're in trouble already!" He hiccuped another humiliating sob, squeezing himself into the corner now he'd reached it. "Go away!" ...Please?

---

It was always weird to watch another cry. There was a feeling Isaiah got when he saw someone else cry and it reminded him of hopelessness. Isaiah was beginning to grow more and more aware of how fragile and infantile humans really were, but it was a curious thing how they always tried to deny it. Maybe he was in the wrong for thinking of others as children for releasing their emotions in this way, considering he was just a human himself, but his nihilism grew as he watched Cecil desperately try to conceal his weakness. He wanted to console him, but he had never been too good at that and it would probably only frighten the boy to have some complete strange awkwardly try to pat his back.

After the other boy begin to break down into other fit of sobs, Isaiah rubbed his own right arm gingerly and looked down at the floor. Isaiah wondered why Cecil also hated Christmas as he did. Maybe he was poor or something? Hm, definitely not. That thought was proved negative when Isaiah noticed how well the boy was dressed. Sophisticated glasses, a blazer and a nice pair of dress pants made him feel self conscious about his own wrinkly white button up. Then, Isaiah's thoughts of self pity were broken by a voice. It sounded smug and charismatic. Isaiah's neck snapped to face the door, stomach churning.

Isaiah could have told himself this boy was bad news even without Cecil's fearful reaction to him. The new boy was tall and muscular, but his eyes reminded him of the way his dog's looked right after it passed. Cold, lifeless. Most of the bullies Isaiah had encountered before scared him, but this was a new wave of horror. It wasn't just being called something nasty or being pushed down, it made his body feel tense. Isaiah would even say that the threatening look the other gave him made him fearful for his life.

There were options that Isaiah had and one was a definite way of ensuring that his neck would stay in tact, but his feet felt as if they were glued to floor. Turning his head very slightly, Isaiah caught the look Cecil sent in his direction just for a millisecond. He knew that if he fled the scene right now, something horrible would happen to the boy who had been crying in the stall. Feet shifting almost subconsciously, Isaiah felt his body mindlessly moving farther away from the exit and the blonde boy.

"Don't- Don't do anything," Isaiah said, a false set tone of mellowness in his voice. He stumbled a little, bring himself to realize that his back had ran into one of the sinks now. "It won't fix anything. You'll... You'll get in more trouble." Isaiah quickly glanced at Cecil, unsure of himself, and turned back to the one near the door. Nothing could happen to him. He'd be fine. They weren't in some desolate alley, they were in a home full of other unstable children. Surely they'd be retrieved before anything horrible could happen. Isaiah gulped.

It was almost too easy. Fate may as well have wrapped a bow around Cecil’s neck when they put it in his mind to wander into the men’s room. Cornering himself in a small room with porcelain, metal, and ceramic probably wasn’t the smartest idea in the grand scheme of ideas. Harry had actually been thinking that it would be rather difficult to get the timid boy alone. He easily pictured him hiding behind the wall of staffers that would be circling the dance floor or at the heels of his therapist, hoping that the adult presence would ward off Harry. It would have been difficult to get a hold of him had that been the scenario. Instead he’d managed to catch him in the bathroom and this made things almost perfect. Oh, how he longed to put his fist into the side of the kid’s skull and push on those sensitive bundles of nerves at his neck. He wanted to see the expressions and hear the moans he knew Cecil would make because he couldn’t help himself. He liked it as much as Harry did. He needed it like he did.

And that was currently the problem. After being shut up for weeks in that tiny room Harry was ticking time bomb with the fuse lengthened by the drugs pumped into his system twice a day. Whatever they had him on made him foggy but it didn’t quite dull the want to hurt. The only company he had while in seclusion was the memories of him and Cecil’s encounters in the barn and the others since then. He’d lie awake; eyes fixed on the ceiling above, and replay them like a movie behind blue eyes. He wanted to feel it all again and again, unable to get enough of the sounds that the other boy made. He’d never had anything like that before with another person. Everyone Harry encountered hated what he did right through to the end. They cried, screamed, and begged for him to stop, saying that he was hurting them. But Cecil was different. When the pain came the lights stayed on but it seemed like no one was home. He grabbed for him, held on, and whimpered for more. His words and grabby hands were fuel on the fire within Harry and it pushed him to keep going. He longed to have Cecil before him in an environment where he had more than just his hands to work with and where people wouldn’t be walking in on them.

