Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The diner is dimly lit. The clock is 23:45, but electricity is expensive these days, and the grotesque woman behind the counter already seems to be hungrily eyeing the flies on the glue trap. Theon drinks instant coffee, the most repulsive kind imaginable. The cup of coffee is round and deep and black, like a hole. A hole in the world. A hole in him. Or there was, ten years ago. A hole he has come here to seal completely.

Theon continues to drink. It's his fourth cup tonight. He gains no joy from it, but he must do something. Something other than glancing nervously at the door, as if it will burst any moment and reveal another black hole. (A walking one, which enters in three, two, one, go).

The little bell above the door rings.

He doesn't look that different, really, Theon thinks. His movements are slowed, though, eyes squinting, as if in a state of sleep walking.

The fat mountain behind the counter asks, "What will it be?". One can attribute Theon's macabre description of her to his current state of mind, welling with bad memories. Fuck inner beauty. Fuck beauty in general. Fuck R— ... the man (he curses himself for being unable to say the name, after all this time) ordering something in a sweet—false, false, false—voice. "Tea, please. Whatever you have. No milk or sugar."

"That'll be five dollars." Bitch. In that moment, he hates her for accepting his request, for not shoving him outside.

The man pays in cash without complaint. He turns towards Theon, smiles, and a wind blows through Theon's soul. He starts walking.

Theon's knuckles are white.

The man sits down opposite him. He has... changed, certainly. The clothes are simpler. A pair of jeans, a sweater. They hide the monster underneath—that, and the scars. Claw marks where someone tried to escape, a broken nose from a vicious vitcim. Theon could go on. The position is less relaxed, spine straighter, oyster eyes almost shining. "Theon," he greets, finally.

"Bolton." Theon manages to keep his tone neutral.

If the formality disturbs him, Ramsay does not show it. "...I wanted to meet you sooner, but they wouldn't allow it, which is, of course, understandable. Yes. Understandable." It's awkward. Not angry, not dangerous. Awkward. "I thought about you a lot, you see." That sends chills down Theon's spine. "But I am better now. Not fixed, but I'm getting there. I meet with my therapist four times a week, and I attend group therapy and workshops. Plus I have my medicine, taken thrice daily." Ramsay twirls his thumbs. He's skinnier, too. That's what institutions for the criminally insane does to one. Prison would've been worse, especially for Ramsay's delicate state of mind (psychiatrist's words). Theon recalls the trial. He'd sat at the back in dirty, oversized clothes, Robb's arm slung protectively over his shoulder. They saw corrupted lawyers play their little games, meaningless to them and everything to the victims of the case. Lots of parents were crying and shouting for justice for their dead daughters. Ramsay hadn't cared. He'd looked right at Theon the entire time, unblinking, with an eye colour no two people could agree on, which Theon can still see when he closes his own.

(—with a sharp, sharp blade in the moment before pain and a bloody mouth teeth fish lips stuck in his neck cold hands on his chin quiet because of a gag like the whole world's on some soft, soft drugs—)

No. Stop. He's here to fix things, not relieve them.

Ramsay continues, "...I'm not going to ask you to forgive me. My therapist says not to believe in miracles. She said not to meet you, as you know. What I did to you was gruesome. Inhuman. I stripped you of your rights as a human being and I enjoyed it. It's sick. 'Cos was sick. Am. But for what it's worth I am. Truly. Sorry."

The apology hits Theon like a ton of bricks.

He wants to scream. He's spent years imagining moments like these, and in all of them there are shouting and screaming and sometimes death (although he never admits to himself he likes those)—but this? A fucking apology? Does he expect... well he said he doesn't... what the fuck. "Who am I talking to?" Theon grinds out, icily. "Ramsay Bolton? Or his doctors?"

Ramsay is expressionless. "It is still me, Theon. All me. Same DNA, same body, same eyes. I've gotten better, see? Psychology is all about breaking and rebuilding. Did you think they let people walk out of there if they were still ill? Of course not."

No, but... "Where is he?" Theon hoarsely demands. "Where's the real Ramsay?"

The woman behind the counter looks over to them, scowling. Ramsay goes still. Then he lays a hand on his heart. "Dead." There it is again—that little smile. So poisonously sweet. Theon goes blank.

How the hell can you reconcile with your past if that past is dead?

It takes a while for Theon to calm down and drink the shit coffee. Ramsay drinks his herbal tea, and quietly comments how he isn't allowed to have sugar, alcohol or caffeine. "Patterns... are so easy to slip into. A man who hadn't smoked for ten years spent two minutes inside an elevator with a man who did and gave in." Ramsay sighs. "I... Sorry. How is your current situation? Comfortable?"

"Quite."

"Job?"

"I work as a mechanic, after the aquarium store went bankrupt. People doesn't care about pets these days—especially not the quiet ones." A little jab. No reaction. "I'm alright, thanks."

"I'm... glad." The tension is so thick you could slice through it. "How about a home? I remember that you didn't have one when we..." he trails off, apologetically.

Theon ignores it. "I live in a house, yes."

"Oh. Good. And how about a relationship, are you in one currently?" Theon sneers. Ramsay immediately seems to regret his statement, swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry that was rude and none of my business I ap—"

Theon was never the sharpest knife, so to speak. The urge to provoke rises in his chest like a bomb, and he says, "Don't apologize. I'm in one."

Ramsay sobers up. "Who?"

"Robb Stark." Let's see your face now, you sick fuck.

Ramsay doesn't say anything for a little while. Then, chuckling of some private joke, he asks, "So you live with him, right? In his house?"

"So what?"

"I'm very happy for you, Theon." Again with the use of his first name. It's patronizing, especially because Ramsay is wholly blasé. "Does he know you're here?"

Theon's face heats up. "No. It would complicate things."

"Understandable. He's good to you, isn't he? Easily worried? Better than I was? "

(—Robb is nothing like  him  with clean gentle soft fingers and a rich woodsy smell and Theon is / should be / is not that glad because when they have sex Theon whispers "go harder" when he actually wants to say "fuck me like you want to kill me and leave scars on the old ones so I know where you've been"—)

"Yes. Yes, he is." 'But he doesn't fuck me the way you did.'

Theon knows this. It's no use denying it. But Robb means safety, means home. He tells himself he'd gladly take that for what Ramsay offered (can offer? 'Shut up.').

"That makes me happier than anything. God knows you deserve happiness, too."

"Thanks," Theon says dryly. This is almost like a parody of a real encounter between the two of them. Unreal.

Ramsay smiles. "If there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to tell me. Economically, I mean." He searches around in his jacket. It's his old jacket. Leather. Half ruined. Theon always liked that jacket, before. He almost doesn't notice the scrap of paper Ramsay moves forth on the table with two fingers, not forcing it on him, but suggesting that he take it. It has a number on it. Ramsay's number.

Theon stares at it.

The thought occurs to him that he should eat it. Chew and swallow, or spit it into Ramsay's mug. Frothing, grinning, telling Ramsay to piss off and never come back.

"Take it. You don't need to call or anything, but I'd feel safer if I knew it was with you."

A heartbeat passes.

Theon takes it quickly, as if he's doing something illegal. Technically, it's not illegal, but taking something from own abuser, a man judged unstable after the murders of countless... that's not recommended. Is he betraying Robb by doing this?

Ramsay seems pleased, innocently so. "Thank you."

They don't say anything more.

"I need to go. I get checked on, you see. To make sure I'm not in trouble." Ramsay stands up. "It was nice seeing you, Theon. Goodbye." And like that, he leaves. Theon can't even look at him. The paper weights a ton in his pocket.

Only once does Ramsay stop on his way out. It's not very noticeable, but when he holds the door handle, he pauses, contemplating something. Then the contemplative expression slides off like wet paint and Theon swears he sees the real Ramsay in the split second before he walks out into the night.

Theon shudders.

He should get home. Home to Robb.

He sits there for a little while. Then he grabs his phone and dials a number.

Chapter Text

 Theon calls Ramsay—

“Theon?”

—and hangs up as soon as he hears that voice.

…Fuck. Theon licks his teeth, mouth tasting like the shit coffee. Twitching, he comes up with a new theory of its contents: a Hershey bar melted into a pot of cheap filter coffee, a 1602 poured on, a depth charge of espresso, sprinkled with crystal meth. He wonders what is worst; having the shit coffee or going without. Anything to get his mind off Bolton.

It is about here, when Theon’s attention has moved from the coffee to a patch of fungi—which by the looks of it is coming to terms with consciousness—in the corner, that he realizes something awful: Ramsay has his number now. 

Theon’s in front of the diner lady in a second. “If I order a beer, is it gonna taste like urine?”

“…No.”

“Is this diner connected to a sewer or something?”

“What, wanna go back home?” The glaring contest continues for a little longer before she gives in. “Okay, how about this: if I get you a big chocolate muffin and a cup of rack whiskey for free, can you promise to piss off forever and never come back here?”

“I sure hope that muffin is big.”

It ends up being about the size of Theon’s head and the sweetest thing he’s ever put in his mouth. The well bourbon is served in a cracked porcelain cup. Why he thought it a good idea is beyond him, but the diner lady’s eyes are saying I dare you to eat it all and Theon’s not going to back down from a challenge. So he eats and drinks while never losing eye contact. ...Until he has to run out to throw up. He sees the diner lady slam the door shut and lock it after him, face maniacal and victorious. Theon’s going to have nightmares about that face for weeks—that is, when he’s finished retching. 

“Are you alright?”

He freezes and nearly throws up on the person in surprise. He’s only halfway glad he didn’t, because guess decides to show his psychopath face again.

Theon pales and backs away, drying spew off his chin. Has he been standing there, waiting for him in the dark just outside the diner? The alcohol dampens the gut wrenching chill this thought produces, warping it into anger. “Jesus, I gotta get a fucking restraining order. What do you want?”

Ramsay shudders at the question, for some reason. He has his hands in his pockets. There’s about a meter between them. This is very, very important. “You called me and hung up. I thought something bad might have happened.”

“Bullshit.”

“Then why did you call me, Theon?” To his credit, Ramsay doesn’t look pleased. “Was it something else? Do you want more money?"

“If you come closer I’m gonna puke on you, I’m serious.” In Theon’s mind, hot and soggy brownie muffin slide down Ramsay’s face. Eat shit, Theon would scream.

“I’ve had worse bodily fluids stain me.”

Theon pauses. Then his expression warps, “Jesus fuck, Ramsay.” It is pathetic how Ramsay lights up at Theon’s use of his first name. “We’re not teenagers anymore. I’m nearing thirty, and so are you. I’m not the person I was at the end of our relationship. And if your shrinks are right, then neither are you.”

Ramsay shrugs. “I’m not trying to persuade you into becoming Reek again.” Theon flinches at the sound of the name. “I’m over that. Like you said, we’re adults now. I’m taking responsibility.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“You are drunk in an empty parking lot and you just ate something that’ll probably give you diarrhoea in both ends for a week.” There is no sweet-talking, here. Ramsay looks him over. “You’re also wearing too little clothes. You’ll catch a cold if you don’t dress yourself properly.”

“Fuck off.”

“I did. Tried to be a nice to you, but you don’t want me to be.”

“And now, what? You’ll get nasty? You’re the one who keeps coming back like a dog.”

“Like you used to do.”

"You left me in a box," Theon says, throwing his worst memory out there like it's his prize weapon.

Ramsay says, "I loved you," and does not understand why Theon looks even crazier because of it.

Theon loathes the feeling of being cornered, especially when Ramsay hasn’t even threatened him. The diner’s behind him, but the diner lady would probably laugh if she saw him get mutilated and ask if she could join. Or, more realistically, she'd call the cops. He doesn't know which one is worse. “I’ll repeat it: what do you want?”

“You always did bring forth the worst in me.” Ramsay sighs. Rummages around in his pockets, finding a pillbox. Takes two. “…Listen, I’m sorry,” he says. “I cared for you, in my own strange way, like I know you did for me. I still do. Care for you, I mean. You said that we’re adults, so we should address our problems like ones.” Theon gives him a dirty look. “My problems, then. And most of them begin with the concept of how I left you when I went away.” Ramsay didn’t 'go away’, like on a vacation, he went to the nuthouse! “The government covered most of your hospital bills, yes, but I’m the reason you couldn’t finish high school, and why you’re incapable of supporting yourself or living alone.” 

Is it that obvious? “So what, you’re gonna give me money and pretend you didn’t do what you did?” Theon does not repress his memories. He remembers his little abattoir affair quite clearly; mental degeneration like an everlasting spiral staircase that only went down. Theon knows what kind of noises humans make when you pull their intestines out of their ass, and he hates himself for it. When the cops had found him, he’d been locked in a chest for several days, covered in shit and blood and cum, attacking the policemen like a dog with rabies. It’d taken him a week before he managed a coherent sentence. Took him even longer to answer to the police, although the medical examinations were proof enough on his state as a victim, not an accomplice. But there were still talk going around. And the cops weren't quite so forgiving.

“I’m trying to fix things. To help you. You must have some loyalty to me,” Ramsay mumbles, “or else you would have told the world where I hid the rest of the bodies.”

Ah, that. That is something he hasn’t told Robb, even. Theon swallows galleons of spit that isn’t there, trying to get his lard of a conscience back down again. Then he becomes stone. “Listen, I’m not a good person, ok? I’m selfish and bitter and cynical, but at least I don’t skin teenage girls for fun.”

Ramsay shrugs. “I was ill.”

“That shit might work with your doctors, but it doesn’t fool me. I don’t want you near me. I saw your face, right before you went out. Saw your little shift. I know you're faking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Truly, doesn’t he? Theon wishes he could rip out his insecurities and stomp on them, preferably with a shrunken version of Ramsay, too. “Are you projecting your wishes onto me?” Ramsay asks. “I’ve already told you; the old Ramsay is dead. Don’t you want him to be,?”

Theon glares daggers at him. With an already queasy stomach, all he needs to do is drag up a memory (“Reek, have you ever seen someone killed with a flat iron?”) to promptly puke in front of Ramsay’s feet. He hopes that summarises his answer to Ramsay’s question, and feels a lot better. He even smiles when he wipes his mouth.

Ramsay just sighs. “I want to help you,” he says. And suddenly, before Theon can stop him, he’s reached out and touched Theon’s cheek. Theon stops breathing. “Please let me help.”

That…

It is the tip of the iceberg, it seems.

Tonight, Theon has avoided many a breakdown, but it is the touch that sets him off.

It starts a bit like an avalanche. He pictures it clearly: sharp cracking—stuttering and hiccupping—as the snow tears away from the mountain's face. A low rumbling, as it begins to slide. A rumbling like you thought the Earth herself was going to be sick. The mass begins to move, tons of it, tearing out trees and rocks and everything in its path, escalating as it goes. Headed for the river. Everything in nature ends up in the river. That’s how Nature cleans herself. And he, he too breaks and rumbles and starts panicking in the flush of all things buried and still for so long. Sickness in the earth. Rot. Bacteria.

Pouring out.

Theon doesn’t return to the real world until he feels strong arms engulf him, pressing him against the brick wall. “Shh. Shh. It’ll be okay, don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” And somewhere within him it screams that this is wrong, think of the past, think of Robb—

But he’s very tired, and sad, and a bit lonely, and the parking lot is cold and Ramsay is warm and safe.

As he frequently experienced stress and suffering in the old days (the bad days), he had to learn techniques to survive, one of which focused on disassociation. While under pressure, he would float away as if watching himself from afar. This is one of those moments. He sees himself clutch Ramsay like his life depends on it, trembling and panting, Ramsay stroking his hair. The situation is absurd.Theon remembers the trial, again, and the lawyer that tried to get Ramsay into prison and not the asylum, using Theon as an example. “We must understand that this was not the work of an insane man. It is far too intricate, and too time consuming. Too much planning and involvement of emotion.” Yes, because there was a time before Reek, back when Theon dared biting back. The memories from it were murky, but Theon knows he’d clung to them during his darkest moments, hoping they could go back to it.

And a bout of absurd logic hits him.

Theon, whose head is buried in Ramsay’s neck, bites.

Ramsay freezes. Then, after a few seconds, he slowly shoves Theon slowly away from him by using his hand against Theon’s face.

(“If one were to saw off one’s hand and feed it to a dog… Surely that would be a once in a life time experience. Willow, darling, you who’ve been doing nothing more than cry since I brought you here… won’t you try my experiment?”)

Theon bites again, but this time Ramsay’s hand.

Ramsay doesn’t move until he hears the crunch of bone. “Hm. You bit through my hand.” He wipes the blood on his trousers. Grins, bittersweet. Probably nostalgic. Theon is nostalgic too, and licks his pomegranate red mouth. Oyster eyes follow his tongue’s movement. Maybe he wants to rip it off? Tongues are always smaller in your hand than they look in someone’s mouth, Ramsay taught him that. Theon raises a hand to wipe off the bloody remains. While he is used to his missing fingers, it took Robb years to stop flinching. He's the reason Theon mostly wears protheses, but not tonight. He's gonna have to get them re-fastened, but this is worth it. When he shoves his bloody, mutilated hand in Ramsay’s face, he expects disgust, or rage, not a strangled moan.

And definitely not Ramsay slamming their lips together so hard their teeth rattle.

Theon hopes he tastes like vomit, blood, alcohol and chocolate muffin.

If he does, Ramsay doesn’t seem to care. His hands are everywhere, strong and callused, not gentle at all. Theon is clawing at him, but god, he wants this, kissing him like a man dying of thirst. He feels more alive than he has in years and he hates himself for it. This is sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick— 

Suddenly Ramsay’s fingers sneak down his pants and take hold of Theon’s erection and Theon sees stars.

“You like this,” Ramsay whispers, sounding shocked.

Theon whines in agreement, rubbing himself up against Ramsay to create friction.

This is not me.

There is only Reek, responding to each touch as if they came from a god. Ramsay starts jerking him off in a steady pace, looking fascinated. Reek whines. Theon, however, remembers what the Bastard’s Boys used to say about Ramsay and Reek…

This is not my body.

Ramsay—the real Ramsay, oh yes, master—looks at him with such intensity that Reek yelps and spills all over himself.

In which there would follow a taunt, or praise, there is only silence. Ramsay’s expression is closed off. But he does remove his hand, thankfully, and… licks… (?!) – licks the cum from his fingers. ‘How filthy,’ Theon observes through Reek’s heated, broken eyes, waiting for the fog to clear. It takes a while before he catches his breath.

“…This is not healthy,” Theon breathes.

“No, it’s not,” Ramsay says, and wipes sweat of his face. Despite the careful façade, there is something dark there, a beast that has slept for quite some time now. Is it an act? Is Ramsay truly genuine in his confusion? …Does Ramsay even know? “But you… you want me. I saw it.”

Theon does the only logical response in this situation:

Aiming a fist at Ramsay’s ugly face.

Ramsay stumbles backwards, obviously not expecting it, or he’d been able to catch and snap Theon’s branch arm as easily as nothing. Blood oozes from his burst lip. That won’t look good tomorrow. “Yeah, I want you, Bolton,” Theon says quietly. “But I don’t need you.” It’s cliché, and dumb, but it’s the truth.

Ramsay just looks at him.

Look and look and looks.

Theon’s skin is about to crawl off (‘Ha, nice metaphor there, shithead,’ Theon thinks and shudders) when he turns and marches away. He smothers the hope that Ramsay will come running after him and… and… ‘Fuck.’ He’s still standing there in that empty parking lot, more a shadow than anything else. The expression is back. The grotesque one. The real Ramsay, staring.

Theon calls Robb and tells him he’s coming home.

Chapter Text

The flat's familiar smells hit Theon like a brick wall, resulting in a pandemonium of abstract thought in which words have no part. His walk to meet Robb—'cos he sees Robb's back, sitting in the couch, shoulders stiff and showing that his mind is elsewhere—is ruined by his belly making a noise like the ones cats do, crying out like babies in the night. 'Oh my god, what the hell was in that muffin?' He storms towards the bathroom to release digestive Armageddon on the unsuspecting toilet, slamming his toe in some furniture and yelling curses on the way.

So much for a peaceful entrance.

World War III finishes rather quickly, as he puked up most of the chocolate muffin. The rest went through his system like a tube. Not much nourishment to suck up from something that's already crap—even if it's crap with sugar and cocaine sprinkled on top. When washing his hands (Robb insists), Theon looks in the mirror and grits his teeth. There is evidence of previous events he'd hoped he'd flushed down along with... well... But there is blood, on his face. Does he smell like cum? Theon can't tell. He splashes some water and soap into his face, removing the obvious remainders. He doesn't feel like showering, but undresses to throw his own clothes in the washing machine. He wears Robb's used clothes instead, his shirt, his sweater, even his used boxers. Maybe the scent will calm him. Mentally, he repeats this like a mantra: 'I am not Reek. What he did, I did not. I have nothing to be ashamed of.'  He goes out of the bathroom not knowing what to expect, preferring to stand a distance from Robb.

"Hey."

"Hey," Robb responds, softer. He hasn't turned around. He's sprawled on their secondhand couch, watching garbage TV, some show on Animal Planet with a guy who's way too enthusiastic about cats. Robb hadn't said much on the phone, when Theon called. Just "Ok." And again, Theon's not the sharpest, but he knows that ok with an audible period is bad relationship wise. Theon crosses his arms and awaits a confrontation. The silence is pregnant, and soon births an awkward child: "So... where were you?"

"Out," Theon says.

"Doing?"

"Stuff."

"Theon, we need to talk about this. You can't just suddenly disappear, tell me not to contact you and mute your phone for an entire evening."

"What, get nervous when you can't track my every move?"

Robb understands the reference and bristles. "You know I don't mean it like that."

Theon exhales. It wasn't right of him, snapping like that. Robb is nothing like... "Sorry. That was... uncalled for."

"It was, yeah." Robb huffs and turns towards Theon. In the background, the cat guy on Animal Planet cries. "But nevermind. You don't look so good. To be frank, you look like shit."

This time it's Theon's turn to wince at the comparison. Upon Robb's questioning frown, he briefly explains the ordeal with the muffin, but leaves out some pretty important details.

"Ouch. What were you doing in a dirty diner, anyway?"

"Wasn't alone."

"...That's not really helping the point of this conversation."

Secrets make you feel powerful. I know something you do not and all that. Theon used to collect secrets like kids the same age would Pokémon cards, although his secrets were mostly his own; a hatred for his provisional foster parents; a hatred for his blood relatives; a hatred for everything. As a preteen, he'd had the unoriginal "you'd be sad if I disappeared" line of thinking, along with the untenable idea that every individual can at any time leave and fake a new name and life. Those lies bled into Theon's teenage years, and he is certain they were a reason that his life spoiled.

However, Theon isn't a teenager anymore.

"I met with Bolton."

Robb breathes through his nose. In. Out. "What." Then he twists in the couch, standing halfway up, fists white and gripping the couch. "What," Robb repeats, "the fuck."

"His shrink recommended it," Theon lies. "A conversation. To reconsolidate, I guess."

"And you... you..."

"Was a public place. Loads of people." A lie. But Robb looks like he's about to call the madhouse and have Theon readmitted. "Listen, I had to see if I'd gotten over it. And I had. No relapses, either." More white lies. It's true: once you start, they come like an avalanche (an avalanche in the same magnitude as his panic attack). "Bolton didn't do much. He was drugged. Awkward, too. Apologized a lot. He drank herbal tea, seriously. Pretty pathetic."

Robb is still staring at him.

"You're trying to tell me that the Ramsay Bolton—" Theon almost manages not to flinch, "—who tortured you and slaughtered his victims like cattle, he sat in a diner, which you went willingly into, and did nothing."

"Yes."

"He didn't threaten you."

"Nope."

"Don't be so fucking casual," Robb sneers and stands up, walking around the couch.

"Then stop looking at me like that," Theon sneers right back at him, spit flying. "I'm not dumb, or insane. I'm not that person anymore."

"You have a past, Theon."

"You do too, so fuck you. Don't patronize me." Somehow people always treat their loved ones worse than their enemies. Both of them are guilty of this. "You're just like he was."

That's crossing the line for Robb.

"Stop comparing me to that monster," Robb's saying loudly. Screaming, if Theon feels dramatic. He doesn't. Just... dethatched. Like when Ramsay halted his panic attack. Theon waits, unblinking, until Robb's expression twists in self-loathing. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't mean it." He steps forward and Theon takes a demonstrative step back. It is painful seeing Robb's heart break, but his detachment asphyxiates forgiveness. "Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry, I was worried, didn't think. Shouldn't have gotten angry."

"It's alright," Theon says. "I understand. Let's just... I could use a glass of water."

Robb nods and heads into the kitchen, head lowered. Theon just breathes. He jumps into the couch, wrapping the blanket around himself into a huge burrito. The glass of water arrives swiftly.

"Got some leftover soup. Thought you were coming home earlier so I made a big portion... anyway, I can heat it up for you if you want."

"No thanks." Ice front. Robb keeps his distance, even when sitting down on the couch beside Theon. Theon drinks his glass of water, and feels a little better. He says, "Listen. Listen. I don't want to stir up anything, 'cos believe me when I say that I've had enough mania for one day. You can ask your questions, but don't judge me, ok? Save that for the morning."

Robb doesn't know what to say.

Theon admits, "I went because I wanted to see if I could change something."

"...Change him?"

"Don't be stupid. I said he could rot in hell and I meant it." Theon licks his lips. "It isn't healthy, this... fear. It tears at me, constantly. And you. And our relationship. I wanted to stop it, I guess."

"By talking to him?" Robb bites his lip. "Sorry. I see what you were trying to do, but I do feel like we've been doing well for a while now. I mean it isn't perfect, but... I'm just afraid this is a setback."

Theon lets his eyes wander through their apartment. Wood. Not cheap, but there's no house loan because of Robb's dead (and institutionalized, but same thing considering Catelyn's state, really) parents. There are expensive paintings on the walls, fragments of Robb's past. Theon doesn't consider it his own, even if he was there. The front door has 5 locks, which whine and screech when he uses them, something he—and Robb, on Theon's orders—always does. His paranoia was worse before, but the action is internalized. He likes to think of the apartment as locked away from the world. A void inside a void, in which he can rest, floating in foetus position or some spiritual shit. Outside, life waits. Too bad life's in this home too: the photo of the Stark kids hang on the wall, and Theon doesn't recognize anyone of them, least of all himself, because it was before all the shit happened that had the Stark family members look as dead as they do today. Well. The Stark that actually died, he... Theon had long ago realized the photo looked funny because Eddard Stark has a head.

"I feel like you're digging in stuff best left unburied."

History peers through Robb's eyes and Theon wishes words didn't have power.

"I won't get a restraining order just for your sake, Robb. That'd be asking for involvement of police, and you know how I hate them." Theon swallows. "We just talked, I guess. He asked me how I did. Told me that his past was destroyed by therapy and pills. Like I said, he was really awkward, acting like a shy school boy." 'Nothing like the real Ramsay.' "But when he went out of the diner—his face shifted. Went all... twisted. Ugly." Theon is good at putting things into perspective, and although he imaged Ramsay as hideously ugly in the aftermath of their relationship, the attribution was psychological. In fact, Ramsay is hideously ordinary. Not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but not thrash-that-grew-legs either (physically, of course not, but metaphorically...). He's so normal that no one turns when he walks by. This is very scary. Because for Theon, that means every face in the street is capable of the horrors Ramsay did.

But Robb is not Ramsay.  

And Theon is not Reek.

Here, communication is important. It is an essential to their relationship, unlike sex and discipline. Theon touches Robb's cheek, running a finger over the start of a beard. "He's still insane," Theon concludes. "I don't think I got a lot out of the meeting. I'm never gonna do it again."

Robb sucks in a breath. He lets go. "I don't like that you didn't tell me first, but I understand your reasoning. To be honest I'd have denied you the right to meet him, which isn't something that's for me to decide, because I don't own you."

'No. You're in love with me instead,' Theon apathetically observes.

"But for being able to view the situation critically and having no setbacks, I'm proud of you. And who knows, this might be setting of a catalyst for you, hopefully for the better." They touch noses. Theon is a symbol of goodness itself and allows Robb to share his burrito. Robb sits close, sighs. "I know you don't wanna talk more about this, but what about Poole?"

Jeyne Poole is one of Ramsay's few survived victims. Had been on a hiking trip when Ramsay offered a ride + (unbeknownst to her) a death sentence and insanity guarantee. Theon recalls why she survived, though. "After the conditioning she finally gets soaking wet after foreplay," Ramsay had bragged. "It's a bit like shoving your foot in a rain boot full of water. Squelch, squelch." What followed was a stay at the asylum together with Theon. Oh, therapy. Pass-the-pillow and relentless correction from the shrinks if you said something bad / wrong. Some patients found their own method of group therapy: sex. Theon (more of a Reek, then) and Jeyne fucked, perhaps in search for comfort or as a huge middle finger to Ramsay. Theon told Robb afterwards. Robb hadn't gotten mad. They weren't steady back then anyway, Robb still getting over the sudden, ghastly death of his wife and father, and Theon... well... was not yet Theon. The fling with Jeyne ended, but they still see each other from time to time. No one can break a bond forged in hell. They know each other intimately. His tongue had been up in her cunt, for fuck's sake. And she had seen him sodomized with a metal rod, on three occations.

 "What about her?"

 "Do you know if Bolton contacted her too?"

 "He didn't say anything about it."

 "Hey! Don't look so worried. Just... call her in the morning, yeah? Too late now anyway."

Theon nods, melancholy. "...Sometimes I feel as if it happened to another person. And that that person is inside of me." A layer of filth underneath his flesh. Can Robb smell Reek when putting his nose against Theon's skin? "Like I said, I went there to confirm that it was just an illusion, that I'd gotten over Bolton—but when I went, I felt that person move."

They'd tried roleplay, once, Robb and him. It didn't go well.

"You're not Reek," Robb says. "You're not."

"I know, I know. Sometimes I just wish... I just wish it'd never happened. But I can't. Gotta learn to live with my own shredded fuckery, don't I?" It doesn't matter that Theon doesn't get him flowers; that Theon will never be able to say I love you because he associates it with rape; that Theon will never be whole. They think alike. Broken men, both of them.

"We're doing great," Robb says, and he says we instead of you, bless his cotton socks. And although Theon hasn't voiced his concerns, Robb says, "Never gonna leave you. Not ever." This is the base for their relationship: a peaceful coexistence without expectation of sex or goals or kids or matching schedules. They sit like that for a little while longer, pressed against each other, ignoring everything. Theon yawns. "I'd like to stay like this forever," Robb says, "but you really should take a shower."

There—a solid illustration of Robb's dissimilarity to Ramsay.

They share a laugh. There is a relieved note in it from both sides.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, heading for the bathroom. "Whatever Mr. Maid tells me to do, I shall."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me in a maid costume?"

"Hell no," Theon shouts.

His laughter comes to a halt once he's inside the bathroom again. To be specific, it dies and rots when he undresses, ending in an anticlimactic sob. He's alone with his own reflection again. As a method of psychological destruction, Ramsay had installed mirrors in some of his torture chambers. It'd been quite effective. Theon is confronted with a mirror and so is confronted with uncomfortable truth—his own filth and sins. He no longer smells like Robb. Why, the sterile façade of the bathroom reminds him more of Ramsay, whose rooms had been coated with antiseptics that'd tried in vain to cover the smell of death.

Panicking, he turns the shower on full force and jumps into it. The cool water does little to kill his lust, erection leaking with just the memory of Ramsay's own branch of disciplinarian therapy.

This doesn't happen often, but it does happen. Theon knows what to do.

Turning the shower on full force prevents any noise from getting out or in. The shower's expensive, and has an adjusting knob. He turns it to rainfall. He's shaking when he takes himself in hand, and masturbates to the (sick sick sick) memories regardless. The shower becomes a void inside a void inside a void, a hole in the world in which he can disappear. In which all his fantasies can play out.

He comes mumbling Ramsay's name.

Chapter Text

The toilet mirror's greased with fingerfat and god knows what. Piss. Semen, maybe. Condom slime. There's plenty on the floor, deflated like birthday balloons. Theon has to use his sleeve to wipe the mirror, awaiting his reflection's doom. He opens his mouth and for a split second imagines unconscious desire floating out, mixed in with the oozing stink of the sardines in oil he slurped clean from the can earlier that night.

'Oh, right. There the lil' fucker is.'

A yellow dot, a tiny cluster of rotten cells—a sore. ''Least it's not the Herp.'

The sore has plagued him for a while now, hindering the use of his mouth and thus rendering him useless at parties. Talking and drinking and oral sex hurt, but he knows he gotta take a few shots to mellow the pain and get that nice sedated feeling in his face. The vodka is served with 7UP in plastic cups that implode if you squeeze 'em and it's shitcheap, disgusting like the bathroom. Cracked linoleum. Broken fixtures. Filthy, like Theon himself. A sliver of lavender soap. Generations of soap scum, lurking mold between mislaid tiles, scabs of flaking spray paint bribing the rust for another few years.

Theon splashes water into his face, inhales, and swallows all his issues and insecurities deep down into his belly to rot.

Immediately, the thumping music reappears. The mirror and toilet lid rattle. The DJ is playing remixes and BETTE DAVIS EYES three times in a row people are shouting the words, mending into gibberish ghost talk. He's among song and sweat and fist pumping and thank god his life is still on board, and his negative imaginings were all misty, marbled dreams. Theon elects to slam the door open, marking an entrance. The strobe lights and loud music blasts his IQ out, brain cells disintegrating by the millisecond and he loves it. No more judgement. No more discontentment. No more guilt. Theon extends his arms, eyeing the nearest bar, laughs for the first time in weeks and—

"He needs you to drive."

"…C'mon, man," Theon whines. "Robb said he'd take the role as designated driver for once."

The guy who told him raises a single finger and cuts it through the air towards a pasty face. Robb, completely smashed—together with his sweetheart, of course. (Theon can't remember her name so he nicknames her Cuntsteak.) Robb and Cuntsteak is in the middle of a crowd, stumbling and hugging and proclaiming love and sweet nothings. Theon wishes immediately that he could drink, as it is nothing more depressing than being sober amongst drunks.

Depression stands behind Theon like a huge ghost, whispering its own nothings to him. Theon pales and tries to escape into the packed dance floor, exchanging body liquids, odours and bacteria with friendly strangers. The depression grows as he realizes he is alone in a room packed with people. If he'd been drinking he'd fit right in, gaining new friends and numbers by the minute, laughing, singing, sloshing around in a whiskey bottle. Like in the public toilet (a nice metaphor for where he is now, too), he zones out, people becoming muted, blurred illusions. He lets his eyes wander, half lidded.

Randomly, they stop at a man he thinks he's seen before. The man hovers at the back of the party, talking quietly to some shaggy-looking fellows. Gang members, maybe. The guy wears a grey sweater. Jeans. No rings, necklace, or accessories. The man stands slightly hunched, but looks more wolfish than those emos with faded hair standing outside Walmart going "Ugh I wish this place had a Hot Topic". The pale eyes do nothing to dampen the comparison to a predator. Theon thinks of eviscerating fish, learnt by his father—a kinda happy memory, really, before he associated the word family with "oh no".

When Theon returns to reality, the man is staring right back at him.

An eyebrow moves up.

Theon's skin crawls and he looks away, finding out that Robb has attracted quite a crowd. Cursing underneath his breath, he goes over to them.

Robb is the sort of person who pauses or stutters before he curses, mental locks internalized by a certain Mrs. Stark. Theon's locks, in contrast, do not exist. The original tingle felt when using bad words when he was 14 is dead. It isn't because of a small vocabulary, but because he often has to underline his points. Theon often feels like he has to underline his existence.

"I will you… will you take this handsome fellow as your husband?!" someone screeches.

"Yes!" Cuntsteak screams.

"And will you—"

"Yeah baby!" Robb shouts before the priest imitator can finish, dead drunk. "YEAH!"

"Fucking hell," Theon mutters.

"Conception!" Robb then declares, recieving yells of repetition from the crowd. Theon, for one of the few times in his life, feels like the intelligent one. The army of idiots continue the chant, stomping their feet in tact, drooling, and then they scoop both Robb and Cuntsteak up in the air, taking them off to the chosen room. BETTE DAVIS EYES is playing for the sixth time and nearly pushes Theon over the edge. But Theon is a good brother and best friend and follows, hands in his pockets, making sure they don't drop Robb. He secretly hopes they do so to Cuntsteak so they can go home. Before he leaves, he hears the DJ ask the crowd if there are any requests.

There is an underground underneath the bar, a long hall and a bunch of rooms. Slaked walls that rasp when you slide your fingernails against them. Plenty of sex must've happened here. Bad kind. Date rapes.Theon can smell it. It's filthier than the public toilet because desecration hangs in the air from more than just urine and used condoms. The crowd pays it no mind, continuing to chant, an excited raging insane mass of excited grimaces and noise. Words have no meaning down here, especially not "no". Some members of the crowd are too intoxicated to stand up and fall behind, incompetent sperm not reaching the egg. But finally, oh finally, a bedroom without occupied sheets. Robb and Cuntsteak, giggling, are thrown into the bed together with a dirty bottle of lube ("She's on the pill, don't worry, I'm her friend!"). Theon steps up and slams the bedroom door shut. "Okay, you had your fun. Let 'em screw in peace, for fuck's sake."

There is a rumble of discontentment among the crowd, a few pervs already having their camera up, but thankfully they don't pick a fight. They leave Theon standing in the hallway.

Guarding his brother having sex.

He accepts his fate rather easily and leans against the wall, closing his ears to sounds he definitely not wants to hear.

Theon manages to do some mental exercises he found online, avoiding angst for a little while, till it softly discolors his thoughts. This condition of his is less of a teen's identity crisis and more of an existensal one—not only who am I, but why. Why I am I depressed, why I am different, why am I. 18 and lost, with periods of depression. Down here, metaphorically and literally, he's trapped in a windowless bunker. For all he knows the world might be ending. Somehow he finds this hilarious, and lights a cig, considering his imaginary ticket to oblivion.

There are echoes of footsteps. He looks up and sees a pale face in the dark. Nearly shits himself.

But it's just the man from before. It is here it dabbles on Theon why he chose to compare the man's eyes to vivisecting fish; they look just like… oysters. Bleak and wiggling. The man walks at a steady pace, never lingering. When right in front of Theon, he finally looks directly at him.

"You keep staring at me," he states.

The skin crawling reaction returns, leaving Theon's flesh loose and flabby. The glove(s) is / are off. The oyster-eyed man is a pathologist—an autopsist, to be specific—and Theon can't move. Not even when a fist slams just beside him head with a slam. The creaking and thumping in Robb and Cuntsteak room continue to the beat of the music above. Absurd. Theon wants to laugh until he cries blood and his head comes off. He's terrified, and smiles. He always smiles in the wrong moments.

A hand—knuckles bloody from the punch—wraps around his slender throat, a ribbon, as to fufil the lastly mentioned wish. "...I think you're starting to annoy me."

The ribbon becomes steel. Theon can't breathe.

'I was right. He is an autopsist, merely keeping the buisness blooming.'

(It isn't until later Theon will realize how right he was in this statement.)

Theon chokes, mouth starting to foam like a dog. He feels another hand on his belly, under his shirt, worming upwards. Stopping at his solar plexus. That's where he hurts all the time, and his therapist (the alternative, homeopathic one) said it's where the bad thoughts fester. The man desecrates it, fingers it, nearly drills a hole with his pointy finger, grin shiteating and sleazy. He lets Theon breathe a little, and struggle, amused. All the insecurities and issues resurface along with the real Theon, and he fights, flinging spit and half-gurgles-half-curses into the man's face. Words have no meaning here though, remember? The man grips tighter, everywhere, continuing to touch his chest. Theon wishes he knew the monster's name—but then again, then he wouldn't be a monster.

Then something awful happens:

Theon's breathing turns low and shallow like girls do when nearing orgasm, focusing on their own pleasure. The catch is this: he's turned on.

And the fucker's noticing. Oyster eyes go wide, in a childish way. "Oh," he says, and the grin he bears is knowing in a way Theon doesn't understand, "oh hell. You, of all people. Cassanova himself. And sober?" The cheeks, chin, neck… all are clean shaven and slick. Makes the man seem ageless. Theon can see the muscles and shadows, Adam's apple bobbing. There aren't names to what Theon is feeling, either. "Do you love this?" the man asks with a sardonic, high pitched voice. "Hm? Bet no one did this—" he gives Theon a mighty slap, more like a flat handed punch, sending blood rushing south, "—to you before, right?"

The man stares right through him. Like there are no secrets nor free will. Is it the colour, or is it something else? 

"Right?" A dangerous push to his ribs.

"N—no…" He hasn't felt this alive in months. Hasn't done anything like this. When at someone's mercy, he either fights till freedom, or plans and goes through with small vengeances. Like the time he urinated in Mrs. Stark's soup. That was fun. This isn't. This is... "No..."

The man's grin go all sleazy again. "Thought so. The girls you fuck would never do this. So you'd never learn that you liked it."

"Shut—"

...

A wail. 

Or something like it. Sound isn't human. Multiple dogs, drowning.

The man has just broken two ribs without breaking a sweat, then starts massaging Theon's hardness through his jeans. He wants to be angry, wants to kick and scream and go batshit, but  exhaustion and depression hand in hand, circling around Theon like malevolent children. He hasn't cracked in months, and never in front of a person. Jesus. Passively, privately, Theon wonders which concept the man would personify, and what he'll do to hurt him next. He's crying, open-mouthed, and he's also pushing his crotch into Ramsay's hand.

"…Please stop…"

The man pauses, tongue rummaging around in his mouth. Nasty habit. "…Hm. No, this isn't right. You're not right." He steps back. "This was a mistake."

He pulls away. Turns. Walks off.

Theon is trembling, arms wrapped around himself. 

Feeling...  disappointment?

"Put some ice on your neck to reduce marking," the man calls over his shoulder, voice a singsong like quality. He has this look… this look of…

(Theon is on dangerous territory, staring down into a dark well. The abyss gazes also and all that palaver.)

And then he's gone. Gone from Theon's life, forever. So is the feeling of... he doesn't know. 

He tongues the sore.

Then he storms into the bedroom, rips the newly married off each other with bottled up anger exploding and tells them to get the fuck home. 

Chapter Text

Seafood.

Mussels, shrimp. Fish, and their families; capelin, halibut, redfish, lumpfish, cod, sculpin; all have different preparation methods, boiled or salted or smoked or dried. He has cabins for it down by the ocean, inherited. Theon knows this type of cuisine. Learnt practically, through failure. No teachers except vague memories of older relatives from when he was a child. These days he dares to do poisonous seafood, like a shark that requires extreme precaution and a complex preparation, cutting off the poisonous bits with thick gloves, fermenting the meat or boiling it repeatedly. Sea mammals, seal, whale... Served with onions and potatoes. Starch isn't as important as meat; when it's real good stuff you eat it raw.

"God, it stinks in here!"

Theon sneers, fortified in his castle, the Stark kitchen.

But it is another example of how his expressions don't go parallel with his emotions: the sneer projects divine, malevolent glee. Windows and doors closed, air choking with smoke and fat. Afterwards, the hired help will have to get on all four to scrub the brown oily residue and crust out off the white tiles. The Starks have had to live with it for years, as Catelyn's arguments had been brought to a dead end with Theon's blunt response of, "You should know how it is like to leave home and its customs."

"You want some whale blubber, Arya? Y'know, sometimes I don't brush my teeth for days so the taste remains in my mouth. Mmm."

"You're disgusting Theon," Arya says. Still, she doesn't seem to have anyone else to bother, so she jumps up at the counter and nearly slips off because of all the grease that's corroded into it. "I don't know why Mother lets you do this, stinking out her kitchen." Cunsteaks come in midget sizes also.

Theon hums in response. "I'm gonna go out tonight, taking Robb and Jon with me. This is a great chance to invite some boy over to come fuck ya. You'd need it." He takes credit for the nasty curses she slings in his face. He can't laugh, not with his broken ribs not fully healed, hidden under an abnormally large sweater. The food is partly to spite them. 'I am not one of you.' Bit like a token, too. A small nod to where he's from. He can't get the dirt out from under his fingernails. An outsider. Like when all the Stark kids got hounds, but not Theon. Which Eddard discovered in retrospect and gave Theon a cat. He named it Fatty. Fatty was very nearly eaten a couple of times but Theon always stepped in. He made it clear that each assault on Fatty was an assault on him. Once he dislocated Bran's shoulder because of it. Both his real father and Eddard Stark beat him.

Arya kicks him in the shin before he finishes the thought. A family anthem of violence.

He's momentarily surprised at how much damage the vermin can do. Though she eases him by standing up on her toes and looking down onto the pot of stew, asking, "What are you making? I thought I heard something growl."

He sneers again, "Shut up. It's my own recipe. It's seal, with root vegetables, seasoned with bay leaf and sea salt, soaked in barley overnight so that the starch leach into the water. Made some fresh bread, too. Had to bake for ten hours." He breaks off a piece to give her, which she takes.

"Soup?"

"Yup."

"'Cos you're planning to stay dehydrated?"

"Nope. I'm planning to puke an avalanche at Robb." Vengeful, like some grandma with a knife in her handbag ready to puncture her daughter's ex's carwheels. …His own grandma.

"...Theon," Arya begins, and she says his name in a way that makes him halt, "if a boy threatened you severely, telling you he'd dissect your pet and kill your friend, what would you do?"

Trouble at school. She doesn't want help, then she'd come to her father, Robb or Jon. She came to him. Appearing idle, secretly prideful, he indulges her, "What is the place on the holy male body which when tormented sings and sizzles with electric pain like a thousand barbed fishhooks tearing through us, leaving—for a blistering instant—nothing in the world but pain?"

She looks at him. Grins. "You want me to kick him in the balls."

"Amen."

He slurps up one last taste, throws a handful of salt into the pot, and takes it off to cool. When he turns, she's at the door, head turned. In profile, she smirks. He also takes credit for that look, and returns it, raising his glass in a salute of the wicked. The bowl of steaming soup, meat and starch is eaten and bread broken for good luck to his little sister (in spirit).

On the 3rd portion, Robb and Jon comes in.

"Are you eating?" He has the decency not to turn up his nose. "Not too much, I hope. Father already wonders where my money goes, and you're the one providing the booze." A trace of accusation in his tone. Theon pretends he doesn't hear it, but saves the information for later. He's already busting his balls getting moonshine enough for the three of them (and all Robb's idiot friends whenever he mans up enough to have a party at home), especially dangerous after the cops shut down the last illegal basement factory. The idea of stream-puking into Robb's face sounds better and better. "I only had a hardboiled egg today," Robb says like it's an achievement. "Gonna get so fucking smashed." It's because he's fought with Cuntsteak I. Jon knows. Theon exchanges glances with him in understanding, then understands what he's doing (consorting with skinny little Jon, a Snow and a bookworm) and looks away from him like Jon has used up his right to exist.

"I only had a little," Theon lies. He camouflages a belch, rebuttons his jeans, belly full and tablecloth speckled with filth. Leisurely, he puts away the bowl. The mess he leaves is always intentional, not enough for the Starks to complain, but enough for them to see the greasy prints of an outsider, everywhere. He inspects the remains in the soup pot with disdain, because where he's from you don't throw away food. Here, no one eats leftovers. The bin even has a lid so that the Starks don't have to see their own thrash! Theon bets the lot of them never inspect their faeces, asking servants to do it for them. He scoops the food off and throws it, because that's better than to store it in the fridge and find in months later as foul, poisonous rot squashed into the fridge's darkest corner. When he gets his own home, no one leaves the table until they've eaten through. Not doing so is an insult to the host.

"Relax," Theon finally says. "I got the stuff in the trunk. Enough for everybody, even C— ...your girl."

"She's not coming."

"Oh? Trouble on the honeymoon?"

"Shut up, that was months ago. And I don't wanna talk about it, I just wanna get drunk."

"That can be arranged." Theon grins and licks his teeth.

.

.

"Holy shit. Sixty percent, Theon? You've outdone yourself."

Theon's hands tighten at the wheel. "Make sure not to tell your dad," he warns, "unless you want an ass whooping."

"What are you talking about? Father doesn't hit us," Robb says, blinking. Jon doesn't say anything in the backseat, but Theon can see downcast eyes in the car mirror. Robb tries to make some small talk, but Theon doesn't answer, and Jon remains Jon, silence personified. Even puking in Robb's face isn't tempting anymore—that means he has to look at him. They do not speak much until they're parked at a friend's, going across the street to the bar they've chosen. Theon is lost in thought.

Both his real father and Eddard Stark beat him in a harsher, more impersonal way than they beat their other (trueborn, in blood and spirit) sons. To Theon, masculinity became synonymous with violence, and if he's gonna be all psychoanalytic, it was there his reversion to touch started. He recalls that Eddard had once wiped dirt of his face with his big and strong hands, awkwardly and quick, as if it was an unmanly and distasteful thing to do. Theon has never had a friend who hugged him. Robb never does; a lesson taught by his mother and father both. From the age of 1 1/2 → 6 humans begin categorizing and thus generalize—I am a boy/strong/smart and you are a girl/weak/stupid, we are not the same and will not be friends. Plus there's the testing and internalization of society's laws… role conflicts... Hey, he actually got something out of his psychology lessons!

Theon buys himself a drink to celebrate. And another.