This wouldn’t be that environment but after weeks of nothing he wouldn’t complain. He did have a problem with Isaiah however. He had to do something about him for he couldn’t have a witness running to find a security guard. Instinct told him to knock the boy out and the slip off with Cecil or just shove the boy into a corner and go about his business. But the drugs in his system put him off his game enough that if he tried to fight it might not go well for him. He had to get him out somehow….or get him involved. He let darkening blue eyes travel down the body of the other boy, figuring he could get his fun out of him if Cecil was going to hide in the corner. After all, he didn’t need Cecil to enjoy it. “I’m just looking for a little fun so don’t freak out.” He glanced to Cecil before taking another step closer to Isaiah. “What about you? Are you having any fun?” The words passed his lips like they were sliding over velvet and once again he stole a look down the boy. He knew that Cecil liked what he did to him no matter how much he denied it. Would he be relieved that Harry’s attention had turned to someone else or would it make him jealous?

Jealous was not exactly the word for what Cecil felt when, instead of coming for him directly, Harry turned his attentions to the other boy in the room. What he felt was actually... complicated. It was a mingled rush of relief, fear, guilt and pity. What was Harry going to do to Isaiah? Was he going to do to him what he'd been doing to Cecil for weeks now? Would it be his fault if he did? Had his avoiding Harry meant that he was going to inflict his sick, twisted intentions on someone else? Should he do something to stop him? But what if stopping him meant that Harry turned on him instead? Did he value the well-being of a stranger over his own hide? Instinctively, he knew that he didn't, but there was a very real, human thread of guilt in him that said that this was wrong, that he couldn't just run for the door and leave Harry and Isaiah to it. But nor could he speak out and attract Harry's attention to him. The result of this complicated mess of thoughts was that he just stared blankly at the other two boys, trying to decide what in hell he was going to do now.

Maybe he could run for the door and find a staff member outside, in the hallway, or in the dining room or functions hall. But maybe, if he did that, he'd be a dead man. Once Harry got out of seclusion -if he wasn't drooling in a cup by then- he'd probably kill him the moment he saw him. Conversely, would that be such a bad thing? Cecil would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about... dark things in these last few weeks. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't vividly pictured taking an exacto knife to a major artery, or hurling himself over the top floor stairwell banister with a length of rope knotted around his neck, and the railing. Maybe Harry just killing him would be a blessing by now. But letting that asshole have the honours of doing it didn't... sit right with him somehow. If he was going to kill himself, he'd do it how he wanted and not risk having his body violated in death as it was in life. But he honest-to-god did not know what else he should do. His eyes flitted to the bathroom door, and it was obvious from his expression that he was debating something. He supposed he could just scream very loudly, and surely someone would come running. Death would be swift then, but at least Harry wouldn't be able to mutilate his corpse. If Isaiah had any sense in him at all, he'd run. Maybe they could both run. Maybe if they just made it out the door, Harry would know better than to follow them.

But even if they ran, it didn't mean Harry was going to leave him alone forever. The thought that Harry would come for him and find him later anyway made his stomach wind itself into knots, and he felt a flush of frustrated, upset anger at it, which snapped his eyes back to the other two boys. "Leave him alone!" He suddenly snapped. He'd always found it easier to be brave on other people's accounts rather than his own. It was as if the danger was less real, because it was directed somewhere other than his person. Tentatively, he took a step away from the sinks, towards Harry, his hands curling into trembling fists at his sides.