…And another…

He has the absolutely brilliant idea to get fucking smashed , to forget his anxieties and depression in a haze of booze and music. Fuck Robb. He commits to this idea.

The strangers he abhors while sober become his best friends; he enters conversations easily as nothing, laughs all the time, except when making out with a girl with dirty glasses bellow a staircase, pausing to cry with her because her dad just died, prostate cancer, a staunch republican in a family of liberals. He died while calling her name in the phone and she didn't answer. She gives Theon her number, cries and drinks until a friend escort her home. Theon sits bellow the staircase from some time, Depression just beside him, but someone pulls him up and out and he becomes one with the intoxicated hivemind once again.

Robb calls an old lover while too drunk to stand up. Cuntsteak isn't around, thank heavens. Theon orders a taxi for his brother(s) and tells Jon make sure Robb gets home. The plastic bag he sends with them comes in handy 0.3 seconds after Robb's seated in and the cab driver thumbs Theon up, glad to not spend another night drying up someone's vomit. Theon pays him plenty, why the fuck not, it's Robb's money anyway. With his brother's wallet in hand, he stumbles back into the crowd, yells "Drinks on me!" and has nameless best buds yet again. Nachspiel means more conversations again, less movement. Politics, mostly.

"This country's fucked," someone slurs.

"There's no space for our generation."

"Let's all pack up in busses and never come back!" The last one gets a yell of approval, Theon joining in among touches that mean nothing and promises they won't keep.

Some time passes.

When he wakes up from autopilot and sleep, he's situated at a bar stool, head on his hands on the bar desk accompanied by hardened wax and mug rings. His chin is stiff with drool. The scent of partying is replaced with that of old sweat, overboiled cabbage and cat box, the aftermath of too many people in one room. Yuck. Nearby, the cleaner's mopping up a puke puddle, expressionless. "What's the time Joe?" he asks the bartender, who's cleaning a glass that ain't getting any cleaner.

"Four." Short, clipped.

"Shit. Any idea how long I was out?"

The bartender shrugs a no. It's gone from bar to dive, the sort where they haven't cleaned out the spitoon since the Roosevelt administration. Smoking inside is still allowed; a look up shows that. Theon strikes a match on the edge of the counter and lights a cigarette, tries to join the other guys elbowed on the counter. Bartender doesn't buy it, but puts rye whiskey on the table. After Theon's drunk it, wincing as the busthead burns his throat (mumbling hello breakfast), and paid, he says, "I'd leave if I was you. Bad things happen to this place at this time. They tolerate the regular drunks, but you're not a regular."

"Oh. Ok. Thanks man." He wipes some fresh spit off his chin, let's his eyes slide around. Yup. He feels the gazes; tiny, piercing bores across his skin, a sharp spatter of pinpricks. Paranoia fuels it. There's an eerie kind of quiet; atmosphere dense with danger. Theon thinks he's the one who created that puke puddle, because he isn't that drunk anymore, but still sorta, 'cos he stumbles on his way out, world spinning. His fingers brush at a coat pocket, yearning for tobacco. Suicide thoughts swell up from a deep. The people, bad kind, watch him, but pay him no mind when he's heading for the exit.

Until…

Theon inhales sharply and thinks of oysters.

He feels the taste of the seafood he ate earlier creep up his throat; luckily he manages to hold it. He's sick, scared and immediately turned on. Too drunk to function, to think, he makes his way over to where he spotted the man with the pale eyes… who now has vanished back into what appears to be a private room, closed with a wooden door. A thug stands guard outside. When another comes to speak quietly with him, he grins; a flash of yellow teeth, knocking rhythmically 2+ times. Sometimes the door opens, sometimes it doesn't. The ambivalence heightens the dread. Theon doesn't care. If anything, it only turns him more on.

It takes an eternity to get over there. "I wanna speak to him."

"D'you have an appointment?"

"No."

The thug glares at him, says nothing.

"Ooh, you again?" The man with pale eyes stands right behind the thug, one hand on his shoulder. Grip, tight. Deadly. Strong bones move underneath the skin, foetuslike. The thug gulps. The man speaks to Theon, "Been a while. No matter. Come in." He returns to the room, briefly, calling in a singsong quality: "Get out of the room, Squirt."

A woman hurries out—unkept hair in a poof on her head; as black as her makeup and the bags under her eyes. What Theon sees makes him go still: long slashes, all over her back.

The thug sees his horrified expression and winks. "In you go, don't keep the master waiting now." Theon is shoved inside, door slammed shut after him.

The room is medium sized, barely furnished. The brown(ish) wallpaper is either ripped or crumbling off, revealing the brick wall beneath. There are tables, ¾ pushed up against the wall, a worn leathery couch, a sink, a big black gym bag, torches… Real fire. Medieval. What is this place? The man is situated in the couch, hands on his knees. "I expect you got a referral, and a review? For starters, we'll call you…" he sniffs in the air. One nostril widens considerably, twisting his face, making it grotesque, putting it in the Uncanny Valley or some shit. "…Dog. We'll call you Dog."

Theon shakes his head. "I… didn't."

"No? No recs?" The man looks puzzled. "Then how did you find me, Dog?"

"Saw you here, by chance." Anger blazes up. Drunken anger. "And I my name isn't Dog, it's Theon. Theon Greyjoy, or Stark, depending on who's askin'." He's too drunk to recall that he hates last names.

"I'm not asking. In here, with me, your name is Dog. Now, let's go over the three rules. Firstly, during the procedures, there's no safe w—"

"I told you, my name isn't Dog."

He seethes over being interrupted, but the expression vanishes after a second, wrapped in the cover of complete neutrality. "I don't understand you. Oh well. What do you want, then?"

That should be obvious.

Theon is taken aback, but this expression also shrivels and dies fast, replaced by a sultry one. "You. I want you." Without wasting time, he walks over to the couch where the man'a sitting and collapses in his lap, feet on each side. Theon wastes no time, he's aroused by the man, thin-lipped or not, and gets the makeout session started. He rubs himself against him, movements irregular and slow; drunken debauchery.

The man does not respond. He does not even open his mouth. In an eager attempt to get him to do so, Theon grabs the man's arms—limp at his side, previously—to hold against the wall.

That, the man will have none off.

The hand rips itself loose and grabs Theon's hair—who smiles drunkenly, thinking he's up for some action—only to lean over the couch' edge to see a bucket filled with water. "Why d'ya—" Too late. The hand forces Theon's head over the bucket, then a finger worms into his mouth to tingle his gag reflex and make him vomit. Which he does.

A lot.

In the background, away from his gushing mouth, he hears the sink running. His ribs hurt.

When he's finished vomiting, the world stars moving. It does so too fast for Theon to register. He goes from sitting at someone's lap to vomiting to lying belly down in the couch. A roll of ducttape makes that ritchratch noise when you pull and bite a large piece off, then it's wrapped around his hands to keep them above his head. The man does this systematically and calmly.

"What... are you doing?" Theon asks, disorientated. He hears rummaging in the gym bag, and it being dragged closer. There's the sound of rubber against rubber, squeaking—rubber gloves are put on. There's one of those BDSM mouth pieces in his mouth, egg shaped, efficiently blocking potential pleas. The man, sitting at his legs, starts cutting his shirt off. The air is cool against his exposed back. Raw terror erupts.

The combo off having a foreign weight on him plus not being able to breathe properly dampens the panic attack. "You can be as noisy as you want, I don't mind," the man tells him, soothingly, but the malicious chill remains. "Nobody can hear you in here anyway."

There's the flicker of silver.

A pocketknife.

"Too bad I didn't bring my collection. Should've been better prepared," he mutters to himself. Theon feels movement on his skin, retreats, trembles—but it's just fingertips, measuring, for now. Thank god. Some more booze having left his body heightens his senses. "Ah! I got an idea! It's a game, of sorts… I like games, y'see. It's a name game. You're gonna guess what I write on your back. If you guess correctly, I stop. Now lie still or it'll hurt more."

Writing? Oh. Not with a pen, then. Knife.

Carving.

Theon feels the first cut and whimpers through the restraints. The alcohol in his bloodstream isn't enough to sedate him completely, not anymore. The man doesn't lie: if Theon moves, the knife cuts deeper or jaggedly. Concentrating on what the man writes is maddening. He gives up immediately.

"Have you guessed the first word yet? I'll give you a hint: it's a name." Theon is about to lie and nod, when he hears, "If you guess wrong, I'm gonna remove a fingernail."

Thon swallows thickly and shakes his head.

The carving continues.

Time stretches into infinity in a world of despair. He loses his sense of self but cannot stop the sounds, dying dog sounds, lower half driven over by a car, intestines sprawled on the pavement. He thinks somebody ought to help that dog. Trapped in a sack of skin and blood and suffering, he hallucinates, subconscious floating outwards. A memory presents itself: him and the Starks, driving around town to see the effects after a disastrous storm. The memory is a metaphor for humanity itself, where most view themselves as observators (in actuality a part of a continuous bystander experiment); a camera trapped inside a sack of skin. Rendering picture after picture. Silence, within them. No judgement. No action taken. Neutrality is survival.

His hair is grabbed again, forcing his head in an awkward angle until he sees the man out of the corner of his eye. Theon's sight swims, like the face in front of him is at the bottom of a pool.

"There, all finished. Have you guessed it?"

Theon shakes his head again.

"Too bad. I win." Theon has the distinct realization that the man likes him more for losing. "I hope you learn from this physical reminder. Do not visit places or people you know nothing about." Do not spit in the face of danger. Know what you are and remain with what you know. Like preparing seafood, Theon thinks distantly. The advices—especially the ones he's mentally added—remind him of the Starks, and rage blooms. He starts struggling. Theon can't speak but his eyes are oil spills, squirting hate and shit and fish lards. Even if the struggle amounts to nothing he'll still find this fucker's car and light it on fire.

"We'll have none of that." Using more duct tape, he secures Theon's upper body. Slowly, strategically, he undoes Theon's jeans. Belt, buttons, zipper, taking his time so Theon knows what's up. A hand caresses his neck, then slides to his shoulder. The other clamps tightly on his bare ass.

A moment of clarity: he's never considered being violated. Now he does.

He tries to scream but it comes out as a hum. He wiggles like an earth poked with a stick, contorting. An insect confronted with a god. The man just sighs. Lets go. "I'll need to disinfect and bandage the wounds," he says, going back to monotone. "Please lie still."

Theon's fight goes out of him. Maybe he doesn't need to fight all the time, when the man has such a steel control. Maybe. There is comfort in within control. He hears the rattling of boxes, sink running again. The antiseptic burns when applied, emptied casually all over his back. The man uses a towel to wipe it—a towel with dark spots. "It's clean, don't worry. Blood doesn't wash that easily out, that's all." The bandages are applied with care, Theon's upper body being lifted up while his neck remains duct taped to the sofa. "I'm not going to rape you. It was an empty threat. You are not a client. Now, do you promise not to go berserk?"

Theon nods.

The gag is removed, then thrown into another bucket. This bucket, in contrast, reeks sharply of detergent. Hard soap, strong, antibacterial. The smell is aggressive. The nature of rubbing alcohol is so clean that the body interprets it as poison; it stings and spreads in his nose. The smell is nothing like a kitchen or a bar; it doesn't fill, it empties. The man doesn't take any chances with infection or emotion. "I'm gonna remove the duct tape by rubbing water and vaseline on it, instead of ripping it off, to lessen pain." This is not a surprise. He seems obsessed with professionalism. Not kindness. True to his words, a cloth soaked in hot water is applied together with petroleum jelly to peel off wet tape. Little by little, Theon manages to turn.

The rubber gloves the man wears are pale blue; the colour of a corpse. They make the hairs on his neck stand, goose bumps on his arms like plucked poultry. Yet it feels strangely relaxing to be at someone else's mercy, under their complete control. Shit.

"What do you want?" Ramsay asks.

Theon says it before he can stop himself, a hoarse whisper, "I want to change."

"Into what?"

There are no words for the things Theon wants.

"Whatever. Ae you gonna stop annoying me and be a good Dog?"

Theon sees red. Impulses hit him at once, but he has a few ideas for what he wishes to do to the man.

To claw his eyes out.

To hurt him. To hurt, like Theon always does.

To get him to lose that fucking sterile facade.

But there is no giving in from the man's part, no unleashing of the hell residing underneath the professional surface layer—nor is there a hypocrisy. He keeps the hell he has at his fingerprints under heavy bonds. Though there resides murkiness in those grey eyes, he takes pride in his professional, his arid work-persona. He does not overdo it even if he wants more.

Yet.

This time, he simply sighs and grabs Theon's head to slam rhythmically into the wall until he passes out.

.

.

He wakes in his own bed. A shower. That is what he needs.

It doesn't matter if the Stark parents are livid because they found Robb returning piss drunk home, vomiting all over some expensive rug. It doesn't matter if Jon was shouted on into the early hours and didn't say a word. It doesn't matter if Theon woke hungover in the garden, no idea where he was and who had put him there, crawling through the window to get into his own room.

Doesn't matter if the bathroom mirror's clean or not. Doesn't matter if he's hangover, or hurting.

He sees it, written into his back —

The name of his torturer and saviour.

Chapter Text

"Mothers wring their hands and say: I'm so at a loss
Best friend says: I've come not to praise you, but to destroy with my bare fucking hands
Girl on the television says: you all work for me now
Boss says: come here, let me hit you just once
Man on the street says: I can make any woman kill herself in a year

So you drive your dead body home at night
And when you sleep the angels kisses are mercury
Mercury"

.

.

Ramsay Bolton.

Theon tastes the name and licks his cracked lips. Not from desire, but because tonight is the 5th party in a row and Theon never drinks enough water. He hasn't thought of the man in a long time (he changes clothes and showers in darkness) but he's uncannily tired lately and involuntary memories are constant. Madeleines. Tea. Or rather: vomit. The acrid taste brings up bad thoughts.

Flushing down the remains of last night, he recalls its conversations.

"—and then, upon walking to the bus, the two of them came over a deserted ice truck. …Which happened to be open. And what is the first thing my associate and the internet girl he's just met think of? 'We gotta fuck in it'. Big as they both were, they almost couldn't fit. Whole truck shook." The woman (so blonde she didn't have eyebrows; she looked like someone out of a Nazi breeding program) finish her story. The listeners clap, laugh, teeth slopping the red black of expensive wine. Überblonde bows. They're the older kids out back, the ones who have figured it all out. Artists, students of the humanities, oddballs... The scent of cannabis is unmistakable. 8 people, counting Theon.

"Lots of lunatics in this world. Sex in an ice cream truck, Christ… Anyone else know about any fucked up people?"

Theon is drunk. How he ended up in the freak club is uncertain, but their alcohol stinks quality and their secretive smiles say, relax, we're all friends here. Theon is relaxed, and says, "I've heard this name mentioned a few times, but know jackshit about the guy. Uh, Ramsay Bolton?" He's only mentioned the name twice previously at other parties, receiving only blanks. The 2-3 who reacted looked electrocuted and avoided him like the plague.

Here, the blanks are the same, but those select few who react as if thinking of some private joke. One of these select few is a skeletal individual with a face that picks fights for him; a self-titled visceral pornographer. "Ooooh, Bol—ton," he sings, mispronouncing it (on purpose?). "The Boltoon Bastard," another mispronunciation, "but don't call him that or he'll..." the skeletal individual starts coughing, here, a dry smoky cough, lung cancer personified. The night belongs to these people.

"What my friend here is trying to say," offers another who'd introduced themselves as a defrocked academic, sex and age indeterminable, hand too tight on the friend's shoulder, "is that we are aware of a certain Ramsay Bolton. We're aware of a great many things. How did you stumble upon his name?"

"Um, shit, I don't know," Theon lies. A pause; a sip of wine. He opts for a fixed truth, "Awakened at a bar at night. Asked the bartender who occupied the room where girls were going in, and out, and in and out."

"A backroom at a bar? Oh no. Not these days, anyway." The defrocked academic and Lung Cancer chuckle (which makes the latter cough again). "He's climbed the ranks. Dominating personalities need dominating spaces. He's climbed the ranks." Lung Cancer repeats the last sentence to himself again and again, smirking.

"Well?" inquires Überblonde, a somewhat dominating presence herself, "What is the bastard's story?"

"The Story of the Bastard," Lung Cancer corrects. Artists; always so fixated with the names. "...Is an account of many peculiar incidents, mostly delivered second-hand. As in the business of art pornography, I meet people with different lives and fetishes. BDSM is a spectrum. The Bastard knows it. For an example, edgeplay is rough sex without safewords, which the Bastard provides. But that isn't all."

Lung Cancer talked, low and into the night. He took some moments to pause and cough, of course, wherein the quieter and less dramatic defrocked academic helped.

Theon, as a result of this meeting, came up with several theories, conclusive in nature.

1. The Bastard is generally just known as the Bastard, but his real name is Ramsay Bolton, a name not a lot of people know. His appearance is unknown. His ambitions, unknown. Background, unknown.
2. The general consensus is that he appeared a year ago, doing legwork within organized crime as a debt collector practising his insight in violence and sex. Then something happened (Lung Cancer belched and muttered something about half-eaten fingers) that made the principled criminals disfavour him.
3. As a result, the Bastard turned to the dark(er) side of fetishist culture and did unprincipled oddjobs on the side. Lung Cancer stressed that his knowledge about him was strictly artistic.

Theon doesn't know what to make of these. The worst thing, however, was that the defrocked academic had whispered that if Theon was interested, they could provide an adress. Their closeness made Theon smell lilacs. Theon has to stop here, too tired—exhausted—to think.

(In lieu he makes potatoes. Boiling a potato is as simple as it is hard. You have to pick out the golden or yellow ones with little wax to their skin. If you boil too hard, it turns to powder on your tongue. Careful, careful, on a low flame. Stab the potatoes only once. There should be no crumbling. The knife is supposed to slide through. It sounds complicated, but that's how you get simple. The constant partying is the aftermath of 10 days of doing nothing: sleep, eat, school, reset rewind repeat, but Depression licks him in bed and on the dance floor. Theon has no goals in life, no desire to get rich, get famous, get married, get kids.)

After he's gained a bit more energy, he has time to reflect on the Bolton problem again. This is no dumb horror flick and there exists a way of doing research outside of breaking into haunted houses, namely, the internet.

He googles Ramsay Bolton's name. No addresses. No telephone numbers. No schools. No news articles. Nothing. Just search recs and did you means. There's a guy named John S. Bolton who's famous for swallowing live cockroaches by squashing their heads with his teeth. Theon knows Catelyn Stark controls the net. Jon figured it out, told Theon (because Theon can keep a secret while the others can't) and asked him if he should help him install some anti-spy hardware. Theon declined and downloaded 10GBs of hardcore HD gay porn. Next day the Cat's look at the dinner table was effin' hilarious. 'Let's give her a show today, too.' He knows what he saw in the bar... a BDSM cave. Lousy one, but still. He types that in, along with the bar's name. Browses sites, pictures, searches with variations. In a relative short amount of space, he's seen some fucked up sites.

Of all things it is a blog which amounts to something, as he turns off safemode and clicks places near you.

The blogger introduces herself as a sadomachonistic female between 25 and 35. Brunette. Pretty. The design is generic with a black background and red text. The blood dripping title is airing a bloody orchid. Her username is 62756763756e74. She'd been inactive for some time, and the blog is quite messy as she had no categories. Mostly sex diary entries, photos, a few vids. The stories are typical for the BDSM blog genre, introducing people with a single letter (like Madame P, Dom K, etc) and with descriptions of what they did and vaguely how they looked. Eye colour is important. She gets off on being spanked on the cunt, which only happens sometimes. The description of eye colour, however, is always there.

Which gives Theon an idea. He starts to search, and narrowing it down. Grey eyes. Silver eyes. Light blue eyes. White [...]. Pale [...]. Wolfish [...]. Cold [...]. The list of adjectives goes on, till—

Icy.

Lots of results here too, but three connected text posts stand out, titled bunker_2, bunker_1 and rumor. They've been posted recently, 3 weeks at most. To get the correct perspective, he reads them from the oldest to the newest.

rumor:
theres a rumor of a new dom in town ;) shoutout to PrincessPenis4 & NaughtyToe for alerting me in the comment section of last post! apparently hes been in the buisness for a while now, but upgraded his facilities recently. so place , experience and apparently hes kinda hot  check, check, check. thing is that he doesn't communicate via the internet. so hes old? an anon source provided me with a number . usually i wouldn't search out a dude without previous prep, but the fact that i dont know much about him makes me sorta tingly (...) since he's become a big rumor in the my community, it just feeds the idea. bit like paranoia, haha

love, Sam

Theon frowns. Sam? That's her name? Her username makes the ordeal more impersonal, and he sticks to visualising her as a line of numbers. There's nothing out of the ordinary in this entry. However, his suspicions worsen when reading the next.

bunker_1
the meetup on friday was super! met NaughtyToe irl for the 1st time and it was awesome. such a nice guy. we talked a lot about what we liked, and what we'd tried recently. hoping to meet him again. maybe alone? ;) ;) i also (…) but anway, that's not today's topic. cuz remember my post rumor? i met the dom! he wasn't the one who answered his phone, but the person who did set me over quickly. i quickly asked about it cuz i dont want to be involved in a group, but he said that since he had clients (?) he needed a handler. he sounded really sweet. he was all apologetic and said that the equipment cost a bit and had a tendency to break (!) + his den cost a bit. he also said he preferred talking face to face, but understood if i didn't want to and we could meet in a public place and all. he also offered a den tour, something i accepted. we first met at a cafe i'd never gone to, with lots of hidden away booths. they played elvis costello. we had wine and talked. he was white, had black hair, wore a white sweater and jeans. his eyes were pale like… i dont know, two moons. ice? they were icy, definitely. like he saw right through you. hot. he was well mannered and quiet, which i liked, even if it's clear he's a dom and he's into edgeplay. he also gave me the name orchid, which i thought was really cute.

he told me the 1st trip to the den would be like an inspection. the place it was located made me shocked! i cant say where, but the it made me laugh a lot, too. lets just say nobody would expect that! i had to wait in a waiting room together with other clients. there were two, one of who smiled at me, but the other one wouldnt look up from the floor. all communities have different people, i guess. then he got and collected me. we went through a hall and to the chosen room. it was huge! it continued to be like a theraphy session. "look around," he said, "say if you find something you like or dislike. i can make arrangmests, but it's gonna cost." the sheets on the bed were cleaned, and it smelled like perfume in there. flowery air fresheners. the windows were open. hygienic is good, but i dont mind bad smells. there were some furniture. on a table, there was a glass jar, looking out of something from hitchcock episode "the jar". i jokingly asked what was inside, and he paused, and said we were going to use them—all of them, on me. idk what he meant, but i giggled and he smiled. he said i'd pay with cash next time, up front. wasn't much, 30 dollars. he said it covered the price of the special plan he'd orchestrated for me. when i went home my panties were soaking wet. i cant wait for next week! he said i had to be there somewhere between 3 and 6 at night, and to dress in loose clothes.

love, Sam

Theon's heart beats a little faster and he clicks on the second entry. The implications are scary.

bunker_2
i've been inactive for a little while, i know. i've been to the hospital, but it is personal so dont ask. i think i'll be arlight. i have an appointment with a gynaecologist tomorrow. afterwards im gonna go home to my parents for a while.

never again.

…

62756763756e74 is scared, and she's someone that dreams of spiked dildos and slaves being delivered in boxes at her door. Fragmented sentences. Never again. The blog post is edited. Theon views the comment section: a string of comments by anonymous users with similar nicknames, deleted by the blogger. They appear only on the second bunker post and the ones posted after it. Threats? Spam? The message is clear: whoever did the thing that named her Orchid, insisted on edgeplay and sent her to the hospital was the owner of the bunker. The defrocked academic and Lung Cancer said the Bastard had climbed the ranks. All the facts pointed to that the man who did that to her must be the one who wrote his name on Theon's back.

Theon isn't disgusted.

Theon isn't scared.

"Gotcha," Theon says.

.

.

Why does he obsess over it? Everything in his life is so fucking justified and logical, just like being taken away from your biological family because they couldn't sustain you. There aren't any arguments against this fact. Nor are there any arguments for seeking out death personified. Perhaps that's the reason. To go against logic. To go against the Starks. Or perhaps it's purpose. A goal to struggle towards. A mystery to solve: out of all people, why did Ramsay Bolton chose Theon? The third option is far more sinister. If it isn't the thrill of going against the Stark or solving a mystery, did Bolton brand something more than his skin?

Theon elects not to think about it. He elects not to think about a lot of things.

He stares out the window in psych class, a subject he initially thought he'd enjoy, but it became a chore and boring. Maybe that's the reason he seeks out Bolton: he's bored. School passes in a blur. High school consists of many blurs. He's learned to nod at correct intervals whenever his teachers talk to him. Robb expresses a twinge of uncertainty when they talk. "Are you better? After being sick last week, I mean." He finds himself nodding like he does to teachers and is surprised Robb doesn't see through the facade. His friends aren't his, they're Robb's. Whatever. Everything seems fake. Theon leaves as soon as he can and looks for realness, finding none.

It isn't by chance he passes Walter, the organizer of that party two nights ago.

"…An academic? The house was open to friends of friends, but I didn't see any academics, especially not any defrocked academics." Theon mentions the blonde girl. "Ooh, Clara? Yeah, she's got some weird fucking friends. Great storyteller though. I could give you her number, if you want."

Theon gives him the go signal yes. Walter continues babbling while Theon texts the number, asking to contact Lung Cancer's friend without using that particular nickname. He has the sudden realization how important names are—none of the older kids out back gave them theirs. I don't know if you remember, but I was at Walter's party last week. Talked a bit to a person who introduced themselves as a defrocked academic. Can you ask them to contact me? But because these are odd people, normality won't do, so he ends the text with, I have information they might be interested in.

Theon says goodbye to Walter and leaves.

His phone beeps minutes later. The number is unknown, not Überblonde's. It contains only two words: Spill, little fish.

Anxious, he texts back, You said you had the Bastard's address.

It takes an hour before he gets a response—an hour of nail biting, teeth gritting and pacing around in the house checking his phone once a minute. Showers, for a long time. He will not think of Bolton. He will not.

(He will not visualize the man, choking him, holding him down, controlling him. He will not think of the man branding him oh so carefully and instruct him to heal himself properly. He will not fantasize about things that haven't happened yet. He will not press his scars against the walls and masturbate until he almost bleeds.)

When he's out of the shower, panting, he has one new message. In it are an address and a photo, and his eyes go round like dinner plates. No wonder 62756763756e74 said it was funny: the address and the grainy photo are of a middle school downtown. The defrocked academic ends the message with Have fun.

.

.

The clock is 01:40 and a school without children is very creepy.

Theon didn't go to this middle school, but it reminds him of his own. Place reeks of demolition and bullying. He loathed middle school. There are high fences around it, like a prison. There are holes in the fence, but the cheap fuckers won't fix it. The playground's deadly with rust and exposed spikes, sand functioning as huge toilet for stray cats, insect nests hidden behind old paint peeling off in curls. A swing has been set on fire. Theon thinks of the machinery scenes in Pink Floyd's The Wall. The teachers in these kinds of places—specifically the head teachers with low sick leaves and police loyalty—would all sell the bad children to human trafficking if it meant getting a vacation.

The front door is locked. So it the backdoor. They rattle when he yanks them, but they don't bulge. There is no light inside, just a void. Was this all a joke? Did Lung Cancer's friend want vengeance on his existence as a non-artist? This was a bad idea. He is tempting fate, and Depression.

But it's in his blood to be a steadfast individual and he start going around the school. To his surprise, he sees intense light from one of the low basement windows. Its insides are hidden by curtains of moth-eaten lace. They flutter like ghosts. The ventilator is on—inside, loud. Someone is inside. Hopeful, Theon searches for an exit. Finds one. A tiny door with shackles thrown aside. NOT IN USE is scrawled on the oak frame in red paint, with bits of gum from paper having previously hung on it. Made permanent, then.

The door is open. The rusty metal hinges scream.

Theon walks in. There are footprints in the dust. The hall is dark, and narrow, air stale, and he isn't certain if it's left or right. He lights his flashlight on bolted close classrooms like punched slots in sticky honeycomb of a beehive. More and more doors start having NOT IN USE written on them too, but with frilly, aged papers. Papers that further explain the cause: an infestation. Fungi? Bugs? Just like Theon thought it'd be. Must've gotten bad for them to close a whole floor. This part of the building must be the oldest. Things that break stay broken.

He lights his flashlight at—

(Theon nearly falls backwards)

—a face.

A janitor, by the looks off it, pissed as hell. This is it. Theon's going to prison. But the janitor just grunts and mutters something about "those goddamn liberals". He reeks like only a janitor can reek. Perfume can't hide it. "He's that way," he says gruffly, and gestures to the opposite direction. "Room 015." Theon hurries in the way the janitor pointed without saying thanks.

Which leads him to something the blogger mentioned: a waiting room.

Splitting the two basement floor halls and lined with plastic chairs.

Filled with women. Girls, aged 15 to 50. Six of them. Some remind him of pictures of Auschwitz, anorexic and vacant eyed, Death breathing down their scrawny necks like Depression does to Theon. None smile at him. One has scars running down her thin legs, and her hands are in her lap, curling into fists when he inspects her. She wears a fur coat, contrasting the young goth on her left who's dressed in rags. Squirt, he recalls.

They all look up when he touches the door knob.

Terror.

Emotion before reflection. To make soft and fleshy humans instinctively run away from whatever beast was chasing them. "Don't do it," Squirt whispers. Theon gives her the finger and wanders on. The hall is unlit, even darker and air even staler than the previous. He uses his flashlight to navigate. R015, the janitor said. So he goes towards it, footsteps echoing annoyingly. It's the door at the end. How dramatic. Theon sneers. He decides to go in like a one man SWAT team, slamming the door open...

To discover darkness, complete and absolute. Horror incarnate. Nothingness.

Nihil.

He double-checks the door number. R015, yeah. The room's light switch is taped over. The space is wide, he can tell. This must've been a classroom, once, cleared. His flashlight helps, outlining some furniture, a few chairs, a mirror... The light clicks on and Theon is blinded by white light. But not for long.

"You again?"

Bolton is sitting a chair, not unlike the ones in the waiting room, positioned with elbows on his knees, a zombie recharging. He holds a small light switch. He hasn't looked up. What was he doing, sitting alone in the dark? Slowly, the ugly face moves up. Theon draws a shaky breath. 'Creepy piece of shit.'

"What do you want?"

Theon leans on the doorframe, "Expose your little BDSM den to the public?"

Bolton goes still. A wolf with its ears flat. Technically the animal metaphor is unjust—this is very much a man, and Bolton's upper lip never goes as high as Robb's does. He has inhuman qualities, like those eyes... Eyes that remove your skin and look right through you. Eyes that enamoured the blogger who ended up at the hospital. Eyes that scheme.

And then the expression is gone again.  Bolton keeps himself wrapped up tight like an atom bomb.

"No. No. You wouldn't, or you'd brought cops. No no no... Why did you come back, Dog?"

"My name isn't Dog, Ramsay."

He doesn't react. "I didn't say I didn't know your name, nor that mine isn't known. I said names don't matter here. Nothing does except my word. Concluding that if I wished to, I could hurt you without consequence. I always pick spaces where people can't hear them scream. And they always scream." He shrugs. "It's just a job."

"If this was just a job then you wouldn't have sought me out like you did."

"Technically, you sought me out the second time. In the first, I apologized for the inconvenience, and did no harm to you but asphyxiation, which—if I have to remind you—you liked. If you'd wished to end this, you could have. But this is the third time and you got no excuse of force or intoxication. Once is a mistake, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern. You do not obey me. You are ruining the system. You are an anomaly. I don't think you'll find fulfilling here."

In Ramsay Bolton's room of order.

A world of order, cut away from the world, existing outside of time and space. Just like Theon needs. Strangely, the room is pristine. No entails lying about. Unlike the halls, this room smells antiseptic. There is no chains, no knives, nothing—but something tells Theon he is not supposed to be intimidated by items. Here, there were monsters. Here, there were no safewords. Theon thinks, 'Just like reality, then.'

Bolton stands up, hands behind his back.

Staring.

(God, those eyes.)

"Perhaps I should use simpler words," he says, and the politeness is gone like the filth. He presents an ultimatum, "Either you agree to stay here with me and do as I say or you never come back. If you come back I'll break your legs so badly that you'll never walk again." He doesn't repeat himself. Doesn't flinch. "So what will it be?" He gestures to the room—not to himself, but that is what it implies. He is the true monster. "Do you want this?"

Theon doesn't even think.

"Yes."

Bolton raises both brows. "Ok. I will go over the rules, since you interrupted me last time. But first of all I said my word is law and I meant it. Usually I don't enforce anything the first time but seeing as this is the fourth time we meet—" What? Theon doesn't voice it, but he's human and forgets, "—I'll be strict from the beginning. Like with... pups. Your first order is to walk into this room and close the door behind you."

"How far?"

Bolton smiles as if Theon has said something funny. "Three steps." Theon closes the door and takes three very, very small steps. This makes Bolton's smile widen. "Good. Now, the rules. Firstly, there are no safe words. Secondly, you have no guarantee what I'll do or if I fancy sex with you. Thirdly, names and background mean nothing here. I will call you what I like."

"And what should I call you?"

"I never enforce titles. The girls automatically call master, sir... They call me a lot of names to make me stop, too."

Theon can't help the chill that last part produces, but holds his ground. He throws his head dismissively to the side, "So I can call you Bolton if I wanna?"

Theon must've said the correct thing or some shit, because Bolton considers it, and says, "Yes. At first. You are quite unruly."

"It's part of my charm."

"I see."

"Yep. And my name isn't Dog."

Bolton sighs. "Haven't I just told you the rules?"

"I heard you. But I already got a name."

"Ah. Which is it, again? Stark or Greyjoy?" That stings. How does Bolton know that it stings? What exactly happened in that bar? Did Theon tell him too much? "How about a compromise: sometimes Theon, sometimes Dog. It depends on how you act." Sometimes human, sometimes... Well. He can live with that. He gives a tiny nod. "I'm glad we can agree, but don't believe that there is equality in this room. When you exit, you can do whatever you like. In here, you're mine. Do we have an agreement?"

Theon nods.

Signing a deal with the devil himself: allowing him to creep under his skin.

"When do we start?"

Bolton sits down again. "Not tonight. Next week's Wednesday. A quarter past one at night. I expect punctuality from you. "

"I got school, I can't."

"Then our deal is over."

"...Fine. I'll be there."

"Good. Wear loose fitting clothes. Make certain they're clean. Take a shower max three hours before you come here, and wash yourself with green soap." He says this as if hygiene is a foreign concept to Theon. "Shut the door on your way out."

He slumps down, back to zombie mode. Seconds before he shuts the door and moments before Bolton puts the light out, Theon notices something strange. The hand Bolton covered behind his back the entire time they spoke... it has blood up to the elbow.

As soon as he's outside the middle school, Theon realizes he'd been holding his breath.

.

.

He is iron and salt.

This is the line of thought he's internalized this last week of school, tapping his feet relentlessly to the floor. He doesn't know what Bolton has planned for him and when he tries to ponder he comes to a wall. Whatever happens inside that room, that concentrated little cosmos, exists outside of humanity's. Its laws are not the same.

It is evening. Theon hasn't eaten much except a snickers bar. Food turns dry in his mouth. Excessive fuel. Waste. Tension takes too much place in his gut. Shower left him cold. The items are packed in a small gym bag; a change of clothes; cash (no credit card, not anything that could leave back to him—like taking the car); a book of bus schedules; snacks; a first aid kit; a pocketknife; clean underwear. That's gonna do. He wears a warm sweater and worn Levi's. His method of escape is the window, using a tree nearby to slide down. A tree Brandon often climbs in, to Lady Stark's dismay. Kid's gonna end up crippled if he continues with that shit.

"Where are you going?"

Fuck.

Well. Could've been worse. "Out, Robb. There's a party downtown."

Robb stands in the doorway, arms crossed. "There's school tomorrow. Are you gonna skip?"

"Maybe."

"Don't. The teachers are already worried; they came to me to tell you to straighten out, or else the administration will tell our... your legal wards. I know you wouldn't like that." Theon stares at him, impassive. "And I need your help. It's with me and Talisa."

"Oh?" 'If there is a god then please tell me they're on the verge of a breakup.' He thinks he'd ditch Bolton to get his best friend back. He hates being the single friend—he hates being without Robb. "What?"

"We're gonna marry."

Mother of gods.

"Are you even old enough? This can't be true. Must be some huge universal joke."

"...I thought you liked her."

Theon laughs, hoarse and without humour, "I only said that to make you happy. If I'd known you were gonna leave me in the dirt I would have told the truth: I hate her."

"You hate her?" Her, her, her... that's all he's concerned about. Theon smiles. Robb recognizes the defence mechanism and tries to grab him, "Please tell me why, you're my—"

"Don't touch me and fuck off." He should install a fucking lock. He heads for the window.

"If you skip school tomorrow I'm gonna tell Father." And then Robb slams the door shut.

Shit.

He goes anyway.

.

.

He's anxious the whole bus trip, checking his clock once a minute. When he tells the bus driver to hurry the fuck up music the shithead's response is to turn up the music. The middle school isn't less creepy now, and he half runs across the grounds. The first person to meet him, of course, is the janitor. 

Theon can smell him.

"Hey again," Theon says.

The janitor twists around and regards him coolly. "I'm not supposed to talk to you people."

You people—oh, so he puts Theon with the cowering females with downcast gazes and scars everywhere? "I'm not a member of the pity fuck club."

"Nah, 'cos he's a man and you're a man, and that ain't real sex. You can't be more than a boy. 'Sides, he ain't started on you yet. Ya haven't got the look." What, the puppy-thrown-in-dishwasher look? He'd rather die. The janitor points a shaky finger at him, yellow as if dipped in iodine, like an older and even thinner version of Lung Cancer. "I've seen it. Through the surveillance tapes, which I alter regularly. Girls walking in and wobbling out. Some of 'em look like whores, others housewives. I won't judge; they all agree to what he's doin'. Plus he pays me enough. His guys mop up the juices, anyway."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Maybe I know you won't tattle on me. I don't think you'll last long. Most don't. They crawl out the door like spiders with broken bones after two or three times and never return."

"Fuck you."

The janitor exhibits rows of missing and blackened teeth. "Or maybe he'll take his time with you. First guy, after all. And don't worry, there are no tapes in R016 or R015. He'd flay me if I didn't take them down."

R016? There are more rooms? Theon's heard enough, turns and marches towards R015. This time, the waiting room is empty. One of the chairs stand in its middle of the room. Upon inspecting it, Theon sees that its centre is grimed with something brownredblack—either blood or shit or both. Hairs standing on his neck, he walks through the hall, and sees a boyish man wielding a mop and whistling the national anthem offtune. He winks at Theon when he passes. One of the moppers the janitor mentioned, probably. Santa's lil helpers.

He opens the heavy door to R015, glad to find that the light is on. No Bolton, though. He takes in the surroundings. Colourless walls and tiled floor, a kitchen section (was this a home economics classroom? He can imagine gravy corroding into the walls). The furniture is surprisingly new. No secondhand shit. IKEA tables, bed. The intense light banishes all shadows but one.

"Six minutes too late."

He jumps when he sees Bolton less than a meter away from him. Leaning against the wall. Quiet. Contemplative. "Bolton," Theon greets coldly. It is greeted by neutrality.

"Remove your shoes. Leave them by the exit along with your jacket... and bag..." Theon does so. "Did I ask you to bring a bag? No? Hm. Walk to the centre of the room."

Inspection? How cliché. Regardless, Theon walks to the room's centre soundlessly because of the socks. It's cold. Bolton circles him, making it colder. He keeps a distance: 1 meter+. Hands on his back, expressionless. Theon finds himself wishing for less sterility and more darkness to succumb to.

"Undress."

The sweater goes first. Slowly. Ritualistic. Theon drags out the time, like a child waiting for a spanking. Bolton stands behind him, to admire his work no doubt. Theon's head is silent. He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons and unzips his pants and kicks them away. Bolton walks to right in front of him and holds up a hand, stop. The boxers remain. It's cold. Very cold. Thrilling. The dread begins as a physical sensation in the pit of his belly. Ice cubes, rolling around. Icepicks on his hands and underneath his feet.

"Lay down on the bed."

Theon does. It squeaks like rubber against rubber—a layer plastic beneath the black sheets. Simplified cleanup. Like for a kid who wets the bed. The bed is a mix between a double and a single, placed so you can walk in on both sides. The intense lab light combined with trying to stay awake is making the spaces behind his eyes throb with a premigraine. Prodrome. Dizziness, tremor, hot flashes, fatigue, mental fogginess, nausea, increased pulse. He hears the scrape of keys; the shuffle of clothing. Computer typing. Then nothing but the latter for a long time.

"...Aren't you gonna do something?"

No answer.

Then an awful thing happens: He falls asleep.

Just momentarily, at first: 20 minutes there, 10 minutes here. Those short breaths of time are plagued by crazy dreams, flying over fields and castles. Then gradually deeper, until he snores peacefully. REM is achieved. He's only half awake when he feels something against his hands, arms, legs, feet...

A bucket of ice water is thrown over his head. He gasps as he thought he was back at Pyke.

"What the hell!" He's restrained. Binds, this time, and they're not from shops that sell sex toys either. These looks like horse reins. Smells like leather. Theon lies on his back.

"Good morning," Bolton says. In his hand, there's a horse whip. "In Sparta, men were often flogged to test their masculinity. I like tests. Games. I'm going to give you eighteen lashes, which is a lot less than Christ got."

And without prompt or fanfare, he begins.

1.

The smack! that echoes through the room is only deadened by Theon's scream. It hits his stomach, chest. He isn't a screamer and tells himself it's the shock. Dread, shock, terror... all are important within this genre of sex. Because this is about sex, isn't it? Everything is about sex except sex. The line the whip has created runs from his abdomen to his chest, an inclined line in his flesh. Takes a while before it starts to bleed. The artwork on Theon's back remains unspoiled.

Bolton cocks his head to the side.

The next lashes come in threes, constant.

1 → 8+9.

The ninth blow breaks the rhythm and is unexpected and cracks Theon. Groans become shouting, hysterical and instinctive. He twists in the reins, knowing it'll be blood for a shark to Bolton but he's unable to stop. Prolonging the punishment. He kicks, yells (screams/gurgles/begs), shakes. Yet there is rhythm and rules: Bolton is not spontaneous—even if he wishes to be, swelling behind the icy skin he's created—and keeps to the ritual. No Fibonacci numbers or anything mystical: the ninth was a final sympathy; the 1st sequence's death. Bolton lays the whip aside calmly, and rolls Theon over on his stomach, proving that perhaps the artwork on Theon's back wasn't as sacred as Theon first believed. In here, names mean nothing. Too bad Theon doesn't know the rhythm.

There is a tickle of blood on his chin: a blow must've hit there, when Bolton got too harsh. His arms are stuck at an odd angle: an x. His sliced open stomach sticks to the sheets. Endorphins are making him feel more alive than he's been in months. And it's gotta be hormones, and hormones only. He bites the pillow, ignoring the rush of blood to his groin.

"Strong lungs," Bolton comments. "Try to keep quiet, or it's harder to count. Nine down, nine to go."

"Please," Theon whispers.

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

10 11 12. 13 14—

Here, something peculiar happens: Theon lets go.

Loses count.

Sighs.

...

A final, spontaneous blow. Must've been the 18th. Theon doesn't care. He doesn't care for being swapped over either, smearing the blood on both sides. His front and back are on fire: a thousand hot needles puncturing his flesh again and again and again: a hot, throbbing torture. A bodily migraine. An ocean, deep and dark, for him to drown in.

He opens his eyes and Bolton is kneeling over him (careful so their bodies don't touch), icy eyes wild. ...Someone's having trouble holding onto the skin of power. When he speaks, he speaks with a baby voice, "Does your tummy hurt?"

Theon's face shines wet with mucus, sweat, salvia, tears. He inhales a fuckload of snot, "If you kiss me I'm gonna bite off a chunk your ugly fucking face."

Bolton's response is to thumb a particularly nasty slash of Theon's, a rift with an opening whereas Bolton can take the two sides and unzip. He does so like he wishes to undress Theon—even more than he already has. Theon's eyeballs roll up into his head.

"Anomaly. Disrespecting me so openly. I rarely consider severe punishments so early, but..." He looks around the room for creativity to strike.

"What," Theon spits, tasting metal, "you gonna put a glass in my vagina?"

Oh heaven, there it is again: the understanding that Theon is too deep in (the) shit to tattle. His face splits open with murderlust. Barely controlled. "Glass wasn't the only material, Dog. You read Orchid's blog posts and saw that I elected to use the complete jar—which means the glass and whatever was inside. Orchid pissed me off, and simply got what flowers need to grow." There's softness to his features, now, if that's possible. "I ought to get you a collar and a leash."

"You like me when I bite," Theon sneers. He's becoming numb to pain, and to words.

"Sure," Bolton says, "it'll be fun breaking you. But I have to punish you first, because you threatenedme. I'm certain you're read enough blogs to know of the dom&sub dynamic, so you know the sub isn't supposed to hit back." Theon realizes isn't the first time Bolton gets clients through the internet. "You threatened me with biting my face off. So I have to do something to your face, yes?"

Theon's chest rises and falls a little quicker.

He starts to sweat.

Bolton steps off him, and tightens the bindings till Theon's head can't move. Intricate knots. Then he moves out of Theon's view (head forced in the direction of a wall—is that mould, he's seeing?). There are more rummaging sounds. Drawers being pulled out, keys opening closet doors... Hidden from sight, there must be stockpiles. Pocket universes. "Aha! There we go." Bolton walks over to him, holding something behind his back. There's a glint of metal. He brings it forth.

Dental tongs. The sort that dentists use.

Bolton hits it against his hand. It looks heavy. He clicks it shut, opens it, shuts it, considering. It only worsens Theon's shaking, but he manages to stutter out, "I got what I came here for." The sigh. The letting go. This becomes undone if Bolton... "I got release."

"We stop when I say we stop. And no, you didn't."

"I did, I—"

Oh.

Oh.

"You said no sex," Theon says.

"I'm not planning to fuck you," Bolton replies. "But I don't know if you noticed, but you had a hard-on during the second sequence of your flogging. Whatever. I'm sick of talking." Bolton isn't a talker. He is a very external person. There are a lot of human concepts without names and Bolton embodies a lot of these. From his trouser pocket, he gets one of those mouth openers dentists use; a transparent cheek retractor, O-shaped. Theon once had a fuck buddy who used those to whiten her teeth. Madly, Theon wonders if there are wholesale auctions. Dental equipment used for BDSM.

"Third sequence," Bolton says. He's got some stuff ready, and sits down beside Theon. Carefully, he twists the lid off a galipot of thick, sticky, golden hued goo. Honey? Gore? Some of God's tears? He takes a huge chunk of it—Jesus, that's fucking disgusting, Theon's glad he doesn't have issues with condoms—with three fingers. The hand vanishes beneath the waistband Theon's boxers.

Starting to jerk him off.

The effect is immediate. Theon can't move. Can't breathe.

(Here be odd thoughts, because he must look fucking ridicules with that cheek retractor thing on his face, what the fuck does Bolton get out of this, sticking his hand into ballsweat—?!)

"C'mon. Let go. I saw you did it. I saw it."

Bolton continues, faster and faster. Theon struggles at first, going hard beneath adept, wet fingers.

Fuck it.

Does Bolton think this is worse than the whipping? Humiliating him or something? Theon's had much, much worse. The things his brothers used to do... if child services knew, he'd ended up at a madhouse, not a foster home. In defiance, he starts pushing himself against Bolton's hand (as much as the bindings will allow him to), faster and faster, whining through the makeshift gag. He can't wait to see Bolton's surprise, and opens his eyes. 

There is no surprise.

Only a gross tongue licking up his tears.

Forcing his eye shut with slime, like a snail's path from his cheek to his eyebrow. Bolton's head so near he can hear the breathing. With his good eye, Theon sees the tongs, too. Positioned right in front of his o-shaped mouth like a huge metal cock. Theon starts to struggle, but he can't move his head. Alas, when Bolton says it's a punishment, it's a punishment. Theon swears to remember that. He swears it. He's "mmmm—!"ing against the gag, hysterically, pupils darting around like tiny bugs trapped in a jar. 

All the while closing in on an orgasm. 

Why isn't his erection dying? Why does he continue to push into Bolton's hand like a whore? "It's the thrill, isn't it?" Bolton asks, pulling back, humming to drown out Theon's whining, "One would have thought you'd be pretty soft by now, but no... That's pretty sick, even if you're a ladies' man. Let's do an experiment. Girls' orgasms are always so hard to catch, while boys'... So basically, if you do come—" he moves the tongs closer to Theon's gaping mouth, "—I'm gonna use this on you!"

"MmMMM!"

"Shh shh, concentrate on holding it."

It's no use. He never was the one to follow advice anyway. White edging on his vision as Bolton continues to savagely jerk him off... he knows it is going to happen. Bolton knows, too. That's why he's bringing the tongs into Theon's mouth (he never said what he was going to use the tool to; is he going to rip out Theon's tongue?) and Theon gets so scared he let go and spills all over himself.

Bolton doesn't waste time. The tongs lock around a tooth.

Their eyes meet. That makes for a moment of truth.

...

No anaesthesia, no safewords.

Theon tries to retreat into himself like he always does at difficult situations but the pain finds him and drags him out, screaming. All the while the pain mixes in with the aftermath of his orgasm, confusing his nerve system. Takes quite a while before he goes from dog to human. He tries to tongue the crater but stops when pain shoots through his jaw and head. He felt no splinters, though. Bolton is so strong he must've pulled out the whole root. The gag is removed, thrown away. The bindings, too, unbuckled, but Theon is too confused to know what's happening. Bolton has moved off him. He stands a little to the left, turned away. He's still holding the tongs—and when he discovers he is, he sneers as if he's forgotten about something, and moves away from Theon's view. Water runs. Sterilizing the equipment, perhaps? Theon idly wonders where his tooth went. Down the drain maybe. In the thrash.

A part of him, gone.

He feels the need to hurl. The room is spinning, and the nausea worsens when he tries to sit up. Immediately, Bolton is at his side. "Don't puke," is all he says. "Sit still. Spit out the blood, for starters." Is there blood in his mouth? Theon opens it and red streams down his chin, mixed in with spit, small bubbles. Bolton instructs him to spit it into the bed—is he as clean as he claims to be?—to be done with it. More dental equipment is used to check the wound, but no mouth openers, or Theon would've puked on Bolton. He's given water, which he drinks to get the taste away, and painkillers. "You need to keep it disinfected. Avoid acidic food." Did he show such mercy to Orchid? Theon doubts it. But he feels no remorse, just emptiness. Sterility. Not during a single moment today did he tell himself he'd never go back.

"I'm going to give you two weeks time, for you to heal. Then you'll return at the same time, same day. Will that be a problem?"

Theon shakes his head. Strangely enough, Bolton brings him his clothes, neatly folded, plus the clean underwear Bolton must've found in the gym bag. He dresses without a word. There is comfort in his own clothes, his own smells, but they can't drive the smell of Bolton (antiseptics and blood) out.

"Can you get home on your own?" Bolton asks.

"I'll take the bus."

But when he tries to stand his knees go all wobbly and he has to support himself on Bolton.

"...How much do I owe you?"

Bolton's face splits open again, this time with a smile. "Nothing."

.

.

In the corner of his eye, Theon thought he saw something move.

But it was just the mirror.

Chapter Text

"You drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, that was fine. And your life is a long line of fine." 

― Gillian Flynn

.

.

Robb Stark. Handsome. Rich. He could've gotten anyone. Why he chose the victim of a madman, nobody could understand. That's why the two of them moved, eventually.

There's an expression that says the pixie always follows. Robb and Theon moved—and the pixie moved with them. And the pixie doesn't forget. Those days back then… None of them were themselves. Ramsay took something of Theon with him into prison, which Theon initially hoped it was Reek, but the hope was extinguished as he sometimes saw a muddy beast with soulless eyes staring back at him from the mirror. Took him months to recover, months with items he never wishes to see again. A quilt. A syringe. A potty. At the same time, the pixie had decided it was time for Robb to have his second puberty, with drunkenness, drugs and whoring. So they moved again, and again, and again, until... Life got normal, falling into a pattern. Robb does his best to provide normality, because Theon knows what he was instructed to worship by Theon's shrinks at the beginning of their relationship:

Structure. Repetition. Absolution.

No question of psycholoigcal relapse.

Nor of free will.

The alarm clock rings at 07:00. The Machine is calling. They wake and get up, synchronised like an old couple. "Take your pills," Robb says, like he always says, and Theon rattles the—vitamin, currently—box and takes two, like he always does. Afterwards, they have breakfast, wearing jeans, no shirts or socks. Some days it's all autopilot. They go over the grocery list. Robb's turn to shop. "We're low on toilet paper, and seafood," Theon says, gnawing on the pen as he writes. Robb grumbles. "Hey, we split the week fifty fifty, remember? Three days with red meat, four days with white. Fish is healthier. Oils, y'know. Good fat."

"When did you become a health nut?" Robb teases. Perfectly domestic. Perfectly sweet. Perfectly rhythmical. "Anyway, it's sixty percent off on barbecue stuff. I spoke to Jon; gonna borrow some bucks to stack up. How about fish burgers?"

"Jesus."

They bicker for a while. It results in both of them having to hurry to the car; old model, truck-like, spits superfluous amounts of flue gas. Sky's overcast. Highest temperature will be 4C, but the wind from northeast makes it colder. Robb and Theon walk shoulder to shoulder like a merged organism. In their withered garden, a magpie slurps up a fat black snail. The neighbourhood is anonymous, rows and row upon houses, middle-class families. Smell of garlic in the morning. It's not too far away from their original home, but then again, there are things holding Robb back.

"So, any news at work?" Robb asks. He speaks and drives slowly, and stops for small animals in the road, ignoring the rush.

Theon stretches in the car seat, yawning. "Candy Bag is back from her thirtieth sick leave."

"Your nicknames are horrible, Theon. She's just a… over-achiever, that's all."

Theon acts cross eyed, mimicking, "Hello this is me and this is a list of my six diagnoses. Thinking of getting a new one next week!" The real reason for his dislike is his own history of mental illness; a history he furiously denies and expunges. His is a list longer than six. "She's an over-sharer. Sort of kid that used candy to buy friends, then aged and lost said friends when she got fat. Perfect ecosystem." Robb doesn't say anything, just switches the subject to inconsequential small talk, like about the weather and the traffic. Theon feels stupid. He wishes Robb had the balls to backtalk him when he's being a twat. It isn't sustainable.

There are laws. There are universal laws and patterns humans aren't aware of and will maybe never be. How many more than Newton's exist, for an example? Is Theon involved somehow, in a complex plot, forced into a life like a never-ending car line in rush traffic? Or is it just superstition? Grandmother Sunderly told him never to forget to smear fish guts at the door, never forget to line the windows with sea-salt, never stare down a well at night time, never visit a seaward cage during a new moon, never, never, never—

(He remembers this, despite being 10 when he was taken away from Balon. Fear sits deeper than love. Love is fleeting, superficial, skin-deep; fear engorges itself in the meat and regurgitates its stomach content into the wound upon removal.)

They drive sluggishly, 7:30 am, always a little early because if not they'd be a little late. Theon's breath comes in steam billows, fogging up the glass so much that Robb has to wipe it with his sleeve, waiting for the 12v portable car heater fan to work its magic. Theon is blowing heat into his fingers 'cos Robb drives and the wheel is cool so he needs the gloves more. He notes that they need two pairs instead of one, like he always does, just like he'll forget it when he exits the car. They're still wearing grandfather clothes, living a grandfather life, driving slowly to jobs they hate making money that goes God knows where.

"...I got a message from Poole," Theon says. "Or, I replied to hers. She's been—" pestering me, but he's trying to be nice, "—talking about us going out together for quite a while, more so over the last few weeks, 'cos it's been so long. We'll meet today."

"It's alright." Robb shrugs. "Where?"

"A 'culture café' an hour from here."

It's Robb's time to yawn. He's tired. It's too early. His beard has grown. If he doesn't cut it soon he'll wound up looking like a lumberjack; all he needs is the chequered flannel shirt and a pair of suspenders. He uses Old Spice because Ned Stark did. Yuck. "You should invite her over for dinner, and make your god awful family fish dishes. I want her sympathy."

"Fuck off. And I don't know it's such a good idea."

Robb says, "I understand if you're trying to keep a wall between the past and now, which is good. But I hope it isn't because the two of you had sex in the institution. I'm not jealous. It was a very human thing to do. It wasn't cheating 'cos we weren't together then." Theon shifts uncomfortably. "Besides, that was Reek."

Theon starts to think, hard. The person in the parking lot… That was Reek too, wasn't it? "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, we should. But only if you don't clean the whole house just 'coz we have guests."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Even at the diner... That wasn't Theon. It was Reek.

Robb lets him off in the parking lot outside the building, grey and anonymous. No name but Billy's, with a tilted B. Pay is ok though, and they get customers through referrals and a good network, not only pity. Theon crosses the street, counting cars. He fumbles with the key chain, one that's grown quite big after his promotion. Became a manager. Last guy killed himself by sticking his head in an oven. Manic depression. Safe to say, Bill's is a haven for societal outcasts. Theon wants to leave. Environments like this can be toxic, but he doubts anyone else would pay someone like him as good. He never did finish high school. Theon looks the place over. Murky colouring, many secluded divisions. Some do paint jobs, others work within accounting.

It's a small place, so it's natural that they take a break whenever someone comes to work. (Theon has quietly inclined that he doesn't want such, and it's respected.) Hearing protectors, reflex overalls and a mishmash of disabilities and disadvantages with the preference for a break or twenty. On the table, there are an equal mess of word games, cards, Sudoku, multicoloured post-its and cups of coffee, tea, juice. The boss—nameless, but everybody calls him Billy—sits in their midst. Small, implacable, face like an old map. He's got his own past, and seven seasons of Baywatch on VHS. "Good morning Theon," he says. Some cups are raised, like they always are. Then his colleges go back to their conversation.

"Bossman." Theon leans against the counter, nearly slipping. It's sparkling clean. Having leaning personnel with OCD has its positive sides. He prefers freelance work, not trapped in here, in a fucking bunker. "Is it just me today?"

"Berenbaum is ill, so yes, it's just you."

"Hm. His last job was on the Honda, yeah? Grey? I can handle switching the gas pedals on my own." He scratches behind his ear. "Nothing more for me to do?"

"No, but I'm going to give you an assistant. This is Lanny." The boss points to a boy even scrawnier than himself. Blonde. 20, 23? Could've been a looker hadn't his eyes leaked secrets. Theon really needs to switch jobs at one point. This one isn't sustainable. "Just verbally go through the basics of what you're doing."

Theon introduces himself and his work as they walk through the building, after which the kid replies his actual real name is Lancel. Theon elects not to be a twat calls him it out loud. He even smiles to Candy Bag when she passes. Tries to be conscious. Tries to be awake. He gets to work at the car. Car owner came in for a new bulb for a headlight and found out she had a cracked ball-joint. The wheel wobbles. If Theon doesn't fix it, the wheel might fly off off on the freeway at 80 MPH. He likes teaching; it makes him feel at peace, reciting things he knows by heart. Lanny is quiet and helpful, fast learner, with the same selflessness and stoicism as their boss. Only question he poses is what Theon thinks of the workplace, to which Theon replies with truth: ok pay, ok people, ok hours. He notes, "Though the place has been a little religious lately."

"I met Him during a ceremony," Lanny admits.

"Who? Bossman? What, were you worshipping the Holy Bosom of Pamela Anderson?" Lanny doesn't answer, but his expression darkens. Theon feels alienated. He works silently, slick and smelly, motor oil up to his elbows. Less small talk. More instructions, structured and lifeless. Then, silence. Hours pass. Theon loses himself in the work, but he's tense because of Lanny's presence. "Done. Did you—?"

"Are you in a relationship with another male?"

Theon blinks. "Yeah."

"…It is never too late for penance."

Fucking hell.

In the machine, a cog breaks. Theon tongues his mouth for breadcrumbs: an effect of the psychological reaction of bathing in shit for so long. He grooms himself when stressed. "Never too late to get laid either."

"Sin cannot heal you, only faith can."

Air.

He needs air.

Theon escapes without washing his hands. He wants a cig despite having quit . 'Fucking religious lunatics. Of course there's a fucking catch. There's always a catch. Shit. Hell. Rounds up society's weakest to sacrifice them to some cult. Should've figured. People's only nice with the promise of reward.'

He needs to move.

(It's louder, now.)

He needs to move.

...

When he opens his eyes again, the air is cool. Still windy, with some light rain—but rain never hurt the handsome. Theon decides to do something he should've done a while ago: he calls Jon. Two… Three… Five beeps before he picks up. Voice tired, hoarse. "Theon? Hey. What's up?" They're not friends, but Theon knows—even if Theon doesn't remember and Reek probably said something awful—Jon visited him in the mental institution many times, which the Starks did not. ("I tried to befriend you when I was a kid. Recognized the looks on your face," he'd confessed. "But you never liked me much.") They see each other during infrequent pub visits and yearly barbecues.

He wastes no time. "Jon. Have you asked Robb about the Mrs. Stark problem?"

Jon pauses. Sighs. "Yeah. He doesn't wanna talk about it. Gets worse very year. He wants to prove something to himself and establish that he's an honourable man like his father and can survive without the money." Not our father—the fact that Jon had no say in the inheritance settlement still stings. Yet he is the one who walked in Eddard Stark's footsteps and became a cop.

Theon says, "Problem is we're surviving, but that's about it. We don't have the cash for any luxuries, fix the house, or education, or make investments, etcetera. My savings went to my hospital bills. His went to my therapy. He sacrificed a lot, after he came 'round. You of all people know how hard life can be. I know you're doing alright now, but it could be better."

A rustle of clothes; another exhalation. "I know, Theon. We need the money. Bills piling up come winter. It's alright now, but it isn't gonna be, no. This winter's gonna be bad, bad like that one back in… back when you… All that guilt I felt as a child was pointless. No one should ever treat a child badly because of things out of their control. Lobotomized or not, the deal's working out in Catelyn Stark's favour. She gets the best medical treatment, working through her late husband's fortune nonstop because of Robb's decision."

"We're visiting her tomorrow. I'll try talk to him then. Maybe when confronted with that plus the sight of her rotting he'll see reason, instead of telling himself she'll get better." Theon hears the doubt Jon doesn't voice. He takes a chance and says, toneless, "Ramsay Bolton contacted me a few days ago. He's out of the asylum."

"…You met up with him?" Jon's not freaking out. Good. Theon needs an icy, strategic mind right now. They're both unnaturally calm—maybe it's the season sneaking into their synapses, skittering down brain tubes eating emotion and energy. And they've discussed this before, Jon and Theon, what'd happen if Bolton came back.

"Yeah. Public place. Nothing happened, we just talked, then he left. His shrink recommended it, Bolton wants to make amends. Offered me money."

"Sounds like a plot. You shouldn't have... Robb didn't know until afterwards, did he?"

Judgement. Theon deserves and needs it. "No, but I told him immediately after. He expressed concern for Jeyne Poole. I'm gonna meet up with her tonight—gonna ask her then, if he's contacted her. Or the others."

"Being a hotel maid isn't that lucrative. Bolton might have offered money."

"I don't think she'd take it." A pause. "I didn't, either."

"I didn't think you did. If he didn't threaten you there isn't much I can do, but if anything happens, you know you can contact me, right?"

Theon smiles, humourless. "Good to have a cop in the family."

(The word cop makes him think of a certain costume, and of a certain night. After punching her mouth so much—splitting her lips, splintering her teeth, despoiling her lower head of all human qualities—Yellow Dick had gotten his knuckles infected. He'd tried to recreate a scene from Reservoir Dogs.)

"I'm not just a cop, y'know."

"Ah."

There is nothing more to say.

.

.

"I don't want to work there anymore."

It is the first thing Theon says when Robb picks him up.

"...We've been through this."

"But I really don't want to work there anymore."

"You didn't finish high school, and we won't find a better job for you than at Billy's," we won't—always we, we, we, "and we're too deep now to uproot ourselves. Moving isn't an option." And like that, he changes the topic. "So at what time should I pick you up?"

"I can take the bus, you know," Theon replies sullenly.

"Alright. But I will drive you there," Robb says. "And then you can take the bus back home."

.

.

The 'culture café' is titled the Pot. It's a mix between a café and a bar, without breastfeeding moms or regular alcoholics. It looks and smells better than the dive with Lady Hamburger. Theon stands right outside. Wet pavement, wet people. Yellow leaves. His only light comes from a coke machine, making his skin glow white. Theon does some mental and breathing exercises, memorised from papers upon papers on coping tips and tricks. There are photo albums filled with them. There was a singular time when he'd accidentally chosen a real photo album instead of his records, and found a photo of himself from Robb's wedding… He doesn't understand how anybody didn't see it. Obviously they don't wear his face, but seriously, on his neck there was an outline of ligature mark from wire, and on other exposed skin, cigarette burn. He looks sick, and everybody's smiling, happy, artificial, how can Robb finds solace in those photos when it's so fake—

He stops.

Counts to 82 before he calms down.

He walks in. The pot is artistic, vintage mixed in with modern, grandmother furniture and a collection of antique dinner plates, glued to the wall. It has a small stage, area framed by wooden panels with gold sigils against a glossy red background. The stage is no doubt for poetry and short story readings, avant-garde musical performances, tableaux viviants, art exhibitions... Postmodern portraits on the wall, random, emotional. They awake something awful in him. They're playing Crime And The City Solution's Six Bells Chime.

Jeyne has already arrived, seated at a shadowed booth, and she waves at him as he hesitantly makes his way over.

She smirks, "Aren't we classy, all in black?"

"What?" He looks down on his outfit. "Oh." He hadn't known he'd dressed like that, and thinks of the black snail in the garden. In contrast to her outfit, he's a walking void. She wears a brightly-coloured coat. Gone is the shy girl, replaced by a bespectacled art critic slash hotel maid. He manages to avoid involuntary memories to by not looking at her face. He smiles, nostalgic: he rarely observes people and places anymore. Theon has enough self-insight to know that he skips information; leaves voids; minds a machine with bolts and nuts taken out, spitting oil and blood and destroying itself. "Good to see you too, Poole. How's life?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Fine." He's still not looking at her.

Voice blasé, she asks, "Want a drink?"

Theon releases the breath he didn't know he was holding and says, "Oh fuck the hell yes."

They drink in silence, too. First after two beer bottles does he loosen a bit, and finds himself laughing at her jokes and playing along. Surface stuff. More alcohol allows them to break the layer—a layer Theon has been oh so careful constructing—and swim down, down, down. The mug of wine is deep and blackpurplered and he could dive into it and never return. The thought occurs to him, often. Drowning. Jeyne introduces him to some weird white wine, too, which he drinks without questioning what or why. Peach schnapps and cider. She talks about some upcoming art shows, new galleries, backlash at her critiques, and a little about some dude named Rembrandt.

He looks at Jeyne's face.

Remembers how it looks when he tongues her cunt.

...His head is full of holes leaking pus, dripping into his eyes, an old infection finally spurting a thick clogging paste of bacteria: "I'm so sick," he says quietly, "of pretending. Of remaining in the same condition, year after year, doing the same fucking thing. I try so fucking hard to live with my trauma but I can't, it's not possible, the memories are constant, I see worms on the pavement and I think of a moving line of skin, pink and wet, freshly flayed. ...Fucking God," he says and clutches his head, ill. "I can't stop remembering."

"Don't let it go out over the Lord," Jeyne says dryly, learning back, sipping peach cider. "So are you gonna tell me the truth of why you finally said yes to this meeting?"

"Bolton," he spits the name like a curse. The clod of spit lands on the table between them.

"Of course," Jeyne agrees, idly eyeing the clod. "I figured he'd contact you first." She knows. Shit shit shitshitshit— "Now, before you bombard me with questions, know that you're not the only one with involuntary memories. We all have them." She stares at him, long and hard. He knows she's in contact with the Bitches, knows about the countless support groups and meet ups they have.

"Did you take his money?"

"No, I did not. My hotel job isn't lucrative, but also being an art critic gives me a bit of money." Her eyes are hard. "Did you?"

"No."

"But you wanted to."

Once, at a hair saloon, Theon had gotten something in his eyes. The hairdresser was cutting his bangs, so he couldn't open them or scratch to remove it. When she finished, he had opened the bad eye, only to find a long, foreign hair stuck in it. Pulling it out…

Feels a bit like this situation.

"Theon, it is very important you do not forget who he. What he is." Jeyne's purple gloves wrap around the glass for another sip. He wonders what she hides beneath. "It's still up to debate what you were. You weren't a Bitch, and you weren't a Bastard Boy either. But you survived. You saw us. You're like a mix between them. The special pet."

"I can't remember much. On good days I remember nothing—especially if I avoid items that'd remind me. But I don't know what happened in the last weeks."

"That's when Reek took over completely, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Does Reek still exist?"

"I don't think so. Squashed under medicine and therapy."

"But you're not sure. If you aren't sure, don't meet up with Bolton again."

"I'm sure. And you're not my boss." He speaks wildly—a flashback to the old days, the bad days, the all or nothing days.

"Don't you remember all the things he did? The dogs, the rock gravel, the mannequins?" she asks. He associates a lot, but somehow those words ring no bells. He shakes his head. "You don't remember…? Jesus. Those stories are pretty fucking horrifying. I sure as hell won't forget or retell them." And this comes from someone who cleans hotel rooms, and picks up toe nail clippings, old cotton buds, used condoms, used tissues, used tissue. Hundred and hundreds of rooms and corridors, but no people. Other hotel maids yes, but again, no people. Hard work. Silent work. Disgusting, under-payed work.

(On previous occasion, he'd asked why no artist had made a used condom installation, to which she replied, an artist had. Garbage is not decent to clean up, yet people make art of it and put it on display. Art is nice to look at as long as you don't have involve yourself.)

"I don't really hold onto things that didn't happen to me personally," Theon says.

She looks at him. Turns a little pale. Deep down, he wants to be beaten severely rather than suffer through looks. A punch bruises but vanishes. A look lingers. Words, words, words. Useless, useless, useless. She says, "You were there."

He recoils. "I'm sorry. I think it's a defence mechanism."

"I've talked to them. Almost all of them. Even one in a protection program travelling interstate. To the parents, the lovers, the people left behind… We've had meetings. Established understandings. Helped each other out in tough situations. You could have been a part of it."

"I don't think my presence had been tolerated."

"I admit there was a debate, but you'd been welcomed had you showed some actual interest, instead of blocking our emails and numbers, and returning the letters."

"I didn't block yours, Jeyne. But they were strangers."

"They aren't strangers."

"They are."

Jeyne grits her teeth. "Met a girl who Bolton experimented on, in the early days. Due to the extreme abuse of her groin area, she didn't touch it—didn't wash, masturbate or dry herself—for weeks. Doc threw up all over his office. She ended up sitting in heated green soap water each night for a month, lest her cunt was gonna rot off." Upon seeing the look on his face, Jeyne only says, "It does not do to forget."

Structure. Repetition. Absolution. Perhaps those concepts are manageable in a computer system, but Theon is not a computer. His life, as it is now, isn't sustainable.

He suddenly asks, "Do you like to sing, Jeyne?"

"No."

"Did you ever sing in those rooms?"

 Jeyne is brought back. He can see it in her eyes, and feels bad for bringing it up. "Well, we weren't singing fucking Deck the Halls, Theon." He wants to ask more, because he remembers... things... Vague and blurry, like an old war wound you never quite knew how you got. Pain, forgotten once it stops, but not entirely. Jeyne leans on her elbows and asks, "How about I do you the favour of refreshing your mind?"

"How?"

"I'm gonna send you texts and photos—of us. The Bitches. Before, during and after Bolton. So you remember. So you understand. So you relate to our current challenge." Always a challenge, never a problem.

"What's your challenge?"

Jeyne smirks. "It is not wise to spill your secrets to a stranger, stranger. But the game has gotten new rules. Bolton is out again. History repeats itself, but those who know can stop it." He realises she's more sober than he is. "Do you ever search him up, online?"

"No."

"Never?"

He shakes his head, pupils darting around. "It is supposed to stay in the past." He hates her bringing it up; it opens up a flesh-wound of a world he knows exist. Photos. Articles. Videoes. Blogs. Forums. A wikipedia entry. Fans, and their creations. A world outside his own, contrasting his own, with disorganisation, alteration and chaos.

She laughs. Short. Clipped. He feels a tingle, of sorts, as if the layers of skin upon skin upon skin upon skin(…) he's built for himself trembles a tiny bit. He orders vodka with ice and she says, "And has this futuristic view of the world helped you? You were talking about memories a moment ago."

"It helps."

"But it doesn't heal."

"And what you're suggesting can? Feels more like ripping up old scars if you ask me."

"You can't put band-aids on all wounds, Theon. You can't bury them," Jeyne says. "Sometimes you gotta reach into yourself and rip out the hurting lump; what has been lodged inside for so long. This process will help you remove it by making you understand. Plus it'll remind you why you shouldn't contact the fucker again."

"And then everything will be well?" He's sorta drunk and sounds like a child. Theon will take her word for it. He trusts her because she trusts him. He knows how careful she is with public appearances, even if she's been more vocal than he has in the media. He hasn't said a word—but then again, the photo a nasty, intrusive journalist took of him chained to a hospital bed speaks for itself, probably still floating around on the Internet somewhere for people to jack off to.

Her eyes twinkle and tell of secrets larger than Lanny's. "Then, everything will be well."

"...When will the process be over?"

"When it's over. I'll let you know."

Theon inhales. He's not quite certain to what he's agreed to, cryptic fucking artists... but he must get better. He must become sustainable. "Thank you, Jeyne." The idea of finally being saved, of putting an end to this nightmare of an existence, fills him up. He's gonna quit his job, he's gonna go home leaping in victory and fuck the shit out of Robb, and all will be alright '—because we will fix ourselves,' he thinks, 'we will, we will, we will.'

.

.

The bus trip reminds Theon why he hates public transportation. Creepy people. Alcoholics. Too little personal space, everything's up and close. The horniness does not falter. He looks out the window and sees a blur of stone façades and city lights fractured by rivers of water. His perception of time and reality is warped. One second he's outside the Pot waving to Jeyne, the next he's stumbling through his garden and taking a piss in the neighbour's flowerbed.

"Theon?"

When he's inside, Robb doesn't have time to ask the usual questions—like he always does—because Theon is slamming their mouths together, eager and drunk. Controlling his own tongue is hard. The make out session is one of the wettest in Robb's life. Theon's turned on, and pushes Robb towards the bedroom.

"Theon," Robb tries again.

(This is not part of the system they've worked out and is thus not sustainable. Theon doesn't give a fuck.)

"Theon!" Robb grabs Theon's arms.

"What?"

"Do you want this?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes," and it becomes a goddamn anthem, 'cos maybe he can replace the rhythm of life with the rhythm of love, and maybe he won't wake up in 20 years staring into nothing at 7 AM while an equally exhausted Robb tries to figure out what cereal is the cheapest, wondering 'Is this all there is?' and 'Where the fuck did our lives go?' He hates the work / buy / consume / die mentally, hates capitalism, and grins against Robb's lips, feels their teeth meet. "C'mon," Theon urges, tearing his own sweater off, shuddering in the autumn air sneaking into their bedroom. "C'mon baby," he urges again, and he's stumbling and Robb's not, but the excitement is so thick in the air you can get intoxicated on that alone. Theon never thinks he's corrupted Robb, he's just taught him a few tricks. Like how to pull down pants fast. Underwear. Skin. (It isn't healthy, this obsession with the exterior.)

"Let's run away together," Theon whispers, "like we used to do." But Robb can't play along with the fantasy so he says nothing. Like Jon. Theon is drunk and doesn't notice. "Let's get into a car and just drive, just drive, c'mon, let's…"

He falls back against clean (and cool → relief) sheets about to become dirty, longing for sex in the bacteria and sweat, forget who and what and why. Robb pushes him further into the mattress, knee between Theon's legs, whatever, he's way too drunk to top. Robb isn't perfect but he's good, caring, loving. Vanilla. Real sex isn't like on TV, or in books, or pornography watched in dim bedrooms sweating, excitement pooling in your belly, praying to god mama or papa won't bust you. The ceiling lamp is positioned directly above Robb's head, shadowing his face and making him a faceless angel. He could be anyone—Robb / Jeyne / Ramsay—and it makes Theon grin so hard his lips almost tear. Delerium smells like peaches, Old Spice, and if he concentrates… rubbing alcohol.

It is here the real fun begins: a step away from the delicate veneer of civilisation.

Sex and violence.

Hunger.

"Hit me," Theon says hotly.

Robb, who's just getting into it, halts. "What?"

"Hit me," Theon repeats, piss-drunk, slobbering. "Punch me in the face, bite me, bruise me, choke me, kick me, rip off my s—" Robb tries to get away but Theon's thin and sweaty legs keep him there like chains. "C'mon," he begs, again and again, gushing unsanitary vodka-breath, "it's been so long. Make me yours, please." He tries to put Robb's hands on his neck, the ultimate experience, but Robb won't have it. He grabs Theon's arms and holds him. Theon sneers, "Pussy." What follows is a wide array of insults. Nothing sounds worse than a ironborn tongue. But Robb just holds him. Theon still can't see his face.

Anger melt into sadness, and instead of questioning Robb's mother's sexual decency, he's asking if he isn't good enough, if this is at all sustainable and if Robb cares for him at all. Mumbly, gibberish ghost-talk. "I do," Robb says quietly. "I love you." And he says it again and again. Instead of losing its meaning, it becomes easier and easier to understand.

The avalanche starts at the summit. Sharp cracking as it tears away from the mountain's face. A low rumbling, as it begins to slide. A low rumble as if you thought the planet itself was sick. Then it starts to slide, tearing out trees and houses in its path, heading for the river. All life ends up in the river. That's how nature cleans herself, see?

Theon sobs. Cries. Fresh hot tears. He blows his nose in Robb's sweater, exhausted. Long ago, he stuffed the traumas inside a glass jar, screwed the lid on tight and thrown the jar into some dark corner of his mind, praying it would not break. The process he goes through now is putting it back inside where it belongs. Bugs? Excrement? A head, maybe; a head with a grimed, blotched face pressed up against the glass—grinning, even if the true Reek never did.

Robb holds Theon until he passes out, like he always does.

Had Theon been sober he'd realised it'd never work; because Robb is not Ramsay and Theon is not Reek.

Nothing has changed.

Chapter Text

In corner of his eyes the sleep has turned into stones. Lids, sticky with crusted discharge. Throat like Sahara. He licks his lips and tastes salt, old tears, reminding him of his old home. His head throbs like someone's drumming on china. He buries his hands in his tangled hair and whines—a bit like children cry, after some internal rhythm. The first cry is a long one, timeless, continuous, emptying its small lungs. (A pause; an inhale). The second, shriller, more intent. If it cries a second time the child has decided to continue to show its dismay. "I'm sooooorry."

Robb hands him a glass of water. "It's okay," he says, a little stiff, standing beside the bed. "You're not yourself when you drink. That's why you don't do it, often." A warning. "But we're gonna be late."

Theon gulps down the water greedily, pouring the last bit over his head for good measure. "For what?"

"It's visiting day," Robb says while exiting the room. He's in formal wear. "I told you. We're gonna see Mother."

Fuck.

"Get dressed and grab some fruit!" Robb shouts as he walks to the kitchen. "Look decent!"

"Not like she cares," Theon mumbles, and feels bad; he's usually more understanding. Must be the vomit-lumps lodged in his throat, stomach… brain. He still won't suit up just because Robb does, but wears clean underwear, and one of his less dirty jeans and a nicer, white shirt to make up for it. He scrolls through his phone, and frowns at the two new messages. The first one is from Billy, sent last night, the other one… is trickier. Jeyne Poole, at 03:52. In the middle of the night? Did she struggle sleeping after all that cider?

1. Sender: Boss — Content: Theon, there will be a meeting tomorrow morning. We've moved to my locals after a fire in the last one. Lanny expressed great concern for you and I'd be delighted if you could make it. - Bill

Theon can see it, although it's not written. Or else. But he won't go. The next message, however...

2. Sender: J. Poole — Content: My name is Christina and I'm 34 years old. Jeyne told me about her project and I'm happy to help. So, my story is that I went to R four times. I don't think we met. I got referred to R by a weird girl (we're not friends anymore), and got saved by another friend. I was a housewife at the time and sought action. I don't want to go into details, but I have not have sex since, and got divorced because of this. I cannot have sex. On one hand, I miss 3 of 5 fingers. My fingernails look grotesque after the third growing-out. In the winter, I cannot move my arm. He poured boiling hot oil over me. Those four encounters also left me damaged psychologically. Despite this, I was one of the lucky ones (I went to him during his early stages). My advice for you would be to forget. Time heals all wounds. I hope my story helps you.

...He's not sure he's not gonna puke or not so he stuffs a plastic bag in the back pocket of his jeans. Tries not to think about what was just revealed. Mixed in with his hangover this is horrible. How is that supposed to help? Theon dislikes people who bring up their own issues when he asks for advice, 'I'm not asking how you deal with you shit, but how I should deal with mine.' Why did he even agree to it?

"Hurry, Theon! We're late as it is!"

Theon blinks, expunges the information and jogs into the kitchen. On the stove, the coffee can scream as if a thousand people were trapped inside and boiling to death. Theon shuts his eyes tightly. He doesn't eat anything. He's supposed to talk to Robb about their economical problem.

"Shut your zipper," Robb says, and Theon sees that his pants is halfway down like those fucking teenagers wear 'em. He'd blush if he had shame. Robb says, "Think of Mother."

"...I'm not jerking off right now."

"Christ, Theon," Robb exclaims and hands him a thermos with the coffee; not the worst kind, but black and bitter and let's-get-this-over-with. He drinks from it and burns his tongue and throat down to the oesophagus, curses, loses the thermos lid-cup, scalds his hand. Robb looks briefly concerned, then scolds him and adds torment to the pain swelling within. He's just looking for things to get mad for.

The car drive is awkward. It is obvious Robb doesn't want to discuss their failed sexual attempt. He's probably is too embarrassed. Or does he think Theon is? It wasn't that bad, but he's not gonna take the initiative, no sir. Robb's hand is on Theon's knee, tightening whenever Theon looks too sad. Theon tries to keep his mind silent and systematic. Like yesterday, before Poole happened.

.

.

One of these days, he swears Catelyn Stark will come to life and raise an arm towards him, eyes dead and hopeless, and say in a thundering voice "You corrupted my son."

There's the noise like when you shake an empty paint bottle. That's the only way you know she's alive. Yellow piss bags, connected to tubes and wires (more than Theon is), a doomed face in the midst of it all destined to grow old, silently. Rot makes no sound. If the wind blows through the window will she creak like an old house? The nurses have positioned her to sit up. Her mouth is a thin line. Sometimes it hangs open and nurses have to dry spittle from her gaunt, lady-bearded chin. Dead eyes.

The hospital room is designed modestly, light and happy colours, but you can see that the hospital and treatment is an expensive ones, not only by the way the doctors and nurses adore Robb so. Theon wonders if they let her rot usually and only clean her when Robb is visiting, because he's always on time, each other week, Sunday, at 11 am. There is an oaken bookshelf; a full series of Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen. In a moment of boredom, he'd drawn a finger across it in search for dust, and found none. Designer furniture. Quality, hidden in the materials. The family portraits are nailed to the wall, making them hard to remove. A huge one is situated right above the bed. The same that hangs in Theon and Robb's apartment.

St. Ambrose's Home wants only the very best for their ailing patients.

(Later, he will come to recognize this as a lie. But not yet.)

Robb always talks to her. He does not ask her questions, but tells how his life has been the last two weeks. Every little detail. What colours his new pair of socks are, what dinners he's made, their shopping lists... Like a retired individual with nothing to do. Nothing negative. At first Theon had been weirded out and wandered the halls, but he found the same doomed faces everywhere else. Even the awake ones wondered where their lives went and where the morphine was. Now, he stands near the door while Robb sits in a chair and talks, and talks, and talks. There are fresh flowers on the bed table, probably because they upped the price last month and Robb complied like a lamb for slaughter.

Theon sniffs in the air. Just under the smell of itchingly clean there's something more natural, more human. Room smells a bit like semen, Theon has always thought.

"...and we're planning on having a barbeque, aren't we, Theon?"

Usually he'd nod and agree, averting his eyes, unable to look at the thin withering form in the too big hospital bed. Usually. "She can't hear us, Robb," Theon hisses, kneading his head. He looks up.

The betrayal is raw in Robb's eyes. God, this place swells with illusions. He apologizes to his mother, and turns to Theon, exclaiming, "How could you say that in front of her?"

Theon's phone beeps, vibrating in his pocket. He loses momentum, and it builds up his frustration. "I'm sorry but she's sucking out our savings kinda quikly."

"So this is about money."

"I know you hate talking about it but—"

"I don't like discussing this in her room, no."

"Listen, I've spoken to Jon and he agrees that—"

"So you've both gone together against me."

For a moment, Robb reminds Theon of Ned Stark, with his scowl and cold voice that scared Theon shitless. Ned believed in honour, which meant when he, the police chief, killed Theon's older brothers, he had to foster him. The first time he pissed the bed at Balon's he awakened to a fist in the face. At Ned's, terrified and 10 years old, he'd done the same thing and woken Robb, whispering "please help me, please help me, please help me" like a mantra.

Theon's phone beeps again. Sweat collects at the back of his neck, and he stutters when his tantrum begins:  theatrical and weak-willed, too loud, "You know why I'm doing this! It's not like I want to but winter is coming with its shit-high bills, this isn't funny, this is reality. I'm sick to death busting my balls off at minimum wage and go home to a stagnant life. I'm sick of drooling in front of the luxury section at the supermarket. I'm sick of buying second-hand clothes, second-hand furniture, constantly living second-hand lives. I know you love your mom, and I'm sorry she's paralyzed, and I'm sorry your dad died so horribly, and your wife, and your kid, and we're all sorry, but we have nothing, we're stuck—"

"Theon."

"Don't interrupt me! You're not listening!"

(On the hospital bed, a doomed face is watching.)

"I don't want to discuss this right now," Robb hisses, and there's a nurse poking her ugly head in, nose brown-spotted and too big. "You're causing a scene, Theon."

"So when are you gonna discuss it?!" Theon shouts. There's another fucking beep, and it's probably his boss, or another one of those shitty messages from the Bitches, or maybe even Ramsay. "Tomorrow? Next year? When she's dead?"

Dead eyes, staring.

"Sir, is everything alright?" the nurse asks Robb, because it's always Theon who's the failure; the ill and dangerous one. Robb is calm like stone and says everything's alright, his friend is just a little sick today; tummy-ache, which affects his mood. She nods, scrutinizing Theon, and says, "Well, click the button if he gets too hard to handle."

His phone beeps for the fourth time.

Robb's eyes are hard. "Check your phone, Theon. Breathe. Do your damned exercises."

"Fuck you," Theon tells him, breathing through his nose, but he does as told. The first message, a minute ago. The number is hidden, unknown. The content is an address—nothing else. He recognizes it from somewhere, but it causes no involuntary memories, which is good since most of them are negative.

"Who is it?"

"I said, fuck. You."

"So you have a right to decide what I can use my money on, but I can't even ask who you're texting?"

Theon ignores him and continues scroll through the messages. The second one simply contains an ellipsis—'…'—and the sender has also an unknown number. The next two, too. Only an ellipsis. He's betting all three are from the person who sent the address.

"Who is it, Theon?!" He's harsher now, spit flying. Like his Mother. The frustration that was conceived last night—if nothing else—is birthed; a black, wet sludge of rage. He suspects... Theon can see it, can see who he suspects is messaging Theon. He's grabbed by the arm, roughly, and Theon's head swells with memories of policemen and shouting and bursting out of that chest. Not his memories, this time. Reek's. He's losing himself to the Other. Passively, he thinks, 'That grip is gonna leave a bruise.'

First when they're outside of Catelyn's room does Robb dare breathe his accusation: "You've contacted Ramsay Bolton."

"I have not."

"So give me your phone."

"No." It's got something to do with principles, and privacy, but Theon's not too good with words.

"Quit it. I don't have time to babysit a child."

Theon shuts his mouth. A child? What? Isn't that supposed to be a forbidden subject? He knows Robb wants a big family he always talked about that on the dinner table and he married her because they were expecting until the wifey died and the baby came out stillborn, but Theon isn't capable of taking care of a child Robb knows he isn't, they've talked about it long ago until Robb decided they shouldn't, but Theon could feel it pulling at the strings of their tapestry and feared it, so much that whenever a child was mentioned, he looked anywhere but Robb—

"I meant you."

An atom bomb goes off in Theon's head.

It is a long, long, long time since he's felt the white droning rage from his childhood engulf him. Robb's implications are horrid. He feels himself vanishing to give space for another (the Other) and he turns around and marches off. "Theon!" Robb calls, once. There is no forgiveness, currently, nor any chance of finding a solution together. The fluorescent lights above his head start flickering, full of lumps of dead flies, and he imagines the lights going off one by one as he walks under them through the hall. A long hall. Time and space and thought bleed together until they're a stream, no longer separate, like when you repeat a word so many times it loses its meaning.

What is waiting at the end of the hall?

R016.

God.

...

...

...

When he 'wakes' he's standing in another neighbourhood altogether—a familiar street, additionally. He takes a few deep, deep breath. He cannot remember walking here. It's like being drunk, except there is no alcohol in his bloodstream, just stress hormones. It's just stress. It isn't Reek.

No?

"No," he tells himself.

Theon is strangely calm. He hasn't fought Robb in a long while, but it feels good to have let it out for once. Water, pouring from the roof. Relief. He stretches his arms out, head upwards. For the first time in months, he's free from responsibility and expectation, and free from the shrink's Three Concepts, which he will not name. Theon decides then and there that he won't go to the sect meeting with his boss. But he's a coward, and texts him, Can't come, sorry. I'm coming down with a virus so I'll take a few days off. He reviews it several times but can't find any mistakes, so he clicks send and sighs.

Wandering aimlessly, he finds himself reviewing the phone message with the address and finds that yes, he's close to it. Coincidence? The location surprises him: the infrastructure here is tight, heavy, family homes slowly being eaten by concrete factories and tourist companies. Visible change. A slow death. There are no trees here. He begins to suspect the text messages were just a commercial for some Luxury Spa when he sees a large wall and gulps, blanches, sweats.

Why?

Why is his head silent as a grave? Emotions without memories or reason? Instinct?

He heads through the gate in the wall and is confronted with a mix of decay and timelessness. Like Catelyn Stark, in the hospital room. There is no other word to describe it than sacked. Stone do not rot, but Theon can still see that the place is old and... tired, somehow. The grass and plants have been replaced by concrete, flat and even. No moss or weed in the cracks. No bugs, nor birdsong. He thinks he sees something in the sky, but it was just the moon. Century-old blossoms are winding their way up the corners of the house. The vines have chosen to use the verandas' posts as a trellis.  The only visible living organism that remains on the grounds is a huge dying tree, a willow, stretching up towards a window. He sees a glimpse of the room within. Robb's room. It is then it dawns, like another cold shower, but this time free of relief.

He's at Winterfell.

Quoting Dr. Luwin, Winterfell had once been a great castle, complexly layered and full of ancient history, but time grinds even the mightiest of mountains to fine dust. The town had been laid to waste by parking lots and buildings, the woods had been chopped down for agriculture, and the hot spots sold to a spa company. Bran had been the ones the most interested in Winterfell's story, until his sense of adventure led to his condition, or that's what they said it did, anyway. For all Theon cared it should burn instead of slowly being eaten by the infrastructure surrounding it. The hunger was only stopped by the tall walls. Winterfell's bare bones remained, stripped of ornaments, and flesh. The path is bare. Gone is the mud, and life. A graveyard. How is it that the front door seems bigger than when he was a kid? Isn't it supposed to be the opposite? The prime spiderweb real-estate beside the lamp over the door was still occupied and bedecked with the tattered husks of moths. Theon knocks, hesitant. After a while, he lays his ear against the door, and hears footsteps. Theon steps backwards. The door opens, leisurely.

Theon looks up at Roose Bolton's face.

(A mistake.)

The realization is clear immediately: they've had sex.

When, Theon has no clue. So the only logical conclusion is that it must've happened when Theon was still Reek—as in, either during his time as Ramsay's or in the institution(s). He met Roose even before he succumbed completely to the Other, but they'd exchanged no words but three. He looks like only an old, life-weary man can look, with blue veins and a thin neck. Somehow he hasn't aged a day, not really. You do not simply describe Roose Bolton in detail, because of some universal law, just like you don't graphically record births on camera. There is something holy and icy over it.

Roose lives completely alone, even after he brought Winterfell. So many places seem cut away from time. Voids. Or is it that Theon is constantly looking for such places? Why did he come here, exactly?

Roose isn't shocked. He's very calm. He steps aside for Theon to come in. No gestures. Just a look, unblinking, with eyes icier than Ramsay's. Roose Bolton had more cruelty in his little finger than Ramsay had in the whole of him. But the finger contains a concentrated dosage—a concentrated little blood sausage, as if Roose had put it in a puddle of bad drugs... and left it there for three minutes. Roose's demeanour reminds Theon of a mentally absent prison guard, patrolling the halls thrice daily, uncaring of the wails of the prisoners. Theon sucks in a breath and mentally slaps himself for reminding himself of that time, back when he heard... things...

Roose closes the door after them. "I assume that you've come because of my son's release from the asylum. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

Always.

Theon supposes he should be surprised to hear Roose speak. Perhaps he talked to Theon when he was in the madhouse. Or perhaps he did not. Roose Bolton is the sort of man who can teach goldfish the command come here, and act mildly annoyed when they flop out of the bowl and die. If he'd told Reek to forget, would he?

"Let us talk in the kitchen. You came in time for dinner."

Dinner? It isn't a bit early?

Entering is a bit like walking into a place filled with water, slow-motion, drowning. It's too cold to swim, so he sinks (into himself). Letting go. Memories, floating around him. He tries to grab onto them but they keep floating away. The house smells the same, and at the same time not, as he makes his way through it. That slightly sour musk of very old wood. The smell of nature—grass, oaks, roses, and red dirt—that blew in through the open windows is replaced by concrete dust. The dusty animal scent of wool rugs remain. The tufted leather sofas in the living room with their ambergris and civet. Catelyn's perfume, which was strongest in the living room. Eddard's aftershave, which lingered in the hall. The ancient pipe smoke that was stuck on the ceiling.  Roose's skin, his deodorant, soap. Theon gags when he starts smelling the antiseptic. He's uncertain if this is because of last night's drinking or a flashback to Ramsay's BDSM den. People often make the error of assuming that purifying the world makes it pure good. But purity is nothingness. And many pure things are good, but there are some very bad things in their purest form. Sulphur is extremely toxic in its pure form, yet certain foods contain sulphur and in those levels it is good for us. Purity is essentially a lack of anything other than a single base element; in this case, people are impurities.

Roose leads him through the halls, always a few steps in front of him, never turning back to check if Theon's following. Theon briefly looks up the second floor where Robb's old bedroom was and ice cubes immediately roll around in his lower belly. Things are changed, or missing. A rip in a poster. A section of the blank wall where there had been a nail and a couple of handcuffs; there'd been a story to them he's forgotten. Except fewer lights, more cables, almost no furniture and straight, symmetrical walls, Winterfell's interior appears to be the same. More dust though. Bookshelves, new. Loads of them. Theon reads the names as he passes; Schopenhauer, Camus, Zapffe, Bataille, Mahfouz, Beckett... Printed-out papers stuck in-between books, some mildewebed, pens stuck in their weathered spines. Research? There's the whole bibliography of someone named Ladislav Klíma. Lastly, religious texts, the Bible, Koran, fictionalized tales of End Times, Thich Nhat Hanh, giddy Buddhist kōans, Krishna, book of Mormon, the Torah. The cables become more and more noticeable, hanging from ruined ceiling fans, with old and modern cameras. No wonder the places haven't fallen victim for thieves. Their footsteps echo.

"I'm gonna take a leek," Theon declares in a shitty way of establishing himself as Roose's equal.

Leek.

It rhymes with—

'Shut the fuck up,' Theon scolds himself and stomps into the bathroom, 'it's getting old.'

The bathroom is completely dark. He finds the light switch without searching, and is blinded for a moment. And then his world is engulfed by pink. Hideous. Pink, pink, pink. Mislaid tiles (pink) and cracked linoleum (pink). Walls (pink), weeping. He's fucked girls here. Last one during a party, the very same night when Ramsay r—

The bathtub is crawling with leeches.

The sink, too.

Toilet, sans toilet seat. Just a grid and wiggling oily black trapped beneath. The ones on the bottom are probably squashed to death or eaten, if leeches are cannibalistic. Like in a giant food processor; the food processor of life. The ones in the sink seem dead, unmoving, rotting.

The ones in bathtub, however... They're feasting. Crawling over something, but there are so many all Theon sees is a black writhing mass (like his droning rage). Pink juice foam like a bubble bath, scented with blood in lieu of flowers and fruit. It's so thick in the air you can taste the metal. The lumpy something—aka the essence of the feast—is impossible to view, and Theon's not about to stick his hand into it. Nor urinate. His penis nearly turns itself inside out with the thought of it coming near those. He's gonna puke. Oh god oh god ohgodohgod. No. He forces the vomit-lump back down and turns on his heel. He will not allow Roose the satisfaction.

Idly, he wonders where Roose gets them all from. Pet shops? Does he hire little girls to hold up their skirts and walk through swamps and let the leeches attach to their legs?

"I should have told you that I rarely use that bathroom. I apologize," Theon hears from far inside before he enters.

The kitchen is darker, but without the bathroom's decay and abandonment. Hypermodern. New design. White metal, porcelain, marble. Gone is the seafood grease Theon corroded into the kitchen walls, floor and furniture, replaced by tons and tons of aquariums. 10-, 20- and 50 galleon tanks, 'least ten of them. At first sight, mere aquascapes—"water gardens"; something he knows 'cos one of his colleges at work collects Japanese Marimo which all has names starting with an M—but when he looks closer he sees what occupies them except water and rocks and plants.