"You're sick in the head, and I hope they give you electro-shock therapy until you piss yourself. I hope they keep you locked up in seclusion forever!" Oh. My. God. Shut up. Shut up! "You're not even that good anyway! Robert was bigger than you!" Shutupshutupshutupshutup... But now he was venting his hatred and frustration, he was finding it hard to stop. It was like someone took the cap off of a bottle of shaken soda. It wasn't so easy to put the cap on when it was all gushing out so violently. "And he didn't wind up getting stuck in seclusion, because he was better too! You're just a fucking amateur. You think you're hot shit, but you're in the nut house just like the rest of us!" His cheeks were turning a deeper shade of red as he spat his insults at him, feeling -at least in the moment it lasted- as if he was invincible. Consequences seemed like a distant idea. His feet took him another step closer, and he pushed his glasses up his reddening nose with a finger, scowling. "You're just a glorified school-yard bully who can't keep his dick in his pants!"

---

Fear was a horrific understatement. It was more petrifying than scary when Harry walked closer to Isaiah, something flashing in his cold eyes. Isaiah's body went limp and he had to put his hands back on the sink to hold himself up. What was he even talking about it? Was he suggesting what Isaiah assumed he was? This was something completely different from what he had first expected. Being beaten raw by the other boy almost seemed like a treat rather than taking part in something... sexual with him.

Isaiah gaped at Harry, head pounding like waves on the shore. Being tortured in that type of way was something he couldn't even imagine. Eyes frantic, Isaiah looked at Cecil, pleading for him to do something. What he wished him to do, he didn't even know himself. Surely Cecil was so terrified of Harry also because he must have done to him what he seemed to be pressing onto himself. It was a sick thought. He didn't even know Cecil, but Isaiah felt terrible for him.

"Having fun? Are you insane?" Isaiah spat after finally turning away from Cecil, hands gripping the lip of the sink so tightly his knuckles were turning as white as the porcelain itself. He almost continued, mostly just a stuttering mess, but there was someone else speaking now and Isaiah couldn't take his eyes off of Harry. Wanting ever so badly to see his reaction to Cecil's tirade. It was surprising to hear such a loud voice from one who you'd just seen sobbing moments before. It was like Cecil was exploding, spewing every nasty thought about the other boy that crossed his mind. It reminded Isaiah sort of like a bird finally finding its voice and then refusing to stop singing, but this song was angrier than a mockingbird's.

Then it was silent. Cecil was standing taller and closer than he had from when the other boy first entered. He looked like he wasn't even thinking of how Harry could basically knock him out with one blow. While it wasn't Isaiah who had finally spoken up, he felt satisfaction for a brief moment, but pushed it away. After that, Harry would probably see it even more fit to beat the living hell out of the both and disrespect their mangled remains.

Feet finally regaining feeling, Isaiah heaved him off of the sink to stand sturdy like a wall. He knew he must look silly, trying to look fearless when he was obviously a rag doll with toothpicks for arms, but underestimating himself would only bring the two down even further. Isaiah looked at Cecil and nodded unnoticeably at first, but then more sure.

"He's right," Isaiah mumbled, but then stopped. What did he mean 'bigger than you'? A puzzled look crossed his face. Was he talking about- well, maybe that would make sense from the previous implements that Harry set towards him, but Isaiah kept quiet. Jaw locked, but cheeks sucked into his face, Isaiah looked at Cecil for a few more beats before turning to face Harry once more.

Things took a turn at this point and it wasn’t one he found to be favorable for himself. He’d had the upper hand a second ago, with Cecil cowering in the corner like a kicked puppy and Isaiah backed into the sink in such a way that he probably broken him with little to no effort. One would think that Harry had this in the bag but his little experiment cost him his advantage. And so he made a note to self: Hit first, talk later. If puffing up his chest and trying to play little games was only going to upset his plans he wouldn’t bother. Trial and error was the name of the game and now he was in a position that required him to turn the tables on two boys who thought it was smart to stand up to the sadist. It was true that he was muddled by medication but the rage that was burning through him was overriding his previous fears of not being able to stand up and take the boys out. Even doped he probably had more toned muscle on him than both put together.

Harry hadn’t been expecting Cecil to man up and start to speak. The ‘leave him alone’ was one thing but his spill about some kid named Robert came out of nowhere. Harry turned toward him and he listened to the babble, mind processing each word. He was aware that he hadn’t been the first but to hear such things from him was damaging to the fragile thing that was Harry’s ego. Do not poke the sociopath. His eyes narrowed dangerously, all thoughts of playing with the two leaving his mind and Isaiah’s attempt to stand up to him was only making it worse for both of them. Consequences be damned, he would have his “fun” but it wouldn’t be any kind of joy ride for the two boys in the bathroom. Highgrove would be thankful for the fact that tile was easily cleaned by the time he was done with them. Cecil had been a fun toy for the short while but there were undoubtedly more out there just like him, waiting for someone like Harry to come along and do unspeakable things to them. Only they wouldn’t be mouthy little shits. They’d do what they were told and sit there and shut up. As long as they reacted, he’d be happy.

The quiet was the calm before the storm and Harry was standing there seething in rage. Whatever calming medicine he was supposed to be on must not be strong enough the anger he felt right now because it boiled in his veins and would be erupting on the hides of the two boys in the room with him in the next second. A closed fist came back and swiftly shot toward Cecil’s face, attempting hitting him with as much force as he could put behind it. He didn’t care if he broke his glasses, his nose, or his own hand. All he wanted to do was shut the blabbering mouth and make him eat those words. Amateur? He would be regretting ever letting those thoughts cross his mind let alone pass his lips. The second would be swinging straight for Isaiah, looking punch as hard as he could in roughly the same area. He wanted the other boy down and blinded by pain as well before he went to taking them to pieces. He had no idea what Isaiah’s issues were but he assumed that he wouldn’t enjoy a fist in his face. Harry, however, would love it if both hits connected. The satisfaction he would get from feeling bone crack and skin split would like be everything he dreamed of and more.

No one fucked with him. No one talked to him like Cecil had and no one stood up to him like the boys through they were. Cecil had twice challenged him and he thought he’d learned his lesson this last time. It seemed that he needed another reminder who pulled the strings. Looks like they’d have to go back out to the barn.

It was only after Cecil had let out his frustration in an angry torrent of words that the very idea of consequences dawned on him. Oh... Shit... He stared back at Harry, blue eyes to blue eyes, and felt something twisting in the pit of his stomach. He was pretty sure it was a sense of impending doom, but he didn't really have the head to explore the sensation fully before Harry was suddenly moving.

At first, all Cecil knew was the sound of a loud crack, as if it had gone off inside of his own head. Perhaps it's my sanity finally snapping entirely. Chance would be a fine thing. The world was a sparkling array of blackest pitch and the brightest, dancing spots of electric white light. During this moment of darkness, apparently he lost his balance, though he wouldn't be able to recall this detail later. Back in the reality of the bathroom, Harry's punch sent Cecil sprawling backwards, and the back of his skull -where Harry had rather aptly punched him some weeks ago- smacked off of the tiled floor with an audible, sickening thud. He didn't know what happened immediately afterward, only aware of that darkness for an extended period. He lay motionless on the cold floor, out cold for a number of seconds. Perhaps this was a small mercy. Maybe he was dead. Alas, no.

As consciousness flooded back, his only thought was of pain. His lips parted in a sharp intake of breath, to announce that he was awakening, and when the breath rushed back out, it tore past his lips in a low, weak cry of pain. A cry tainted by... something else. A bright, hot agony radiated at once from his nose and was met by the dull, throbbing kettle-drum of pain in the back of his skull. The combination was... intense, blinding, new. Sputtering and gasping for breath through the red haze, he groped for the tiles, rolling onto his side in a squirming, absent fashion. His hands slapped at the tiles a couple of times before he was able to find purchase and push himself up on one elbow. The room swam around him as if the walls had turned into fun house mirrors, but he could scarcely notice. Blood began to run freely from both nostrils, and less obviously, the back of his head. All he could do was stay there, half sitting up, half sprawled, and drown in the crack of white hot lightening inside of his head. Sublime... Vibrant agony. He'd never had his nose broken before, amazingly. Now, he would remember this for the months that followed, and consider every multi-faceted nature of the experience. Sharp, hot stabbing melding with low, dull throbbing. He coughed against the blood that trickled down the back of his throat, from his nose, and sent a fine spray of it from his lips, over the tiled floor. He was not aware of the back of his collar becoming warm and slick.