More leeches.

There have to be several hundreds just in the kitchen.

"They are medical leeches," Roose explains. "Do not mistake me for a spiritual man; I have no faith in alternative medicine. Bloodletting is outdated. However, the leeches secrete more than sixty salivary proteins; anesthetizing, anti-inflammatory and vasodilating. The aftermath of bleeding is quite therapeutic. It can heal twisted veins, muscle craps, osteoarthritis and blood clots and blood-congested limbs, which otherwise might die or require amputation if the pooling blood cannot be removed any other way. It can also stimulate circulation to salvage tissue threatened by postoperative venous congestion, as in plastic and reconstructive surgery. For an example, finger reattachment." He eyes Theon's hand, which tightens at the counter under scrutiny. "But you have prostheses, yes?"

Theon flexes his artificial fingers in mute agreement. He doesn't think about it a whole lot. After all, he has several numb areas on his body because of surgeries and destroyed nerves which ache when it's cold. In bad periods, his mind will go numb too, and he feel

The tanks appear quite beautiful despite the dirty water. It must've been taken from the garden ponds, behind the house, if they still exist—Theon is not the only one who despises the purified. The leeches would die from it. Also here there is a distinct lack of lamps, meaning most of the room's light sources come from the aquariums, painting the whole room in a light sunbed blue. Theon and Roose: two corpses in the same cellar. Theon leans towards one of the tanks, and finds that some leeches are better fed than others; some are grotesquely obese and have sunk to the bottom, others are thin and lithe and slams themselves repeatedly against the glass in an attempt at tasting Theon. Shriveled cucumbers. The lid is secured tightly. He can see no leftovers, no bones, shells nor hides.

He dares finally look at Roose again and exhales when he isn't bombarded with more sexually-laden memories. Maybe his second mind passed out during the leech exhibition. Sometimes Roose seems as old as bloodletting itself. He wields a butcher knife, hacking up another something. Theon dares to move a little closer and sees raw liver.

"I have a deal with the local butcher," Roose says, continuing to cut it into slices, like Carpaccio, or sushi. "I used to breed mice, ordered overseas, but I suspected genetic engineering. The mice were too fat." He proceeds to dump the meat slices in some of the aquariums. The leeches swim towards it and dance around the sinking slob.

A brochure sticks up from Roose's trouser backpocket, folded a lot, brown-rimmed. The brochure's name is clear: St. Ambrose's Home, where Catelyn is staying.

"You thinking of retirement?" Theon asks sharply. Roose turns around, an eyebrow raised. Theon continues, "D'you think they'd let you keep your pets?"

"I can be persuasive." For the first time, they're face to face. Roose. He stares and Theon feels a wind blow through his soul. Roose never breaks the skin. He just stares until you either make the flaying self-inflicted or you decompose and deglove.

Theon shifts. "I came here 'cos of Ramsay."

"I thought as much. I presume he's already contacted you."

"He did. Offered me money, too."

"You should have accepted. And before you ask, I have not been in direct contact with him for years. His lawyer, parole officer and head psychologist send me updates via email. I did not visit him in the asylum."

"You visited me."

"There are no records to support that claim," Roose says.

"I'm not here about that." What did Roose say or do to Reek except fuck him? Theon doesn't want to know. "I want your son out of my life."

"I have no more control over Ramsay than you do." Behind Roose, the leeches feed, a burning black star. He's leaning against the aquarium but they do not mind him. Another pause. Awkward, of course. There's no such thing as comfortable silences around Roose Bolton. "You are in financial troubles." Roose rarely uses questions, mostly statements. All-knowing.

Theon thinks about the message from his job, a job he's soon gonna quit. "Yeah."

Roose inspects him. Nothing about him changes as he says, "I'll pay you."

Theon tries to be hostile, but it comes out flat, "For what?"

Reek surfaces. He knows exactly what Roose wants. But Roose names the monster still, and says it like it means nothing, "Sex."

"…I'm in a relationship."

"It is either me or my son." An ultimatum. Again, no question mark whatsoever.

There are more ways to break a man than to fuck him. They're both adults. Theon supposes he should be disgusted with himself for considering (Robb would have been), but he's done far worse—and besides, he becomes someone else during sex. Like last night, with Robb. Like when Ramsay gave him a handjob outside the diner. Quickly, he goes over what he and Robb needs:

1.  Food
2.  Clothing
3.  Bills
4.  Savings
5.  A vacation?

When he quits his job, even number one will be hard to uphold. This becomes crystal clear to Theon. He is not a child. He will quit his job because of the harassment. He refuses to play heterosexual and pious. The truth is that he cares immensely for Robb. He can't say "I love you", no, but he still cares so fucking much. They haven't travelled together in a long time, maybe it is what they need? He doesn't need to tell Robb that he's quit, either. Just that he's gotten a raise.

"How much?"

Roose tells him.

Theon swallows audibly. Roose used to be a high-ranked cop that became a somewhat shady businessman, but he didn't know Roose could throw out a number that high without batting an eyelash. Roose explains, "Stocks. Savings. Other investments. I rent out property. Winterfell spans several acres. It was far too expensive to uphold, which was why Robb Stark sold, but he did not think to demolish and sell or rent it." To illustrate, he gets out a wallet so fat it's about to burst. Theon is surprised when it's not full of blood. He starts counting the money in front of Theon. $1000 in clean cash. He puts a rubber band around the amount and lays it on the kitchen bench. "It'll be easier if you think of it as a business transaction. Does it not give your customers pleasure when you fix their cars?" How—? Who is he kidding; Roose probably knows everything about him. His job, grocery list, sex life... A flayed man has no secrets, and with eyes and a voice like flaying knives no hide is thick enough for him. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He'd skin God if he had a chance.

Roose doesn't look like he's into kinky shit, at least. But it's too much money for a blowjob, 'cos Theon's good at that, gag reflex having gone to hell. Does Roose want Theon to suck him like a leech?

"Put your hands on the table over there. Face the wall."

Theon does so. The table's surface is sterile, but there is another aquarium in front of him, which Theon gazes down into. He fakes a grin, "Want me to call you Daddy, too?" He dares turning around and sees Roose inspect an open cabinet full of small multicoloured boxes. Rows upon rows upon rows. Spices? Medicine? Poison? All of them? Roose finds what he's looking for and Theon hurries to face forward again, cursing himself for fearing.

Theon knows when he's there, immediately. Just behind him. Breathing. A head floating above his shoulder. Another living organism, a warm-blooded mammal, radiating heat.

Something is placed near his hand; a small, transparent cylinder box. For storage of the bacteria sort. And beside that, a bunch of condoms, a familiar supermarket brand. Everything Roose does is deliberate. He wants Theon to see this. Theon wishes the Other would just take over. He tries to remove his shirt but is stopped. "Be still. This is pure biology." Roose has the money to get porn stars to come here in private jets, but he chooses to fuck Theon. He undoes Theon's belt, following some internal rhythm. A child's cry. Theon's jeans fall to his ankles. Underwear, peeled off. Roose doesn't touch him. Not really. He avoids involvement, pushing him slightly forward with feathery touches. It's been a while but Theon recognizes the procedures, internalized. He isn't a virgin. Reek should take over any minute now.

It takes a while before anything happens. He just breathes, relaxes. Then he feels it. Thick tweezers, probing at an open wound. Or, if he's gonna be gross(er); a segmented worm about to engorge itself in a blood-meal. A leech. Inside him. Draining—

'Okay cutting down the metaphors.'

Roose doesn't seem interested in making it hurt. He moves slowly at first, holding the table like Theon does, allowing him time to adjust. Condom makes it easier, slicker. No lubricant. Telling Roose's size is difficult. He certainly feels it, filling.Not a sound. No humming, no moaning. Theon feels like he's being fucked by a ghost. He instinctively, but slowly, carefully, hooks an arm around Roose (to make sure he's there?), not minding the pain it takes to quicken the process. Pushing his ass back. Concentrating, licking his teeth. He knows the steady pattern like his tongue knows his teeth. Mouth near Roose's, breathing each other's used air. Oddly intimate. Too intimate?

"None of that."

No kissing.

Theon is pushed down onto his stomach, flat over the table, holding his head up so he doesn't get his head in the leech tank. The position is straining for his arms and he'll feel it tomorrow.

And yet Theon's getting into it, pushing back, quickening the slap of skin against skin. It's just sex, without uncertainty. Roose doesn't dig deeper than his cock does. And it is easy to imagine someone else doing this. Shifting faces. Robb, Roose, Ramsay... or perhaps new ones altogether, porn stars, impossible fantasies allowed to be played out because Roose is silent like a ghost. To pretend that he doesn't like it is hard. Wanking off to material hidden in password protected files only gets him so far. Robb doesn't want him watching porn, says it's unrealistic, damaging his expectation. But the sexual forces are strong in human beings.

'More. Harder. Right the hell  there .'

Reek should really have taken over by now.

The pixie, who had decided that Robb would have his second puberty, performed a second act of icy irony: Theon was to become a medication abuser. Pethidine is the name of the drug that lighted peace over his synapses every night, in the asylum. There exists many derivatives from the opium poppy's seed, but it was only pethidine that can make the wave of peacefulness rise in his blood. It is one of few opiates that do not make the pupils contract, thereby making it harder to discover. When Theon shot it into his veins, the first thing he felt was a chill in his arm. In a few seconds there was a vacuum in his chest, and then it cascaded in, flowed over dikes and bulwarks and filled him up, and he inhaled, exhaled deeply, and let the garbage flush itself out to the sea. He was filled from top to bottom with two millilitres limpid, odourless liquid. And the world contracted, became smaller and smaller, until it could be balanced on a pinhead. Then it expanded again, new and clean-licked and silver-shining. The doctors found out about the abuse early, but it took him months to get clean.

Sex is like Theon's pethidine. A medicine abuser—a druggie/junkie/scum of the earth, if you prefer—can quit, but the addiction never really goes away. For an example, a smoker never really quits, s/he just stops with the cigarettes, but remains a smoker, lungs slimy with tar.

Theon is hard, arousal bobbing, leaking. Damp with sweat, sliding against Roose's dry skin. Wanton hands wander, wrapping around his cock, managing to masturbate while moving against Roose, greedy, mixing pain and pleasure. Passively, he remembers that Ramsay once told him that masochists are the worst sort of lovers. First you were to deduce their desire by reading their thoughts, and then perform without any alteration from the norm. The sadist never received a thank you. As if suffering was something holy. Technically, Jesus walked right into death. Did he thank his torturers? "Ugh, Roose." Barely a halt. The name becomes a familiar announcement in-between mouthy gods and fucks. "Choke me..."

Roose guides Theon's free hand to his neck, and tells him tonelessly, "Do it yourself." 

"Thanks," Theon breathes, wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing like a collar. He starts nearing his orgasm, drooling, messy. Gasping for oxygen he furiously denies himself, closing his air, picturing... There's the tightening of his balls and then, and then... The orgasm rushes through him like a storm. Houses, trees, mountains being torn from the ground. Seeing nothing but stars for a moment and spilling semen all over his childhood home, wet and warm, a gargled mess of noises that are not words. Reek finally surfaces and shouts, "Oh yes, master."

Fingers in his hair. Real fingers, not imagined ones. Reek (Theon is far gone in some happy place) leans into the touch, before he realizes that Roose has positioned him right above the leech tank. Pushing. A baptising in an aquarium swarming with leeches.

Reek screams / gurgles. The bubbles block his sight, but Roose holds him still and he sees them swim towards him, black and thin and hungry—

...

Theon opens his mouth and water spills out. He's sitting leant in a kitchen corner. Legs stretched out in front of him, splayed, hunched forward, like a child would sit. He examines the kitchen and finds out that the tank is smashed. Reek must have panicked. Roose, completely calm and dressed, is picking up glass shards. Theon isn't bitter because it didn't happen to him. Did he get release? Did he go limp, suddenly? Is the pants too tight for Theon to see? Won't Theon get paid now? Ice cubes start rolling around in his stomach again, and he has to hold back a whine. He wonders if Roose actually fucked him with his cock.

Roose steps in front of him. He doesn't kneel down. Radio is on, low; moments of snow, tired man talking, bits of a 60s song, playing guitar and singing about love, and kindness and helpfulness.

Theon's breathing as if he just ran up three flights of stairs. Roose is silent, and still. It is under scrutiny that he follows Roose's eyes and looks down, and sees a fat black swelling on his cheek. He reaches out to touch it and finds out that a leech is sucking on his face—one, two, three, four... two more on his neck. Six in total. His breathing worsens.

"Don't fret," Roose says. "If you try to rip it off it'll regurgitate its stomach contents into the wound. The vomit may carry disease, and thus increase the risk of infection. Plus its jaw might get stuck."

"Can it kill you?"

"No. It took 127 leeches 3 hours and 4 minutes to drain the blood out of a young female that weighed 59 kilograms."

"What's your source?"

Roose doesn't answer the question. "The easiest way is to apply a flame or chemical, but again, there you have the risk of regurgitation. I'll help you remove them. The most blood they'll take is 5 ml—one teaspoon. Further therapeutic benefit of leech therapy comes after the leech is removed, during which up to 50 mls of blood will continue to ooze for up to 48 hours." Fucking wandering encyclopaedia. "If you harm them, I won't pay you. Their board and lodging are expensive, after all."

Oh, so there's still a chance. He's not gonna waste it. He's had worse things in his face.

Theon's head is still misty after his intense orgasm. Suddenly self-conscious, he pulls his pants up, ignoring the stickiness. Roose throws a toilet paper roll at him, which he mutters thanks to and cleans himself. The plastic bag in his pocket comes in handy and he helps Roose clean up the crushed fish tank... well, glass, plants, rocks and cum-soaked toilet paper. The leeches on his face dangle as he moves.

"Have you thought of continuing your education?"

Theon blinks. "Um, not really. Budget is tight enough as it is." Roose waits. Theon gulps and continues, "But I would like to finish high school and get a simple degree or something. That'd be... good." Why is it important to tell Roose this? Does he search for approval? Is it his daddy issues speaking?

"A degree in what?"

"I don't... I'd like to help people, I think."

"Hm. There are classes and courses for people your age. You only lack half a year of high school. Shouldn't be too hard."

Theon hasn't really thought about that. But Roose offers no other explanation. The plastic bag is tied up and put in the thrash (which oddly enough contains no body parts, Theon checked). Roose tells Theon to be still, in the exact same tone he used when fucking him, and uses his fingernails to remove the leech. Slowly, carefully, breaking the suction at the narrow end, and then the other one. He uses sugar to stem the bleeding, praising its antiseptic qualities. In the midst of feeling like he's being drowned, he feels at home.

His phone beeps mid-session.

"I... I should go."

The leeches are fat and lazy, but Roose just puts them in the plastic container he'd prepared. Blood pour from both ends. Theon still feels light, post-orgasm feeling mixing in with the effects of 'leech therapy'.

"Hm. You should consider taking the courses. I can pay for them for you." It doesn't really register with Theon, because Roose suddenly ignores the personal space thing. He shoves the money into the pocket of Theon's jeans; the same spot where the St. Ambrose's Home brochure laid on himself. Pats it. Corner of his lip twitches in what could've been a smile if Roose was capable of smiling. "I assume you know the way out."

Silent, Theon walks out. He does not stop to look at anything, he just walks straight out. It is first when outside, in the weather, in air no longer stagnant or antiseptic, his actions sink in. He touches the place where the money lies, takes them out, counts them. Correct amount, yeah.

Robb's message is short, without his usual emoticons. Lots of periods. You have the car keys, so I took the bus home. Damn. I'm tired and I'm gonna go straight to bed. Please don't wake me, especially not to fight more. Well, that's good, because Theon's face is probably full of holes. He has to use his GPS to find the car, parked right outside the St. Ambrose's. He drives home, thinking about Roose. His nose itches but he doesn't think anything of it.

No monsters have names. Adding names to concepts further push to make them real. For an example: Roose is his sugar daddy.

About to park, he gets a new message from Jeyne—or rather, one of the Bitches through Jeyne's number. "Tch." But he reads it, diligently:

Thunder isn't dangerous, just a little scary." That's what I used to say, before she committed suicide. At night I feel her creep into my heart. She stays for a little while, and vanishes again. Then it stings in my chest. She was a scaredy-cat, and when he threatened to kill her if she didn't return, she chose what she considered a better way out. The sadness has made me stronger. Be glad you are still alive, and draw strength from that fact. Best wishes from a lonely twin.

He swallows thickly. He isn't sure how cope with this. 

When he walks into the house, Robb is asleep on the couch. Theon puts a blanket over him and makes white bread with bacon cheese, wraps it in plastic folio and puts it in front of him; he thinks nothing is better than waking up to food. Small pleasures. A small life. "I love you," Theon whispers to the sleeping Robb, because he is a coward.

Chapter Text

"I thought I could transform into you

I will never become like you, never, I change constantly"

.

.

There is an itch.

It is what wakes him, 06:20, from a weird sex dream. Cock hard. Lips wet. Nose itching. He can't breath through one of his nostrils so he thinks he's caught a cold—God's ironic punishment for ditching work pretending to have a virus?—and tries to cough, but there's no slime or dryness. Just his left nostril, clogged up like a sewer pipe. Robb is sleeping beside him, snorting like a horse in his sleep. Theon is sober, and manages to tactfully avoid awakening the sleeping horse-face (common family trait) as he sneaks off to the bathroom. Once, he'd crayoned VIP on the bathroom door. Robb had complained, then laughed, then complained some more. He locks it.

He feels like he woke from real life to a dream. Disconnected from his own body. Hazy.  His nose isn't the only thing clogged, itching, irritating. This is not new. 

A shower ought to freshen him up. Why'd he taken the day off again? Oh yeah. Because his boss and his lapdog are trying to convert him and Theon's aching to quit. Theon hasn't slept nude in years and strips from his tee and boxers. When he presses them to his face, they only smell like his and Robb's bed. He gets in the shower and turns the heat up, washing himself with a sliver of soap. His ass isn't sore. Dirty or not, he doesn't feel that much guilt. The $1000 can mean great things. He's hid the money in his horror film collection, a bottom shelf Robb never touches. Robb saw enough gore when his baby's mama died and when he found his father's corpse—or what was left of it. Theon quickly stops thinking about it, although other people's pain does not stir him up as much as his own. Theon's nose continues to itch, so bad that he can't ignore it anymore, and as he turns against the mirror...

...Despite the foggy glass, he thinks...

...He thinks he sees something hanging out from his nose...

Even if the temperature of the water is steaming, his blood still runs ice-cold when he understands exactly what it is.

Rhythmically, strategically, he washes the soap from his hair, but shaking all the time. When he looks at the mirror again, it's gone. But he knows it's there inside his nose. Inside. He's shaking so badly he almost can't dry himself, towel falling to the floor, scooping the dripping water with it as he walks over to the mirror. He must be logical. He gets a first aid kit. Tweezers (2), a medical scissor, q-tips (5), a dirty towel, more cotton products, a bottle of disinfecting liquid. The ventilation makes the fog vanish from the mirror. He bites his lip and gets ready.

Ready to remove the leech lodged up deep in his left nostril.

He tries to keep it as open as he can to get the fucker out. It fucking hurts. Whining and whimpering is reserved for Reek. Theon doesn't make a sound. He stands on his tip-toes, grimacing horribly, blood running out as he enlarges his nostril with the scissors and fights the leech with the first pair of tweezers. The fucker is big, swollen, and thick like his thumb. Soon the battle with the tweezers is lost, and Theon must change to the second pair, bigger, better, true steel. He has no time for questions—

(What if it's stuck and has to be surgically operated out? What if I poke a hole and it'll bleed infection into my system? What if it crawls up to my brain?)

—because he needs to get it out before Robb awakens. He cannot go to the doctor because Robb would find out. Theon is sweating, glazing with it. Lower left of his face is covered in blood.

Finally, after 30 minutes of probing and pulling, it comes out with a vicious squelch! It falls into the sink. Pulling inwards. Trying to become as little as possible. The blood is a stark contrast to the white porcelain. He just stands there, staring at the leech. Must've gotten it when Roose dipped his head in the leech aquarium. A reminder of a monster; the fact that he's cheated on Robb twice now.

The door almost opens. Theon stabs the leech with his scissors in surprise. Thank god for door locks.

"Theon, are you in there?"

"Ye... Yes! Yes, but I've gotten diarrhoea, so won't be going to work today."

"Wow. Are you alright? Want me to get you something?"

"No, no it's fine. Go to work, you." A pause. "Why are you still there?"

"I need to pee."

"Piss in the garden."

"The neighbours might see."

"Fuck the neighbours." He flushes, and washes his hands, himself. "Let me just... Open the window to clear the air." He throws the towel and leech out the window. Inspects the bathroom. Puts on clothes; sweatpants and a tight wool sweater. Inspects himself. The leech bite marks from yesterday aren't that visible. He heads for the kitchen.

"Jesus you look terrible. Are you sure you don't want anything?" Robb asks as Theon passes, legs pressed together and it's obvious he's holding it. Yet his concern outweighs his basic need and he's jumping from one foot to another, clutching his genitals, because Robb sleeps nude even if Theon doesn't. He waits for Theon's answer and receives a wave.

"I don't. I've called in sick to work this morning. I'm gonna go feel sorry for myself on the couch. I'd make you lunch but I don't think it's wise to be near me right now."

Robb nods, waits a second, and runs into the bathroom.

It is first 15 minutes later, after no breakfast and a shouted goodbye that Theon starts dry-heaving and hugging himself. He stops the panic attack by repeatedly smashing his head against the wall. He hopes the running he feels inside his nose is snot, but it's blood, and he has to lay down with a rag pressed against it for the next five minutes.

Ditching work feels odd. Like spending a day home from school without reason. Shame. He finds himself wandering the rooms of his house with a new perspective. A bit like changing the angles when you visualize a place. He's upset the natural balance. Order, dead. A line cannot be straight if there is a sudden halt or a hole of data.

Since he's already fucked up the system he decides to have chicken for breakfast. He gets it from the refrigerator, and lays it on the tablecloth. What are the instructions, again? He and Robb always make dinner together. Oh yes, soaking some of the excess liquid from it. The chicken is pink and wet. Theon draws an unsettling comparison to human skin. Working on it, he wonders what he should make. Chicken isn't his speciality, but they have quite a few spices, gifts from Arya's travels. Robb's Mac is left open on the couch. Theon has no desire to go and check the log. Maybe he'd done it when he was younger. He cannot stand the thought of someone watching him without his knowledge, which is why no matter how afraid he is of intruders he won't allow Robb to install CCTV. But he does use the Mac, and—for the first time in months—the dreaded Internet. He finds some recipes he likes, seasons the chicken and boils some rice. He does not touch the computer again. Yesterday, upon googling itchy nose, he found that he had a mutated version of the flu and was eight months pregnant with the demon god Asmodeus. Misinformation. Or rather, information in a distorted form, heavily wrapped in, too over- or understated, or meddled with opinions. This is why he avoids the web like the plague. That and the thought of Reek—the photos, the articles, the forums—existing just a few keystrokes away. 

Consider cameras in every room of your house. The discomfort of being watched at every moment, of having your privacy revoked. These things that you want to hide, or keep private, come curiously because most of the things that you hide are either altogether natural acts (shitting, showering, sexing—most inherent in the way you clothe yourself, the way society considers nudity a private affair) or the actions we are ashamed of (crimes, betrayal, secrets). Are there absolutes in private crimes? Crimes designed purely out of malevolence? Are crimes purely malicious, or are they a strange blend between self-disillusionment coupled with selfishness and a lack of community consequence? Can evil occur anywhere given the right circumstances?

There is a particular photo of Reek on the Internet which questions all of these things.

Theon eyes the growing pile of dishes. Gets himself a glass of milk. Calcium. Good for bones. Cup is sticky on the rim from being used for coffee, a few days ago, artificially sweetened coffee that clogs. The taste lingers. He looks out the window. He recognises patterns in the grass where he'd mown it during early autumn. Same as always, a pattern worked out after trial and error, so that he cut it the best and fastest. In a way, cutting the grass is a metaphor for his life thus far: repetitive and meaningless. He regards his neighbours. Mrs. Yashin, a widow with a murder streak. She'd earned the neighbourhood's scorn after delivered Captain Furball wrapped in a black plastic bag in the Greys' mailbox. There's also Stick Jordan next door, who collects sticks by day and skins them by night. Once he got up to pee, Theon spotted Jordan outside, 02:00 a Wednesday night, cutting off the bark into his thrash can outside. Families like the Greys are more ordinary. Certainly, there's fighting sometimes, and some don't approve of Robb and Theon's relationship, but ordinary enough.

Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the chicken burning until he smells it. It is too late to salvage it.

Burnt.

(Torched, blackened skin, falling of in sloughs, smaller when you rake your fingernails against a burnt surface in an attempt to find bone.)

Theon closes his eyes.

Reek opens them.

Human language dies and rots on his tongue. The hunger makes itself known, warping itself into a gluttonous fetishization of food. And suddenly Reek is devouring the burnt meat, shoving bits down too fast into a gaping maw. Black grease runs down his chin and on his white shirt and onto the floor and he cries because he loves, he loves, he loves. But food, however it may buoy him, is not quite the Α and the Ω. The creature knows only a handful of words and phrases (most noticeably yes, master and please, and sometimes god no), and expresses his desire through a series of filthy grunts and whines. He uses the dripping fat to slicken his hand and touch himself, longing for friction, but finds it wrong, all wrong, the number is wrong, and he grabs hold of the meat clever to hack off his finger prostheses. Thing is, Reek is a foolish creature and does not recall which is fake and which is not, so he—it?—elects to hack. Them. All. Off.

Theon regains control.

He ponders Reek's thoughts and unfinished holy task while puking in the sink, counting his fingers and shivering nonstop. It is Reek's third appearance in four days, not counting the increase in involuntary memories and lapses. Is it Ramsay's fault? His appearance did set off an avalanche, certainly. Things better left buried crawled up and grinned. So did Roose, from dust—except he was expressionless. Though some things certainly crawled. He feels his nose throb. Theon turns the tap on and opens the window to let in fresh oxygen.

Who can help him now?

A set of eyes appears in his mind, not quite as pale as Roose's. Theon blinks rapidly but Reek is suppressed, docile, but who the fuck knows how long he'll stay that way. He'd kept Theon like that in the middle (or at least before Ramsay threw him in the chest); part ii of the Trilogy of Filth, nicknamed so by an independent filmmaker who wished to make a film out of Theon's experiences. Details like nonfiction or fiction were unimportant. All Theon had to do was sign a contract. He had—despite his state at the time—managed to eat the contract and use his mouth as a projectile for the spitball that hit the producer in the face, saying, "Oh shiiit," a the man he knew was a) uneducated and b) using Ramsay Bolton as an example as a typical repressed faggot, "I've heard HIV is really infective." Of course, he lied about having STDs. Having it then, at least. The diagnosis were many. Malnutrition. Skin diseases. He was told that some scars would never vanish, which only confirmed Ramsay's promise that Theon would remain his forever. Even in death. Some filth existed too deep. Ramsay had put it there. Ramsay made sure it stayed there. Ramsay made sure Theon didn't surface. Since the roles have been reversed, could he do so to Reek as well? Keep him down? It had gotten to the point where the Bastard's Boys'—and on rare occasions Bitches'—words did not hurt, but Ramsay's always did. Perhaps all Ramsay had to say was "down" and Reek would slam down to the bottom of Theon's stomach. Theon ponders what it is to be an adult. His conclusion is: a child with more responsibility, but still a child.

He is not safe at home.

Nor is he safe from himself.

If he can obtain the latter he can obtain the former.

The message he sends to Ramsay is simple.

Send me your address.

He refuses to fret. Refuses. So he stands perfectly still, staring at his phone screen.

16 seconds and he has the address. Ramsay ends it with a question mark. He google-proofs it and finds it to be an apartment complex for the mentally unstable. YouTube has a video called "the elephant lady" no doubt featuring kids bullying some woman who lives there.

On the wall, the clock ticks.

Theon makes sure that he loses neither time nor himself. He cleans up after himself, killing all thought. He doesn't do the dishes—he leaves the place like he found it this morning. Closes the window, even. Smell can't be that bad, right? The jacket he chooses is old, a bomber, full of dust and hair, unflattering and forgotten. It fits. His tee is dirty with blood, leech juice and burnt fat. He doesn't bring his phone. He feels something leave him; a weight, he supposes, but of what he is uncertain. Robb has the car, but he uses the bus again.

It rains, but he prefers waiting outside. He fidgets. Doesn't return the bus driver's "good morning". The seat he chooses is at the back. Nobody talks to each other, except the oddball in a full conversation with the bus driver. She goes off after a while, leaving only silence. Driving to Ramsay's takes three hours. Theon imagines... things. When he was young, he believed the act of stopping thinking of something was impossible. But he has learnt it, either by a) cutting it off in the middle, or more often b) forcing it down to a dreamy murmur just bellow the surface. Like the things. Ideas of torture, mostly. Abstract. Surrealistic. Echoes in the alchemical, mystical sense, in which it's suffering that's the method toward purity (boiling dirty water or tearing down muscles to rebuild them stronger when working out). It brings back ideals of tough love that are echoed throughout antiquity. 

It's ok. He lies to and cheats on Robb to make their lives better—in the future.

He uses a GPS instead of asking the bus driver, and discovers he's a 10 minutes walk from his destination. It rains, even here. He thinks he's seen this neighbourhood before, on television, five or so years ago, a blurred recollection of sickly, thin, silent protesters with placards reading OUR BREAKFAST and burnt or moulded bread glued beneath, OUR DINNER and a rotting herring, and OUR CHILDREN and dolls made to resemble underfed, grimly babies. Disgust had risen in the media; a circus of "oh ye poor souls" and "somebody ought to help!" but no action taken. After a week the employers had starved them out and the 21st century slaves returned to work. The valley between slave and master can never be destroyed.

He passes druggies and drunks of all sexes and ages. Underpaid cleaning women with dark curls pulled tight in ponytails. Boys are walking around with whiskey bottles stolen from their parents, yelling FUCK at top of their lungs, tough away from prying, adult eyes. Identities dissolved. A pack. Girls, too, stuffing paper into their bras to grow up faster.

It makes him think of a big city slum. The apartment complex looks like a warehouse. Right outside, lady from the YouTube video is sharing her cognac with the pansies and geraniums that line the small yard. He enters a staircase. It's full of gum, cigarette butts, bottle caps and general filth. Not bombarded, but enough to make him wonder. Whose idea was it to put Ramsay here? Is this where Theon would've been spit out hadn't Robb taken him in? On the second floor, a prostitute exhibits her wares. She looks like a personified anti-cigarette ad. This apartment complex could be anywhere. Any big city. All big modern cities have slums, because it must be built on the backs of someone.

Door 8, the message specified.

He knocks. The door is paper-thin, and he hears the person on the other side walking over, but person stops right in front of the door. Waiting? He sucks in a breath when it opens.

Ramsay regards him with the measured, neutral thoughtfulness of a powerful animal unexpectedly confronted by prey. Then it is gone. "Oh. Um. Hi."

Theon wonders if he's a good actor or just insane. In contrast to Ramsay's rigid militaristic position, Theon is slightly bent forward, hands in his pockets, more hostile. "Are you gonna let me in?"

Wordless, Ramsay steps back to make space for him.

His apartment is smaller than Robb and Theon's. Hell, the Stark kitchen—Roose's, now—is bigger. The rooms are small, the ceiling height is low and only small portions daylight enters through the modest windows. Shag carpeting, ugh. Ramsay sort of fits naturally into here, with his wiry build, minimalist colourless clothing and apologetic way he walks across the floor with bare feet. Theon thinks it's been pre-furnished, as all of it looks generic and cheap. Some magazines. A television. No animal skulls or body parts stuffed under the sofa cushions. Overall, an attempt to make the user feel so normal that it ends up looking fake. Ephemera; posters, broadsides, tickets, old menus... Like he's clinging to things that have become garbage.

Theon thinks he can see Ramsay's chains shining in the low light, connected to the floor and the walls and the ceiling, some running out the door, others out the window. Some of them runs straight to Theon. Do they rattle when he moves? "Do you have anything to drink?" he asks.

"I abstain from anything addictive, because... I think I told you why. I... I can get you a glass of water though."

Theon nods. He sits down in the couch, finding a spot on the wall to stare at. He hears Ramsay rummaging in the fridge. He briefly fantasizes about Roose, or rather, what Roose gave him: an orgasm, the little death, blinding him with stars. The universe is filled with shit and stars. Which one will Ramsay provide?

Ramsay walks over and refills his own glass first, having most of the ice cubes clink into it. He's dragged forth a plastic chair so that he won't have to sit in the couch with Theon—the importance of personal space must've been a milestone in his therapy. Maybe he cleaned when Theon demanded his address. He proceeds to give Theon a glass and fill it up.

The closeness forces eye contact.

"...Ramsay," Theon says slowly, "it's running over."

Ramsay squints as if trying to deduce the meaning of that statement, then looks at Theon's cup, discovering that the cup is flowing over. He doesn't fluster, just blinks and steps back into the plastic chair, placing the mug on the floor, saying, "Sorry." Liquid drips to the floor.

Theon dries his fingers on his pants, uncomfortable, shivering. The wet pink skin makes him think of the chicken. The temperature in the apartment isn't high. "I have some questions," Theon says.

"Of course."

Theon waits. He can't bring himself to voice it, because there are too many ands and buts, too many variables. Help me contain Reek won't cut it. He won't be misunderstood. He won't misinform. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. "There aren't words," he finally admits.

Ramsay's eyes chill, but the darkness isn't directed at him. "I know."

They don't say anything more.

Ramsay tries to have a conversation, "So how are you?" Theon doesn't answer. Ramsay shifts. "...They won't let me work... Not yet, anyway. I watched a lot of television, read some papers, tried to, uh, discover what had happened while I was away, but I got bored. I don't care about it." Quite a contrast to Robb and his projects. "I thought about getting a dog, but they say I'm not capable of taking care of animals. So I won't." Theon stares. Ramsay shifts a second time. Again with the awkwardness, like he's stuck in another person's skin. "I don't mean it like that. You're not a dog."

"Gee, thanks."

"I mean it."

"So I'm not loyal? I'm lesser than a dog? Lesser than an animal, an insect, a virus—something that should not exist?"

Ramsay kneels down, face awestruck. "No. Don't say such horrible things. You're not lesser, you're bigger, bigger than I thought." He looks like he's going to say something more, but then his jaw shuts, and he swallows thickly, breathing through his nose.

"...Are you thinking I'll buy that?" Theon's tongue is swollen like he's just told a speech at his own funeral.

"Why are you here, Theon?" Ramsay retorts, but he doesn't sound agitated. Just confused. He still holds onto that innocence / naïvety / purity. Stripped clean in the madhouse. Destroyed and rebuilt.

"I don't want to be here," he says after a while. "I don't want to be in a universe where you exist, either, but that's beyond my control. A lot of things are beyond my control—and that's why I'm here, in your apartment. I would not come here if I didn't need to. This is private and between you and me, not your doctors and not my associates. I need—

Suddenly Ramsay's twists up and he seems to be concentrating, "I'm sorry for you cutting you off but did you hear that?"

Theon bristles at the interruption, but listens, but hears nothing but his own pulse. "No."

"I thought I heard knocking."

The anger vanishes. "Are you expecting someone?"

Ramsay seems to concentrate again. Obviously, his mind's a mess, riddled with medication and therapy. Then he realizes who it is and his eyes go wide. "It's my parole officer." Theon's blood turns to ice. Ramsay looks equally chilled. "If he finds you here, we'll both be in trouble. We'll be shipped back to the madhouses."

Theon can imagine the headlines. Victim found in torturer's house or better yet, Man's position as victim questioned. He remembers how the cops were when they thought he was an accomplice. He remembers how people treated him when they thought him a victim. He whispers, "Do you have a hiding place?"

"What?"

Theon has to come closer, and whispers, angrily, "Hiding place?"

"Uh. Oh. The bathroom—"

"I don't want to go in the bathroom." 

"Bedroom, then."

Well. Anything is better than the bathroom scene he has in his mind, one of the last clear memories with Ramsay... right before Reek... Technically the parole officer is less likely to go into his bedroom, too. Theon gives his consent in form of a tiny nod and Ramsay gestures at the door to the left, to which he pussyfoots over to, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can.

The last thing he sees is Ramsay staring at him.

Then he is confided to the darkness of the bedroom. Binds are shut over windows covered in glued-on papers. Outsiders can come to believe Ramsay is a reclusive genius; too bad he's just a reclusive crazy piece of shit. He keeps his breathing controlled as he clicks on the nightstand lamp. The little light doesn't do the room any favours. The wallpaper is ripped up and grey, furnished by bare necessities; a bed; a nightstand; a chest of drawers with a mirror on top. Posters of quotes from I'm OK – You're OK and other motivational bullshit. There's a door into what he presumes to be the bathroom, locked.  He wants to try the door out, too, but knows he cannot. He presses his ear to the thin wall. Hears voices.

And he breathes out, shakily, because Ramsay didn't lie after all.

They're too muffled to make out, but Theon can hear a distinctive difference, one lighter, one darker, both masculine. Former raises his voice (the parole officer?) and the other quieter one (Ramsay?) stumbles with his words in an attempt to soothe and calm. They grow higher, and Theon can make out words like "not ready" – "patience" – "fuck you". Theon's justified low opinions on police don't make him doubt that the officer is equally as capable of curses and insults as Ramsay. He doesn't move when he hears footsteps nearing the bedroom. He shoves a fist in his mouth and bites down.

"Why is the door shut?" the parole officer demands. Who the fuck is this guy? Is he the reason Ramsay is so skittish?

"You shouldn't go in there."

"You don't get to tell me what to do you fucking pussy."

"You can't go in there." The second—definitely Ramsay's—voice is merely a mumble, so quiet Theon struggles to hear it. He can see the parole officer's shadow under the door. More mumbling. Is... Is Ramsay begging?

The door knob twists.

Theon bites his fist so hard he bleeds, and he must get away, he must, and he steps backwards as silently as he can, praying to god that the parole officer's attention is taken by Ramsay. Where can he hide? The bathroom door is locked. He scans the room and elects to dive under the bed. Like a child. But it is the smart thing to do. Theon isn't sure if anyone enters or not, heart hammering. He hugs himself. It is with that movement he bumps into something, barely, but still enough to feel something cool against his elbow. Morbidly curious, he twists around, but instead of a gun or a skull, all he finds is a big jewel box. Simple design. No locks. Opening it make more ephemera fall out, but these have more purpose and care put into them. Beige fabric strips used as padding. A ripped off piece of paper, laminated. Text is hard to make out. Handwritten. A matchbox. The receipt of a... deodorant? A water bottle that smells like gasoline. There's a tiny leather bag, sewn shut. A baggie, too, transparent, filled with fine white dust. The morbid curiosity turns into a child's curiosity, and his eyes are wide in wonder. Something stabs his fingers as they roam around.

Sharp. Tiny. White.

A tooth.

The door opens, slowly. Now, someone chooses to step inside. The footsteps are heavy.

Theon's fist is back in his mouth. He thinks of a entire hand—not his own—pushing down into his throat, slamming it down repeatedly to stretch and destroy the resistance, boiling water tunnelling through snow, down into his neck, pulping tissue, powdering bones, to his bubblegum lungs, his heart, squeezing tight until it ruptures in the fist like an overripe peach. The tooth in his hand makes marks.

Someone lays a hand on his foot.

Gotcha.

"What are you doing under there? He went away."

Theon stops shaking. He kicks his foot once, and Ramsay immediately lets go. He crawls out, stands up, and Ramsay continues to step backwards to give him space.

"I'm sorry. He heard us talking; that's why he wanted to search the premises. I told him I'd been skipping my meds and was talking to myself. He believed me." Theon continues to glare, standing up to his full height. From this angle, Ramsay seems smaller than him, all hunched down and insecure. "I'm sorry," Ramsay repeats, "I don't know what else to say."

Theon's eyes remain stone as he extends a hand, opens a fist (bloody from bites), and reveals the tooth.

"What the fuck."

Theon throws the tooth over and Ramsay just manages to catch it, desperate and pale. Again, with the facial shift / cracking mask—but never long enough to stick. "You weren't supposed to see that," he says in a small voice. "It's private."

"Private." Somehow, without the officer here, he isn't scared at all. Or, he is, but the logic is overridden by sudden rage. "Fuck you Bolton. Are you killing girls again?"

This time, it sticks. Ramsay lowers his head at the "fuck you", like he probably did at the parole officer, and tufts of hair obscures Theon's view of his face. But at the accusation he reaches out a slow arm. Theon follows it and sees himself in the mirror, over the drawer chest. Then Ramsay smashes it.

Blood rushes to Theon's dick. Destruction turns him on.

"...I'm sorry," Ramsay says after a while, and his voice is back to normal, stuttering and anxious. It kills the sexual tension—almost. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's from... It's from my past. Not the present. I try to remind myself what happened. What I did wrong. Like, I can't... I can't trust what I remember. Can't trust anything." He holds up two hands to his head, shielding it, as to stop his mind from leaking into the atmosphere. Still pale. "Though, presently, I get these moments of clarity. When I think of you, mostly, things that are clear. Physical stuff. Like, what went on here," he flexes his hands, strong bones, but thin and blueish like an anorexic's, "instead of up here," he points at his head. "I'm not good with logic. No lists. Creativity isn't healthy, so I... That's why I wanted a dog, yeah? Physical stuff? So I could walk it. Train it. Do something. That's why I collect stuff. Things I can touch. I know I've been at the supermarket, because I got the price labels. Do you... Do you understand? Trying to keep yourself together?"

Theon nods.

He understands all to well.

"Reek visits me sometimes," he says simply. Maybe he visits Ramsay, too?

"You need to keep it together," Ramsay urges him, and even if everything else has been a lie Theon knows that he's speaking the truth—he truly does not want Reek to appear. "I know it's hard, but you mustn't let him take over."

"Just like you don't want your," he realizes Ramsay's dark side / second personality hasn't got a name, "Bastard to take over."

Ramsay's eyes twitch. "Yes," he admits after a brief pause. "Are you medicated?"

"I was." Watching Ramsay, it is not a state he wants to go back to. No wonder Robb admitted, in the aftermath, that he'd sometimes been very scared of Theon, especially concerning what he'd do to himself.

Ramsay's hand is bleeding. He studies it. "Oh." Carefully, he lays the tooth beside the mirror shards. Theon goes a bit closer to inspect him, and understands by Ramsay's trembling how it is to have such power over someone. Roles have been reversed, oh yes. He's so insecure, so small, that he's eaten himself down until he's almost invisible. If Theon blinks, does he have to find him again? "I came to you," he says slowly, "'cos I need your help keeping Reek away." He hooks a strong arm around Ramsay's shoulders and pulls him closer.

"Help keeping Reek away?" Ramsay blinks, not understanding. "How would I help keep him down?"

"Do you know what consent is?"

He swallows, visibly. "I know the difference between yes and no, yeah." Theon looks pleased. "So how ca—can I help?" Ramsay asks, suddenly flushed, licking his worm-sex-lips. Questions are good.

'Though we've both admitted words aren't enough.'

Theon kisses him.

Ramsay tastes like a chocolate bar you find in your pocket after months not knowing it's there, melted and reformed countless times in its silver square wrapper but you're still pleasantly surprised to know it still tasted decent.

Sweet.

Theon's uttered "I need...!" is carefully constructed to carry multiple meanings for Ramsay to fill, it be "I need you" or "I need this". Truth to be told, Theon doesn't care which. It goes down like blood. Ramsay reacts like a shark. His kisses are sharper, and there are so many teeth—even if Ramsay isn't biting. He holds Theon like he would an egg, or a god, something breakable and divine. Strangely soft. Never grabbing. Roaming, sometimes fleetingly, just above. Back, hips, ass, upper arms... Like he can't believe he's real, can't believe he's human. Yet he kisses like he's dying. Kisses like they're both dying. Theon feels like he's...

Drowning.

But this time, not in leeches. Cool water. Ocean water. The salt would explain the thirst.

Ramsay is not human; he's a storm with skin, and Theon can't help but to think of his roots' mythology, sitting at grandma's lap being told ironborn stories about a Storm God and a Drowned God, symbolizing the two great natural forces, forever battling. Though all ironborn are afraid of the sea. They know what it is.

Theon wonders if there are mirror pieces stuck in Ramsay's hand. That'd explain the blood. His jacket falls to the floor along with logic. But he doesn't push them towards the bed. The wall, seems good for now. It is through gestures that they come to an understanding: Theon does not desire anal sex. Ramsay seems fine by it, because the intensity and ecstasy does not lessen. He keeps holding Theon like he's gonna vanish on him. Body worship. Power. To be loved so much that everything he does causes pleasure or pain. To be loved so much he's accountable for what someone feels. To be loved so much someone thinks they know him on the inside. To be loved so much that someone is confined by his will.

"I want, uhh, to touch your—?"

"Can I," Theon corrects.

"Can I touch your cock?"

The corner of his mouth quirks. "You can."

And the grip is like one on a wheel, steady. Firm. Knowing. An old sailor with his sinking wreck of a ship. Ramsay is jerking him off and Theon doesn't make a sound but he moves his head up up up, towards the stars, not moaning or groaning or whining, just breathing. He closes his eyes (and this is important: they remain closed). He sinks.

If Ramsay has changed, can he change too? He resolves to stay Theon, during this time, even when his orgasm nears. Surprisingly fast, too. Less than 30 seconds and he's already tensing up. Warmth. He's rocking forward and back. He tries to hold it but can't. Flashes of white edge at his vision. Pinpricks of bright colours against his closed eyelids, one, two, three times. Is he becoming divine?

He releases with a shudder.

But instead of stars, all he gets is a vague sense of disappointment. It is an orgasm alright—but it is nothing like with Roose. Theon doesn't feel like he's fully there, not fully enjoying it. He just feels like the rotting, temporary organism he truly is. He's left feeling drained. Empty.

Ramsay is feeling his pulse, relishing in his aliveness or some shit, obsessed with just watching. Seeing. Observing. But he is no camera trapped in a sack of skin; there is a mind in there, somewhere, beneath the therapeutics and post-sex haze.

He reaches up and, like vine, he's suddenly holding around Theon's throat. Pulling him down, probably to go on his knees and return the favour. The chokehold reminds him of a collar.

(In Theon's head, Reek taps the glass jar—with bony knuckles, of course, because he hasn't got any fingers left.)

"No." Theon licks his lips. And then again, because he likes how the word feels in his mouth—such a tiny little word, yet the first indication that something is alive and conscious, "No."

Ramsay stops.

"This is a one time thing," Theon says darkly.

Ramsay holds his hands up in the air like a convicted criminal, stepping backwards. A hand is glazed with cum. His eyes are equally shiny. Big. Like a child's, and with a child's ego and a child's absolute certainty. Combined with the cum—currently dripping onto the floor—it's pretty horrifying. Luckily his face no longer has that chubbiness to it, with the excess fat. Now he just looks like a wiry hound, cheekbones sunken in, complexion bluish. He hasn't had Theon's decade to recover. He still looks like a mental patient. He's about as stable as francium.

"You came back."

"What?"

"You came back." Stubborn. Unyielding. Childish. "After the diner. After... After everything. Before, too."

Theon doesn't know which or what before Ramsay is talking about, but he doesn't reply.

"...I have to get a bus." He expects Ramsay to block his path, but he doesn't, just watches him. So he continues to walk, killing all tremors before they begin. He is a soldier. He is going home. He kicks open Ramsay's bedroom door and lets the light stream in. Marching. But he halts at the door out of the apartment. Time is a strange concepts and suddenly seconds has passed, and when he turns...

Ramsay is breathing down his neck.

Pressing his frame against Theon's. Trapping him. Reaching—

This is it.

He's going to die.

Ramsay is going to strangle him to death in his shitty apartment. There won't be any signs of struggle except a ring of bruises around his neck. Assisted suicide, almost. A dumb murder victim. Media won't have any of that. And Robb, poor Robb... Theon's life flashes before him. All his faults. All his lists that never were completed. All the things he never said, he should've called his sister ages ago, oh god, he never told anyone what kind of funeral he wanted when he died—

There's a small zipping noise.

Theon turns his head, barely.

"Your zipper was open," Ramsay says innocently, and steps back like nothing happen.

Theon nearly falls forward in his haste. Turns around. He's white as a sheet. Ramsay is still looking innocently, and opens his mouth to say something, but he never gets to finish because Theon has slammed the door in his face.

.

.

Theon does not return like a thief, a cheater, a criminal. His spine is straight and his mind is hollowed out from what he can only deem an emotional exorcism. He fumbles with the lock but finds the backdoor open, and curses. "Robb, you should lock the doors!" he shouts. "Who knows when Mrs. Yashin is gonna move on to larger prey?" He walks through the tiny washroom and sees a pair of gym shoes in the washing machine, going 'round and 'round and 'round. Thundering. He shudders involuntarily and walks into the kitchen, fast. 

Jesus, it still stinks like smoke in there. Smoke and burnt chicken. Disgusting. Theon reopens the window. It is first then he hears the sob. It isn't as much as sob as a shaky exhale. Almost inaudible, but paranoid as he is, he hears it.