He was also not aware of Isaiah, wherever he might be and whatever state he might be in. Nor of Harry. Not in those moments anyway. He stared off across the bathroom away from them with glazed eyes, breath heaving in his chest heatedly. Now and then, he'd punctuate the rhythm with another sputter or choke, but otherwise he was gone, off in la la land where only that red haze of agony existed, igniting afire throughout the rest of his body. A low, cloying growl of a moan purred in his chest as, woozy, he simply let himself slump back to the floor, on his side. Just as before all of this mess, before Isaiah had shown up, he drew his knees to his chest, but it was not in a gesture of misery now. He couldn't think about any of that stuff. He couldn't think of the horror, couldn't think of his own torment. He was in a better place. A happy place.

Isaiah had never experienced the thrill of watching a fight before, so a gross wave of anticipation filled him. It was only to see Cecil fall stiff as a board and to hear the gag inducing smack of his head hit the hard tile that brought him to his senses. This was definitely not a fight but more of another time for Harry to conquer others and leave this moment in the bathroom to be a firm reminder that no matter how hard you try, standing up for yourself will ultimately end in a bloody haze. Harry probably looked back at these moments with sickeningly smug attitude. He would win, they would lose. It was all a battle, really, for dominance and it was apparent that Harry would always come out on the top.

The next throw towards Isaiah's direction wasn't a surprise, but very much expected. The other boy didn't seem too intelligent, but he was definitely not moronic enough to finish one and leave a witness. No, you cannot spare any, but destroy them all. Harry's fist hit his face like a brick and the bathroom stall that was just earlier filled with a fluorescent light went black. There was no point in moving away from the incoming fist considering Isaiah's reflexes were much too slow. Isaiah could already taste the thick, salty blood stream down from his nose and into his mouth before his head even met the porcelain of the sink with a sharp crack.

Isaiah's fall to the tile almost seemed like years, but he finally felt his body collapse onto it. The tile was cold, but the blood gushing from his nose was warm and it was making its way to his shirt. His blank vision was not greeted with unconsciousness, but only a few fleeting moments of being utterly blind. This had happened to him before and the memory of slipping on the coffee table to have his nape meet the hard glass came to mind. It had once been scary, but now this feeling was familiar. Darkness. You were so vulnerable without your sight to the point were most blind people have to treated like a child or even have an animal guide them around. Isaiah hated to feel so fragile and weak. It created a rage inside of him when he was reminded that he too, was a helpless human like the rest.

When his sight began to come back, everything was blurry and the hot pain now turned to a throbbing. Isaiah's nose was burning like he had just had his face smothered in flames and he felt the need to convulse. Back arched, a hand instinctively flew to hold his nose, to desperately try and stop the flowing, never ending river of blood. Eyes pinched tightly shut, not wanting to see Harry's disgusting face that probably shined with self-satisfaction and pride, Isaiah groped mindlessly with his free hand, unsure of what he was thrashing around for. He needed to feel something, to know that he wasn't slipping away from reality.

Going unconscious would be the only sign, right? Did people always pass out when they got a concussion? Could he slip into a coma right now, without any warning? Isaiah thought he knew these things. What happened when someone got a concussion and how to go into a coma, but now every single one of his thoughts were slipping through his fingers like sand. The thought almost made him vomit. The mixture of undeniable fear and blood made his stomach flip over and over again. Hand still searching blindly, Isaiah expected to soon feel Harry's foot come down on it with as much weight as a grown elephant, to have every single on his fingers on his right hand be broken. His thoughts were racing, but the world seemed slowed. The pain was magnified and he could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ear like a hurricane. Death almost seemed like a present now, something Isaiah hungered and wished for with every amount of strength he had left in his body. To die such a dishonorable death was scary, but it would be so much better than anything Harry had planned for him next.

The key would was ‘should.’ It should have been amazing. Harry should be basking in a glow of overwhelming pleasure standing in the middle of the bathroom. Both hits had connected with the faces of his targets and they both were down and out, bleeding on the floor at his feet. This was how things should be. They should also be filling him with a joy he’d never know. In the past when Harry caused the exact came injuries on other people he enjoyed it in ways that would make most people sick to their stomachs. This kind of violence got him off and it was this kind that landed him in Highgrove in the first place. It was his lack of his empathy for those around him, his capacity for violence, and masturbating to the result of what he’d done to people. This should be a crowning moment for him for he’d put down two mouthy little shits who thought it was smart to taught him and now he could take all the pleasure he wanted from it. But for all the shoulds it just…wasn’t.

Harry felt the bone break and skin split just as he’d imagined. He watched Cecil fall back, his broken glasses clattering to the floor beside him. Isaiah went down in a similar fashion and in a few seconds Harry had won. Crimson stained the clothing and fair skin of the two fallen boys and as he came down from his burst of rage he felt…wrong. He loved it, every minute of it but he just…he couldn’t get into it. It didn’t feel like it should. The feelings Harry current had could be described as being unable to find the right word. It was right there on the tip of the tongue but for the life of you it wouldn’t come. Harry knew he liked this and he knew he enjoyed it but it wasn’t the same. He stood there, watching Cecil squirm in absolute ecstasy while Isaiah flapped about in an attempt to…do whatever. He didn’t care. The boy wasn’t a threat and he had more pressing matters to deal with. The first and foremost pressing matter would be the lack of pressing in his pants. He could clearly see himself taking full advantage of having both boys at his mercy; playing with them in their moments of weakness and then washing his hands and walking out like he’d done nothing more than use the facility. But this was wrong.

This was a sobering moment for the blond sociopath. He couldn’t get it up. He just…it wasn’t happening. What the hell was wrong with him? He took a step forward toward Cecil, more hatred for the boy filling him as he neared. Was it him? Was he not satisfied because of him? His foot crushed the already cracked glasses and all he wanted to do right now was beat the already bleeding boy to death. Isaiah would be next. But the longer he watched, the more he thought, and the more the other side of instinct began to speak to him. Fight or flight. Fight had always won with Harry. He’d rather go down swinging that anything else and until this moment running had never been an option. But both boys were fucked up and here he stood with bruised knuckles. This was self preservation. Harry had to watch out for himself before anyone else and so he turned sharply, feet carrying him toward the bathroom door. If he was caught in here they’d give him more of those fucking drugs, lock him back in that damn cell. He wouldn’t go back.

Perhaps being unable to get off was a blessing even if it was pissing Harry off to no end. He could leave the scene a bloody mess and hopefully he’d taught the two boys a lesson to not squeal on him. For what he’d just done would seem like a love tap by comparison. If Harry had any brain cells left he would be hunting them down and taking out all his rage on them.

For some time now -possibly as far back as he could remember- Cecil had not reacted to pain in the same way as his peers, or anyone else he'd ever met, for that matter. It was as if God had switched around the wiring in his head for some kind of sick joke. For too long he had started to associate the pain with a strange pleasure that invariably followed, and over time it had grown into a... complication. Now he needed the pain in order to feel the pleasure, and in turn, the feeling of any kind of pain did things to him that it oughtn't to do. It excited him. It aroused against his will. That was how Harry had held such a sway over him these last few weeks. He could scream that he didn't want it -and he didn't- until he was blue in the face, but at the end of the day, his body had other ideas, and Harry had laughed about that, threatened to tell the others if he dared try to snitch. The violation upon his person was bad enough, but the way he reacted to it was worse. It was humiliating and frustrating enough that he could scream if ever he let his wits slip for just a second. He loathed the sight of Harry's smug face, but it was like Harry knew just how to turn his mind into putty, knew how to put his body in the driving seat. Unfortunately, this was no different, and as Cecil vaguely registered the crunch of his glasses underfoot, and then the retreating footfalls, he wasn't sure if Harry's leaving was a blessing or a curse.