Robb is sitting in the corner of the kitchen. Right leg is drawn to his chest, the other lying straight outwards. His face is made up of harsh unforgiving lines, but his eyes hold unfathomable sadness; the whole universe's worth of darkness, forced into him. He carries said darkness inside him like a satchel of scraping stones. Guilt. Worry. Old tear tracks.

Theon crouches down beside him, at a loss of words. "Robb?"

No answer.

He awkwardly rubs Robb's shoulders, swallowing thickly. "I'm sorry I didn't take my phone with me. I needed to get out for a little while. Didn't mean to upset you. If there's anything I can do please tell me. I don't know... I don't know what to do." It takes a while before Robb moves.

"The smell," he says simply, devoid of emotion. "I came home from work and it smelled burnt."

Theon frowns. He didn't know Robb had a trauma connected with—

Oh.

The garden.

...However, it can be a lot of other things too. Fire means destruction, and that isn't a fetish for everyone. For Robb destruction could signify a lot of things; for an example, his failure to build a life and his failure to save everyone. The garden incident had come right before everything fell apart. First Theon, then Eddard, Catelyn, then his wife and his unnamed child... They'd never talked about the incident. Never.

"It wasn't you fault. Isn't."

"I want a kid," Robb whines, broken, and Theon freezes. "I want a family, and a child, and get married... I want to be happy..." How do you achieve happiness? Getting paid, getting laid, getting married, getting pregnant, fighting for visibility in your market, realizing your potential, being healthy, being clean, not making a fool of yourself... Theon can offer none of those things. None. Zero.

"I'm sick of this," Robb finally, finally admits, yet it shocks Theon to hear him express the exact same sentiment as him. He's supposed to be the stronger one of the two, forever optimistic.

He can't help but hear:

I'm sick of you.

In sudden blazing spite, Theon says, blasé, "Today when you left I hallucinated I was fucking Bolton."

"...You need to see a shrink." Robb is running a hand through his sweaty hair, suddenly calm again. The lack of smoke seems to calm him. The window lets in the cool, and he shivers, but Theon is too upset to care.

"Want me to go back to the madhouse?"

"No," Robb says, and he's completely calm. Fuck. He knows Theon to well, has seen on his worst. His little jab does nothing. "I don't. But I know a guy. Family friend. Respected psychologist. He's told me he'd help you for free."

"When did you talk to this—?"

"I talked to him because I love you," Robb says immediately. No hesitation. He seems to realize the depth of the conversation and his face changes, becomes softer, washing away the sadness behind a mask he reserves just for Theon. "I'm sorry," Robb says, and Theon's suddenly angry, because everybody's so fucking sorry, but it's just words, they never show it—except Robb does, sometimes, not just a moan against Theon's shoulder blade before a shudder and a release. His "I love you"s lingers. He kisses the ridges on Theon's spine one by one. Always there. "I'm sorry," he says, and he hugs Theon closer, keeps in his lap.

It would be easy to think about submission.

But it isn't about submission. It's about holding and being held.

He will never be able to take care of a child. But... "Let's get a dog," Theon says.

Chapter Text

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Sequence 00 / 10, or: an introduction

A consolidated consciousness resides—

in darkened rooms, in darkened halls, in darkened busses. Theon imagines himself floating through life without purpose or ambition. For a long time he told himself that he's one of those people who goes through life without searching for meaning, content to consume the work of others but not interested in adding their own footprints on the world. So why does he despair? Self-diagnosis: Pathological grief. Symptoms range from fatigue, disordered eating, trouble sleeping and concentrating, nonverbal or monosyllabic, impulsivity, no motivation but a need for escapism, apathy (towards health, social interaction, domestic matters, etc.) and social avoidance. Ned Stark confiscated his car after Robb tattled on him ("…for your own good!") concerning his grades and absence. He forgave Robb immediately. He thinks there's attraction there, a seed he denies sunlight that results in a colourless plant like in a biology experiment at school. His feelings towards public transport further increases his apathy. It's only in one world filled with bright white light that he… feels something.

On previous occasion he'd entertained the idea of starting over, faking a new name, but the idea doesn't sit well with him anymore. When he goes to parties and fucks strangers there's a third person there with them, so he can't orgasm or receive sexual satisfaction. There's a definite cognitive distinction between "me" and "my body". The Man in the Bunker severs this distinction. It sounds like a horror story. And like any good horror story it builds itself up. His life is dull, with a few select moments of fire, worsening in intensity for each time.

Theon comes back.

He always comes back.

.

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Sequence 01 / 10

Bolton is covered in blood.

Or, splattered with it, at least. Hands. Face. Chest, a little less. Theon aren't a forensic investigator but he knows that blood isn't Bolton's. Except the nosebleed, smeared over half his face. The hands are the worst, as if he's gone berserk on a surgery table or fisted an open wound. Most of it is clogged in the crevices between his fingers, and his on fingernails like nail-polish. Still, he's smoking, and doesn't seem all that worked up. Half the cigarette falls. There exists no ashtray.

"Bloodplay," he explains, sounding bored. "She asked me to."

.

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Sequence 02 / 10

Asphyxiation is a favourite, it seems, though Bolton rarely lingers on one thing too long. He hasn't revisited whipping, for an example; no more visits to Rome even if all roads lead to it. There was a pillow, then there was the clever use of a cord, and ropes, duct tape, cloth, cuffs and chains, but Bolton prefers his hands. Intimate. Human. Soft—no callousness; Bolton's hands are plump and chubby like a baby's rump, unnerving in their strength. The desperation to breathe eclipses everything. Even his nonsensical grief.

Today, foreplay consists of a finger caressing each cartilage ring in Theon's windpipe, the area fascinating him. He feels Theon's Adam's apple bob and knows all it takes was a quick little cut. He stretches and flexes his fingers, wrapping and unwrapping them around Theon's neck, applying more and more pressure until Theon sees stars. Sometimes he has Theon sitting on a chair. A bed. The floor. Bolton's face looks gross while he does it though, all white and red splotches, so Theon looks away and thinks of nihil.

("Kill me," he'd demanded—once. "Shoot me, hang me, behead me, electrocute me."

Bolton had responded with beating him until he screamed.)

It's more peaceful, afterwards. For both.

In the drawers, and sometimes on the table, Theon has glimpsed a wide array of objects. Wine, grapes, a piece of bread, but also rope, scissors, a hammer and nails. A suitcase full of knives. Bolton chose the rope. Stretching it, in his hands. "Homework," he says. Theon, standing, waits expectantly. "This is called a blood knot." He hands a finished one plus an unfinished one to Theon. "You have to make nine ropes, with three blood knots on each. You decide whether to make four, five or six turns on the various knots. You start with one knot, on top of the rope. Then you have to put two more knots at a distance of between ten and twenty centimetres. I like numbers. Rational numbers. Even numbers. So I'd prefer forty lashes instead of thirty-nine. But the blows have to be delivered in threes."

It is here Theon decides that there will be ten sequences, not counting his two introduction courses. He idolises the number ten. 10: his numbers of fingers. 10: the age he was taken away from his biological parents. 10: signifying wholeness and purification. Theon seeks divinity in the perverse. He wonders if Bolton does the same thing, and tightens the knot.

"Let me see," Bolton says, and gestures for Theon to pass it to him. He stretches it. "Good. So, nine ropes, present them to me next Wednesday night between two and four o'clock. The most important thing with the blood knots is that they are placed differently. People think it's the end of the rope that breaks the skin, but it's the knots." An inhale. "The cat o' nine tails is also called the Captain's Daughter onboard ships. A gallows knot is a kind of blood knot with, uh, more turns. The military standard demands five to fifteen turns, as it was the turns placed behind the delinquent's left ear that would... break... the neck... of the condemned as he fell." Theon would've expected him to grandstand and gesticulate, but stays completely toneless and still. "The weaknesses with death by long drop are many. The mechanism have a tendency to fail. One guy had to walk three times out on the trapdoor before it worked. Another weakness is that if the fall height is too high, the delinquent's head gets ripped off. There are two schools: to lay the knot under the left chinbone, in front of the ear, and to—like I said—lay it behind the left ear. Both intend to evoke a strain of the neck vertebrae, which means that the spinal cord gets crushed or torn off, an extraordinary extension of the neck. That's the ideal execution by hanging, but post-mortem studies show that most die by strangulation or regular, slow suffocation of around fifteen minutes. The executioner's technical problems are that he can't let the client fall too far that it leads to the ripping off the head, and he cannot let the condemned fall. Fortunately a good executioner can analyse weight and neck muscles. There are other problems, like, the client not managing to stand, and shock that makes client shit themselves, but one has introduced chairs and waterproof underwear. One lets the corpse hang for at least an hour. Cool examples include the German murderer Takacs, who lived in three days after the hanging and died of fluid accumulation in his lungs, and famous Mrs. Anne Greene, who just wouldn't die. They hung in her legs, hit her in the chest, lifted her several times over before pulling her down again, and a man ran up to her and jumped with all his power on Anne Greene's belly and chest to end the suffering. Anne Greene survived when she was discovered breathing during the autopsy in a medical school, was helped by doctors, pardoned by God and birthed four children. "

Bolton kept the same tone during the entire lecture, as if he was discussing the weather. He hands Theon the seven remaining ropes and tells him that they're done for tonight. Theon nods, apathetic but a bit queasy.

"One last thing." And his voice is lighter. Not as full of control. Bolton brings out a camera. A Polaroid. Regular type. "Can I take a photo of your neck?" His lip quirks. "You look good."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Theon says, but moves his neck into position. He's strangely flattered. He knows he's better looking than most of the women in the waiting room, but Bolton never gives an indication over being anything else than an asexual sadist. Bolton doesn't do the creepy stalker pose or anything, just takes two photos and is done with it. The Polaroid produces a product, but it'll remain black for a while.

"My bus comes in three minutes, I really need to run."

Bolton blinks. It's out of character. "Should I destroy the photos?"

"No," Theon says. He doesn't give a shit. "Keep 'em."

.

.

Sequence 03 / 10

Theon fakes love like women fake orgasms. With Bolton, faking is impossible. He's not allowed to have illusions. It is ironic, with a nickname like Dog, that he feels more like a person in Bolton's basement bunker than outside. He guesses that's what the gamers feel like, having their own worlds. While they grow fat and greasy Theon grows thin and hygienic. Bolton approves of the latter.

...Mostly.

While Theon is skinless and exposed, Bolton is not. Wrapped tight doesn't cut it: Bolton is so full of façade he sometimes leaks. The character Bolton has created is a stern dom who values cleanliness and order. He uses detergent, cleaning assistants and a janitor. But his idiosyncrasies betray him. For an example, in truth he cares little for hygiene. The people in the waiting room often smell. His identify leaks excess.

Theon remembers a letter from his biological father, long ago. The letter was a mirror Balon Greyjoy held up for him. Look, he said, so was I, so are you. We are alike. We are the same. But if there is one thing Theon stand, then it is resembling his father. Many times each day he finds it in himself. When he clears his throat, chews, coughs, the position he unconsciously assumes when reading, the way he gets up from a chair with a low groan. His father's platitudes echo in his mouth. His legs are his father's legs, his fingers his fingers, his jaw, nose, stomach. Wherever he goes he drags on his father. And Balon is heavy. Balon's movement-patterns appear to be genetically stored in Theon's mobility. They remain even if he was a child when he was taken by the authorities. He's tried to suppress it, to go with a light bouncing gait, to drink of a glass without slouching inward, to use a rambling phrasing when he talks full of expletives and modern jargon. It means to be constantly aware of yourself, see yourself from the outside with a third eye, and it is extremely exhausting. And if he forgets just a minute to go, drink, chat like that, Theon instantly goes back to the mirror again. It makes him nauseous. Once, he'd idolised his father—because who is more likely to be on a pedestal than an absent father? The halcyon days of youth is long gone: his father has slid down from the pedestal and is truthfully a deadbeat drunk.

Will Bolton ever slide down from the pedestal? Theon still regards him as a saviour, a saint, a god, and it scares him.

During a rather mild sequence involving razors a woman storms into the sterile world and carves through it with cheap perfume. She's mid-thirties, plain, and screaming her lungs out on how Bolton (Mr Snow, she calls him) cheats on her. He answers (Kennelmaster's Daughter, he calls her) with a backhand and she recoils, recovers, and kisses him. He looks so physically repulsed Theon wonders if he's gonna throw up blood. Is that his first kiss? The woman and her words are soaked with an emotion he cannot name. Bolton looks at her like an animal. He drags her out, and Theon follows without thinking until Bolton tells him to stay. He knows where he's taking her though: R16. The other room without video cameras, the janitor had told him. He sees the woman's face one last time as Bolton locks his hand around it and shoves her inside. It takes Theon a while to recognise that the emotion was love. When he walks through the hallway home he thinks he hears singing, low, like tinnitus after a concert.

.

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Sequence 04 / 10

The night begins casually. Bolton takes his jacket and hangs it up on a newly-acquired coatrack, which Theon suspects has been used for other purposes judging from the rust-that-might-not-be-rust. Bolton has him laying his fingers flat against the desk. The switchblade glints as he ejects it. Slowly, he draws the knife up and down Theon's fingers, front and back, watching the blood bubble up in the surface-level cuts like slicing open an envelope. Nothing too deep or permanently scarring, but it betrays Bolton's fixation with the body and shows how even the most human of actions—bleeding when cut—ignites something in him and fascinates him.

He is then presented with a silver tray with edges so its content can bathe in a transparent liquid. On them is an array of needles, increasing in size. Some are the size of knitting needles, other near-invisible save for their shine. Theon's trousers have remained on the entire evening but his hands are cuffed behind his back, the chair bolted to the floor.

"Sterilized?"

"Yes," Bolton replies while putting on gloves (he never has them on when strangling Theon). "Had them in hot water. Then I put them in acid." He holds them up, shaking them slightly. "We'll only put them in the outer layer of your skin, the epidermis. The epidermis also contains cells called touch receptors. Very sensitive." 

Theon shudders. But it's better than the time he made Theon eat a kilo honey, drink three litres of red wine, carved a pentagram onto his stomach, whipped him and put him in a inflatable tub filled with ice… because Bolton had read something somewhere. Theon imagines him inside his room with the curtains drawn and lights off, computer light the only light in the room, searching up the history of torture and jacking off to vile porn, illicit snuff and child pornography. Reading Sade and visiting the Deep Web. Still, making Bolton into that particular stereotype doesn't change Theon's feelings. He'll still go through with this and come back for more.

"Have you researched?" Theon asks.

"Of course," Bolton replies, and Theon realises he would never speak to a female client—as in, all the other clients—like that. Internalized sexism, maybe? Theon doesn't care. "And experimented." On mice, hopefully.

"D'you always research your methods?"

Bolton somewhat ignores his question, "You find a lot of… inspiration in the history of religion. It's closely linked to that of, ah, suffering. This is my church," he says, waving around the room as if presenting an artwork. Does he practice these lines in front of the mirror? "It'd probably be Catholic. The Catholic Church's acts of iconoclasm is a... violent discipline, in contrast to the pleasurable indulgence of the Eastern Orthodox Church." Sometimes Bolton like a memorized wikipedia article. He would make the most fucked up priest ever.  He makes a movement Theon has learnt to interpret as sit up straight. "If you make it to ten without a noise, I'll let you go home without incident."

Concentrating, he slides the first one into Theon's exposed chest, bellow a nipple. It hurts like when he as a child stuck needles into each other's fingers in sewing class, so, not very much. Then a warmth starts to spread, burning, but unlike an ear piercing, it transforms into exquisite pain. He has to look to make sure it's not corroding through his skin. 

The second follows shortly. Bolton positions them as an x, like bandaids on tv. More xs follow. Deliberate slowness. Involuntary actions, too, like beating his foot up and down and disordered breath. They increase in diameter for each one, and when he's on his fifth, he starts to convulse. His mouth opens in a silent scream.

Bolton smirks, "Tch, you're human, aren't you? Humans don't make noises, they speak. They beg."

"—ease," Theon finished the scream in full volume. But it's words, so it's alright.

"Ease? You want me to what, Dog?" Theon tries to speak but Bolton cuts him off, constantly, knowing he won't speak over him, "What? What is it? What?" All while slicing into him with needles. And then, on the ninth, he stops just to drag it out. Hears the begging, the prayers. Composers always die after their ninth.

"Please, please take them out, I can't, pllllease."

Tears.

Bolton learns forward and licks it up. "Salty."

At the tenth needle that follows, a big one, put through his nipple like a piercing… Theon sees white. But the system / order / laws that Bolton has grounded into him with fists and teeth and (finger)nails hinders noise. When he awakens he's bitten himself so hard in his own shoulder he's bleeding, a thick red stream. Bolton pulls the needles out without blinking. Theon catches his eye and wonders if there's anything inside there at all, not just a silent observer, a video camera in a sack of skin. Bolton gets out his camera and takes a photo. Theon smiles instinctively.

.

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Sequence 05 / 10

"No."

"...?"

"I said no."

Bolton looks at him over his shoulder, dismissive. "It's an order, Dog. Go home. I don't want to see you when you're like this. I told you to frequently clean and bandage the cigarette burns. This is what happens when you don't."

And without concern, he rips Theon's sweater off and Theon screams. It is an instinctive reaction, because the leaking wounds have infused with the sweater. White bits of cotton remain stuck in the aggressive surface wounds. Blisters. Blanching. Moist. Second degree burns 1cm in size. Small red holes in his skin that reek sickness. Bolton had used him as an ashtray and burned deep. It was better than when Bolton forced Theon to smoke a dozen cigarettes until he gagged, drooled and retched into a cup, which Bolton openly stated he would've made him drink if it wasn't so late.

Now his arms are wrapped around himself in a protective embrace, shaking. Bolton stands close and Theon thinks he's gonna kiss him. But he doesn't.

"Go home and clean them," Bolton orders. "And brush your fucking teeth."

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Sequence 06 / 10

"Somnophilia."

Another fancy word for something horrific, probably. Bolton knows his list of kinks. Theon isn't wearing anything but a blindfold, but he knows the room. They're seated on opposite sides of a desk. The computer is gone and Bolton never works on other things when Theon's in here anymore. Some furniture have been replaced (he doesn't know the specifics, just that there were things that are now gone) with two plastic chairs from the waiting room. Traffic has slimmed down, it seems, or he's just more careful not matching hours. Does he take siestas in-between? It is rare for people to accompany him in the waiting room, and when they do, they won't meet his eyes.

"It involves sleep."

He imagines himself finding out through recording or photo that he's been fucked in his sleep and gets goosebumps. "I don't come here to sleep."

A grin: teeth. "No, you don't. So what we're gonna do is more like pseudo-somnophilia. I've tested it before. Lie down on the bed, stomach and hands up. Seven steps in the direction to your right."

Theon does so, spreading his limbs out, careful not to lose the blindfold. Not that Bolton cares much for positions, unlike the doms Theon saw online; only thrice have Bolton enacted such, favouring the same humiliating position: Theon squatting down as if to shit, hunkered down, knees wide, ass hanging and balls dangling. Presently, Bolton wears the plastic-wrap-shoes nurses have, blue and crackling as he walks. On certain areas they stick to the floor and betray a past existence of messes. The bed is placed in the middle of the room. The centre of attention. Bolton can walk around it like a predator. It's supported by four steel legs; all else has been removed with wire, its remains poking out dangerously. They can be used to tie things to, which Theon has experienced.

It is a cloth that breaks his reveries. 'Another gag?'

It's held over his nose. Smells like alcohol, acetone. Thawpit. Tequila, maybe? Sweet in small quantities but rotten in large puffs. Bolton's—superficial—obsession with hygiene continues. Takes him a while to realise it's chloroform. He starts to struggle. He thought Bolton meant to inject him or drug him through beverages! Not the barbaric method papa cop Ned has warned his daughters of! ("…and don't use it for fun, either. It burns you and can destroy your liver, causing permanent damage.") And it is one thing to be surrounded by purity; Theon doesn't want it inside of him and is convinced it'll kill him. Mortals aren't meant for heaven. He tries to claw at Bolton's hands but can't get through the thick gloves reaching to Bolton's elbows; sewer worker gloves. Then he tries to get to his face. Theon tries to shake his head and scream. A hand tightens in his hair and forcing him still. Holding his breath is impossible. Behind his blindfold it feels like his eyes are about to plop out of his head. "I don't… I don't want…" His own words echo like underwater, and it his mind who provides the reply: There are no safewords here. Bolton shushes him. And he whines at those words, groans, uncertain what to think and feel when his instincts scream at him to flee. He's blind, and woozy, hearing and smell distorted. He can't fight. Realisation dawns on him, slowly. But then the pressure stops and leaves him in this half-conscious state. His pleas are stopped with a familiar ball gag, removing the ability to speak from the list.

All he can do is succumb.

The word fear does not cover the emotions that come with being reduced to an object. Immovable. Unresponsive. Inhuman. Again he is confronted by the uselessness of words. A diagnosis means nothing except the expected consummation of drugs.

A death-panic rattles in his chest. He's still lucid enough to know that the blindfold is removed, but his sight is swimming and blurring. Time flows. Movement. He slips in and out of unconsciousness. When he's lucid he thinks he feels… weird stuff. The purity scent rips in his nose but he thinks he smells another human. He moans weakly against the gag, drool running down his jaw. A weight, on top of him, on different occasions. Sensations. Wet, dry, soft, hard. He thinks he's being groped at one point, a hand grabbing his ass hard, but to his surprise finds a person-shape—Bolton—sitting against the wall instead of on top of him. He thinks he hears, "Your body is my church." Then he passes out and takes hours to wake again.

The next time they try somnophilia, Bolton uses his hands to choke him into such a state, but it ultimately fails because he's out at seconds at most. Another time with the same sequence, he breathes in too much chloroform and ends up unconscious. He wakes with phantom stickiness between his legs.

.

.

Sequence 07 / 10

"Say a prayer."

"Uh." To be fair he's never believed in God, never gone to church willingly and flunked a few religion tests. (He believed in his grandparents' gods.) Sansa, however, is religious, and prays—on the occasion. "Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

Theon has to shut his eyes fast not to get dripping hot wax in them.

"What was that for?" he says, hissing in pain, more and more wax dripping on the entirety of his forehead, accompanying the wax on his torso. Both of them look like crazy performance artists, especially Bolton with his red candles and black gloves.

Bolton slaps him.

"For being reta— idiotic." A correction. Bolton avoids slurs and identity-excess. "And that's for not apologising, Dog."

Takes a moment for Theon to regain his voice, psychological defence strategies kicking in in the midst of his blindness, making him stammer, "Wha—? Ap—apologizing for w—what?"

Bolton slaps him again.

.

.

Sequence 08 / 10

"Another game?"

Bolton nods, looking down at him on the chair. In his hands he hold a riding crop, twisting it. "Q&A. Don't worry, it's unrelated to who you are." He thinks that the who does not exist in here and that the world in here and out there can be kept separated, like "me" and "the body". "The questions are a handful I picked up randomly. If you answer right, we'll stop. If you answer wrong, I'll hurt you. Understand?"

Theon nods, sitting up straighter.

"Alright, let's begin. What's philematology?"

"The study of… preferences?"

A punch to his jaw. Theon nearly falls of the chair with the force of it, and has to scramble to stay up. It'll definitely bruise. He breathes through his nose, awaiting Bolton's next judgement, who hasn't used the riding crop yet, but will.

"What's the third stage in decomposition?"

"...Rigor mortis?"

Bolton lets his hand roam around, finds an old wound (Knife? Whip? Theon doesn't remember anymore) and digs a finger into it. Theon groans and winces and tears up, but he does not move away. After cleaning himself using baby wipes, Bolton raises the rising crop, raising both brows in a silent threat.

"How many lashes did Jesus get?"

"Thirty-nine!"

"Good boy." Theon's chest swells with something very unfamiliar—even when the riding crop comes down on him, a wrong answer later. In the corner of the room there's a huge black plastic bag.

.

.

Sequence 09 / 10

Bolton is with him even when he's not.

Midnight at a party at a bar somewhere, most of its inhabitants underage and piss-drunk. Theon isn't the designated driver, but he's melancholic. It proves that he doesn't know himself very well. But Robb invited him out, and Robb hasn't invited him out in ages and Theon forgot all about playing hard to get and agreed immediately. And now Robb's off with other kids like him, arm slung protectively over his bride. He's shouting, inviting the whole bar over on his and CT's "pre-wedding party" or what the fuck. They're still going on about the marriage shit. Theon can't wait for it to blow over. He drinks beer, but it feels as if his nervous system rejects it. Makes his stomach sour. When someone behind him says, "You need to brush your teeth!", his heart nearly tears out of his chest. But it's just a bald stranger talking with another bald stranger, caught up in the moment. Theon doesn't remember the last time he was caught up in anything (but Bolton, maybe), and flees into the crowd again.

He finds Robb, and grins almost nervously, showing teeth like a scared animal, "Look, man, you wouldn't believe what happened…" he tells him, laughing at the strangers in the bathroom going on about dental hygiene, when Robb speaks.

"Dude," he says, sharing a look with CT, "there are no bald people here. You're just drunk."

"I'm not," Theon says honestly. Is he? Doesn't feel like it. He grows uncertain. Is Robb gaslighting him? Or is it just Theon being weird again? "I know I saw them. I didn't lie."

"Whatever. I can always tell when you're drunk, dude," Robb laughs and shares another look with CT. "You're like a different person. I can't explain it. Dunno if it's good or bad," his grin widens. "Well… yeah yeah, I'm coming… See you around, Theon!"

And then he's gone, leaving Theon feeling like absolute shit. He continues feeling like that, bumping shoulders with people happier than him, knowing that the bottle won't kill his sorrows like it does for them. In an attempt to quell his loneliness he finds a guy he knows is secretly gay and shoves him against the wall—just to feel something. Reason he knows is because guy's sister is Sansa's best friend and told her, and they really need to talk quieter, with Theon in the neighbouring room. "Oooh, rough," comments the boy, whose name is Lars or Laroyce or Loras, and who probably hasn't experienced rough in his entire life, "You're hot." He's got sad eyes, like Theon's. Unrequited love, maybe? Theon doesn't care. He wants to find someone to crawl inside of and sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

Lars or Laroyce or Loras and Theon finds a dark corner to snog in. Theon zones out, letting his mouth do the working, a knee pressed in-between his own. It's nice. Openly erotic. He lets Lars or Laroyce or Loras take control and says nothing about how his back rubbing against the wall and quite painful. In fact, it turns him more on, and there is no sterility here, shit and perfume and sweat in the air, so he can moan and whine all he wants without feeling embarrassed like when Bolton does stuff to him. Of course, the fun can't last. They undress each other. Theon drags his shirt up a lot higher than Jesus would've done to show the wounds, and even in the low light Theon's scars are visible. Lars or Laroyce or Loras stops dead in his tracks, even if Theon doesn't falter, just blinks lazily. "Why?" He thinks Theon has done it to himself. He isn't too wrong.

"Just to feel something," Theon replies simply.

"You have to tell someone," Lars or Laroyce or Loras says, reaching out, reaching and reaching...

(It'll reach right through Theon and he'll realise that Theon's a ghost.)

"If you tattle on me I'll tell everyone you're a fucking faggot." He doesn't stay to see catch response but runs off, beyond sexually frustrated. The warm sensual sweet nothings the virtually nameless boy offers does not linger. His body is a church. You cannot see him when he goes inside. He settles on standing outside the bar to wait his ride, who doesn't come in another hour. Rain pours. His face gets wet. Nobody comes to look for him. He tries to tell himself he won't forget, but the numbness inside him pushes on truth:

He forgets pain.

He always forgets pain.

.

.

Sequence 10 / ∞

It's late (like always), the previous sequence involved feet-flogging (it's a thing), and Theon is putting on his jacket outside the middle school when Bolton comes out the same door. He locks it. Walks past him. The dried blood on his thin white sweater is not his own. It's raining heavily like it's been for days. Bolton doesn't mind, wearing a dazed look. "Finished for tonight?" Theon asks.

Bolton stops walking. He seems to consider whether or not to answer—as he holds his rules very dearly, and an unsaid one is no communication outside of the room—but settles on a relaxed, "Yeah."

Walking hurts. Theon shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Do you know when the next bus is going?" he asks, because he can stare at the schedule for hours and still forget once he walks away.

"No, I have a car."

Theon doesn't know what prompts what happens next, it be lack of sleep, numbness or general boredom. "Can I catch a ride?"

Bolton watches him for a moment. When his face splits and he smiles, he's got dimples. "Sure."

Chapter Text

The first problem Theon encounters in Bolton's car is where to put his feet. Might not seem important to your average joe but after months in a blasé BDSM dungeon Theon's focus on body language is immense, like a person in love. For an example, sitting straight betrays anxiety or militaristic idiosyncrasies. Sprawling means relaxation—to the point of laziness. Crossed legs, like crossed arms, is refusal. On the dashboard, coolness. He settles on that one because he wants to convey a lack of fear.

Chapter Text

Theon had left his phone at home with Robb after his little visit to Ramsay. He did not have a chance to look at it, as the evening was spent healing Robb after his panic attack, medicine being a hot bath, reading out loud from a book on dogs and hot chocolate. First when Robb sleeps does Theon check his phone.

Accompanying the missed calls from Robb from earlier today, expected, is a message with an audio recording containing 3 full minutes of someone screaming. 

.

.

Did Theon love Ramsay?

Theon thinks society puts too much value on love (in lieu of care or contentment). It's become a marketing scheme and a phrase thrown out by girls in the passing leaving out the Is to make it more impersonal. Perhaps he loved Ramsay so much he turned him into a myth. Because it's easier to love a myth, isn't it?

While Theon philosophizes in the passenger seat, Robb drives and tries to small talk. The rhythm & blues on the radio is muted so that Robb, too, can philosophize: 

"How can anybody have a foot fetish? I don't understand." On the radio, which Theon has ignored until now, there's a segment about a boy who fell in love with his mother's feet. Last week it was a box of soap.

"If it exists, there's a fetish for it," Theon replies flatly. 

"But I get hands, for an example. I've seen paintings of hands and can see why artists are enamoured with them. I'm not judging. But feet? They're like… weird long hands. Retarded hands."

"Don't use that word," Theon says. 

"Sorry." The party pooper comment of youth was long dead. After losing his wife and child Robb understood mental illness a little better, even if it was exposure instead of experience. "I just don't understand the fetish. Apparently it's widespread."

"Mmm, want me to lick the spaces between your toes clean?" Theon puts his tongue out and starts moving it around like tonguing a cunt. 

"Gross," Robb says, but copies it. 

After a brief laugh, the silence grows. Questions hanging in the air, dead men swinging from gallows. Theon hasn't seen a therapist in three years. Is this reversion? Or revolution?

"How do you know this guy, anyway?" He tries to be casual. 

"Childhood friend of Mother's. Supposed to good, if not conventional. Throws Rorschach blot cards out the window. I don't know if you remember him, but he visited when we were children. My aunt goes to him." 

"The new ager, right? Light aunt; energies, holy water and only clothes in earth colours? Breastfed your cousin 'till he was twelve?"

"Yup. Ugh. Don't remind me. Anyway, he visits Mother in the hospital a lot, and brings the most sweet-scented flowers. Fills the entire room. I often talk to him there. Professional man. Soft-spoken. A lot of family friends know him." Yet Theon hasn't heard of him, of course, despite staying with the Starks for a full decade. How can you stay with someone for 10 years without knowing them? Does the clogging smoke in his head kill that too? "Don't look at this as a setback. Look at it as an investment for your health, like a vaccine. 'Sides, I already told you, since he's a friend it'll be cheaper. The money is all taken care of." Money. Robb handles that. He gives Theon a reasonable allowance. "…I'm babbling again, aren't I?"

"A little."

"Sorry."

"It's ok. It's…nice that you're nervous too." Theon doesn't look that nervous anymore even if he stresses. In the institution(s) he'd adopted a permanent blank resting face because else the nurses would bombard him with "what's wrong?" constantly. It's only answer is (was!) everything. "I mean it's nice that you understand."

"If you don't like him, you can quit. Three chances, okay? Three chances and you're out."

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

Robb lets him off by the entrance. Theon had firmly answered no to the carefully phrased question if he wanted to have Robb there, so Robb says they're gonna have fish fingers for dinner and kisses him goodbye. 

Palm plants grace the gigantic building, mansion, looking like a law company's rather than one run by psychiatrists and psychologists. The gardeners don't peer up at him. Architecture, modern, Scandinavian? Sleek and clean. Bright yellow framing. The appearance of cleanliness and safety; too bad the former awakens something awful in him. Aesthetics and atmosphere seldom match. Wandering the lush, stylish, cold and blasé garden, he finds he doesn't like it. Contrary to popular belief, all adoptees didn't come from poor homes. The Greyjoys had been well off. A home could be lavish; the corruption would first ooze forth when the walls tumbled down. An insane mother locked in the attic, banging on the walls, singing. A father that didn't act like a father. His brothers, shot. His sister had snuck him stale bread for years and when she became an adult she changed her name. Ah, Theon's childhood wasn't fat with an apple in its mouth. 

First when he's hidden behind a bush formed like a modern art masterpiece does he dare re-read Roose Bolton's text. 

School starts at seven tonight. Should I pick you up?

He stares at it for a full minute. Text on a screen – in a hand – that shook. Shakes. This is Roose, not Ramsay. Who other than Roose has ever offered him a way out? What'd happen if he'd said yes in the car, all those years ago? He's quit his job to go to school. And go to school he will. He texts Roose a place, Barney's; a disgusting pizza joint he saw on their way this place. He'll have to jog there but he's sort of humiliated to be going to a shrink + he wants gross greasy fast food to soothe himself afterwards. Not feeling better at all, he enters the mansion.

There's a secretary at the table, waiting, with a fashionable burgundy suit and face that's strangely fish-like. A sweet-scary plastic-surgery face. When she smiles the skin on her head looks too tight, "D'you have an appointment?"

"Yeah, with – with, uh," fuck he can't remember anything other than the nickname, "Littlefinger?"

"This floor, hall B to your left, room twenty-four. He just moved there; prefers the large windows. Oh, and call him Mr. Baelish."

"Yeah. Thanks."

His mind is silent. 

People pass by. A skittish businessman wipes sweat of his shiny forehead. Teens, dead-looking, staring eyes that don't see. Most noticeable is an elderly couple, both sporting overly-tanned faces and matching expressions—if they're not locked like the secretary's—of discontentment, here on couples' counselling, which in truth only can be solved through divorce. It scares Theon immensely: the idea of being the couple with nothing to talk about but having grown so together that separation isn't imaginable.

He finds the room. Knocks. 

"Come in," says the voice. 

You can tell a lot about a person by their voice. Theon thinks about the numerous doctors, nurses, psychiatrists and psychologists who'd treated him. The barren faces of objective professionalism. And then there were those that didn't quite manage to hold the illusion. Shrinks who treated him like a kid. Shrinks who repeated his words. Shrinks who joked that they were paid to say nothing. The voice of this man is strangely self-satisfied. Tone, lilted. Hoarse. Subdued amusement?

Theon enters and the man in the office stands up. A shadow from his childhood, a friend of Catelyn. Does Theon remember him in real life, or from a photo album? Littlefinger, they'd called him, and Theon had latched on. The man is not unlike himself and seems to have the same expression—a secretive half-smile—no matter his age. Thinning hair, patches of grey. Pale skin half-hidden behind creamy skin products. The whole room smells like him, and he smells like sweet cream. "Please," Baelish says, "sit down. Or stand, if you prefer. It's a new office, so the decor isn't after my request." Theon sits and Littlefinger, too, behind a big desk. His clothing—an expensive suit, grey, anonymous—fit better when he stood. Sitting down, it became too tight. Somehow it makes Theon uncomfortable so he looks around. Everything here is too tight. Printed, photo-posters Freud and other overweight white men. Soothing baby blue walls. Open spaces. "In fact…" he marches over and starts ripping down the Rorchach posters. Freud's photo is turned around so it's facing the wall. He sends a smile or two to Theon while doing it. "That's better."

It's funny.

But…

But. 

Theon is an adult. He might not look it, and sometimes he forgets to pay bills and to refill the car tank, but he's 30 and not destroyed. He understands why Littlefinger does what he does but while the treatment might've worked on a hormonal teenager it doesn't give him much but doubt in the psychologist's abilities. He does not seek destruction and he does not find every adult stupid. There is a reason he hasn't been on medication or seen a shrink in years. 

So his position stiffens, slightly. Grin sliding off like melting ice. 

Littlefinger analyzes him, squinting. No Freudian psychology here: he focuses on the exterior. Freud wasn't always right but his method of psychoanalysis is preferable to this; Theon had liked just talking after being silent for so long. (Sometimes he'd slip an erotic dream sequence that included falling into a pit of lemurs to hear the psychoanalyst make a choked sound.)

"I try to remember you but can't. How forgetful of me. I'm Dr. Petyr Baelish. It's nice to meet you."

He reaches out and shakes the hand offered to him. Two up and down motions, tight, no squeeze. "Theon. I was a quiet kid, yeah, Dr. Baelish." Theon hates nicknames. Loathes them. 

Baelish continues, "But we're not here to talk about childhood: I did exterminate Freud's posters after all. Are you familiar with the different schools of psychology?"

"I know some of them, but I don't know specifics."

"Well. Then I will inform you that I, like most, work within most of them, but my preferred school is behaviourism."

"Rats and monkeys?"

The slight quirk of his lip. "Yes. You've probably heard this one before, considering your experience within my field, but my methods are rather unconventional. I have a lot of faith is learning and unlearning. So, that out of the way," he flattens his shirt, "I'll inform you that I've gotten access to your files. Robb didn't want me to tell you but it's impossible working together without truth. I find that focusing on why is more important than instant relief. As in finding the root of the problem rather than patching it up or settle with a little release.

Theon's voice is dry, tongue thick, "As in amputate the whole arm because of a papercut?" He is the one is threatened by living every day—and there is only one cure for life. He supposes he should be angry at Robb but isn't.

"Touché." Baelish grins. "Whatever you say will not leave the room. So how are you, Theon?"

"Been better. Last years have been calm. Good. But I've had… slip-ups lately."

Baelish doesn't leave much time for him to think. "Is there anything that set these off?"

"Yeah, Bolton got out of prison. We arranged a little meeting."

Baelish's fingers look like a spider as they flatten over a document-pile on his desk. "Am I allowed to reference your files?"

"…Yeah."

"Thank you. Bolton is Ramsay Bolton, the man who committed all those atrocities to you years ago, yes?"

A nod. 

"Deinstitutionalized after ten years, and the first thing he does is contact you?"

"Well, he did send a lot of letters." He's surprised that his tone remains unwavering—is that the sound of healing, dead acceptance? "Robb burned them all. But he hadn't done anything in a while when he contacted me. I guess I wanted to see if I could act normal around him and I… I did… We talked. He didn't stop me when I left."

"And you had a second meeting, after you left?"

"Once."

"Same result?"

"He just let me go."

"Why did you come back?"

"I don't know."

Baelish looks to be having his own ideas. But he's not writing anything down. "What did you talk about?"

"He says he's a changed man. That he wants to – make up – for… I just told him to piss of."

Yet you return. "Did you do anything else than talk?"

"…Yeah. A hug and two handjobs." It sounds ridicules when reduced to that so he chuckles brokenly. "I wasn't myself."

"Who were you then?"

He spits the word like a baby barfs up its dinner, "Reek."

"Ah –" the shuffling of paper, "you make a lot of mentions about this…"

"Second personality."

A frown. "You're not diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. Former psychiatrists of yours claim this Reek persona has been there since your childhood. I find that – hard to believe."

"Yeah. No. No, I think they meant that he's been like, manufactured, from old traumas. Like a bunch of insecurities and old sores torn up and clustered into a metaphorical, um, being. Sorta."

Baelish looks sceptical. "...Is it a he?"

Theon simply says, "Not in the end."

"So most agree it's another personality. And you think this is correct?"

"It's what they told me."

"In your own words, tell me what Reek is."

"Reek is what Ramsay tried to make me into." 

"What does it look like?"

Talking, Theon loses himself inside he can't get out until Baelish inquires –

"...So, this grey, eyeless, dickless, sexless creature as you so describe it... Does it help you, visualising it like that?"

"I don't know. It just is."

"Were you ever on any medication?"

Theon raises an eyebrow. "Melleril, Lofepramine, Citalopram, Prozac, Thorazine, Venlafazine, Seroxat—"

"So you know." Baelish does not write, as he has no notebook. Why is there no notebook? "It is not uncommon for abuse victims to seek out their abusers. Because it's what you've been taught."

"It's not that simple."

"We can waste time using more complicated words, but it always boils down to learning. Your childhood plays a role, of course, but so does the time after that. You are not defined by what happened in your childhood. Defence mechanism can be untaught. Mental illness, healed. Look at yourself. Your need to visit him can be untaught, as seems to be the goal of these sessions—that is, if Bolton hasn't changed."

"What the fuck?"

A sentence to tear a hole in the room: "There is a possibility that Ramsay Bolton can change."

Count to six. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Deep breaths. This is far worse than questions about whether he wanted to fuck his mother or not. Theon stands up. "I don't think this will work out."

"One last question, then." Not even a flinch. "What was your goal coming here?"

"No goal. Robb wanted me to." C'mon. Brush him off. Walk.

"So your aim is to please Robb."

"I owe him everything."

"So he wants you to change?"

"Quite the opposite." A grin; soft, lying Theon-smile. Matches the surroundings and the people and the exterior. Wolves, everywhere. Grins that say we're all friends here, and means everybody is liars. "To please Robb I have to stagnate. Go back to where things back."

"But there is no going back."

So Baelish understands. Theon, still standing, considers the change and whether to accept it. He sits down again. "I'm not used to this kind of straightforwardness from your sort," he says, not as an explanation or an excuse, just stating a fact.

"As cliché as it sounds, I can only help you help yourself. But I don't think you can do it by yourself. There is a difference. And I always like to have a goal, both long-term and short-term. What is the goal of this session, Theon? I want you to walk through that door unburdened, but with psychoanalysis' approach you'd walk through it momentarily cleansed before it'd all flush back. I am not a shrink. I'm a doctor. I treat."

A goal?

Too many variables. Ramsay, Robb, Roose, the phone calls, the Bitches, his own mind...

"I want help in order to stagnate."

"For Robb?"

"Yes."

"Bandaging a tumour?" Baelish throws his own metaphor back at him.

"I just want things to go back to they were."

"Robb wants things to go back where they were. Both Mr. Bolton and Robb have taught you to come back to them, and want what they want, respectively." Theon's thoughts drift to Roose. There's been no conditioning, there—so how would Baelish explain that? "If you want things like they were, I assume you mean the calm."

"Dead-calm."

Baelish considers him for a moment. Theon's wearing his bitch face. "This calm equals contentment for you, not love, yes?"

"Love is just hormones going berserk. Same thing as lust. Contentment lasts longer."

"Are you content or neutral?"

"There's a difference?" Theon asks before he can stop himself. Before Baelish can answer, he says, "Look, listen, if you have something to say then say it."

"Every time you mention Ramsay you do so quick, fleetingly, and every time I mention his name you flinch. If you're to complete your goal—or have any breakthroughs regarding its existence—you need to stop with your metaphors and realize what he is: just a man, with issues. Not a monster." 

"What do you propose he is?"

"A repressed homosexual. Like so many of them, really."

Theon is sick to death of that assumption. "Does it scare you? The thought of him being sane—and straight? One of you upstanding citizens?"

A pause (can it be…?), and then a sigh like Theon's heard before thousands of times by people who thought they knew better. "The judges voted him mentally ill. This is a fact. The closet we have to truth; empiristic and researched." A revolution of no myth in history. Introduced in the Enlightenment, yes? "You need to understand this while working through your pain. Blaming someone and being angry takes too much energy. Compassion is a healthier alternative. Think: he must've experienced some bad things to have turned out that way."

Theon thinks about the millions of rapists walking free. He thinks about how 1/3 women will be molested, and ponders on the dark numbers concerning men and lgbt+ people. He thinks about the books about serial killers, listing them after the number of (nameless) victims, idolized and remembered. The victims can rot. 

It's so fascinating!

He's just misunderstood!

Rapists also have feelings!

Theon gags. 

"He wasn't fucking insane. His dad paid—or threatened—the judges to get him a diagnosis, and got him into the country's best, most comfortable institution. I looked it up." Constantly. "He was just a fucked up rich kid who raped, mutilated and killed women for the thrill. Sane. Straight. A monster without an origin story. Oh so very human."

"And where's your evidence?" 

"The evidence is sitting in your couch." He drills real fingers and prostheses against his knees. 

"If we were to take words as truth we would have no truth. Today you have to prove something to be real within science or court. It's all the same. Logos—logic—prevails, always, everywhere. Would you have a mentally ill psychologist treat you?"

"Maybe they'd understand my situation better since they'd gone through the same as I."

"No. He would be biased." Littlefinger's tone betrays that he will not listen, ever. He is not arguing; he is explaining things to a child. 

Logic. 

And there begins the lecture. 

"Humanity's age of maturity of started in the Age of Enlightenment. We are adults, Theon. We owe something to truth. We present theories—in labs, in courtrooms, in our psychologist's office—that are tested, and proved right or wrong. An adult view of life. Why, with the Digital Age blooming, I dare say a new Enlightenment is happening right now."

"I have a different theory."

"Shoot."

A widening of the infamous double-edged smile / sword: defense. "This is not the new Enlightenment; this is the new Middle Ages."

"And why do you propose that?"

Teeth. "People are worse than ever. Exploitation, beastiality, perverse shit allowed to fester and grow. The digital world," a world beyond his own, "is a playground for sick people, roaming under the guise of civilization. Disease in the poorer places. Corruption in the government. The people of this age don't give second chances, they burn people to ash."

Baelish tilts his head to the side. He seems amused, but not at Theon. "I quite like ash. Its what my mother—bless her heart—exists as in an urn above the fireplace," he admits, jolly. "But what of love, Theon?"

Back to start, then.

"Love is dead."

"What is your intent, with that phrase?"

"I intend to provoke."

"Why do you seek to provoke?"

Splaying his fingers before recurling them around the armrests, Theon wiggles his ass as if to sit better. "Because I am angry."

"And who are you angry at?"

"Myself."

Is mama still singing (screaming) on the loft?

Baelish nods. "My suggestion is to handle this more rationally. Examine your life with Robb, then Ramsay, and find out what is true and what is not. If you have the truth, you can get to the bottom of things."

Is there a bottom to identity? A simple case of cause / reaction? Learning?

He does not know his short-term goal but his long-term one is to figure out who he is and claim a secure identity. He tells Baelish this, using simpler and more words. Baelish agrees, pleased with this turn of events. Perhaps he thinks this is the first goal Theon has had in ages, but he knows nothing of Roose.

"I think we are done here," Baelish says. "But watch out: everybody is a liar."

.

.

"I want to understand you," Theon says in Roose's car. "Why you are doing this."

Roose's eyes slide over to him, then back on the road. His hands do not tighten at the wheel. "There is nothing to understand," he says simply, and Theon leaves it at that.

.

.

In the classroom, Theon is surprised to find people his age, some twitchier than others. Blank paper: he has not had that in years. The books are gifted to him by Roose. He is surprised to understand the material. There are good teachers. When he answers correct on a question he's given a compliment that has him turning red. He's not used to... Not used to that kind of behaviour. He presses his face to the window to cool down. Laughter rings in the background, louder than his own thoughts, but he's comfortable like this, really, really comfortable, pressed between hot and cold, between rain and the sun. He doesn't care if they're laughing of him he's just so happy to hear laughter around him.

Theon tries to remember his mother with books. But then he remembers you can't eat books to survive. 

Chapter Text

Theon knows jackshit about theatre but he knows the Distancing Effect intimately. Being at a distance allows one space to think differently. It's supposed to prompt different lines of thinking and clarify things. Sixteen nights ago he'd called Bolton telling him they wouldn't be seeing each other anymore. He'd received a question mark in response.

?

Distancing himself from Ramsay Bolton was one of the smartest things he's ever done. Robb welcomed him back with open arms. His grades are improving. Mama and papa Stark are so proud; they acknowledge his presence at the dinner table.

So.

So why

?

Roombound, housebound, bloodbound (figuratively), Theon begins to fantasise about dying in his bedroom. Doesn't dream anymore, doesn't sleep either, wakes up just as tired. He's starting to smell himself, he stinks, but he hasn't got the strength to open windows or clean himself properly. Soap reminds him of antiseptic. All is centred around him, what he is and can and knows, and he is sick of himself. Meanwhile, the sun moves up – across – down the sky, suddenly shining right in his face, blending him. He's so surprised he doesn't understand what is happening to him until he realises that over him there is a galaxy and under him a planetary core. Freezing cold above, hellish heat beneath. And in that meager space between, humans run around breathing and torturing each other. He's not a rationalist because it minimises identity. Science means shit to him. Can't explain why ? he's ? like ? this ?. He isn't sad. He's grieving. Grief demands an answer.

He's starting to ignore his fundamental needs, pokes new holes in his belts because he's grown so thin. But after a while the need for food becomes too much to bear and he walks downstairs to the kitchen. Bad luck: all the Starks are there, glued in front of the TV they keep in the corner. Theon doesn't care to look. Probably another far-away war, a thousand dead, gone in an explosion of meat and bone and blood, useless, useless, useless. Spectators so upset, so removed, could be in your city but it's not outside your window view so you don't care, immigrants or serial killer victims, same shit, save them but don't bring them here to my neighbourhood, and please send me that cup of coffee darling, oh those poor fuckers—

"Did you hear that? What just happened?" CT asks.

"Yeah," Robb says.

She tells him anyway, "The power went out a hospital. They just now found out that somebody must've done it on purpose. Lots of people there are dependant on the electricity—you know, people who gets their heart to beat because of machines, coma patients, surgeries that require lighting..."

"Did it cause any deaths?" Robb asks, still staring at the screen.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"I don't remember." But then there's some new footage, more graphic. "Look!" CT says. "Look!"

Why repeat it? All eyes are on the television already, except Theon's. Theon is mending with the grease on the kitchen tiles. Ah, dinner parties. All the old distrust wells up.

"Yeah, I see it," Robb says with a sort of Sunday laziness, "I'm looking."

"Look at all those bodies!" she repeats.

Theon hates her. Really does.

"Wrapped in garbage bags and thrown away. Like they were nothing."

Hatred throbs like a second heart in his chest.

"Must smelt horribly though, how come nobody noticed? Did they think it was cats?" Robb laughs, not mocking but bewildered, shaking his head, and the Starks join in, and Theon realises he's going insane cos he can't laugh anymore. First when you take everything seriously, that's when you go insane.

"Most of us notice things like that," CT chimes in. "Not everybody though. Eh, Theon?"

It's meant as a joke, a little jab. They must have noticed the implications, small things, like a band-aid or bandages on weird places, a slight limp, a bruise. Now she's looking at him, expecting humiliation. Theon responds by punching her in the face.

.

.

She doesn't want him at the wedding party.

"I don't want you at my wedding party."

Robb warns her by using her name, which Theon blocks out, because giving her a name humanises her. They're actually getting married. How old are they again? It'd been hilarious, in another lifetime. They're in Theon's bedroom. Barged right in. Confronted him mercilessly. This space is not his own, has never been.

"It is my wedding party too," Robb scolds, "and Theon will behave. We had a talk." Talk means there was a two-way communication, not just yelling, but Theon doesn't say anything. "He'll be good. Won't talk to you. Won't acknowledge you. Hell, he'll be in another room, away from you." Away from Robb too, then. "Won't you?"

"Yeah," Theon says, "I'll be in another room."

Or this one will be his grave.

.

.

First party in months and he chants fake it till you make it, washing for the first time in months and drinking beer alone in his room. Soon he gets tired of pissing it out so he hits the vodka bottle instead, regretting it immediately, mixes it with some kind of healthy fruitjuice he steals from the fridge, and it goes down. Party time means putting on your favorite boxers, aged and worn, faded and comfortable. Slick back your hair, there; now he looks presentable.

He's sitting in his room.

Sitting.

S—

?

Another room, another time.

Flashing lights and sweaty bodies all around him and he blinks, doesn't understand, wasn't he in his bedroom a moment ago? A year ago? Theon drinks and finds every type of alcohol reminds him of vomit. People dance in shakily in darkly lit backrooms, pleasantly smiling zombies, drunk Friday to Sunday, and then try to climb up from the bottle and start with School and Life, to take control and finally do the homework they've been putting off from day 1… But in the bottle they swim till they're goldfishes.

Theon remains self-aware and hopeless. He can't even dance. Heads for Robb because fuck Cunt Steak he's so jealous of her he wants to die but.

But.

?

A girl introduces herself as Bianca, tells Theon he's cute and follows it up by "My new favourite hobby is cutting myself with a razorblade." Drunk laughter around her (except Theon who smiles) and she continues, ecstatic, "Never cut myself as a teenager."

and then

"It's not a depressed thing, it's a fascination thing."

?

"Hey, Theon. Somebody's looking for you."

"Nobody's looking for me," Theon says, smile too wide for his mouth. "Nobody ever do."

?

On the TVs around the house there are crime shows, of solemn looking cops and pictures of dead bodies and live versions, crying family members—but only if the dead one was beautiful and normal, bearded experts sprouting fun facts like how were they positioned, how they looked like, symbols, psychology, entertainment, then senseless reflection, did the killer fuck them, why were one girl's teeth missing and why was her mouth full of bugs? Images switches from bugs and blood to green grass and people running after a ball; after the news it's football matches, a word-diarrhea of assumptions, the sports reporter going nuts until he isn't. Annnnd commerical break!

Theon takes his shot and feels it make heat in his chest. He doesn't care. He's lonelier than ever. A commercial comes on and it's a singer's voiceover and he's singing god bless us all over and over and over. His godawful voice rattles the bottles and chairs and tables and light fixtures singing god bless us all.

'Well,' thinks Theon, 'god bless us all.'

The lifestyle hasn't completely lost its charm, because he loses time again

?

and he's in a bathroom with some chick, grinding up against her on the sink making out and he's good, and she's good too, but now that he's kinda aware he can't stop thinking, and so they part with a wet pop, and he goes down down down, mentally too, licking at the fabric over her pussy like he wants to burn his way through. Dissociating, doesn't understand what's in the way, then realization and pulling her g-string up to her knees, dress over her tits, fondling the latter more out of obligation than anything else, then back at nuzzling her clit. Oh—a piercing? Taste of metal. Blood. He drags his tongue in lazy circles, speeds up. Knows not to tongue fuck her like a stamp machine. She shakes but any sound is blocked out by the drum of blood in his head. He can't get it up. Why? He must be good for her though, because the muscles in her thighs flex and slime floods his lips, wets his chin. Cum tastes the same regardless of sex – clean with a touch of animal meat. He looks up, slightly bored, sees her sweaty face twisted in passion, glazed chin, cheeks, nose. The bright bathroom light magnifies her faults, gaps of foundation, an eyeshadow glitter smear, a crooked tooth… He likes it. Makes it more real, less porn-y. Passion looks a bit like pain—and that's probably why he hardens. Call me… call me… he remembers, lazily asking, "More, babygirl?" and receives a dopey nod, a sigh. He studies her face again. Frowns. She's pretty, yeah, but something's off. A speck of unbelievable ugliness. Nose? Mouth? No, no, her

eyes wet, shiny and

grey

?

Overwhelming him, a rare childhood memory (rare because it's raw but also because they're disappearing more and more thanks to depression). Eating fresh shellfood one summer with his biological family, all members alive but blurry, food in the focus: shivering in the citrus bath, drank them raw out of their homes—salt, salt—and coughed. The following vomiting and diarrhea left the taste of blood. Food poisoning. Salt. Theon thinks of cunts and eyes. Hate and nausea overwhelms him.

?

What?

Oh. He lost time again.

A mouthful of gibberish ending with half-choked "—sick freak!" and the girl he just ate out is out the door, slamming it shut, but that doesn't help at all. All doors are open, here, Robb removed all the keys because he didn't want anybody doing some crazy shit behind locked doors. Theon, anxious for some reason, suddenly needs to take a dump but can't sit because there's no lock on the door and no toilet buddy because he has no buddies anymore. How long did he lose time, replaying that stupid fucking memory? What did he do to upset the girl?

Suddenly the sense of taste returns and he spits a mouthful of blood in the sink.

…Was the girl on her period? Is it because he hasn't brushed his teeth properly? Did he… do something bad?

No. Nononono. He dissociates. He needs to run, get away, before they come to reprimand him, punish him.

A loud voice outside: "What kind of sick fuck bites a girl's cunt?"

Senses hyper aware, heart drumming, he must get out. They're gathering at the door, staring and staring. He must hide.

Or this room will be his grave.

Soon they're peering in, catching him with the red around his mouth. Crusted pussyjuice and pieces of gore stuck in the stubble he hasn't properly shaved. Staring, a blur of faces, awaiting answers. Robb saves him. Or, a stranger, whose voice cuts through the crowd. "Theon! There you are. Robb's waiting for you in his bedroom. Says its urgent."

Nobody wants to piss of Robb. They all scowl at Theon as he passes. Mumbles, "When you come back…" Then the truth awaits.

.

.

With a stomach full of butterflies—or since its him: maggots—Theon stands in Robb's room. Been a long time since he was here. A year? Video games in the corner. Chilling at the bed. Hell, they read their first porn magazine in that bed, Theon lazily turning the pages and Robb looking through his fingers. Now, the room is dark and cold. The window is the only source of light and it's open wide. Ruins the memories. Increases the butterflies / maggots. The curtains shiver like ghosts.

"Robb, hey, thanks."

Robb is turned away, peering down at the framed photo and football trophy collection that's accumulated over nearly two decades. On the photos, happy faces. In the center of it all: a fat baby Robb with three double chins.

(There exists no baby pictures of Theon. Though if any did, he wouldn't be fat in them.)

"Um, yeah. You saved me there buddy. I ate a girl out and she – I think she had her period or something," disgusted laughter, "isn't that gross? They're like a mob down there, waiting for me to explain myself. Ha! Fuck. I'm always the gross one, yeah? Betcha that never happened with Cu— …uuuh, Talisa," chuckles, nervous, "but you'll have you rrreal wedding night soon? Did you invite me up here for tips? Want me to test the softness of the mattress?"

No answer.

Cold sweat on Theon's back. The alcohol isn't helping. It results in mouth-diarrhea x100. He stammers. Contradicts himself.

"Listen, you're mad I broke her nose, right? Didn't mean to, got angry… Truth is I'm jealous, see? I'm jealous she has so much of your attention, and that you love her, and that you barely have time for me, and you're my best friend so, I don't know, I just think friendships better than lovers? Lovers don't last. But, like, I got nothing against the fact that you're together, I think it's great, but I love you too, and I think friends are better – closer than lovers, but if you don't want me here I'll go, so maybe—?"

"You'll leave him like you did me?"

Reality jars.

The person inspecting the photos isn't Robb. Couldn't have been, jaw is too thick, too round, not perfect… The person turns his ugly head. Eyes sharp and the colour of no. The tongue writhes out from the mouth, and is caught between front teeth and bitten down on like on a wild slug. Theon's stomach flips. "I was just wondering whether or not you'd leave him too. Or do you get off by him ignoring you, abusing you through silence?"

"Bolton."

"You remember! Good doggie." As patronizing as usual, but there's something off about him. Little twitches.

"Why are you here?"

"I missed you."

Those words were all he ever wanted but they came from the wrong mouth. Theon takes a sharp intake of air and gives Bolton two middle fingers. "Fuck off. I'm not playing this game," he says and walks to the door. A realization: the floor doesn't creak like in his bedroom. Cool anger. Theon got the bad room.

His hand is on the knob when Bolton hastily says, "What about the mob?"

"What mob."

"The one that's gathered downstairs because you bit that girl's sweetparts."

Theon turns towards Bolton.

He marvels under scrutiny, wormlips trembling, body swaying. Is he under the influence? Tipsy? "Hey, I'm not the one to judge." The façade has cracks. "Buuut they will. It'd be nicer here. Safer."

"With you?"

"We can just talk."

"You don't like to talk."

"Not really." Bolton sits down on the bed. Pats the space beside him. Reluctantly, Theon sits.

"Did you mean what you said – about friendships being stronger than romance? Than soulmates?" Up close, Theon can see Bolton's nervous-habit / tic of chewing nothing, sees him chew harder at the tip of his tongue, like he's gonna draw blood, like gonna bite clean through. Health, deteriorating—because of Theon's presence? "True llllove, idolized. God is dead but somebody still has save you."

"You my soulmate, Bolton?" Theon drawls. "You – my savior, my god?" It ends in laughter on his part, but Bolton doesn't laugh. He just smiles. Theon dries his eyes, spawls out on the bed. Smells like Robb. Bolton fixes it soon enough. He leans down and drags his teeth against Theon's exposed neck, drags them against the jugular. Crazy intimate. And like the cold sweat, the breath, the electricity – it all rises to the surface of Theon's skin together with who or why. Pores extraditing filth. He thinks of the distinct moments he will remember until he'll die…

The first meeting. Cellar of some party. Loud, bad, repetitive music and equal repetition from when Robb fucked CT in the neighboring room while Theon got fucked in an entirely different way. He remembers the cold sore.

The second meeting. The time he fell in— …was broken in into Dog, an identity a little more comfortable than most for Theon. Broken ribs. Wailing.

One, two.

"I can save you."

Three.

Theon laughs again. "Okay." He doesn't see Bolton anymore, stares at the ceiling, looks for patches of rot and finds none.

"So you say yes?"

With Bolton in (his) bed, almost healthy, and allowed decision, Theon is happy. Cured? He drags the other's body to him and hears a heart going like mad, and he says, "Yes." A mantra of consent, of —

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

…

(Save me, god, please save me.)

"Hey."

"What?" Theon asks in a slur. He's happy for the first time in weeks. Drunk and out of it, he's received comfort from a guy he never expected anything from.

"Thanks for making this easier."

The punch hits him is so hard it sends him reeling into to bed.

So this is how CT felt. Dazed, numb, fluid rolling down from his nose. Is this a taste of what it feels like when Bolton loses control? The pasty face in the dark. Up close: a Halloween mask that's melted and reshaped itself into something far more horrifying. Theon relives that intense first meeting, another party, the first almost-death, just being in Bolton's presence is a death sentence in itself. While Theon is still recovering, Bolton crawls over him to the side and pulls up a backpack, getting some materials. Duct tape. It's rolled out in a demonstrative, childish fashion. It's put over Theon's mouth.

"You said yes," Bolton says wetly. Sledgehammer hands flex in Theon's peripheral vision. They start undressing him, lovingly. Theon lies immobile. "You said yes!" Spittle flies.

Theon flinches. Something's changed. This is bad. Really bad. He's in a bad room.

And so is Bolton, rational mind closed around itself, hibernating.

"Gotten fat," Bolton muses, grabbing hold of Theon's stomach fat, something he couldn't do previously. There is brown under Bolton's fingernails. "Comfort eating? Cute." He's like a child again, grabby, rutting against Theon. Who's the dog here? Bolton wants him completely nude, takes his time stripping and cutting through fabric with a knife, shreds jeans and shirt and jacket with angry little growls and burps and other throaty sounds, throws the torn up clothing off the bed like he's angry that clothing exists in proximity to Theon. As if he's angry that Theon still thinks himself human. Like a rag doll Theon's placed face down, ass up. "What's wrong?" Bolton mumbles. He's getting impatient, sick of being so nice. Trembling. Temptation. Clawing draw red lines in Theon's back, one deeper than the next, nails all ragged (has he been chewing?). "Are you okay, babygirl?"

That strikes a nerve.

Call him a dog, but a girl? The noise starts. Whining, keening, squealing… Bolton just hits him again, harder this time, annoyed. Back of the head. Theon nearly passes out. He doesn't feel in touch with himself.

Numb—?

Bolton stretches him only as much as he needs to, enough that none of them will get lasting damage from this. A momentary diversion: a bottle of lube. Sticky sounds. He doesn't waste time. It's uncomfortable, not unbearable, just like it's meant to be, and the whole not-that-painful-thing leaves an awful feeling in Theon's chest, solar plexus pain, but he can't put his finger on it, voiceless, dizzy. Numb.

Bolton starts fucking in earnest, smothering Theon with his greater weight. The muscles in his thighs burn and his legs fall asleep. Bolton whines and is his usual gross self.

"This alright?" he asks. "You paying attention?" Theon can't answer because of the bandage Bolton put there but it still pisses him off, the stupid childish fuck (don't be mad you wanted this you wanted this you wanted—), so he retaliates by biting and biting until Theon's back is covered with oozing wounds. Not the neck though, he's not that stupid yet. It's difficult to think and the whole bed is moving, damn non-creaky floorboards and proper isolation. Pace is sloppy, uneven. Inexperienced. Bolton gets wilder and in a pure primal way he bites the back of his neck, probably eats some hairs in the process. Probably wants to eat Theon whole if he could.

The person you can't stand you can't "swallow". And the person you love?

I just wanna eat you up.

Theon shudders.

"Good, yeah? Uh, unff, hang on…!"

Bolton rises to his knees in the bed, wobbly, fattier than muscle-y, takes Theon's leg and holds it up and fucks him sideways. It doesn't really do anything for him. A slight burn. Yet the feeling… the feeling…

The pace quickens.

Nightmarish warnings off what happens when you go bareback fills Theon's head. He starts panicking, shaking, hands and feet and arms and legs all working desperately to get him loose. Bolton tires of it, rips the bandage off. "Stop," there's no safeword, Theon's screaming, he's changed his mind, doesn't want it, "no, stop stop! No, no, no no no no!"

A beat.

"Why?"

"I…" and it's infantile, world reduced to fundamental needs, "need to poop." Voice half-choked, low, forced forth by someone who's seconds away from crying. It'd be funny but Theon is further away from laughter than ever.

"It's alright. I love you," Bolton says, then slams himself back in.

A fleeting thought: Bolton said he understood the word no, not that he had to listen.

Theon's eyeballs nearly pop out and it's painful now, because his mind is fighting it, body too, trying to hold it in, feels the diarrhea squirm through his intestines. Bolton—thank god—comes prematurely with a choked hacking sound. He pulls out, breathing hard.

A beat.

Theon shits himself in Robb's wedding bed.

There is no reaction from Bolton. At all. He doesn't deem it disgusting. Judging by the tilt of the mattress he's just sitting there, staring, probably doing the maggot-thing in his mouth.

Theon must move. Must. Or this room will…

Is.

This room has become his grave.

Theon fees dead, passes out, head ringing with a thousand I love yous. When he wakes up he'll feel nothing at all.

"You better clean yourself up," is the last thing he hears, "you're starting to reek."

Chapter Text

"We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are."

— Anthony Marra, from “A Constellation of Vital Phenomena”

.

.

Theon stands a distance from civilization when he finally dares to call Jeyne Poole. He's crouched down, obscured behind a tree with thick, green leaves, surrounded by birdsong and the humming of insects. Sounds of nature put him on edge. The sun can't reach him here. All the past week's horror bottled up so tight he'll afraid his jaw will break when he speaks. Anger he's unfamiliar with, but fear he knows like a lover. He trembles while he finds her number. The phone transmits the call and all is shaking: leaves, the ground, him. When Jeyne doesn't answer, he tries to call again. He's afraid Robb will come look for him (he'd said he'd needed to pee), and he's afraid of everything, of the birds and the bugs especially... He sends a quick call me text before he has a horrible, horrible episode, 16:48 on a Saturday, in the middle of the woods. The noise gets louder, screeching, noise — noise — noise, until he starts floating in the air and he's paralyzed, the sun can't reach him here and he goes blind with periods of agonizing visions and intense anxiety.

And with an emotional high comes the eventual crash. All his feelings fall to the ground like rotten fruit and vanish. His body, no longer his. Takes him a while to understand that he's walking away from under the tree.

He's numb, but at least he gets his senses back.

The smell of newly mown grass. A fenced-in surface outside town, with plenty of fresh air and space for a farm and dog kennel. Robb is talking to the owner, who answers all questions gravely, a grizzled and unsentimental man. Robb talks race, the pedigree, possible competitions (exhibition, agility…), illness and owner specifications…

Theon would've preferred a cat. "Is it clean?" he asks. If the dog relieves itself in the bed the whole mattress will have to go.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Does it piss inside?"

A grey eyebrow twitches. "Considering its age and possible stress when you move him from a location to another may trigger a small accident. But no. We take our kennel", high-classed puppy mill, more like it, "and dogs very seriously."

"Alright," Theon says. Robb shoots him a look. He relents, "I mean, sure. I get it. Thank you."

The conversation continues. False politeness. Details. Pure breed, female, a little fat. Theon doesn't feel anything towards it. Today is a bad day. He's numb; cares about nothing, loses his train of thought often so when he tries to have a conversation he has to pause and remember what he were trying to say, mind riddled with static. His hair is unwashed, greasy. Robb handles everything, from the transaction to contact information. They get the puppy inside the cage in the back of the car (Theon doesn't really feel comfortable with cages but says nothing, he promised).

Robb's phone starts playing a pop song, his ringtone, Theon remembers. Robb never hesitates taking a call, doesn't mind if the number's unknown. Doesn't pause or think things through before calling someone. "It's the hospital," he notes, mildly curious, and answers with a friendly grin even if they can't see. "Yes, it's Robb Stark." His face shifts. Grin slides off his face. Tone falters. "Yes, yes, I understand. I understand. I'll be there. Yes."

To weep upon each frown, to dance at each smile... It is difficult to be so dependent on another human being. Theon feels his own mood change drastically, overcome with dread.

"It's Mother," Robb says. "She's dead."

.

.

Robb drives straight to hospital. He doesn't stop to breathe, or think. Doesn't want to be touched, either, just stares blankly ahead, hands white. Curled over the wheel. Unblinking. It's quite a queue, scowling car drivers leaning on their elbows, keeping the distance between the cars as small as possible. It occurs to Theon that except for Robb's recent breakdown in the kitchen he's never comforted him before. Robb has been the adult, the one with the backrubs and advices. He welcomed Theon out of the mental hospital—but Theon never got to welcome him out of anything, too caught up in his own bullshit to help when the ones Robb loved most fell like flies. A relationship built on such a power balance is prone to fail, he's heard. He still doesn't know what to say though, so he looks out the window. Fields, endless fields. Open spaces; unfamiliar.

On the side of the road, there's a spot of brown that's too big to be a roadkill. A dog. Lower half driven over, grounded onto the ground, hind legs broken and intestines scooped out on the heated motor road. The upper half is shaking, trying to drag itself forward, eyes nearly popping out of its head, flies like an external coat. It's a stray, that much is clear, rough patches of skin and rotten fur showing. Nobody is stopping. The cars just slowly drive by. Other people look out their window, too—a brief look of pity, disgust.

Somebody ought to help that poor thing.

Things. Suddenly, like a flash, Theon imagines girls stretched out instead, twisted bloody bodies, face looking at nothing. Ugly in death. Still. The cars keep driving, paying little attention to the corpses. Another flash: gone. All that's left is the dying dog, and it's slowly disappearing from view. Their own puppy whimpers in the backseat, and Theon feels a cracking kinship with both of them.

.

.

To undestand someone else's pain. To slip under their skin for a moment.

Theon closes his eyes for a moment: imagines what it would be like to lose your entire family, in a coherent state. Or: finding out some of them had been lost for a long time. First his wife, due to labour complications. Then his child, who'd been dead for a month or two, but the wife had insisted on using alternative medicine. While mad with grief, tragedy had struck again, the same week: police chief Ned Stark was found dead in his own house, sitting in the living room chair, with his head missing. Catelyn Stark was there with him, looking like a stone, and they never got out of her what had happened that afternoon. Less than a month later, Robb's long-long adoptive brother had resurfaced, found in a chest in a serial killer's hideout. How did Robb recover from that? How did he manage to stand up in the morning?

Theon gets back to reality, hanging out in St. Ambrose Home's waiting room. The other people look worn, tired. Theon is careful about maintaining the silence, stomach tensed as to keep it from growling, as not to disturb the others, or the Other within himself, so acquainted with sterility. Theon has bought some flowers, doesn't know what kind, but they smell nice. That's what people do when people die, right? Dying flowers, empty condolences, intrusive hugs? Death and its rituals are not strangers to him. He's… a little skittish, thinks it's better for Robb to be alone with the corpse of his mother. He's never been there when grief was still raw in Robb, after losing his dad, mother going mad with grief, then his wife, his child… Family falling apart, slowly. Always insisting the caskets be closed. Will it be in this funeral, also?

Theon should've worn something else. He either wears the same outfit constantly or changes ten times before going somewhere. But he loses interest in fashion when he discovers a security camera and glares at it for a full minute.

Soon enough Robb comes walking, looking like a ghost.

Theon holds up the flowers, a question mark.

Robb looks at them. "Right," he says, "flowers. You should take them to her, I," breath hitches, shutting off again. "I'll wait in the car. You should say goodbye."

"I don't…"

"You should. Now." Accusation? No, just frustration. A hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Robb is not abusive because Robb is Ramsay.

"Alright," Theon says.

"I'll wait in the car. Take your time."

Theon breathes through his nose, feeling like the hospital is closing in on him. He's never been in a hospital alone before, much less in a room with her. But Robb just moves away, pale, in a state of shock.

.

.

Yep. She's pretty dead. Judging by the rigor mortis she must've died within 24 hours.

Head buzzing with static, Theon lays the flowers on her hospital bed. In no time she'll be wrapped in a white cloth and brought out of her room, polished and dumped in a coffin. A new body will be laid in the bed instead. Checked up on regularly. Body turned to the side, oiled in, laid back. Served breakfast - lunch - dinner through tubes. A life surrounded by passive sentences devoid of pronouns. The room is hot, the sun shining through the window, baking the corpse. Theon can describe the human decomposition process flawlessly, but he does not dwell on why. It won't smell yet, that he knows, so he breathes in the usual odour of clean, and just beneath that a kind of more natural more human scent. In short, again: it always kind of smells like semen in the hospital room.

"I'm sorry," Theon mumbles, not sure what he's apologizing for. Existing?

"She cannot hear you."

This time he doesn't flinch. "Littlefinger." For some reason (a reason that will soon become very clear to him) he abandons former principles and calls Baelish by the wretched nickname. The surprise? Distain? No, him being here made sense, him being a family friend and all. Littlefinger doesn't seem to mind. The corpse consumes his attention. Looks like he hasn't slept in a while. Clothes shabby, ugly shades brown, sort of shit you throw together when you gotta go out fast.

"Do you mourn her?" Littlefinger asks. "She was your mother too, after all."

"Really?" asks Theon, and another person (but not it, exactly) sits down on the bed and curls his legs into a yoga position. "I must've missed the tender moments."

"I didn't," Littlefinger jokes humourlessly, scratching away drool from his stubbled chin. Is he... numb, too? Unavailable to connect with his own emotions because of things outside his control? What was his relationship and why...

"How often do you come here?"

"More than you. And Robb. More than anybody." He adds a layer of spit to his lips. It shines. Theon waits until Littlefinger admits, "Daily."

"What's the purpose?"

"No purpose. It's absolutely meaningless."

Theon doesn't know how to continue their conversation, so he leans back on the bed. Some of the flowers fall off, noiselessly. Meaningless. In his numbness Theon acquires the cold eye: the ability to observe without interruption from empathy. In his state, everything is revealed in its true purposelessness and inanity. "What's that?" he idly wonders. Upon Littlefinger's frown, he points at the bottle of Vaseline not yet removed from the hospital room.

"Ah. Body cream. To make sure her skin doesn't..."

"Nah," Theon says, "I've seen the bills. This isn't a Vaseline kind of place." Theon uses Vaseline to relieve a sore nose and dry lips during winter because Theon is shit-poor. There is a bad atmosphere blooming. It is not the corpse, nor the insufferable heat. Theon, suddenly hyperaware, puts his face closer to the thing that once contained a soul and sniffs.

Littlefinger's mask cracks.

He doesn't actually smell anything but clean cotton, but Littlefinger has still gone rigid. Two instances of rigor mortis in this room, then. Theon tilts his head to the side like the dog did, inner coolness (emptiness) allowing simple reflection.

"I did not poison her," Littlefinger exlaims, with a tiny wobble.

"That's not what I thought," Theon says. "You loved her."

"I love her." Littlefinger's love is not lethal if you're cooperative—which she would be in her vegetable state. That's the only way she'll let him get close to her without clawing his eyes out. "I have always loved her. Always."

The Vaseline, the frequent visits, the smell of semen.

"You loved her," Theon deduces slowly, "so you fucked her when she couldn't say no." He waits for the rejection, the accusations, the insults. More flowers fall to the floor as he sits up, casual.

Littlefinger says nothing.

Oh. Theon's leg starts stomping until he forcibly stills it with trembling hands. After holding it for a while, he brings the hands up, inspecting them, wondering why. Suddenly he remembers a fraction of human manners. "Gross," he says.

"Nobody would believe you," Littlefinger immediately responds. "I pay them too much."

"Yep," Theon agrees, "sure." His tone is light. Queasiness overcomes him for a second, and just like he's learned it's difficult to distinguish between friendly and romantic affection when in a depressed—or numb—state, it's also difficult to distinguish between the urge to cough and to vomit. When he jumps off the hospital bed all the flowers finally fall off, lying hazardously on the ground, having lost leaves and petals on impact. Disgusting, because of their relation to the ground. Shame: the ground can be a fertile place. Theon gets up and leaves, mind still buzzing like a ruined television.

"Oh, and Theon?"

"What?" Theon asks, turning around.

A thought hits him: maybe Littlefinger will call him names. Belittle him. Tell him how gross he is for coming to that conclusion, that he was only doing a psychological experiment. Joke's on him though: Theon could complete the circle of sex by using this as masturbation fodder.

"Do we still have an appointment next week?" Littlefinger asks.

"Sure," Theon answers, grin brittle.

.

.

"My condolences."

Standing right outside Catelyn Stark's hospital room, Roose judges him with flat eyes. He's wearing an ashen wool jumper, anonymous and versatile. Black jeans, brown boots—is that a mud stain? Appears to be a normal guy. Isn't.

Theon almost thanks Roose out of habit. "I'm not the one to lend your condolences to," he says.

"I suspect Robb wouldn't take well to me seeking him out. Still. Perhaps I should send a fruit basket." Was that a joke? Theon stays silent. Roose continues, "On the other hand, this can be something positive. A month longer and you'd be debt. St. Ambrose's Home is overpriced and The Stark fortune is gone. You were done a favor, boy."

Boy? What kind of frozen universe does Roose live in? Theon starts shuddering, but it doesn't break him. Slight disgust lingers over his discovery about Littlefinger. He keeps his tone neutral, "How do you know all this? The death, the hospital information…"

"This game is much older than you," Roose says. "It's nearing its end, too."

A nurse passes them, looks at Roose and then down as if struck by lightning. Theon starts noticing other staff members doing the same, some taking a complete u-turn. The implications are unnerving. Bribery? Or something more sinister? He isn't inspecting the home in case he grows old, that much is certain.

Roose has his hands in his pockets, still. Waiting.

That's the scary thing with Roose: you never know when he's going to move, but when he does, it's so sudden and unexpected you don't even feel the pain and you don't even get mad afterwards—like having your head shoved in an aquarium full of leeches. Theon shifts, uneasy.

"The funeral is going to be expensive," Roose comments.

Theon thinks about how Robb wanted a designer dog. While he did enjoy it as a contrast to a certain someone, he also thinks about the stray dog he saw half-smashed into the pavement on his way here. "Yeah, probably."

Roose waits. Theon, too. He's making him say it.

"You know what I want."

"Enlighten me."

"Not yet. Regardless, I'll pay if you let me fuck you again."

Say no. Walk away. C'mon. "Alright," Theon says. "How much?"

Roose throws out a number: he's upped the price 10x. Theon doesn't really get economics, he's never handled any kind, but he knows funerals so 10 000$ is what a fancy coffin costs. Maybe it'll relieve his guilt over mama Stark. ...And make Robb happy. Theon frowns; it is seldom Robb comes second. Oh well. Money. Roose begins to walk. Theon follows. It kind of... works for him. Anticipation, expectancy, dread. Roose seems to have zero kinks except maybe leeches (here Theon wonders if he puts them on his dick), so Theon wonders what the purpose of the sex is. Is Roose just human and horny? Unlikely.

Taking a sharp turn, Roose walks into a random hospital room.

"Mouth or ass?" Theon asks, not really paying attention.

"You can choose."

Ooh, a choice. Theon's answer is to kneel. Hard on the knees, but easier to clean. Roose touches Theon's face, stroking, using its pressure points to check his teeth. Theon, still numb, kind of bored and grinning (grimacing? teeth are showing) for some reason, remembers when he was force-fed by doctors. They'd forced his mouth open with a steel gag. His gums bled, and he vomited most of the liquid up afterward, so it wasn't effective until they gave him medication to stop vomiting. Breaking teeth, cutting up the tongue, jaw strained. Ah, force-feeding: a legal form of torture. To stop the vomiting, he was medicated with... metoclopramide? He remembers the names, even if he can't connect them. He insisted on memorizing the name of every goddamn pill they shoved into him, because how come they got to have complicated names when he didn't?

And then there is a cock, sliding in and hitting the back of his throat in one fluent motion.

Slack-jawed, Theon doesn't choke. Muscle memory. Trauma.

Theon goes to work, steadies himself with one hand on the back of Roose's bony ass. He deep-throats Roose. Sucks till his cheeks hollow. He won't choke. Hasn't in years. Once or twice he lets the cock hit the inside of his cheek or rasp slightly over his teeth to provide different sensations. There isn't a sound above—albeit a cruel god, Roose is not loud. Theon, gaining confidence, reaches out to fondle his balls. Roose isn't faced by it and slaps Theon away, pushing him backwards until he loses balance, muscle memory the only thing stopping his jaw to close in surprise, and the back of his head slams against the wall. No points for enthusiasm. A cuntskull. Pulling Theon up by his hair, Roose starts fucking his mouth. Theon wonders if he's an "it" in Roose's mind, a hole to fill. Hm. He settles on a vague "nah"—coming out more as a hum considering what occupies his mouth at the moment—and relaxes. Gets an out-of-body experience. The nature painting above his head shakes, same with the vase on the table, more flowers loosing petals thanks to him. Roose pubic hair is trimmed, neat. No signs of wetness / strain. He's allowed to breathe through his mouth for a second, before Roose pushes back in. Theon getting into it, sucking, gets a light tug of hair (and not the good kind) accompanied by a frown, so he stops trying.

To weep upon each frown, to dance at each smile... Yes, it is difficult to be so dependent on another human being, but it seems as though it's not just one person, it's several. Roose's dismissal hits hard. Has he lost his skill?

Poker-faced, Roose removes himself with a wet pop!, despite being hard. It's startlingly loud.

Roose isn't the only one who can play the waiting game. Theon rearranges himself so his legs are in front of his chest. He hugs them and sticks his tongue out, licking his lips. He likes to think the wetness is precum, not drool. Soon, Roose steps aside and gestures—if the barely-there movement can be categorized at such—at the bed.

"Anal? Then I double the price," Theon states, half-jokingly, but it comes out serious.

"Alright," Roose says.

Oh. Theon pushes himself up, knees cracking. Roose is moving in a half-circle, watching. He soon finds out why Roose wants to continue. It isn't about sex. He should've known because with Roose, it's never about sex.

There.

On the bed.

A face.

Theon blinks, hallucinating that Catelyn Stark is watching them. He's doing this to pay for her casket so he isn't surprised. However, Roose is staring too, expectant, so Theon moves closer. It isn't Catelyn, but it's defiantly a person, hairless, open-mouthed and crying. He can't discern anything but wrinkles so prominent the tears can't run straight down. The eyes are nearly closed, sometimes twitching. A big parasite, hooked up to an IV and a PEG tube drilled through its stomach wall. Maybe there's a living will somewhere.

"Is... Are they self-aware?" Theon asks in a voice that isn't his own.

"We aren't sure," Roose replies.

"Who are 'we'."

"The doctors. Other personnel." When did Roose become a part of them? "But we take care of her nevertheless. Case files specifies she has a team of nurses all dedicated to keeping her as happy as possible."

Another memory: learning what nurses at the mental hospital were nice. There were those who changed the TV channels regularly even if Theon couldn't speak, and those who put the same shitty movie on repeat. There were those who was willing to clean him up on regular basis, and those who waited until shit had crusted on his legs, rashes weeping and bedsores beyond painful.

Roose knows this.

Roose knows because he is the only sane one who visited Theon in the hospital.

It is the fastest Theon has ever seen him move, because suddenly Roose is holding his arms out, and Theon gets the image of Jesus on the cross in his mind.

"This is a nice aquarium, don't you think?"

Is that how Roose sees them? Leeches?

"Want me to suck you like a leech?" Theon asks.

"No."

"...You want to fuck me on the bed?" he tries again. No answer is an answer in itself. Theon nods and ponders, "You never did like," Catelyn—but recognizing her name will name a problem, "Mrs. Stark, did you?" He looks on the bed. It's big enough for there to be a space beneath the living corpse's feet. Good.

"I feel nothing for Catelyn Stark. She played her part long ago. You, however, are still vital."

"Vital in what?"

"The game."

Cryptic.

Theon says, voice hard, "C'mon. Robb's waiting outside." The hairs on the back of his neck rises as Roose's warm breath ghost over them. Shouldn't it be cold? He never heard Roose move. Unlike his son, who drags his feet and stumbles and twitches like a kid that never learned to walk properly, Roose moves with surgical precision. Each limb, each eyelash, each extension of himself, a weapon he wields expertly. He is one of the few who fills his skin completely. Clumsiness seems impossible. "Hurry up," Theon urges, a little breathless.

Roose goes through the same procedure as last time, though pauses momentarily to inspect Theon's bare ass like a curator would. Theon looks nowhere, thinks about nothing. A single finger between his shoulder blades presses him down, forcing him to bend over the bed on his elbows. Head down, oily kelp-like curls touching the mattress. Roose says, "You should get a buzzcut. Easier." His brain stores the information away. The sheets smells like nothing. Theon feels nothing.

A hand, parting his butt cheeks, slowly. Theon bites back a wince.

"When was the last time you showered?"

"Yesterday. I think." Dazed,. What, does he smell? Is he dirty—down there?

Theon thinks shame would be the proper response but he only feels numb with the vague undercurrent of fear and guilt this state bears: emotionally blind, deaf, dumb, mute, though such similes aren’t effective unless one has gone through the experience yourself. Perhaps it'd be better than panic-anxiety disorder, if he didn't lose so much time.

"Hm. Squeeze your legs together." Theon does. He feels Roose's spit-slicked erection push between his thighs, and loosens up a bit to let him pass. No anal... Half of the price, then? Still a lot. Still… turning Theon on. Embarrassingly so. The dampness and friction adds to it, plus the Thing who does this to him reeks the kind of power and cruelty that makes him hard. The Thing still does not make a sound. He tries to check but his head is pushed down in the mattress again without warning. "Easy," Roose says. When Theon tries again to use his arms to steady himself they're both restrained, wrists held at his back. A lesson in restraint. To show Theon who's the boss.

Though, the thing is... The thing is, when Roose restrained his wrists he noticed how brittle and old the man had become. Lifting heavy stuff at work seems to have worked wonders for Theon, because his body is stronger, and he's younger than Roose, and he wonders if he could overpower Roose if he wanted to.

Experimental, Theon presses his thighs together and is rewarded with a slight hitch of breath from behind him. He tucks the information away, and pushes his ass out for Daddy instead. Loses himself in the friction, gets off on the restraint, the submission, the idea of being good. It's hard on his limbs, but he kind of likes it. Is he discovering kinks or resurrecting old ones?

The buzz of an approaching subspace is cut short when someone begins to scream.

Theon thinks it's himself at first. But unless his numbness is playing tricks on him again his mouth is closed. He can't move, but sees the slight lump in the covers where the feet lie in front of him, and realizes the screaming logically comes from the head. Her head.

Roose hasn't stopped moving.

"Hey," he says, hoarse, but it's nearly drowned out, "hey, Roose, what if someone hears?"

As on cue, a nurse enters. He's never seen someone freeze that fast.

"Wait ten minutes," Roose tells him.

"...Sir, please," the nurse insists, meek but still loud enough to speak over the screaming (more like a semi-loud crying about now), "she's in immense pain." So he knows who Roose is. Drawing a shaky breath, the nurse continues, "She needs an—"

Roose holds up a hand and the nurse's mouth shuts. "Ten minutes." The nurse doesn't move. "Ten minutes," Roose repeats, "or you lose your job." Reluctantly, the nurse leaves. He casts a look at Theon but there is no blame, no surprise. The door closes. His shadow remains outside the frosted window.

Theon's hair is grabbed and Roose picks up his pace, slamming into him, over him. Heavy. Theon is squeezed down to nothing. The bed shakes. The woman cries.

Dissociation: Yeah, maybe he ought to get a haircut.

Roose must've finished sometime later. Theon returns to himself and is surprised at the lack of fluid dripping. Roose isn't hard, that much is clear when he steps back re-buttons his pants.

"Why did you visit me in the hospital?" Theon wonders, and his throat is dry, erection gone.

Roose, as expected, does not answer. He takes out his wallet, gives Theon a few rolled-up bouts, already counted. He knew Theon wouldn't say no—he never says no. But he hasn't doubled it.

They walk towards the door, and the medical team hurry past them.

"Just in time for her abdominal massage," Roose comments. He leaves Theon standing outside, walking away with his hands in his pockets. "Continue going to school," Roose says. "You're doing well."

.

.

In the car, Robb greets him with a dazed smile. "I'm glad you took your time."

Theon fakes a happy expression. Robb seems to think it's alright. For some reason it pisses Theon off. Impassive, he sniffs in the air. "I think the dog has pissed in the car."

"It smells weird, yeah," Robb replies, elsewhere. His eyes shine. "It might be you. Let me wash your face."

"Why?"

Robb is already plucking out a crazy amount of baby wipes from a pack he keeps in his door. "You have a little something... A little something, on your face." The smell of sex is suddenly so thick and clogging Theon gags. Is there cum on his face? "Yep," Robb says, smiling too wide, "you smell it too." The baby wipes are used to wipe Theon's face off—or, almost. Robb is putting an absurd amount of force into cleaning him. An image: Robb on all fours scrubbing a kitchen floor with bleach, trying to get any spots he might've missed the first time around. Making it like new. Looking for freshness underneath. The whole situation is absurd, and on the fourth wiping session, Theon feels a deep, deep pressure bloom inside.

A second baptism.

"Marry me," Robb says.

"Sure," Theon says. A heat starts in his face, wells outwards. He doesn't recognize what he's feeling but feels dizzy with it. Later, he will come to recognize this emotion as rage.

For now he thinks he ought to feed the dog, or at least air it for a bit.

He doesn't.

Chapter Text

He goes to school.

He pretends to go to work.

He arranges the funeral together with Robb, but they have to wait two weeks (!) to wait for all the Stark kids to come home, so mama Stark resides in a freezer for the time being.

This morning, when Theon woke up Robb kissed him on the mouth, curled around his side, penis small and wet: an apology against Theon's thigh.

And the rage won't stop.

It follows him around the house, a horrible heat in his chest and a constant grin on his lying mouth. Robb wears a similar dopey face, laughing loudly, volume uneven, while he plays with the puppy and calls various friends and family to tell of the news and plan the funeral. His voice is sad but determined, good-natured, the new head of the family taking his rightful place and comforting instead of being comforted, all of it so fake Theon nearly vomits whenever he is near. And he is always near—has been the last decade. He cannot get away, because even when Robb is in another room his smell lingers, clogs, things spread about, a lover's warnings, a voodoo drink: the gathering of hairs, effluences, the body's shed ephemera. Each stand of hair contains a soul. Theon ghosts the house, grinning, and nearly kicks after the puppy when comes near. It avoids him, proving that the built-in litmus test in animals works well.

He clutches his phone and he reads his messages and watches the pictures with intent, refusing to back down. There's a lot of gore and horror, there. The more decent ones are from papers, the graphic ones screenshots. Stewing in emotional garbage, he doesn't understand that someone's calling him until it's almost too late.

"What the fuck, Jeyne," he growls into the phone, a little too fast. It'll all tickle out of him in a second, all the built-up pain and anger, why are you telling them to do this, why do you dig in the past, why are you trying to destroy my life? Vaguely, he remembers the recorded screaming.

"...Not Jeyne," comes the quiet answer.

"What?" Theon removes the phone from his ear and is startled by Ramsay Bolton's number staring back. "Hang on a sec," he says, and nearly sprints over to the bathroom to lock himself in. He fumbles with the lock—old device, bronze, been meaning to change it for ages. "What do you want?" he asks, voice surprisingly steady. Talking to Bolton is about as uncomfortable as finding the toilet seat warm. Mundane, but icky.

"Jeyne's been... They've been calling me. Sending messages."

Theon sucks in a breath. There's humidity from a previous shower session, making breathing difficult and fabric clammy. "What d'you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know," Bolton says, muffled. Noisy fuck. Is he eating? Yep, he's eating, there's the wet grind of teeth and tongue. "You said: what the... Jeyne." What, he can't curse? He must've heard Theon's snort, because the embarrassment is audible when he says, "You said Jeyne's name, I heard you. I definitely heard you. They're contacting you, too, right? The b— girls. The women," he adds as an afterthought. He isn't eating anymore. "They talk about you."

"They... what?"

"They talk about you. In their messages. Photos. You're," a shaky breath, "there."

Theon walks into the shower. Slides down, curls up, hand sweaty from clutching the phone so hard. He finally asks, "Me? Or Reek?"

The tone is wry, "Sometimes you, sometimes..."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it."

"I can show you, if you want. I don't if you don't want to but... Uh, there's this other thing too, with the ah, barn. One I can't say over phone." In case anyone's listening.

Theon understands the paranoia and says, "I'll meet you outside your apartment."

"No," Bolton says, "that'd be suspicious. They'd know."

"Theon?" Robb calls. Theon flinches. "What do you want for dinner? Are you sick, is your stomach acting up again?"

Theon holds the phone to his heart, unintentionally, when answering, "Yeah, sorta sick. I'll skip dinner today, alright?" Theon then hisses into the phone, "Meet me with the barn," and hangs up before he can fathom the implications of what he said.

"You shouldn't," Robb says through the door. Theon freezes, until he continues, "You'll only keep getting worse if you skip meals. Let me make you some sandwiches, alright?"

"Yeah," Theon says, walking over to wash the sweat from his hands. He splashes some in his face and greets Robb with water dripping from him, a towel around his shoulders. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," Robb says, smile goofy, but if Theon looks too close he'll see the angst shining through the cracks. Night cream shines damp and unabsorbed beneath Robb's bright-dark eyes.

They walk to the kitchen, Robb always up ahead.

Marriage should not come at an extreme height of happiness, nor an extreme low. Theon knows this, yet feels powerless to stop it. Marriage, for him, means another chain. And he can already hear his old ones rattle whenever he moves.

They make jam sandwiches in silence, their smiles equally strained.

The puppy bounces in and Robb looks at it with soft eyes, and Theon frowns. Then he gets why he dislikes the dog. The look Robb's giving it is the same as the one he gives Theon. All his feelings for me is like for a dog.

"I think I need to get out of the house for a bit," Theon says, licking jam from his hand, scraping his teeth against it.

"Why?"

"I need air." Fly past the ether, ethereal, breathing airlessness, vacuum, able to fly past the concept of height itself: up, up.

"Is there someone else?" Robb asks so suddenly and Theon gapes until he says, "No? Then I don't see why you need to go."

"I need to..."

"What do you need?" I can provide it.

"Air. I need some fresh air."

Robb puts the sandwiches inside a plastic bag and seals it. He hands it to Theon, who takes it and walks out. "Good luck," Robb says.

"On what?"

"On getting your air." Robb waits. The rage, which Theon feels; Robb suffers from it also. The taunt muscles, the haunted face. When Theon halts and watches Robb's face, Robb reaches for him, then stops, and retreats. A millenium pass between them.

"Sorry," Theon says, "but I need to go."

"I don't see why. And if..." Robb trails off, then his expression goes into one of absolute pity—and it is pity, for how much Theon would've liked it to be understanding— and he states, quietly, "You are sick. Again."

Theon wonders if Robb could handle the truths he's discovered, about himself and others. The answer is no. He does not fit into Robb's rosy world. So he leaves the house in silence.

"Goodbye," Robb says.

.

.

The barn is not an actual barn.

Or, it was, but the land has dried up, a grey-brown landscape and a few derelict farms with plenty of space in-between. Rage pulsates through him, tension worsening each time he drives over a hole or a bump in the dirt road. He wishes it would rain. Theon could drive here in his sleep. The radio is turned off because it only produces static.

None of the houses out here are in use. Therefore there is no paint left, which is kind of soothing: Theon knows they used blood from a fresh slaughter to mix in with the paint mixture used to achieve the orangey red on barns, in the old days. The land dried up long ago. The particular barn—or the remains of such a building—he's looking for is abnormal in one simple way: there was still maintenance on the property, even when Ramsay turned it into a slaughterhouse and later, a graveyard.

Theon slows down the car when he recognizes the allée: no longer well-kept, nor small enough to bear its old name. By now, a small forest. Nature reclaims all. He does not drive all the way up to the farm and chooses to drive out on the opposite side, near the old wooden fence that'd collapse if he sat on it, with spiderwebs occupied of tattered moth-husks.

What a funny feeling.

He recognizes the scent: that of red dirt, grass, linden tree and flower. The last one surprises him. There was... a gardener, right? Watching Theon when he disposed of black plastic bags, dragging them back and forth from the car to the space in which he was to bury them? A peculiar memory: one time a sharp stone cut a hole in the plastic bag, and the Thing inside liquidized and fell through the ground, as if it was sinking through reflectionless water. He'd hysterically dug in the mud. The memory stops there, so. However, every time he dragged the plastic bags back and forth, the gardener was there, cutting the branches in the allée with mechanical movements. When Ramsay used a room in the bar, there was a bouncer. When he used the school, there was a janitor—or he thinks there was a janitor. And when using the barn, there was a gardener. All funded by Roose. This time it's Theon who is on his payroll.

It is when he walks out of the car he hears the other sounds that'd always accompany him on his little digging trips: birdsong and the humming of bugs. So that's why, yesterday, under the tree, he had a dissociative episode.