It was true that he hated Harry, that he didn't want him, but this searing, ecstatic agony! he didn't know what to do with himself now, that horrid, treacherous little voice in the back of his head had started up. It had but one word in its vocabulary, this passenger of sorts, and that word had always been 'more'. It never spoke with his lips, never spoke aloud, but it spoke through his eyes when they took on this heated, glazed quality. It was burning intensity and imploring. And right now, it was going unnoticed as Harry headed away. Only a few steps from Cecil, Harry simply blurred out of accurate vision. With the inpact to his nose, the back of his head, and his lack of glasses, Cecil was blind, and he whimpered a sound too wanton to be pathetic as the footsteps trailed away toward the door. In that moment, he would have gone anywhere with Harry if he'd only dragged him up, but instead he remained curled up on the floor, wrestling between the sweet, oblivious abandon of the agony, and the pressing reason of reality. He hated Harry, so he should not want him to come back. But... But more. Visions of being shredded slowly to pieces with some horrible contraption floated around the forefront of his brain, and he shuddered an audible breath, gingerly lifting an unstable hand towards his face. It came away crimson and wet, and the jolt of lightning the tiny touch sent through him was enough to tell him that this night would be... a problem.

Eventually, a staff member would come along and find them. He'd be dragged off to the medical building. And how was he going to explain his reaction to the pain? It would be so embarrassing he'd simply want the ground to open up and swallow him. He didn't want to be found like this, with his proverbial pants around his ankles! With effort and a slooshing, uneasy vertigo slopping back and forth around inside of his skull, he pushed himself to sit up fully, his legs sprawled in front of him and the lower part of his face a mask of blood. His hand groped around on the tiles for the glasses nearby, but it was a useless effort in the end, because they were crushed, and the moment he tried to put them on, he had to immediately take them off. Apparently his nose was broken, because it was as if he'd just tried to clamp a bench vice onto his face. He stuttered another sharp breath, trying to stay quiet, and felt something warm and wet finally trickle down between his shoulder blades. Oh, crap... They'd definitely want to take him to the med building now.

It wasn't sight that told Isaiah his and Cecil's perpetrator was fleeing, but a slight relaxation of his muscles. The threat was moving farther away now and he will be left alone to flop around on the tile in a thick pool of his own blood. His shirt was soaked with the bodily liquid and his throat was tightening, trying to fight back a few meaningless tears. The pain was fluctuating between tightening and stabbing, but the constant throbbing feeling was always there throughout the changes. In a sense, it felt almost alright to be laying here. Vulnerable, bloody, a broken nose, and maybe even a mild concussion from his head's blow to the sink. There was a certain shift now, though, and one Isaiah never fancied. It was unsatisfactory. Harry didn't finish them off like he'd expected- feared. No, he left them there to be found- blood, arousal, and all - then bandaged like infants.

Finally, with eyes open, Isaiah searched the room. Laying on his back didn't give him much of a great view of his surroundings, but it would have to do with his current state of hopelessness. He had heard the crunch of glass breaking, definitely Cecil's glasses and he imagined what they looked like. Bloody, probably, considering the amount the two boys must have lost combined was a decent amount and surely damaged beyond repair. Slowly, Isaiah mustered his leftover strength up to his arms so he could leverage himself up on one elbow, to face the direction where he thought Cecil was. Blinking to clear his line of sight, Isaiah squinted thoughtfully, just enough to make out the basic outline and shape of the other boy. He was in horrible condition and looked much worse than Isaiah thought he probably did. There was something strange going on with the other boy, though, something Isaiah was afraid to admit to himself.

A sense of realization crossed Isaiah and he knew. It was weird and made him even more uncomfortable than he already was, but it was self assuring. It was then when he realized his own embarrassing reaction to the violence that Harry projected onto the two boys and his face colored. Maybe it was good now that three-fourths of his face was covered in blood, both wet and drying. The blood was a cover and a good one at that, but Isaiah could feel the bile building at the back of his throat. The taste and stench of it was getting to him, but he swallowed thickly to save himself from even further embarrassment.

Things would get even more complicated now. Someone would find them soon enough. People will start looking when the night grows older, but how much longer from now? Isaiah wanted to jump out of his skin. He wanted to be found, to be fixed up and washed, but another side of his thoughts wanted to squirm into the lone stall and lock himself away for the rest of his adolescent-hood, maybe even till death. How foolish he had been to think to even try and stand up to the boy who caused him this much discomfort. Isaiah was an idiot and he knew this. Instead of underestimating, he had over done it all. He thought about how he had reacted when Harry had first shown his face in the bathroom. He could have ran, left Cecil to his own fate, but instead he had chosen to get beat up as well. For what? To feel like he did the right thing by not abandoning some total stranger? It was truly stupid what he had did, to think morally rather than to try and preserve his own well being.