If he curls his back a little more, he can feel the lack of pressure on his right shoulder: he'd used it hold the shovel.

Why did he decide they should meet here?

Where is the logic?

Theon walks towards the overgrown allée, sees the old barn looking scruffier than ever. There are flowers everywhere. He claps his hands in defiance and the birdsong quiets. Though when he sees the toolshed he turns on his heel and sprints back to the car.

"Bad idea," he mumbles, crossing his arms, closing his eyes. He leans on the car door. The morning yellows toward noon. Theon's squirrel panic eases. Relaxing, he gets one of his schoolbooks from the car and reads casually about the human body, sometimes pausing to examine the gauze layer of cloud spread over a blue-blue slice of sky between the allée. The breeze is a welcome guest. Little by little, hours passes like this.

He smells Ramsay before he hears him.

"Did you jog?" Theon asks.

"Yeah," Ramsay says, too close, leaning on his knees, panting, "I'm sorry — you had to — to, ah, wait." Sweat rings under the arms, near the neck and on the back of his faded red jogging tee, one thread of escaped elastic hanging limp like a vein against her hip, and what looks to be a minor heat rash or a forming sunburn on the exposed skin. "No public transport."

Theon shrugs, puts the schoolbook back in the car. He doesn't offer his water bottle. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

Ramsay looks around, stops at the forest. Sweaty, unshaven... not on his pills?

"There's nobody there," Theon says, anxious to get to it. He knows what's coming.

"The bodies you buried here. I think this was the place the cops didn't check thoroughly enough." Ramsay draws a sharp breath. "Jeyne's messages and the others' got threatening, started mentioning this place. I got paranoid. Started reading through the case files, and I noticed their records' number of dead here doesn't match with the one I have in my head."

"What is the one in your head?" His mouth has gone dry.

"Bigger," Ramsay replies, still with that note of shame. "Much, much bigger."

"Megalomania. Delusion."

"I hope so." Ramsay doesn't swat the flies around his head. Theon would've gone insane because of the buzzing. Ramsay continues, "But I wasn't... coherent when I was caught. Or in the months after."

The photo from his arrest was all over the Internet, just like it had been for two months on the news. There were several photos, but no one as horrifying as that one image. Theon would remember it till the day he died, plus the one of himself, in the chest.

But.

"Me neither. I wasn't me when I showed them the... crime scenes. I don't remember anything." Thing is, though: he'd always thought Ramsay showed them the barn.

"See? We can't know if they got them all. Or if there are more."

"We don't need to know." Theon is distressed. Less distressed when in the house with Robb, but still... This could unravel the normality Theon tries so hard to uphold. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"I was only thinking about it 'cos Jeyne brought it up." He comes a tiny bit closer, still casting looks towards the forest. The fly is crawling on his cheek. The sweat stench is near-unbearable, and he says, "She's threatening to go to the media. Repeat what happened ten years ago."

So Jeyne is...

Jeyne is willing to sacrifice the life Theon has constructed to make Ramsay's life hell. Or put him inside an institution again. Hand in hand with Theon.

"Fuck that," Theon says.

"I agree."

"But you can't curse," Theon mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. Ramsay laughs, a genuine little thing he can't stop. The sound sends chills down his spine. Theon is slightly aroused and mad when he starts walking towards where he buried one of the girls. The flowers are mocking in their overgrown beauty. Ramsay walks just behind him, which is alright. If he walked in the front he'd leave a stench that'd hit Theon in the face. The linden trees smell peculiar, but he's used to it.

"Where are you going?"

"Where they wouldn't look," he mumbles, counting trees, beginning at the right and going zigzag in a pattern only he knows. One, two, three... He lingers by the fifteenth.

"There," he says, pointing to a patch of dirt with some very beautiful flowers. He can't name any of them. "There's a bitch there."

"A woman," Ramsay corrects, but his heart isn't into it. "Are you sure? I don't think they've dug, here."

"Maude." They'd called her Vulva-lips behind her back; all she needed was a beard.

"What?"

"Her name was Maude. Sometimes you called her Vulva-lips," Theon says and steals a glance at Ramsay.

A slow smile spreads on Ramsay's ugly face. This time, Theon's shiver isn't of the good sort. "Maude," he says, fond and happy. "She was sweet." Then he catches the error and falls back as if shot, one hand shielding his face. The sun doesn't reach him here.

Theon squints up through the leaves while Ramsay recovers. "Maude was sweet yeah, till you killed her. Started smelling real bad. And technically, she wasn't a woman."

Ramsay peeks out between his fingers.

Like a —

"Child. She was a child. Sweet," Theon smacks his lips, "sixteen." He isn't certain when he's speaking or when he's just thinking it, and Ramsay's expression rarely matches the expected. "Let's starts digging. Can you get the shovel from the tool shed?"

Ramsay lets his arms fall. Mechanically, he walks towards where Theon knows the toolshed lies. When Theon sees the way Ramsay moves and the way Ramsay's muscles move under fabric and flesh, he sees the semblance to Roose. The grace and sharp intelligence is nowhere to be found, however. When he returns, he sees how Ramsay hunches—lowers his head and walks stooping to become as small as possible—under Theon's judging gaze. Took years for Theon to stop doing that, and he feels like poking Ramsay in the back with a stick when he sees it.

"Where should I dig?"

Theon's points to the patch with all the flowers. He wants to point to Ramsay's head.

Yes. For what little grace and intelligence he has, Ramsay makes up for it in strength. He's too thin though, so he gets breathy fast, still exhausted from his long jog.

(Ramsay isn't as strong as before. Theon can't get over this fact.)

"Is it further down?"

"Yeah," Theon says. "You told me to dig deep."

Ramsay pauses. "Could you please stop that?"

"Stop what?"

"The... needles. Pins. I am not who I once was. So stop reminding me of the horrible stuff I've done. It's done."

"You are digging up a girl you murdered."

"I am aware," Ramsay quietly replies. "Just—I want to be done with this. Please."

"Stop when you see a black plastic bag," Theon says. Ramsay keeps digging. Frustration and desperation are tearing at them both: Theon knows he buried a girl here, he knows it. Where is she?

"I see black," Ramsay says, and Theon nearly jumps down in the hole with him. He uses the shovel as a knife to try poke some holes, to check. Grotesquely, they both wait for a particular smell to rise, one they're both familiar with. Theon had tied the bags tight, and no air equals almost no decomposition. "Were there... more girls? There's a lot of black plastic here. A lot."

"Let me see," Theon says, and Ramsay starts climbing up. He's having trouble. When he finally gets—'Crawl motherfucker'—up, Theon jumps in and a sharp pain runs up both his legs. He winces, and Ramsay makes a worried sound, but Theon waves him and his open fishmouth away. He starts hacking it with the shovel. Nothing, just earth beneath the black plastic. Thinner than Ramsay, he can bend down and starts digging in the mud with his fingers, wincing. It's moist. Earthworms wiggle around. He digs until his fingernails are ruined.

(Birdsong. Bugsounds. He thinks he hears the gardener's shears go cut cut cut in the background.)

"—ease. Theon, please," Ramsay says, uncertain. "Maybe you were wrong?"

"Someone's dug her up," Theon says. "I know I didn't tell anyone. Reek would never tell."

And the gardener? Was he the same as the janitor?

"Why?"

Lying about his past comes as natural as breathing, but it is difficult when Ramsay is his past personified. "I made sure no one wound find her because I was jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Do you remember the incident with the bone?"

Ramsay stares into nothing for a while, then blinks. "No."

"...Best not talk of it, then," Theon mumbles, climbing out. His feet hurt: a sharp pain, dormant when still, a blade between the heel and his toes whenever he moves. Left foot especially. Remnants from an old wound that hurts each winter, adding to the rest. Ramsay has his signature bewildered look. Theon takes off his muddy shoes and massages his feet one by one, thumbing, stretching, making little sounds. He sits. Ramsay stands. "Someone has dug Maude up and put her on an evidence slab. So that if you ever got out... They could bring you back in."

Theon looks towards the trees. Now that he's closer, he can see thick vines stretching around the trees. Killing them, slowly: all in the sin of mistaking them for trellis / support. The bark is not breaking, but it's bending and making room, rope and skin. Too little sun, but soon they'll go past the trees and blossom like mad. It'll be beautiful.

He blinks.

The vines are gone.

Did Ramsay see the same thing? He's paler than ever.

"There's one more thing. Something I didn't tell you," Ramsay begins. "They're waiting for us in the barn."

Who—?

Oh. Theon's eyes are starting to hurt. He knows.

The Bitches, or the girls, all grown up and thirsty for something. Forgiveness? Revenge? Theon goes stock-still, then gets back to massaging his feet. This is what this day has been building up to, with the rage, the lack of choice, the allée. Things, repeating themselves. A future that's pre-determined to go the exact way of his past. To correct what went wrong the first time. But Theon does have a choice.

"I'm not going with you."

"Oh," Ramsay says, and it's a soft sound. He sounds... hurt. He expected something different.

And Theon realizes it's the second time he's rejected Ramsay. Theon doesn't count the playful refusals (they were all fake because Theon was only going one way, and that was down) or the explicit ones, later, because it wasn't like the time he really, really rejected Ramsay. Moments before Ramsay was caught. Moments before that photo happened.

There it is, on Ramsay's face: betrayal.

Then he wraps himself in his suit again and softens, breathing through his nose, allowing himself a tiny smile. "I wonder what they want," Ramsay says, almost wistfully, then walks towards the barn. "I'll be back for you, afterwards," he promises quietly—if Theon hadn't listened extra hard, he wouldn't have caught it.

Theon dismisses him with a casual wave and leans back against a tree.

.

.

Rain. Water. Saltwater—? No. It smells too acrid, it's sweat. Big fat drops, hitting Theon's face. When he properly awakens, Ramsay is hovering over him and the hope from before is replaced by terror. Flesh on his face is shining even more than before, and this time it isn't physical. It's all fear sweat. "We need to go," he breathes, nostrils widening in an attempt to get enough air, "now."

The sky behind him has darkened.

"What?"

Ramsay reaches out to grab Theon, then remembers himself, almost drowsily blinking and pulling them back. But he's hyperaware: the sort of ice-cold clarity of a hunted animal. "Please," he says, twitching, "we need. To go. Please." It doesn't sound like a please.

"Alright," Theon says, getting up. He wipes the shovel handle with his shirt, then flings it into the trees. "Alright alright, I'm coming," he says, when Ramsay keeps nudging his head towards the car like a dog eager to piss. He nearly runs beside Theon—but he makes sure Theon is there beside him, always, mouth moving.

"Have you taken your pill?" Theon asks, annoyed.

"I don't remember — c'mon," he gasps when Theon stops dead in his track, crossing his arms. "Move!" He circles him with his tail between his legs, so much like a dog / a Dog, "Please!"

"What happened in the barn?" Theon asks. He looks to it, frowning. He can only see the green. Why do the human eye see so many shades of green? To distinguish the predators.

Ramsay, now behind him, pales even more and throws his arms around himself. "No one can be forgiven."

"What?"

"No one can be forgiven," Ramsay repeats. "That's what they meant. The bitches," he adds as an afterthought clouded by anger, then it's replaced by fear again. Is he lying? Acting? Nobody speaks the truth when there's something they must have. "They'll come after us. They won't leave me alone."

"What did they want?"

"Death."

"The death of what?"

"Mine, yours, death of the past — I don't know! I don't know," his voice wobbles, is it sweat or is it tears, shimmering in the sun? "Please, come."

Theon walks first, Ramsay following behind. They reach the car. Theon looks behind him: sees nothing, no one. Slow, he gets into the driver's seat, doesn't care that he left it open for a little while. He tries to feels deeper within himself, but the rage has gone and left numbness. Things are unraveling and he is refusing to act.

Ramsay, beside him, is struggling to get comfortable in the passenger seat.

"Stop wiggling."

"I think there's something inside the seat," he says.

"Shut up," Theon says, but steers him forward regardless, a hand on his back. He sees the outline of an object in the middle of the seat back, further emphasized by badly-done stitching. The rage returns. "Fuck you," he mumbles, not even sure who you is. "Ramsay," he demands, hands unsteady, "can you get it out?"

"What is it?"

"I don't know," Theon says.

With some difficulty Ramsay reaches behind him until he finds the object (without looking: he refuses to look) and begins to tear. Thread, when pulled, can turn sharp and break skin, and it is bleeding with a thousand small paper cuts that he gets the object out, holds it up.

A phone. Seconds passes before it starts to ring.

And Theon? He starts to drive.

"What do I do?" Ramsay asks, horrified.

"Give it to me."

Theon takes the phone. It's an old model, spilling an anonymous tune. He studies it, and the hidden number calling is enough to make his doubts die, so he throws it out the window and picks up speed.

Ramsay looks positively mortified.

They pass more prairie landscapes with ominous qualities. A chapel's becomes the first habitable land they've seen in ages, and there's a funeral taking place, a clad of black-dressed people. A fist of cold had squeezed the fire in the core of the world, a vision of the hot triumph of a born-again land. Isn't that a poem? When was the last time he read a poem?

Civilization slowly beckons them back, greeting them with jail-like housing tracts pops up at each side of the road. Turning on the radio reveals a preacher encouraging his listeners to fight liberalism. The gas station is a welcoming sight, despite the lights being so bright he squints. A neon sign advertises a two-for-one fast-food deal.

"Want a burger?"

"No," Ramsay says.

Theon pulls his car into the conveyorized carwash as the radio preacher gets more and more intense. Fully-automated: thank god, he doesn't feel like talking to anyone today. Ramsay is not anyone, not really. And Ramsay does not question him. Theon pays with spare coins, knowing he can afford it as easily as he can earn a casket. The inside is well lit by the bluish stare of fluorescence with its half-heard white noise buzz. Theon puts the vehicle into neutral, releases the brakes, and lets his hand curl in his lap. It scans the car and begins. Beginning at the front, cleaning chemicals are sprayed all over the car, obscuring their view to their surroundings. Sounds of a rain storm. It smells... nice, or it'd smelled nice if Ramsay hadn't infused the air with his juices.

"D'you want me to drive you home after this? Or could you maybe take the bus?" Theon asks.

"Do you think this problem will go away if you ignore it?"

Yeah.

The chemicals run down the window, soaking the car. Holes forming. Air bubbles popping.

Theon sneaks a glance at Ramsay and the car's temperature chills. He is reminded who he shares a car with, stuck inside this claustrophobic space, and wonders idly if cabin fever is possible after 30 seconds. Hunched over his knees, nostrils pulsating, glaring at his hands, Ramsay makes quite the figure. "You're ignoring me right now, aren't you?" he asks. It is the tonelessness that makes Theon feel a spark. Then back to—feeling, saying, being—nothing. "It's alright," Ramsay continues, "you've made your choice. They made theirs. I need to make mine."

The storm begins anew. Sill brushes are pushed against the car's wheels and door sill area. Scrubbing, cleaning, following the contours of the car in the quest to vanquish all dirt. This is the end of the line, then. Fitting. Proper. So why the continuous emptiness? Why does it feel like nothing has changed?

Rain. Water. It pours over the car and removes the soap. Leaving the car looking new.

It triggers a breakdown and Ramsay starts crying. Small sobs. Tears collectat the tips of his stubble. "You were supposed to come back to me," he mumbles, having difficulty speaking. "To see that I have... changed."

"You haven't."

Hot air is blown over the car, drying up the water. "No," Ramsay agrees, and Theon recognizes the rage. It's soothing. Old Ramsay means no difficult questions concerning morality. "But you're the one blind to what's gonna happen. They're gonna come after us... Everything repeats itself."

At this sentence something goes very wrong in Ramsay's brain.

Everything repeats itself.

The curtain covering the carwash exit, containing two stop signs, pulls away to the side.

"You came back. Then you left. Then you came back again."

"Shut up," Theon says.

Ramsay lays a hand on Theon's shoulder, shaking him. "Don't you understand? It's our second chance: you can get it right this time."

"Don't touch me," Theon demands, struggling to start the car, hands shaking. He realizes the hand brake is on and curses himself, Ramsay, God, and floors the pedal. The rough upstart makes a rough, filthy middle-aged man, in the midst of filling the tank of his Winnebago, watching them. Ramsay's attitude (the shaking, the words, the hysteria) forces him to stop the car. "Shut up," he hisses, "I'm gonna drive you home, alright? Then you're gonna take your pills, alright? Alright?"

"—you don't understand," Ramsay continues to cackle, a mad chicken, "c'mon, we can get it right—"

The middle-aged man taps on the window and Theon jumps.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, slightly muted from the glass, frowning. He glances at Ramsay, then looks back to Theon, waiting. He waits for Theon's response, trusts him, him, as if Theon was the sane one. As if — no. Because.

There are levels of touristy and Theon, while no longer in the centre, is not as far on the outer rim as he imagined. He sits in the anteroom with terrible knowledge of the name and history of what each person knows intimately without ever wanting to know. Theon feels the terror of responsibility, a lonely terror and an egoistical one. Responsibility is where love lies down before power, chained heart and open hands, the place that says I will serve, I will consider, and in the end I will decide. Which helps the most, hurts the least? Ramsay is not free enough to make his own choice, or maybe too free, and freed from the burdens of morals and liability and other petty things Theon had to learn again. Absolutes exist only in madness. A black and white view is not a luxury Theon has.

Theon rolls down the window and says with authority, ignores the icky smell that comes from the man, "Sorry for worrying you. My friend is just a little sick today; tummy-ache, which affects his mood." Déjà vu flickers in the back of his mind, but he refuses to investigate.

"Oh," having his own ideas, the middle-aged man smiles at Ramsay as you would a stranger's child. "Better get him home before he gets too much to handle."

"Yeah," Theon says. He doesn't turn to look at Ramsay, but he feels him breathing behind him: smells his breath, his sweat. "Thanks."

The man waves when Theon begins to drive.

When he finally dares looking at Ramsay, he seems him looking straight ahead, smiling happily. "No one is forgiven," he mumbles, pleased. "Nothing changes."

"That man could've called the cops, you crazy fuck," Theon hisses.

Ramsay looks at him out of the corner of his eye, still wearing that creepy smile. "What man?"

.

.

After dropping off Ramsay without a goodbye, Theon is stuck in the parking lot, considering his choices. In his current state—or what he's slowly falling back into, if he's gonna trust Ramsay—he needs to find someone who'll function to secure his identity. Robb, Ramsay or Roose? Future, past or present?

Absolutes exist only in madness. And Theon refuses to be mad. He chooses a fourth option.

But first, he'll have to talk to Roose.

Chapter Text

"Turn the music down! Everybody shut up!" Robb shouts, happy, eyes shining, "Theon has something to say!"

A—as of yet, slightly—yellow smile: brittle, brittle.

The rustling of paper as he stands up. The tightening of his stomach, of his hands on the paper sheets, rubbing his dirty fingerprints into them. "Hi, hello," he says into the microphone, breathes too much, and somebody's fumbling with the technical equipment behind him and it results in a sound that has a hundred wedding guests make one hundred drunken grimaces. Silence finally descends, barely, the sort of silence in which the intoxicated mind is trying to understand what's going on.

The suit he's got on sticks to his skin awkwardly. Itchy itchy. "Hi," he begins again, clears his throat. "I'm Theon, Robb's best man and brother. I think... I think it's my duty to deliver one of these speeches, yeah?"

Yesterday Theon saw a black plastic bag at school. He'd torn it to pieces thinking there was something inside it but ended up littering the schoolyard instead. He'd spent the next 15 minutes having a panic attack in a public toilet, until the occupant in the neighbourhood stall banged on the wall and told him to shut up.

Today there's a wedding going on. Theon hasn't felt anything in months but has shown up regardless because there's a small paper in his pocket weighing a ton: the best man's speech. His lifeline. Every day for a month he's spent hours dwelling upon it. Revising sentences. Trying to get it to flow. Clinging to the good memories.

The lights, the lights. A kaleidoscope of different colours swirling above in the white party tent, mainly purple, blue and green. It clashes with the ancient décor Caitlyn Stark had insisted on being there. The guests are eating sausages and ketchup with silverware and drinking 10$ wine out of generation-old cups.

Robb is the only one who matters. Robb, who shines.

"Louder!"

"Yeah," Theon says, upping the volume, continuing. He sees the judgement and the crossed arms. Sees the bored and the swaying. But Robb's shining and that's the only thing that means something. "Between brothers who happen to be friends, there are quite a few, ah, common themes. Playing swordsmen in the woods. Eating each other's candy. Paper fortune tellers predicting how many tits we're gonna spot in the nearest future." That gets a few laughs. Eased, Theon continues. He describes the forest, first. The days spent playing there. The running theme of the speech is the Practical Versatile Sofa Bed w/ Drawer. It was Robb's old bed, the one that only held good memories, before Theon sleeping there got weird (according to external sources). The speech isn't a work of art, but it has a lot of feeling.

Theon forgets one thing: a personal speech requires respect.

As he slowly begins describing the Practical Versatile Sofa Bed w/ Drawer, the nights spent side by side because Theon was afraid to sleep alone, the stories they shared, someone causes a commotion in their way on getting to the bathroom to throw up. It's probably because of one too many drinks, but Theon still feels like it's him they're throwing up over, and his voice regains it's usual wobble. Any performer might tell you: if you lose one person, you can lose the whole audience. Gradually, people begin to talk, turning away from Theon and his speech, "it's kind of awkward," he thinks he hears, and shrinks no matter what or who it was. The process allows Theon to see each person he loses. Including Robb, whose eyes flicker between Theon and the person talking to him, and finally rests on the latter.

Theon finally sits down. Some of the more sober guests look vaguely embarrassed, others draw a breath of relief. They all look at him with secret knowledge of his aching shame.

Shame shame shame. Drown in your fucking shame.

"Tell it to me later, alright?" Robb comes over to him and whisper-laughs, so happy, and Theon smiles back.

Smiling.

Smiling.

Smiling.

Until he runs into one of the outdoor portable WCs rented for the wedding. The floor and walls are smeared with mud, a hundred footprints, sink not working because somebody's poured chunky liquor down the drain. Air's very molecules tainted with beery piss. He hasn't peed standing in a while (too shaky—he keeps hitting the toilet ring) so he sits, a kid, but it seems like the bile is coming out another way and he twists around, facedown the toilet. Quite a sight greets him: soiled toilet paper nearly filled to the top with a pile of human excrement in the middle. Another inch and it'd touched his face. Theon laughs at the absurdity of the situation, laughs at the excrement. What was he thinking? That this'd be a turning point? That he'd stop being the thing he's been for months? 'All those hours for nothing,' he thinks. "Stupid. Crazy," he says, sick to death of himself and his thoughts. If there was a form of mouthwash for his torturous, analytical brain he'd drink it like he drank alcohol, back when he was allowed the latter. Back before the incident involving Robb's bed.

From outside the stall, he hears a comment, "They're not getting married out of love, you know. They're getting married because she's pregnant."

Someone replies, "Isn't she into alternative healing and shit, too? She'll probably insist on birthing at home like all those nasty new-agers. Like the odd Tully sister. Maybe the bride will ask her."

"Bad idea," the first voice says. "Lysa hates her sister and her family. Betcha she'll cause the baby to spoil somehow."

The thought of birth and spoiling babies makes Theon gag. When the wet footsteps of the gossipers' fade, he stands, and does what he's done in all difficult situations lately and calls Ramsay. Ramsay has become busier, but he always makes space for Theon. He's become oddly... sweet. Honey-voiced and gentle, scarily so. Apart from a blowjob last Tuesday (he vaguely recalls opening the car door and spitting in the grass), there haven't been much sex. Just endless car rides.

Theon counts six seconds before someone picks up the phone. Six seconds after the thunder, before the lightning.

"Y'ello?" Ramsay greets, sweetly. Maybe Theon would've mocked him for that if he wasn't so crazy, and breathing so hard, because Ramsay can hear it, and says, "Didn't the party go so well?"

"No."

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Ramsay asks, and all that care in his voice makes Theon go weak-kneed, turned on, afraid? Mixed signals and mixed feelings. "C'mon. Spit it out."

"Iwroteaspeech."

"You... wrote a speech?" Theon expects a promise of punishment: lying is forbidden. "That's great. What did Robb say? Did he like it? I'm sure he did."

"Didn't get to finish."

"Why?"

The walls of the WC close in. Voice small, he says, "They interrupted me. Laughed." He slips in a white lie, hungry for something, "Told me to hang myself."

"Oh," Ramsay says, pity so tangible Theon sighs and shudders in... pleasure? Shame? "You did not deserve that."

Theon eyes the human excrement in the toilet. "Can you come over?"

"I'm not invited," Ramsay says.

"Can't you come get me?" Save me. Theon hears it, and Ramsay does too.

When Ramsay speaks the sweetness is syrupy, thick like he's horny, "I can come get you, yeah. Yeah."

"Thanks," Theon mumbles, but Ramsay's already hung up. It'll be about some time until he comes, and somebody's banging on the WC door so he better get out. Back to civilization: sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, stale of ferment. Squelch under his stiff party shoes and mud up to his knees, party-tent is no better, once white, now not. Inside is bathed in pink light. Music's turned up. Drunk servers push past him with plates of shots, snatched up as they went. Their path tramped down, feeding thankless seagulls. Inside: perfumed bodies, warm, glistering. Theon spends time near food, eating—or be eaten, because it's socially acceptable to eat alone rather than be alone. Pungent meatjuice, slush of greens, animal food. He eats until he's full. Wolfing down roast beef with cabbage. Teeth are worsening. Spitting back on his plate: half-masticated gristle. Picturing himself in the future, gums bare, teeth gone, like Ramsay's janitor. So he eats cold porridge. Watching guests fight for the last shots like children after candy. They aren't even people to him.

He cannot look around the room: that would imply waiting. He only knows of the intricate designs and interior the newly-wedded planned for this party, the use of orbs and ribbons and glitter, meaningless, meaningless, meaningless. The colour-coordination will look good at the pre-party photos, but in here they're ruined because of the artificial coloured lights: purple, pink. Taken before people started to rot. Photo albums full of lies. Lies to all but those on the pictures: Theon will see himself in the pictures and see depression staring back, he thinks. Cyndy Lauper's Time After Time is played and Theon feels like killing himself.

Bad behaviour, however, pollutes: soon he feels intoxicated as well. Gnawing on some loose strands of hair, he feels someone breathe down his neck. Mind a mess, he turns and stares into—

Oysters, unsightly like a clot of phlegm, filthy shells, hard to open. Who was the first man to think it was a good idea to eat them? Garbage and sewage they feed on. No wonder they have an effect on the sexual. Aphrodisiacs. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. No one would buy cheap.

He jumps, shocked when Ramsay stands there, hands in his pocket, sweatpants on, an oddly white sweater, an expression of curiosity and mild discomfort. Crowds were never his scene. He takes some of the salmon-caviar on cucumber rolls, drizzled with powdered bosom pearls. Way he eats (like it's normal) makes Theon wonder about where he's from, if he's rich. One of the élite. Crème de la crème. But then he stuffs his pockets with assorted chocolates like a little kid.

"...You came," Theon says.

"What?" Ramsay asks because the music's too loud, and Theon just shakes his head and comes closer. Ramsay's hand is loose on his elbow, nudging him in a zigzag route towards the exit.

Bad touch: somebody grabs his shoulder.

"Theon," Robb says, alcohol-breath mild but there, and his world freezes to ice. "We need to — to talk. Theon." The use of his name makes him crazy. Silent, he shakes his head, feels Ramsay's presence behind him. "Why? You're leaving? Are you leaving, Theon?" Volume rising, heads snapping in their direction.

"Yeah," Ramsay speaks for him, stepping between them. "He's coming with me."

"I don't know you," Robb says. A cocked eyebrow. A vague threat of expulsion.

For Theon, a prickle of irritation. Ramsay exists in the centre of his life yet Robb does not know him. Ramsay himself looks vaguely threatening in return, slint-eyed, looking around to take in the situation. "C'mon Theon, let's go," he says, looking straight at Robb.

"Fuck you, he's not going. And he can speak for himself."

"No," Ramsay says, holding out an arm in front of Theon, a barrier. "He isn't your brother anymore." Theon swallows thickly: it feels nice to let someone take control, but he isn't comfortable with what's being said.

Neither is Robb. In his drunken anger, his words gain a cutting edge, directed at Theon since it has no effect on Ramsay. You hurts the ones you love, but Theon isn't seeing his newly-wedded being discarded like this.

"What the hell is this, Theon? Angry I didn't listen to your speech or something? Jealous?" Theon looks at the floor. Somehow this infuriates Robb even more, "Jealous of my wife, my life, me? Do you want to be me instead of yourself? Look at me. C'mon. Look at me. Fucking coward, hiding behind this... this fuck. What, you're gonna cry? You gonna, you..." Theon knows the next insult, knows it's rested on Robb's tongue since the incident, "Gonna sh—"

Crack.

Ramsay grinds his fist into Robb's face, leaving a broken nose and a mess of blood. Robb howls, falls back, attacks. Ramsay dodges easily, sober and bigger, and Robb winds up on the ground again. Theon didn't know Ramsay was that strong: he's compact, sinewy, fat hiding any muscle, but he guesses all the sub-wrangling has helped. Somebody is screaming. Some chocolates have fallen to the floor. People are too drunk to help, but when they finally pull Ramsay and Robb apart. Ramsay is the first to get on his feet, snarling. Robb is busy spitting blood that keeps running into his mouth. A thousand small papercuts: Ramsay scratched his face. Has he washed his nails? He's forgotten recently. Cuts are gonna get infected. The bride is nowhere to be seen (last Theon heard she was puking in the bathroom, and he idly wonders if it's alcohol or morning sickness).

"Traitor," Robb says.

It doesn't seem like much of a choice, between Robb and Ramsay. "Don't worry," Ramsay mumbles, "I got you. I got you." Theon walks close, dazed. Exiting the party tent, he does not look back.

Ramsay's car smells familiar, like antiseptic, and with a vaguely rotting scent streaming from the trunk. Theon plays with a roll of black plastic with his feet, smiling.

.

.

In Ramsay's apartment, he thinks about the time he would've died to be this close to someone. To share someone's space: eat their food, sleep on their bed (or couch), use their toothbrush. However, Ramsay is more distant than before. Treats him too nice. And the apartment is too dirty. Cheap. Place is cheap, too, with shag carpenting and low ceiling. The kitchen is the grossest, with a  contemporary artwork of moldy pizza and Chinese food and shattered porcelain smeared across the kitchen tiles beneath him. When he entered, Ramsay did a lascivious smack of lips and laughed at some private joke, eyeing the apartment as if the space was foreign to him.

The sex in Robb's bed was a catharsis, the supposed end of their little fling. Ramsay: a fat predator with an overabundance of prey. He doesn't quite know what to do with Theon because it was Theon who wouldn't let go. Tells him to sleep on the couch. There's leftovers in the fridge, and books in the shelves, but most of them are mildewed and by authors Theon's never heard of. VHS tapes in foreign languages, splatter movies mostly, some with no cover, just a scribbled on title.

To the sound of Ramsay's snoring, Theon thinks about hanging himself.

Eating doesn't make him full anymore, but he tries regardless. He's too impatient to microwave the leftovers he found in the fridge fully, and the random cold bite tastes like Robb's voice calling him a traitor. There are black plastic bags everywhere in Ramsay's apartment, and Theon keeps tripping over them.

Discarding all logic, he walks into the bedroom and shakes Ramsay awake. "I want to start a new sequence," he says.

"A — what?"

"A new sequence," Theon repeats. "A new bunch of them, actually."

"You're not a bitch," Ramsay mumbles, too sleepy to skip the slur—or is it just that he's become more unhinged lately?

"I'm not one of your boys either," Theon replies.

"No, not really... What do you want to be?"

Special. Ramsay had called him that, once, before coming to what he thought was the end of their relationship. He'd been surprised when Theon called, even moreso when Theon insisted on continuing to meet.

I want to be less. To vanish, piece by piece, lose hair and eyelashes and fingernails. To starve himself to feel holy. I want to be more. To expand, eating everything in his path, passing through everyone. Silently. Like wind. I want to cease to exist. To - not die, not sleep. Just rest, for a moment. God, he's tired.

"What d'you want?" Ramsay repeats.

"To not be me." He shuts his eyes tightly. "You promised."

"What did I promise?"

"Salvation."

Ramsay huffs, smiles. The sweetness is gone when he mumbles, "You need a new name."

Shame, shame.

Drown in your fucking shame.

.

.

Things. Objects. Stuff.

Maybe the mountain never reaches God, but every middleclass baby of Theon's generation is looking at the world of a mountain of their own things, their own stuff. Tons of new stuff spewed into the system on a daily basis, and they stand in front of this endless gush like baby birds, mouths open necks stretched, so they can take it and hoard it. When Catelyn's father died of stomach cancer he'd spent the last few weeks of his life organizing his things, who got what, his silverware to Catelyn, his tea-set to his second daughter, his chandeliers to his son. All he talked about was what should go where, did this go with that, who would take the best care of it, who would place it in a beautiful glass display instead of dirty it with usage, and then he died, mumbling about his things, crying.

Theon recognizes the hypocrisy of becoming someone else and clutching to old stuff, the cliché coffee mug, the preschool drawings, his faded and comfortable clothes, ephemera, cinema tickets from films he particularly liked, his old axe perfume, countless more things. But he wants them, god he wants them, and it took some time but he managed to convince Ramsay and and so Ramsay drives him to the Stark home the day after, pretty early, around noon.

Ramsay still hasn't given him a new name, but this morning he took Theon's phone from him and gone to his bedroom with the door locked. Theon—a bad dog—pressed his ear to the door to, but Ramsay's room was soundproofed. "I arranged with them to put your things outside," Ramsay said when he came outside. "And I told them you're living with me from now. They said it was ok."

Theon had expected... more. That they'd refuse. Scream and shout and call him a traitor, anything but "ok". But then again, that is his greatest sin: he always demanded more from the sunset.

"Want me to do it?" Ramsay asks when they're there.

"Nah. I can do it. They put my things outside, right?" In big black plastic bags, no doubt.

"Want me to go over the details, first? Tell them that this is final - that you don't want their opinions, or their goodbyes?"

"You said they said it was ok."

"Yeah. But Robb might be waiting for you. He might want you alone. And when he finally has you to himself, he won't let go. Do you want that? Do you?"

"No."

"Then let me check first. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Ok," Theon softly replies.

Ramsay grabs his water bottle and gets out, walking weirdly, on guard. He's still roughed up after the fight, but it feels as though he's peacocking, showing them off, refusing bandages and Band-Aids, wearing a wife beater and shorts despite the weather. Must be cold.

Five minutes later and he returns, looking shell-shocked. "We gotta go," he says quickly. Theon frowns, not understanding, did Robb threaten him? Did something happen? He opens the car door and Ramsay barks, "Stay in the car, Dog." Shit. Theon sighs, but in breathing in through his nose, smells fire smoke and—

And.

Ignoring Ramsay's quiet "don't," he rushes out of the car, stomping off towards his childhood home like a soldier going to war. He's too old to hate this town anymore, has gone to peace with it, knows he has happy memories like playing in the woods, breathes in the old smells, cold prickling at the tip of his nose and cheeks and ears, manifesting in puffs in front of his face, and he thinks about the cliché mug of coffee. All his memories swell to the surface of his skin in the sharp contrast to the ruin in front of him. Hide and seek in the woods. Playing pretend-swordsmen. The mug.

However, reality is pressing, for on the concrete in front of the house lies his things, spread outward, on fire. Clothing and furniture and old school supplies, all gone up in flames. Shining embers.

To smell your childhood burning—that is something you can't understand until you experience it.

Catelyn Stark stands on the porch in her morning robe, seemingly having just arrived. "Oh Theon," she says, just - just disappointed, pitying, "why did you do that?"

Oh.

She's blaming him. Gaslighting him. Whoever of the Starks did it she's covering for them, like any mom would do for her (real) family. Theon would've cried if he'd still been in connection to his feelings.

He turns on his heel, and walks back the car.

"Drive," he says to Ramsay, and Ramsay says simply, "Don't order me around, there'll be repercussions," but Theon doesn't care and Ramsay drives anyway.

.

.

Midnight, a week later:

A barely-lit diner. Robb on one side, Theon on the other. Greasy counters.

Robb begins by talking about himself. Then he talks about Theon. Then he talks about their lives, their connected past, their seperate future. He is completely honest. He isn't sugar-coating anything. But in his honestly he's clumsy, and so wrongfully diagnoses Theon, tells him stories about other people's recovery from this and that and...

And Theon?

Theon says nothing. He isn't quite there.

First after pouring his heart out does Robb notice that Theon isn't responding. Apart from a nod or a meek headshake, he only grits his teeth together. Looks vaguely sick.

"I don't get you," Robb hisses, angry now, and the honestly makes way for an easy shift to blame, to insults and anger. "What do you want? It's really simple. What. Do. You. Want?" Theon is not surprised when Robb's kindness is revealed to be hollow. In response, he shows his teeth. Almost-grins. He isn't surprised when Robb leaves, either, paying for the coffee for them both and laying his number on the counter. "When you're ready to make a change, call me," he says, and Theon will not see him again for a year.

After a while Ramsay comes in, sits in the seat Robb sat, fills up the empty space. Theon is not surprised when Ramsay takes the piece of paper with the number and eats it.

Waits.

"You can spit it out now," Ramsay finally says, and the Thing that isn't Theon immediately spits out a cockroach.

Chapter Text

Wait. 

Wait.

Wait.

Go.

Asphalt shifts into concrete, texture smoothing until he almost loses his footing. The sneakers feel clumsy, painful, like on a toddler's fleshy feet, because he's forgotten how shoes feel like. He enters a world of neon lights and is blinded, so he seeks the dark spots and finds none. He has a task. Yes. 

"Can I help you?"

A memory: "Do not look at anyone except me."

"N—no, I'm fine."

"What?"

Louder, steadier (you're not in there anymore, not really): "I'm fine. Thanks." But when he remembers he forgets, and the task isn't as clear as it was a moment ago. Is he drunk? He was forced to drink denatured alcohol filtered through a loaf of bread, but was that today, or yesterday, or a dream?

"Alright then. Tell me if you need anything."

Still, he is nameless, that's what's important. Completely anonymous in quiet clothes and with a quiet face. "Yes," he says, and the word tastes sour.

All the products of consumption look the same, bright colours, lined up, a glorious mass of neon lights, and again, he cannot see. He passes the aisles of fruits and vegetables, squinting watering eyes lingering on the rotten ones, a sign that says three for one sale. Fresh food, canned foods, meats and fishes; today's newly-slaughtered and newly-caught delicacies, tired chefs hacking up pieces of meat and delivering them to the late-night dwellers. Sirloin cut up and placed in a white plastic bag, wetting with juice at the bottom, handed to a woman with utmost care, oh, he chokes and looks away. He can hear the flies buzzing around his head, or is it his imagination?

There: the personal hygiene section. Relieved, he smiles. He stops by the deodorants and is overwhelmed. Too much! Too many! The task seemed easy, too easy almost, there were no bear traps in a such place this, but he forgot the multitude, the sheer number of products, the expectancy of choice.

Ramsay told him to buy a deodorant, but he did not specify which brand.

Never the one to make much noise, he looks up, watches the lights, and suffers the worst breakdown of his life in a supermarket at midnight. "God," thick mucus voice and tears running out of his eyes, "oh God," and he weeps into his arms, body bending, retching sobs like vomit.

He smells him before he hears him. A hand around the back of his neck.

Theon whines.

"What are you doing," Ramsay says. He sounds normal enough, none of that demonic wheezing shit he does when he's excited. As of late he's started to wear so much perfume he carves a hole in each space he occupies, and leaves a trail whenever he walks. Theon smells more like Ramsay than Ramsay, as he wears his clothes after the Starks burnt his things in the garden. "Why did you go here."

And since Theon is Theon again, he retreats into uncertainty, the defining aspect of his identity. The blazing supermarket light leave no darkness for him to disappear in. "I don't know," he says, sounding almost resigned, drying tears and snot on his shirt sleeve.

"Did you try to leave."

"I don't think so," Theon says, shrill, "I think I was—"

"Why did you try to leave me?" Ramsay asks, actual questions. "Did I do something wrong? I don't know what I did? Sorry?"

"I don't think..." Theon mumbles.

"Is everything alright here?" Voice is familiar, professional, the supermarket worker. In truth: tired of life. But she shows actual concern when she continues, addressing Theon (!), "You don't look too good. Rough night?" Shocked, Theon turns his head but gets a neck-squeeze in warning and he doesn't.

"He's a little confused," Ramsay says sweetly, and starts leading him outside, a little too fast. "He does this sometime. I'm his caretaker. Thanks for your concern." When they pass from light to dark, Theon hears him whisper, "You're like a dog who doesn't know it's a dog." Those words have a profound effect on him.

Guided back into the car and the darling dark, deodorant forgotten, didn't Ramsay want it? Nope, Ramsay far-off, dopey. He snaps out of it and gestures for Theon to open the glove compartment, c'mon c'mon, it's open, giggling obscenely, Theon skittishly doing so and greeted with a mess; rope, a pocketknife, gauze tape, scissors, wallets, and of course, black plastic, ephemera like a girl's name and address scribbled on a piece of paper. Ramsay waits but Theon does not wonder. The fear, however, is as rich as vomit.

"The collar," Ramsay says, unable to sit still, giddy.

"What?"

"Take out the collar," Ramsay specifies again, irritated, moment broken.

"I don't see it," Theon says, nasal, nose full of snot.

Ramsay, pissed, leans over and starts rummaging around in the glove compartment, curses, shit falling into Theon's lap and down at the small floor space (some of Ramsay's men, who sometimes sit in the back, need space for ample thighs). Maybe there is no collar? Animal relief fills his jutting ribcage. The dog that does not know it is a dog. Ramsay turns on the car roof's light, accidentally pushing the lever too far so it goes dark → light → dark, and then back to → light, but he catches the noise Theon makes: like's he's dying and resurrected, painfully. Entertained, Ramsay gets lost in a brief sequence of turning the light off, on, off, etcetera, gauging Theon's reaction, until he gets bored and starts looking for the collar again. In the light, Theon—who is massaging the space between his eyebrows in an attempt to ward off a headache—sees how manic he becomes when things don't go after his plans. Finally, "There we are." Something round and heavy in his doughy hand. Ramsay has smaller hands than Theon. Compensating, maybe? Ramsay turns off the light (and turns off Theon, too, his life in parenthesises). "Can't have you running off uncollared, y'know," a practised line, but Theon fades fast and so does the snarky commentary. He feels it being put on. Ramsay checks it, locking and unlocking and locking. Two fingers go under but it's tight enough that he'll know it's there, always, "Gotta test it," Ramsay says, pulls forth a little remote, dangles it in front of him and.

And.

Light: it doesn't have to be good, or heavenly, or all-clearing. Light helps bring Theon out dark but (and) is horrible. When his vision blows up, it takes him a moment to register the white-hot pain: a thousand barbed fishhooks tearing through his soul. Centralized in his neck, travelling to the waist / waste, bursting open and spewing flies and light. Absolute. (Clarity? Death?). If only life had more moments like this. 

Then it all stops and he is denied—! He coughs and smoke curls upwards. Is that more flies, buzzing around him?

"A little strong, maybe," Ramsay says, and he's hard through his slacks. "It works as long as I'm in a five meter radius. You gotta get good at hiding, huh?"

.

.

Technically he is ordered into neighbouring rooms, into darkness, but it's easy to lose himself there so he walks the halls instead, with their tolerable half-light, only willingly hiding when Ramsay finishes a sequence. He knows every nook and cranny of the middle school. The number of girl in the waiting room lessen while the number of rooms in use increase. R016, R014, R013, down to R005.

The rules have changed, but some things remain the same.

He still sits beside Ramsay in the car. He still attends a sequence every now and then, but they are randomized, no longer numbered, nor in a single fixed location. He's still not allowed near R015. Sometimes blood pools underneath it. The responsibility to clean up falls on the janitor, the ugly man with the extreme smell, who'd become a distant prison guard that patrolled the halls thrice daily: no empathy, just an observer, a pair of chess player eyes inside a rotting blood bag. The janitor does not mind the shadow that sometimes follows him. Since the shadow is unable to open doors, it is the janitor who does it and coerce him into the light with soft words and promise of treats (a blanket, a snack bar, clean underwear). If Ramsay was in a bad mood, the janitor is the one who loosens the chains and unlocks the door, soothes his wounds with liquids and cream. Ramsay never comments, as long as he finds him in a room when the day is over. It's become a ritual in itself.

"I'm not myself in the dark," Theon—and it is Theon, he thinks—explains. Today, he was fed rotten meat, but he still breathes with his mouth when close to the janitor. 

"Y'know, when I was younger, I had this friend," the janitor begins. He's pushing a cart full of cleaning equipment, wearing cracked leather, torn off at the arms (too big, secondhand?), hilly nails with years of black grease beneath. Weird watery grey eyecolour, weird long lashes. He blinks a lot. "Or maybe not a friend. Relationship was strange: a partnership, of sorts, co-workers, bits of mentor / student mentality, sometimes reversed, bordering on BDSM." The lascivious smack of lips. "If you could call that BDSM. Anyway, because of the strangeness of the relationship, it was kinda hard to tell who was who. Wore the same clothes. Grew into each other, I guess. We didn't have anyone else."

"I'm not going to turn into Ramsay," Theon says.

"Then who are you gonna become?"

"I dunno." Theon scratches his cheek; he really needs a shave, and some face lotion.

"Don't scratch it, you'll get skin on the floor," the janitor scolds. "We need to keep the place clean, y'see. You and me both, new boy. But I'll watch out for you. There are some holes in your master you'll never fill."

"He's not my master."

"Then what?"

Theon doesn't answer.

(Again: there are no names for the things he wants. Or perhaps there is. He just won't admit it yet.)

"Lover? Boyfriend? No, no. You think you want that, but seriously, you don't want that."

Theon asks, "How did your relationship end?"

The cease of whining from the cart's wheels make Theon realize the janitor stopped. "He died." Skinny man; has to pull his too-big brown jeans up by the belt loops when he stills, and Theon sees the jeans aren't brown, just brown with dirt. Then he starts pushing again, tempo faster. Headed towards R015. 

"I'm not allowed to go in," Theon says.

"Sorry about that, but Ramsay left a mess for me." A mess; sounds like he says a treat. The janitor goes in, and does not flick on the light. Must mean that the janitor knows where the light switch is. He's been in R015 before. The door slams a little too fast, guided by wind. Someone must've opened a window inside.

Theon is alone. Seconds pass, or minutes, hours?

Theon turns around just in time to see two men coming towards him. Ramsay's henchmen. Theon would laugh at the word, he isn't entirely Theon anymore. Before, his silence meant no threat, but as of late it seems to further antagonize Ramsay's men, a leer here, a comment there. The light flickers. "—supposed to be here," they finish saying, but Theon blacked out, and now they're closer.

"What?" Theon asks.

Annoyance flickers across the face of the one on the left. Both of them are big guys, stomachs, hair and tattoos protruding under clothing worn thin. 25 years old, 30? Bodies of men, brains of boys. "You're not supposed to be here," the right on repeats. "And you stink."

Theon mumbles, "It's the janitor's fault."

The men exchange glances. The light flickers again. Theon loses time for a moment and when he comes back to it one of them has grabbed his chin, slippery with grease, so the man has to dig his nails in to hold on.  "You really have no idea what's going on, do you, girlie?" Comparisons to females are insults worse than any other. Females are cattle. In the hallways, females are not allowed unless accompanied by males, an invisible "gentlemen only" sign, like at a stripper bar from his former life; the presence of female customers would alienate male ones, they said. There are countries where the sea water is cut off to avoid contact between the genders, Theon's seen it on TV. History is the sum of male deaths. Females were sent off with the children and the ill in the genocides that History sweeps behind its door. Death was not equal then, and is not today.

Behind the man's shoulder: the waiting room. Or does the description hotel lobby fit better? Last time he went past two girls had been sleeping there. Yeah, a hotel lobby. Waiting to pass on / go their rooms, to exist in spaces that'd seen more faces than churches. Recently the girls had become younger, drunker, wobbling down the hall like people on a vacation that have forgotten how to relax, Ramsay's men helping them into their rooms. Theon himself is confined to acts of physical asceticism; no drinks, cigarettes, coffee, sex or talking unless Ramsay permits it. He isn't even allowed to look at Ramsay's girls. His little girls. Oh god. 

The light flickers: off, on. The men are gone. Theon licks his teeth and tastes cum, finding himself on all fours. He probably just hasn't flossed in a while, and fell.

Nervous, oh so dreadfully nervous, he walks over to the newly-titled hotel lobby. Movement hurts; under his clothes he is a tapestry of cuts and scabs and bruises. 

A lone wolf walks by. Or, just a big dog. It has some kind of cloth in its mouth, walking in a straight line, trained not to loiter. One of Ramsay's Bitches / actual female dogs, who (which) Theon did not know existed until recently. It isn't Ramsay who takes care of them. Theon reflects on the dog. Man’s best friend. How big would the betrayal be if the dog bit the hand that feeds it? By an ancient unwritten—but because of it all the more solid—tradition it is understood that to have feelings towards an animal is not recommended. Ramsay naturally treated animals like mere animals. His interpretation of the tradition went without commentary. Ramsay loved the dogs by force, by the laws of captivity. The dogs were fed, trained, utilized and when not utilized kept in cages... kept by the janitor, maybe? The janitor reeks so bad even the unmistakable scent of many dogs can't be distinguished. Unlike the Stark family dogs, which Theon was secretly afraid of, these dogs have never known love or individuality. They are not petted, or spoken to; they are commanded. Dogs like that go a particular kind of crazy.