Isaiah chuckled at his own caring nature toward another with his head hanging to face the now red tile. Blood sputtered from his mouth and his breath caught. Choking. Now he was choking. This is how he would die. Choking on his own blood and spit. Charity would be proud.

Hand on his chest, Isaiah tried to steady his breathing. Slowly. In and out. Not too fast. The choking finally subdued and he pushed himself higher up so that he was leaning with his head against the sink. Vision finally clear enough, Isaiah rubbed his eyes with which hand he thought was the least coated with blood and looked at Cecil. The whole of the other boy's face was thickly coated in drying blood and Isaiah grimaced. Isaiah wanted to speak, to just say something, even if it was mindless, meaningless gibberish. Maybe just mutter a swear word, but he just stared at the other with his mouth agape.

"Y-You'll..." Isaiah finally croaked, voice breaking and not even thinking of his next choice of words. "We'll b-be fine. Jus' blood 'nd st-stuff..." He blinked which lasted about thirty long seconds and let his head fall back against the wall. A new pain shot through him from his skull down to his feet, but he let himself slip down to a slouching position, head resting on the wall to await what happened next.

His enthusiasm about being at his new job was only matched by his excitement for the holiday season. Max loved Christmas! He loved wrapping gifts, baking cookies, and hanging obnoxiously colored lights around his house. So having his first few days at Highgrove fall on the same weekend as Christmas was truly a gift. His birthday might as well have been on the same weekend at this rate. He was excited about getting settled in and getting to know all the residents as well as the staff. Just from the little reading that he’d done, it seemed like he’d do rather well here. The only one he found so far that he may butt heads with would be the head of psychiatry. They hadn’t met yet but it was only a matter of time. They would be working semi closely what with him being the head of household and seeing patients. He had every confidence that they’d be clashing on some matters when it came to treatment or medication but those bridges would be crossed, or burned, when they came to them.

For now he just wanted to enjoy himself and observe the residents from afar. Max had been at the dinner but had requested to not be announced as the replacement for Dr. Penhurst. He wanted to observe for the time being, get a feel for the kids before they start behaving around him. If they thought him to be just a teacher or other lowly staffer they’d act differently than if they knew he held the keys to their prison. Afterward he’d just drifted through the halls, making mental notes as he went. Highgrove was a rather interesting place and so far he was impressed with it. He wanted to explore more and to see the other staff members in action. He also wanted to properly meet the residents as well. Perhaps he ought to set up a group session once the holidays ended.

He turned down the hall, eyes drawn to the sudden movement of a boy vanishing around a far corner. He hadn’t seen where he’d come from but given the other doors in the hall he was able to quickly narrow it down to the men’s room. Max’s head tipped slightly to the side, wondering what caused the back of the head he’d glimpsed to me walking like his pants were on fire. Momentarily he was torn between following the blond hair around the corner and flagging him down but he thought he might peek in the bathroom first, if only to make sure no one was dying on the floor. He quickly stepped over to the door, pushing it open and poking his head inside. What he saw nearly caused him to trip over himself and a split second later he was on the floor beside the boys, not really sure what to do first. He’d been to medical school to become a psychiatrist but this…it was the shock of the scene that him momentarily at a loss. His radio flew from his belt a split second later as he radioed for help, demanding security and medial to the boy’s bathroom and that they were already late. “It’s okay boys. It’s okay we’re gonna get you help.” He looked from Isaiah to Cecil before reaching for the paper towels and grabbing fist fulls and tried to hand them off to Isaiah, who seemed to a bit more with it than the other boy. “Can you hold these?” Oh, where the fuck was medical? He didn’t want to lose patients his first few days so they’d better get here right fucking now. He moved back to Cecil, trying to find the sources of blood and do something with what little he had to help.

The medical and security men and women rushed in seconds later and Max began rattling off orders as they prepped Cecil and Isaiah to be moved to the medical building then shouting to security to look for the blond kid who’d gone that-a-way.