The dog that does not know it is a dog.

Suddenly, somebody flushing somewhere and the building's ancient array of pipes choking and hacking and gurgling, killing his thoughts on dogs. What's the use of a janitor who only fixes the surface? Yeah that's right you fuck, keep vacuuming that same area in a feeble attempt to get any dirt that you might've missed. R015 is never gonna be clean. Not anywhere else either. The roaches have already begun coming; he squashed one under his new sneakers yesterday and it went straight into his sock. Now he's barefoot and himself.

There are no longer any plants in here, he notices. A domestic cult, dried up like a garden where nobody goes. The normality Ramsay struggled to upkeep has gone down the drain. Didn't he mention being kicked out off the BDSM forums a while ago? Where does he get bitches now? It's not like the janitor can breed them in the back garden like he (probably) does dogs. In the lobby, he finds a lone bitch, and baths in clarity for a moment when he recognizes her. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asks the bitch.

The girl looks up for a split second, then down. Expression intense: a brief look of ultimate hatred, like she would've broken his neck just for the pleasure of the silence after the snap. Chickenwings in the jaws of a junkyard mutt. Who is the chicken and who is the mutt, here? Then she looks up again, glare diminishing: realizes something. Phony smile, vomit-breath, missing fingers; "Sure. Everybody knows me. I work at a bar." Wearing a v-neck, bruised boobs, Theon sees her nametag: Kyra.

"Kyra," he says, nostalgic: first name he's heard in ages that means something. "Yeah, I know you." She waits, wait for him to introduce himself, so he looks in both directions (plus up to the treacherous shit-light), whisper-lies, "Theon."

"I think I remember you," Kyra saysShe's grown not fatter but rounder, belly a soft small pouch, her short hair long. The hair is the most feminine trait about her, and he becomes idly aware of how his hair have trailed to his shoulders. Womanly, is that what he is? Or just animal-like? "Want a coke?" she asks, gestures to where she sits, on the floor. He accepts, slides down beside her, takes a sip of her offered bottle, burned where her ruined hands traced his when giving him the bottle. Illegal, illegal. Adrenaline-fear and he drinks too much. A cockroach dreaming of disinfectant. Too much syrup in the Coke. Too much, suddenly, in her smile, as she says, "Theon, huh. You always bragged about your magic cock, yeah?"

This body that is not his, this body that breaks into pieces every morning and every night—why do they mistake it for identity? Who stares back in the mirror? Who? Body and soul can never be married. An alien carcass, a nameless husk. He wants to get to where he is essential. To where he really is. Even his sex is rotting, should he believe Ramsay and his men. Why, "it" would fit better.

Seeing him go crazy, she says, "Sorry. Didn't mean to fuck with you."

"I'm sorry too," he says, shaking his head like a wet dog.

She says, "How long have you been here?"

"Since the beginning. I know every crook and nanny of this place."

"Why are you here?"

He says, "I'm tired of hating myself." But he's good at it, it is such a comfortable way to be, goddamn fucking florsam on the high seas, the low tide, a little wad of nothing shurring and saying Hey sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't know. It's easy to be nothing. It requires very little thought or afterthought, you can always find people to drink with you, hang with you, everybody needs a little nothing in their life, right? You don't even have to call, chances are I'll already be there, you've just overlooked me because I'm in a corner, crouched like a dustball, a cobweb, my little spaced-out grin and Oops it seems I've stumbled onto something real bad here, a BDSM den that's slowly turning into something else, growing, expanding, a void with no exit.

"Then why don't you kill yourself?" she asks, flat, drinking her coke, pondering the same thing.

The question: yes, why not jump off a bridge? Why not drink poison? Why not slash his wrists with a piece of glass in some room and bleed out? A moment of ugly clarity, a breakthrough pocket of pus and deceit: he's a coward. They're cowards. Do they want transformation? Do they want at all? No and yes: what he most wanted was to be rid of was the horror of the ancient sacred arching knowledge. Wanted to be ridden, not mindless but adrift, still, in the eddies of his helplessness, there is such peace in helplessness, it's better than death any day, 'cos you're still able to enjoy it. How to say this, though? How to speak at all?

Theon shrugs, feels the cold of the wall behind him seep through his shirt. and Kyra nods, leaning her head on his shoulder, sighing. A feeling of companionship. He clings to it.

"We'll be okay," he says, but she shakes her head, the pessimism of a woman who knows.

.

.

Nightime: you can't see shit. Raining heavily. Ramsay's busier than usual because something went wrong. The janitor's the one who takes Theon for a walk, offers him a cigarette, but Theon's full of excuses so the janitor gives him an orange instead. Cut the top off and suck on it, and he does, and the juice finds a sore. It's soothed with coffee in a flower-patterned thermos that tastes like the devil's asshole. Well, how's the janitor supposed to make good coffee when he doesn't even make sense? Theon drinks it anyway too hopefully burn away the sore, add some pleasure-pain. Little hamster turds bubble in his stomach like animate shit. They stand under the little roof of the middle school main entrance, watching the rain. Must not look too long.

A dumb thought: Did Ramsay go to school here? Chubby-cheeked little Ramsay with his backpack on, a bully probably, angry cos he wasn't pretty or smart or popular. But the pictures of Ramsay's does little to Theon. There is nothing to laugh about, nothing to consider. It is the image of Ramsay fucking him that first time that's stayed, that triumphant gaze, that plays across his lids when he closes them. It is in Ramsay's absence that the image grows starker, darker, because the time apart left time for reflection, and with that came feelings of extreme fear and emptiness, thoughts of fleeing, Ramsay becoming a monster in the midst of it all. Yet it Ramsay who saves him. It is Ramsay he bends for, whom he crawls to, whose praises he sings when beaten and forced to eat rotten meat. "If you puke, you have to eat it again," Ramsay had said, but he couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from trembling, or spit from weeping out at the corners. Unprofessional. 

A fat snail in the yard in front of them, attracting a seagull, diving down and up. It hangs out of its beak like a gooey branch. Then, in air: another screeching gull, a battle, snail slung upwards between the birds, torn in half. A quiet tragedy. Cars drive past. Funny, how many times has Theon driven by places like this? Places abandoned by God?

The janitor has brought along a pup. He talks a little of breeding them. When he explains how they always drown the runt, he look at Theon, and his voice is overwhelmed with an emotion Theon cannot name. He says the bitch isn't fully trained or grown yet, but that Ramsay was getting impatient, wishing to expand his pack.

"What's its name?" Theon asks, petting it. It is a creature young enough to want love. Docile, it rubs up against him.  

"Ain't got one yet," the janitor says.

"Oh. Why is it whining like that?"

"It's confused." The janitor bars his teeth. "And it wait for an explanation. It doesn't know it's a dog. No dog does."

Theon looks into the rain. "Is he planning something?"

"Ramsay? Or the dog?"

He feels the need to cry, hard tears that'd hurt like splinters, coming down. He gestures to the collar, "D'you know he hasn't electrified me? Never, after that first time."

"Maybe he's busy. Or maybe he is planning something." The janitor fits a Lucky to his lips using matches and ashes into the empty flowerpower thermos. One time Theon saw the janitor cough up a dark phlegm, blood probably, from a seasoned lung conserved in nicotine. He's sick. He's gonna die soon.

"What could he possibly do? He's taken everything from me."

"Not everything," the janitor says. sigh, a crack in the facade. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you why he's acting off. Somebody went to the cops."

He inhales with his nose and coughs: ah, he'd forgotten how the janitor smelled. "What? Who'd—?"

"One of the fresher bitches. He doesn't know who yet." A crooked grin. "I do."

"Who?"

"Kyra, of course. The bar bitch."

Theon tightens up like when Ramsay had shoved an icicle up his ass. "You can't know for sure."

"I bribed some cops. But yeah, I'm gonna tell Ramsay soon. You better say goodbye to the slut. Heard you were getting chummy."

Horror, "What's Ramsay gonna do?"

"What he's been doing with everyone who disagrees with him since age twelve? Oh. Oh." Sudden, grotesque realization: a kid pulling the wings and legs of an insect. But apparently the image isn't strong enough, Theon's horror isn't enough, "You don't know." Then, again: "You don't know." O, to touch purity again! O, to feel unblemished, hot skin under coarse fingertips! The thirst is there in the janitor's ugly mug.

The irony is that it's with Ramsay's cold eye Theon regards the janitor. No empathy or understanding. The janitor is not a friend. He gives him oranges and socks but he's not a friend. When they're out here Theon and the janitor piss in the same corner and they know the smell of each other's asses, but they share the companionship that comes with sharing species, but there is nothing beyond that.

He's got to get Kyra out of here. But he just stands there, silent, while the rain drizzles over the edge of the little roof like a wall between here and there. Eats an orange, curses when the juice punishes his sore, one more time.

.

.

It's the other way around. It's Kyra who gets him out.

Torn like from death itself, or at least a great deep sleep: R014. Hot, ripe and welcoming like a womb. No windows open. The air conditioner's on and blows in moldy air. The texture of the air feels companion-like, it's alive, creatures breed in it. The light is off so the darkness is black and solid, made more physical by the density of the heat and smell. Sleeping facedown in front of the door because it never goes deeper or allows itself to look, a disgusting blub­ a white fetus with insatiable needs, waiting for light and birth.

She opens the door.

First phase of the childbirth. Next to take place: the magnificent and painful coming-into-the-world. The labour is long. A gurgle, a cry, looking up and expecting the janitor or Ramsay. Instead, Kyra, staring wide-eyed and wild. Hair hacked off: an impromptu buzzcut. Years shaved off her skull. Eyebrows, too. Clad in a red dress, certainly not hers, torn apart. She must've come from R015. So why is she here?

(Secretly, Theon knows what's going on in R015. It's a secret because he longs to go there.)

"Theon," she whisper-screams, grabbing him by the hair, dragging him out. "We gotta go Theon, we have to go. They're coming." He's dragged into the light, transition too quick, so the first few steps it's more instinct and muscle memory than anything else, walking, baby steps, Kyra supporting him.

"What's... going on?"

"Shh! They'll hear you. They tried to lock me in." Panting, angry, afraid. "I—I escaped." Angrier. Unfeminine in her rage. Theon feminine in his fear. She drags him towards the main exit, past it, but he slows her down, gets a look at the front entrance. On the doorknob, a used condom. She's already seen it, she says, already tried to open the door. "Fuck them," she mumbles, tone light and squeaky and betraying that she's terrified, "fuck them and their games."

"Sequences," Theon corrects. 

Kyra spits, "He still calls it that 'round you, huh?" Jealous, jealous. He realizes what emotion the janitor's voice had held when it described drowning the runt: jealousy. 

"Why'd you get me?" he asks, honest, more self-aware by the minute.

"'Cos I don't remember the way out. You know this school, right? How do we get out? Every nook and cranny, you said." 

"We can crawl out a window at..." his mind offers advice, then cuts itself off: R015. No. Not happening. "Or, there's another door, a backdoor," he says, and points. Kyra starts running. Theon has to, too, because he does not know how to say no. "You open it," he'll say, afraid it'll turn to shit in his hands like everything does. He can't even buy a deodorant without fucking up. Tense, sense creeping back into his system, he watches her try the doorknob and succeed. There exists a God, here! High on happiness, until she drags him into the school's playground and his breath hitches because he hasn't been alone here in a lifetime. It's cold outside. He thinks he hears barking.

"We should stay in the streets?" he suggests, panting, trying to drag up rationality from his hot-sludge brain. "If someone saw us, maybe from a car, we could ask for help—"

"They'd do nothing Theon, they wouldn't get involved." Alone, even when her warm hand is in his and she's dragging them into the forest behind the school, a great deep forest. They run with far too little clothes on: his rags, her shreds. Two wild half-men, half a man and half a woman. Theon's losing himself, slowly.

The earth is spongy, dense, and resilient beneath his feet. It has the consistency of a corpse. With each step, his feet press down on generations of dead ancestors. Their bodies, their rotted and transmuted flesh, have become the substance of the earth. When he breathes, he ingests them, what survived their decomposition. In this way, they live through him. When he breathes, he breathes the gases their bodies exuded in the process of the composition, reassimilating into his body. The forest for him, symbolizes death. Some of these trees are several human lifetimes old. Gruesome things will and have happened under their thick protruding branches. The ground is bare. Nothing grows on the ground in a forest as dense as this. There is no sky, here. No heavens.

"Thisss… Th—this has been going on for a l—long time," Kyra says, stammering with crazy cold and fear, hysterical, yet she drags him with her, hand in hand, grip so tight it's the only place on his body that's warm. She probably cuts herself on his nails but she does not care. "Years, pr—probably. They brr, buried them here. They grew… up into… trees! Up into trees!" 

He sees them, just like she does: faces in the tree's wrinkled flesh. And in-between trees / dead bitches: lights. From flashlights. Dogs are barking, big dog howls. Barefoot and crying, they keep running. In desperation she tries to shake him off but he won't let go. He won't let go. Cowardly, he thinks that she was the one to take him with her, she was the one who condemned him to death. Damned bitch! Burn in hell! But do not let go. DO NOT LET GO.

To escape a predator, the prey runs faster than itself. It runs with a force greater than it has. Biological term: surplus energy. It goes beyond its forces to survive. Sometimes it survives the predator, but it doesn't survive the effort. It dies from survival.

The thump of their feet, the drum of their hearts. Difficult to hear anything else.

A yelp tears itself from Theon's throat, irregular, unsupervised. There is often some kind of glee to screaming, it be joy or fright, but this sound is entirely instinctive, a result of… a thousand barbed fishhooks… His neck, his throat, the electric pain is coming from there. Then gone. "My collar," he mumbles, "it's hurting, that means—!"

Ramsay's words: "It works as long as I'm in a five meter radius." 

A whistle, drawn out. The dogs stop barking. 

Theon feels all sound mute, as he turns, mid-sprint, and as a result—a revenge—falls over a root and takes Kyra with him. Is he levitating, no, he's standing up, seeing straight into the flashlight. Kyra, clinging to his arm, doing the same thing. Standing, staring. 

In front of them there is only the flashlight.

Another whistle. 

And then Theon sees them all coming, a hundred black four-legged shadows, an ocean wave about to slam down and engulf him. An entirely calm voice in the back of his mind informs him that he's going to die now. Torn to pieces by trained killer dogs. Intestines splayed over the trees. Fertilizing the souls already resting here, in the forest, if Kyra's right. 

Kyra's right. 

It's her they're headed for. Theon is only held down—because they know Theon is not a threat—while they tear into her. Taught to maim, not to kill. Latter is reserved for sicker animals. He holds her hand even when she's mauled by the dogs. In the corner of his eye he sees a white, bloody arm reach out and grab a nearby rock, for so to throw. 

A hollow noise where it hits the ground. Whatever she was aiming for, she missed. 

"That one almost hit me." Ramsay's voice. "Bad dog," he continues, mock-disappointed, From the little Theon can see, he's standing mid-centre. 

"Been a long time, hasn't it?" the janitor asks. Theon could recognize that rasp anywhere. It sounds a lot like his own voice. Is it his own voice? No, because he's lying over here, with a fat dog holding him, so cold he can't feel his own lips, nor his body. 

"Shut up," Ramsay says softly. It is when he speaks like that, that bad things happen.

The air—which is filled with blood—is hard to breathe in. Prickles. So cold, so cold.

"Dogs haven't torn her up too bad," the janitor says. 

"Why don't you try one out alive for once?" Ramsay suggests.

It is about then Kyra goes insane, weak-willed like a child. Humans with strong emotions seem theatrical, an inner doppelgänger protruding from underneath a layer of carefully-constructed flesh. She writhes and excites the dogs. 

"It's nice," the janitor says to Ramsay, voice filled with love, "to have you back, old friend."

"Not your friend," Ramsay says softly, going over to stand by Theon. Bending down, head tilted to the side. Touches Theon's arm. Theon reaches out to clasp his wrist. He wishes Ramsay would burn at the touch, skin parting like the sea before Moses, decomposing, healing, and when Ramsay screams and wrenches himself away, the scab come off like the burned skin of a roasted animal, a conical hollow crust—

"My love," Ramsay says, "are you alright? Are you cold?" A mockery of affection, of care. "Let's get you home, huh?"

All while Kyra's screams keep echoing in the background like a laughing track.

.

.

Two days later, a serial killer is caught.

It's all over the news. Theon sits in front of the TV in the apartment, a bowl of some food-sludge in his hands. The news interrupted a sitcom he was watching, but he doesn't mind that much, as the laughing track kept going off at odd moments, until it became a long continuous droning. He's become adapt at ignoring worldly matters; the breaking news story, the laughing track and the dogs. So many dogs, suddenly dumped into the apartment. The dogs run around his bandaged feet nonstop, trying to steal his sludge. Some of them succeed at licking it out of the bowl in his hands. The mugshot of the serial killer comes on again and something inside him rustles, while it's said that the evidence that finally jailed him was the discovery of his DNA on a recent victim's body. Theon scratches his neck. The skin there is sore after Ramsay removed the collar in some obscene ritual whose sequence of activities was only known to him.

Ramsay comes out of the shower, a towel over his shoulders. He's gotten more fit recently, fat with muscle. "Reek looks fucking stupid in that mugshot."

"Who?"

"Reek. Guy who used to take you out? Clean you out when the flies got in? I mean, this is his apartment, his stink is fuckin' everywhere. Oh don't worry, they can't track this place to him. It's in my name. ...Uh, you remember him right?"

"I dunno." The rustling continues, almost louder than the laughing track.

Ramsay looks at him a moment too long. "Anyway, stop feeding the dogs that shit, they'll get stomach aches." He sits down beside him, takes the spoon out of Theon's hands and tastes it. Spits on the floor. "Ew. Oh, and that's Kyra by the way." 

"Who?" Theon asks, dazed. 

"That one," he points at the dog licking up what Ramsay spat out. She's wearing Theon's old collar. "New bitch. Isn't she cute? Probably last one in a while. Gotta lay low." 

"Yeah," Theon says. 

Ramsay grabs his shoulder and Theon nearly jumps out of his skin. Eyes lowered through his lashes, Ramsay orders him to suck his dick. This is routine: Theon slips between Ramsay's legs (he has to push the dogs out of the way) and starts working on his zipper while Ramsay leans back, taking his cock out. The thing in his hand has been turned into a knife so many times, but right now it's just a soft snail, weeping at the end. 

(I could rip it off.) 

(I could watch you bleed to death and laugh in the first time in months.)

Theon, wasting no time, starts licking and sucking and slurping, sighing in pleasure when his head is patted. He hears a phone camera go off, but does not ask. "I'm gonna send these to Robb," Ramsay finally says.

A pause.

"Who?" the creature on his knees asks. 

"No one you care for," Ramsay replies, happy. He pats Theon's head again, starts fucking his mouth with slow thrusts. Should he come it'll crust in Theon's beard. Then he stops, suddenly unsatisfied. "No, no. This isn't right." He yanks Theon's head up, studies his face. "Go clean it up instead," he says, and gestures to the bowl.

He does. But the recycling bag is full so he goes on the hunt for another, finds another piece of thrash by the corner. He drags it forth, untying the tight knot. 

Opens the black plastic bag. Sees a skinned human in it. Closes the plastic bag. 

Sits completely still. Overwhelmed. The apartment is overflowing with bags. Where will he find a plastic bag that's not occupied? Where can he find one to throw out the thrash / go crawl inside, himself? Kyra's followed him to the kitchen, waiting. The dog's eyes are round and black and hollow. The original Reek had had the same eyes. He picks her up, clutches her to his chest. She does not struggle.

From the living room, Ramsay calls, "I found a new name for you, y'know. It's—"

He hears it, and blocks it out.

He tries to head for the living room but can't, and goes through the kitchen's backdoor instead and starts running away, the second time that week.

.

.

Theon awakens like a man coming up from the water for just a moment— 

("HELP!")

—until the torrents drag him down again, torrents that have played with him for months, but he surfaces again: snaps and tries to escape Ramsay that same night and it goes to hell. 

The weather is colder than the previous ones, and with added awareness comes knowledge of the air as texture; he chews the air, it's so thick, so much weight he feels it on his shoulders. Theon's clutching the puppy so hard she whines. "Sorry," he says hoarsely, steam erupting from his mouth, "I'm so sorry. We're gonna make it this time." Under his feet: asphalt. The motorway stretches on infinitely, but there's streetlights, and the occasional car driving by. Every time he hears a motor he nearly passes out from fright, but he still waves and yells "Help!", to no avail. If he catches the driver slowing down enough to look him over, he quickly sees the disdain as they speed up again—he is not worth saving, neither by lone drivers nor families. To the left of him there's a dark forest, leaving him confined to the motorway. Should he go to far left, the Other will surface, and probably freeze to death because of its stupidity.

After a while, a familiar motor comes close. Theon doesn't call for help this time.

Ramsay drives, Theon runs.

Sound of window rolling down. "Should have expected this," Ramsay says contemplatively. "I mean it was just a matter of time, right? Shouldn't have dumped so much responsibility on you so suddenly. Although this is what it's been building up to, y'know?" Theon can hear the break of a smile on his ugly face: "But you have to tell me, what made you do this, huh? Was it the puppy's name? Or was it yours?"  

"Leave... me... alone," Theon pants. His back is sweaty.

Ramsay quiets. "I hear you saying that, but you don't really mean it. You think you want to be left alone, but you don't. You don't even know what you are." Sighing, he looks ahead, checks the road, then drives fast onto the side of the road right in front of Theon. Theon slams into the front, wind knocked out of him. The little dog does not fight. He lays over the car, guarding it with his body, clutching it. Vision swimming. 

A car door opens and closes. 

A whistle. "That had to hurt. Oh well," Theon feels his belt being worked from behind, button – zipper, pants drawn to his ankles. Routine. "Don't let go of her, now," Ramsay says. All the action must've gotten him excited, because an erection slaps against Theon's ass. It's wet, lubed in; he's planned this. Must've masturbated while driving next to Theon. "Hold tight." 

Theon does not dare close his eyes for too long a period: the Other will surface and kill the dog. Without the luxury of dreamland, he feels the raw sting. The lubricant makes it bearable, but that's about it. The edge digs a red line into his gut and batters his knees. But he can take it.

The dog's being smothered. Yet it doesn't peep. A moment of clarity: Do not mistake a silent dog for a well-behaved dog. A silent dog could be as terrified as a howling one. 

Kyra was terrified. 

Kyra was. 

"No no no, I have to save her!" — this time. 

Ramsay hits him in the head and he relents, is turned around, allowing Ramsay to grab the dog by its neck and throw it through the rolled-up window. "You had your chance. You failed," Ramsay says. He kisses Theon on the tip of his nose, careful about pushing in. Theon thinks it's care at first, then realizes he's just savouring the moment. Ramsay says, "I'm not gonna do this so much anymore so uh, be a little more appreciative, ok?" He does fast, mean little thrusts, rhythm steady. Not erratic: he's very much in control when everything goes exactly as planned. All while watching Theon's face. Touching his chest, clawing at old scars, tracing the places he has been. Human anatomy is nothing but a map for him to explore and conquer. At one point, he licks Theon's eye. Anything to get a reaction. The cold is getting to Theon; he barely feels it. Ramsay tips his head up and kisses him, open-mouthed and hot and heavy. For some reason that gets a bigger response than anything else, a wail. Ramsay isn't fucking for pleasure. It's never just about pleasure for him. Too many sick fetishes. Theon's chance at enjoyment is killed by the cold.

Another car slows down. A malevolent shout: "Get a room, faggots!" 

Ramsay's head whips around, manic expression gone, kid with his hand in the cookie jar™ face back on – humiliated, humiliated, and Theom can feeling him pulling out. Façade broken. No exhibitionist, then. Theon watches him more closely. Or—? Because suddenly he becomes manic, grimace rebirthed into something worse, and he drives back in, starts fucking Theon hard enough to hurt him more, slams into him while his fingers bruise. This isn't about Theon anymore. 

Ramsay's watching the car. For him, this is a new game. Think this is gross, huh? I'm gonna show you gross. Tongue out. Overdone noises.

"Push back," he orders Theon. 

Theon refuses. 

The slow slide of Ramsay's eyes.

A remote in his hand. The remote to his old shock collar, now Kyra's collar. The threat is clear: she probably won't survive the shock.

Theon hates himself and starts getting into it, powering through the pain to push his ass back, fake-moans, groans, spreads his legs wide. Cries obscenities. Cliché porn phrases. He's spacing out. Thinking about how sex sounds a little bit like walking with flip-flops, let's out a little laugh, starts crying without understanding why. Like this is normal. He can't feel his lower body. He looks up into a lone street light.

"Freaks!" another voice shouts, also from the car (a passenger?), but it's wobbly, less malevolent. Ramsay—unhinged—has a tendency to do that to people. "Fucking freaks!" It comes from a different place, and Theon realizes the car is moving, driving away, Ramsay winning. Ramsay knowing he's winning. 

When they're out of sight, he finishes, orgasm more of a chore than anything. He pulls out. Theon, still draped over the front, hears him walk around the car.

"Whew! That was fun. C'mon, Reek, get in the car. You're driving."

.

.

The dog that does not know it is a dog.

He can't stop thinking about those words.

The time after the janitor—or, Reek I's—imprisonment is difficult. Ramsay is less skittish as the serial killer manhunt is over, but he lost something when he gave up his janitor to save his own skin. Theon is expected to become Reek II. Or rather, just Reek. There will always be only one Reek in Ramsay's mind. With the name comes responsibilities Theon hasn't had in ages. Suddenly he's expected to train the dogs, drive Ramsay whenever he wants, clean up and fuck corpses.

He cannot help but ponder how many Reeks there have been.

In the first day, he messes up and Ramsay beats him up until several teeth break. That leaves Ramsay a little more satisfied ("You look more like yourself, or uh, your true self.") for a while, enough for him to be more patient when Theon re-learns to drive. The sequences have ceased. So does the sleeping together-bit. No longer a dog, he no longer gets locked in rooms, and eats actual food. He regards the world with some distance, promoted as he is, a dogkeeper rather than a dog. 

And yet…

Transformation is not what Theon wants, not wholly. The only way he's at peace with the change is to imagine this as another step in Unbecoming. His job as janitor will not last forever.  Because he's not the janitor. The dogs know that, even if they don't know they are dogs. 

It's from Ramsay's men he learns his new rituals. (For some reason they regard him with differently. It increases Theon's aloofness).

To put drops in their eyes. To groom them. To remove tics. 

Theon had mistook them for crazy dogs when they were in fact good dogs, with individual names and personalities. Ramsay's men showed him where the janitor's puppy mill is located. The puppy mill is a bad place, in the middle of nowhere, with small cages and questionable hygiene, but also a place that—for the dogs—reeked of home, with familiar things such as food, and fun, and family. Although it was Ramsay they were taught to obey, Reek I had been their true master. It was he who knew how to handle the dogs, how to breed them, and when to let them into the dog garden and who to care extra for. Theon is insecure and the dogs notice. Theon can't give them what they need, not really. He ignores their needs. He has more than enough with his own, 'And besides,' he thinks, in an effort to justify, 'these dogs hurt Kyra.' He cannot forgive them. Except Kyra herself, the half-grown pup, who follows Theon wherever he goes. She doesn't accompany Ramsay on his hunts—too small. Ramsay kicks her whenever he sees her for failing to listen commands she hasn't learned. She wants desperately to please, but he refuses to murmur to her the words all animals understand, and in his silence she turns to Theon.

Apart from his lack of ability as janitor, there's been one more change: it's the end of dumping black plastic bags randomly. Instead, it's up to Reek—Theon—and Ramsay's men to clean them up and bury them. Mostly Theon. They show him another piece of land under the Bolton name, equally remote and inhospitable, a barn. It's being painted to uphold some normality, and there's even a gardener, who never says a word when Theon comes to bury girls there, or when Ramsay takes girls there for some special sequences / games. The dog in Theon whines, feels unjust. Like he was the Other in the dark and Dog while with Ramsay, he is Reek when he cleans up the bodies. In the middle school, in Ramsay's farmhouse / slaughterhouse and in one time in Reek I's old apartment.. 

He will not dwell on it. He uses the time at the puppy mill to try heal. Sleeping, mostly. 

The reason he doesn't speak to Kyra (leaving her alienated and wanting) is because you do not say foolish things to an animal. It's only to another human that you say foolish things, that you chat, that you stray from the point, that you lie.

The dogs no longer slept, skin taut, fur sticky, throat full of tics. In the fenced-in garden the dogs are put on leashes and the leashes on wires and the wires to  iron posts so the dogs will not kill. The world is upside down and the dogs are betrayed. He should speak to them, he should, but he thinks them incapable of understanding both him and the profound animal humanity because they are just dogs. Kyra whines at the betrayed sounds of her kin, but she sticks close to him because of her love.

When Ramsay visits the puppy mill to get him for new hunt, Theon tells him he will not join him.

Ramsay reacts like a child in a multitude of ways: his shock at refusal, his inability to tie in the wills of others into his egocentric little planet, and subsequent temper tantrum. He loves his dogs like that, in which the expectancy of total obedience is front and centre. His simple logic is that since Reek does not want to join the hunt and fuck corpses, then he is not Reek, he is a Dog, and can therefore be beaten up without consequence.

The consequence is Kyra. Ramsay kicking Theon awakens the awful in her. Not a pup, not a bitch, she drifts between definitions like Theon does, but her jaw is stronger. Ramsay, busy kicking Theon, does not see her coming. This is why he does not fear the dogs: if there is betrayal, it can only come from the one who can't betrayed.

In a great hoarse shiver as if she's breathing her last she leaps on the foot Ramsay disgraced both her and Theon with. She penetrated until she sank all her teeth deep into his shin and she will not let go. The teeth linger. A bleeding mad eternity. The dog will not let go no more. Hideous attachment. They moved no more, harnessed to pain, aghast. The Earth turned over. Behold a being that will not be tamed and who resists every attempt at nothingness.

Sacred howls: supernatural horror on both sides.

Ramsay sees blood pour from between the dog teeth and with it comes to heavy knowledge that he, too, is meat—no more special than all the slabs upon slaughterhouse and school tables, anatomy lessons, public autopsies in ancient amphitheatres. In desperation, he starts kicking the dog, kicks it on the head until the muzzle cracks and he finally breathes again. Horror, horror: because it should not be him. It should not be her. Betrayed by the dog, betrayed by the innocent, the humiliation is so deep Ramsay cries, a wet blubbering mess, unaccustomed to pain.

Furious love: Kyra's eyes sought Theon's.

In the dog garden, they respond with howls of their own. Hungry, hungry—has he forgotten to feed them today? Kyra whined in unison with them but she was not one of them, never re-introduced into the pack that she'd come from, and so they must resented her sympathy and clean fur. She is not one of them. She is a being at odds with the ancient fate that fix our bounds right from birth.

Eaten alive, they are, those blood drinking inventions created to kill a victim entirely lacking in possibilities to escape them... because of a lack of hands! Tics suckle the animal to death. Life flow into their tribe of bellies and the dogs stand without the chance of combat. Look too long and you'll see knowledge in black eyes, see the tics around their eyes, in their neck, reproducing and appearing as if by nowhere, changing positions, growing. Good dogs driven crazy.

Ramsay limps over to his betrayer, the small enemy sister, who is delirious and drooling and done. Face, jaw, will broken. "Just revenge," Theon says to himself. "Just reward." The world is upside down and the dog is betrayed. The dogs are betrayed because they institute a reign of love that costs humans so dearly. The dog is born to give its life for a man's. But a man does not want to give their life to do the dog. What is wanted is the ideal dog, the powerful, the assistance, the idea of a dog. As for Ramsay, Ramsay expected love, which he got, but in another form entirely: its signature left on his leg. Ramsay grabs the small dog and throws it into the garden. He wants her gone, eaten whole, swallowed up. And only the one we love can we eat? The one we can't stand we "can't swallow". You don't want to eat your friends. But your lover? Violent passion is permitted. I want to eat you up.

And Ramsay yells words in a tone that the animals in the garden longed for.

Like their assassins, the dogs swarm her, unhinged by Ramsay (in truth they would've done so anyway: the sister enemy, also to them). They tear Kyra to shreds: the curse of a name? With infinite love and teeth they rip—reduce—her to nothing.   

While Theon turns away, Ramsay watches in silence. Ramsay's leg is oozing blood: it will scar. He will not be able to forget. Shame, shame. They'll never speak of Kyra again. There will be no new Kyra, either: the name is tainted.

Like there'll be no new Reek. The answer to the question: there are just two, and it ends after that. It must. Theon's cheeks hurt from smiling. He can't stop crying.

.

.

The land of eyes.

He would've liked to be nearsighted. Not blind, of course: but he would've liked not to see clearly, not to know the nudity of his identity, not see the hateful glances. Like when he wandered through the city (back when his world wasn't claustrophobic) he'd liked to not see the misery, beggars and addicts, the puss and the spit, he did not wish to see suffering up close, and now, the bitches and Ramsay's men, who all hated him, because he had inherited the role of the silent cleaner, and he's bad about it. By their hate he is struck, wounded, marked, scarred. By their hate he becomes responsible.

Jealousy: the emotion he did not recognize in the janitor's voice. The emotion that spices their hatred. The original Reek was also burdened by terrible knowledge, and choose to ignore it. He choose love. By default, love exists without equal trust. He gave Ramsay his heart. Ramsay knows that Reek will not rat him out and get the death penalty. However, Kyra's betrayal made his paranoia return, and everyone suffers because of it.

Depression is a state of contradictions: he feels nothing and is afraid. Without Kyra—and without the ideal of Kyra—he is alone.

He tries to remember his new name.

One day, when he is cornered by one of Ramsay's men, he is not surprised. He's on all fours scrubbing urine from the floor of R008 when a boot comes down hard on his backbone. He expects belittling. Ramsay's men introduces him to old rituals in more ways than one: taunting his name is a favourite. They mispronounced it, flayed it, spat. Projections, deformations. An impossible name. But he grows uncertain when the man does not speak, just holds the boot there. Smothering his lower body against the piss-stained floor, until his legs are kneeling awkwardly. Position of a sphinx.

No gods here.

"I've seen the way you look at us, y'know. I've seen you, you and your fuckin' eyes. Like you can't see me at all—like I'm fucking lesser than you." Volume going up and down, like an insane person's. How Ramsay sounds most of the time these days. The boot kneads.

"I don't look," (fake) Reek says, and he doesn't speak either, and this breaks the rituals, the sequences: this is his first time defying Ramsay's rules in a long while.

"Liar." The boot is removed, and the man steps back, not to give him space, but as if he's going to charge.

Theon stands up, and when he does he is indescribably angry, grieving something. Grief is not sadness, is not weeping. Weeping is something you do for the sadomasochistic social pleasure of it, for others to hear. Grief is abstaining a sudden, inexplicable, invisible wound, no closure or stitches, leaving you walking in lonesome circles open-mouthed and unblinking because you were not prepared. Grief is your lover vanishing. In grief, you are never prepared. Whose death is he mourning? Why, the most important death of them all: his own. Rage, rage. Rage so droning he becomes blind and mute.

"You're lesser than me," the man says—but his angry misunderstanding is nothing compared to Theon's hot black liquid rage.

Theon, lawless, welcomes him. He is docile under rough hands, who starts beats him to the ground, sits on him, obsessed with his face, his eyes. Turns out he wants violence and sex, and starts undressing him. Turns out the rapist wants a kiss, and it reminds him of Ramsay, everything reminds him of Ramsay, and that's why Theon kisses back, trails sugar-soft kisses along the man's jawline...

Neck...

Throat...

His carotid.

(Theon had not turned away when Kyra bit Ramsay. He was envious.)

Theon opens his mouth and bites. He sinks his teeth as deep as he can, bites and chews and spits, angrier and angrier, all his rage boiling down to this, this hunger. Right now, he knows what he is, even if no one else in this shithole does. He yanks his head away and spits another mouthful, ready for another, love personified. Getting to and getting out the vocal cords is especially important. The man—in truth, Ramsay—does not deserve them. The scream is gurgled but Theon doesn't mind.

Finally the man manages to get Theon off, clawing at his own throat, unable to breathe. He rages. He grieves. Theon sees him fall to the floor, legs kicking him around in circles, bleeding out from the surprised mouth in his wide open throat.

Revenge / reward.

Oh god.

Theon watches him die, then starts vomiting up his soul.

.

.

"I made a mess."

"Then clean it up."

"I killed someone."

"What, a bitch?" Ramsay in unconcerned. He's eating beef jerky, sitting on the floor facing away from Theon, on his computer. It's one of the less smelly rooms. On the table, next to the plastic bag containing the jerky, there's a bloody hammer. "It was bound to happen. Probably half-dead, yeah? And you finished the job? And then finally did another job," he laughs at his own joke, continuing to type. The laughter is hysterical. His shoulders are tense: these days, he's always on edge.

"No. Not a bitch."

"What, a girl? I mean, a dog?"

"No. One of your men."

"My men. My boys?" Ramsay finally stops eating the beef jerky. Now he reacts to murder: because it's one of his own gender. He turns around and becomes bug-eyed when he sees Theon covered in blood. "Oh. Oh, this is bad. This is really bad. You murdered someone."

"Yeah."

Ramsay has a limp when he gets up and walks. It's uncertain whether it's from marathon sex or the bitten leg.

"Reek would never have done that."

"No."

"So you aren't Reek."

In a moment of pure headless clarity, Theon spits at Ramsay's face.

Spit running down his face, Ramsay sighs. "Seems like I wasn't thorough enough, huh?" The haunted, stressed look becomes something darker. "This time, I promise I'll be."

Chapter Text

Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco Goya

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.

To walk in circles.

He truly feels like he does, coming back to Winterfell, outside the old Stark mansion, where Ramsay—or was it Robb?—poured gasoline over and burned his things in the garden. The past is the past but Theon is here to confront Roose about it, and he expects the Truth.

The door is open, letting in the wind. Theon shudders at the sight. Or is it the cold? Alone, he makes his way through the building. Without the comfort of another presence, he is forced to confront the memories of the house alone. But something strange has happened: the lingering smell from his last visit (the musk of old wood, the concrete dust, the scent of wool rugs, the ambergris and civet… Catelyn’s perfume, Eddard’s aftershave...) are gone. Scrubbed away. The furniture is gone, cobwebs removed, walls re-painted. No familiar noises to wrap around him, either, house as dead like a grave. Like no one never lived here at all.

In the living room, the couch is the only thing that remains. The photo from the papers materializes in his head. Eddard Stark’s body, sitting there, facing the TV. The problem in the image was that he had no head upon his shoulders; it’d been sliced off. The gaping wound had been fresh but it’d been done so expertly there were no gore on the furniture or flooring. Clothes, unruffled and clean, changed? In the famous photo he sat there, peaceful except for the lack of head. And the head was nowhere to be found. When Theon turns, he’ll see Catelyn materialize, sitting behind her husband, against the wall, in some kind of vegetable-state. The doctors did not know what poison that caused her state. The photos had leaked and Robb had obsessed over them. Theon stares at this crouched-down would-be Catelyn (her open mouth, her staring eyes) and wonders if she knows where the head went. And then his foster parents are gone in a flash and all that's left is an empty couch and the wind. The end on the piece of shit story that was the Stark family. 

Or? Nobody ever wanted to hear about what came after. The healing, the shattering, the pain. Theon does remain. 

"Would you like me to show you the head?" 

Theon nods to the one whose voice is like the beating of moth wings. 

Roose starts walking in the direction of the bathroom. He never checks to see if Theon is following. The light is less strange, and there aren't any leeches in the bathtub or the toilet or the sink anymore. Instead there's a container, a minature freezer, the one you use to bring ice cream to the beach , turned upwards. Roose unlocks it and pulls out something round and grotesque. 

Almost unrecognizable. Almost.

"I kept it in a freezer for a long time. I thought you'd find it here, the day you came and visited me. But you didn't." Instead, he got fucked in the ass and a leech crawled up his nose. Dropping the head back to its freezer (a dull thud that bounces along cracked linoleum), Roose continues, "I suppose I owe you an explanation. A last gesture to this," he looks around, "life. Ask ahead."

Claustrophobic, this space. 

Theon moves out of the bathroom and Roose does not. The light does not showcase any blemishes on the latter man like it does the former. Wrinkles are a map: to wrinkle you have to live, travel, smile, frown. Roose has not moved (on). He remains while Winterfell collapses. The truest ghost. 

Floorboards creak under a shifting weight. "You orchestrated this, didn't you?" He tries to specify, tries to put words to the unspeakable horror of being a pawn, fails. "All of it?"

"Clever boy. Not Balon Greyjoy's sniveling heir, nor Eddard Stark's rebellious adoptee, nor Ramsay's second Reek." Theon knows immediately: Roose knew all his identifies. Knew him, even if it took years for Theon too learn Roose's name. "And to answer your question, no. Firstly, there were more players than me. Secondly, some things happened by chance. Like you living. Lastly, I simply pushed a few buttons."

"Is Ramsay gonna kill again?" Theon asks. 

"Is the sun going to rise?" The tone isn't cruel. "He's planning to redo the past. Do right what he did wrong last time, or the other way around, depending on your perspective. Ramsay has one single purpose and no thought of his own. He failed to do it the first time so he will try again until he gets it right. I have always known everything my son does... wants... is, ever since he killed his brother." 

"…?" No. The brother is irrelevant. It's written in Roose's dead eyes. 

"Ramsay lives on borrowed time. Both him and you were supposed to have died ten years ago."

"So I live on borrowed time too?"

"No. I would've not wasted words on you had I believed that." Roose: silent in the institution. The first one, where the doctors and nurses believed they hacked Reek off like a shell, but instead buried it deep inside Theon. The institution is whereRoose and him had sex, oral, he recalls it now, Reek eager to get lost in—less mad, less lively—oyster eyes. So the realization came sometime after. Maybe when he'd missed Eddard Stark's head in the bathtub. "I thought I was going to have to put you down at first." Theon had blinked up through Reek's eyes and wheezed, Fuck off, I'm getting better. "You got better. You won the game."

"What game?"

"The only one that matters."

Theon wonders if Roose mocked—slow, unintelligent—Ramsay with that as a child, how do I play it, father and if you have to ask you'll never learn, and if naming his torture sessions sequences was an attempt to get be more than Roose's shadow. Still. 

"You arranged our meetings."

"Yes."

"You made him go to the party. To the bar. To the school. …To the diner."

"Yes."

"You influenced the Bitches to start going after him for revenge."

"Yes."

"You made Littlefinger exploit—"

"No," Roose cuts him off / cuts him, voice a knife, moth wings with razor edges, "like I said, I'm not the only player. Baelish did all that on his own. Like the Freys and the Lannisters." Theon knows none of those names. "This game is older than you," he repeats himself, "and has been going on for a long time. I won't bother explain it to you, no doubt you'd rather not know. However, I've grown tired of it. I'm leaving this life behind, soon. There is just a few things left unfinished. I'm going to sell Winterfell to the construction companies nearby; no doubt it'll become a great parking lot. But Ramsay must die, to erase Roose Bolton."

Roose looks at Theon. 

Looks and looks and looks. 

"You have to do it." The verdict is final, pen set to paper. 

"Fuck off. Why?" 

"Because that's how you end this circle. That's the only way you'll ever live a decent life."

"My problems won't just disappear if I kill him." History lives on, even if it doesn't show on Roose's face. 

"Perhaps not all. But haven't I paved the way for you? No Robb. No Ramsay. And you certainly won't hear from me again. I've repaid you through an education, money on your account," Theon swallows thickly—he did not know that, "and the knife I used to kill my history. Now it's time to kill yours."

A joke makes itself known: Roose has cut so many strings he can start a new life as a midwife. Though that's what it's been building up to, right? To renounce his past. To confess and be cleansed. To live again. An acquired life. Revenge for his dead son, or for his soiled reputation as father of a monster, no, no no no, it's too easy, too common. Roose is a man who plays with people for a living—and when he's bored, he simply leaves. How many times has he left? 

(Another question: how many Reeks have there been?)

"Don't overthink it. I am planning to retire."

"People won't forget."

"They will." On his lips, a flash, something that is not a smile. "I have one of those very forgettable faces."

"I won't forget you." 

"So what, you'll go to the police? Tell them about me, about Ramsay? I suppose the latter wouldn't wield too bad a fruit—for a time. Until they'll let him out again. And he comes to repeat it all." A snake eating its own tail. Endlessness. Theon can't imagine a worse fate, to be stuck in limbo, like he has for a decade. Roose continues, "You are nothing. In limbo. You have become like me, a no one." Ramsay thinks this a step into transcende, Theon knows, but there is nothing in R015 but death.

"How will I kill him?"

Something sharp glimmers in Roose's hand. "With a blade fit for a monster: one that killed another rotten pawn. Complete the circle." He offers it, quiet.  "It has to be a knife. Not a gun. Not a syringe. No – no, it's a scalpel you'll be doing my son with. It's only right."

The "why" is old on his tongue and will never be answered, Theon knows. He takes the knife. The choice was actualized by Roose: with his school courses, his money, his way out. 

Or is it at all a choice?

"I need to think."

"You need to kill him as quickly as possible, before he comes after you."

Ramsay will find him and drag him back to R015. 

"To truly kill him, you'd have to kill yourself, also."

"Fuck off. This is my choice. And I need time."

"It's a suggestion." Roose watches him, silent. It takes Theon a moment to understand that he's done with language, for now. Perhaps he'll never speak again? 

Theon says, "Goodbye."

He has an idea of where he's going. He walks quickly, in a trance, and reaches the car.

"Wait."

Had he run? Roose, running? The idea seems as impossible as him raising his voice, or—!

A smile. 

Roose's mouth curls upwards, and it can't be a smile, it looks to wrong. If it is, then it's the first time he's seen Roose smile. Something lurking in Theon's belly tells him to run. 

"Do you remember the first thing I told you?"

Theon does, and feels the wind blow through his soul. 

.

.

Later, in the car, he grabs his phone and dials a number. 

Chapter Text

“To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it.”

— Kim Addonizio, excerpt from “For Desire

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.

The smell of smoke belonged to his childhood at the Stark's. The day he'd been brought there, it was cold, and inside, they'd used all the mansion's ancient hearths. The lack of filter made the smoke go inwards, cluttering the high ceiling, ashing furniture, making it difficult to breathe if you weren't used to smoke. Theon was not. He spent years coughing himself voiceless, smoke burning his lungs, each breath a warning. Caitlyn Stark originated from a more mountainous region and was as unaccustomed to it as Theon, but had a stronger voice, and the right to speak, command, demand. The hearths were used less and less, until finally they weren't used at all. The furniture and the floors were cleaned by professionals, but Theon swore he still smelled the smoke, felt it stinging in his lungs, was reminded of his silence as a child—and thus, as a teenager, spoke as loudly as he could.

Smoke belonged to his second childhood.

Salt, to his first.

He'd kept it alive with his cooking, dragging a bag of sea salt and a larger potato sack, home to Robb. Then: soups, stews, high-fat dinners with fish, shells, sea mammals. And potatoes, always. Robb thought it was cute at first, then grew annoyed, sometimes scraping a finger against the fatty counter, grossed out. Robb hated fish with an intensity of a child; a child that knew it'd get its way. Theon cooked less and less, reserved it for special occasions, a ritual for when Robb was away. One day Robb had enough and told Theon so: the smell was ruining the kitchen. The cooking had to stop. And Theon said ok. The buying of salt and potatoes continued—even if the potatoes often rotted, and the salt was used to kill garden snails and weeds.

.

.

In the present, a phone-call.

"....Who is this?"

"It's Theon."

"..."

"I know we haven't talked in a while. But I need a place to stay. I'm pretty desperate. I haven't got anywhere, I haven't got... anyone."

"Okay."

"...I'm sorry for calling you, I won't—"

"Okay as in fine. You can stay as long as you need."

"Oh. Thank you, Asha."

"Not Asha. Yara. Remember?"

"...Sorry, I didn't..."

"It's okay."

A pause.

"D'you still live...?"

"Yeah. Home."

"Alright. Alright. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. See you soon."

.

.

A childhood memory: their father bent over the dinner table eating, slurping, spitting, Rodrik and Maron carefully drawing with chalk on the back of his leather jacket: a stick woman with big tits and strutting hair between her legs. Balon, unsuspecting, going to talk to his gang—met with a giggle, then two, then outlandish laughter. A mirror nearby. Rage. Oh, a great white droning rage, old face shaking (he'd been wrinkled even then, skin saggy, a dangly pelican's neck), hunting for the nearest available punching bag. Theon locked out of his room by Rodrik and Maron, them safe and sound, him crying to be let in, too young to articulate himself. Balon finding his punching bag. Oh, he'd never get physical, but he'd shout, scream into Theon's face, filthy little faggot, words biting, you think this is funny? want me to send you away? want me to lock you in the tower like your crazy mother? Theon hysterical, but crying made it worse, excited Balon in a way, so he learnt to say nothing, to do nothing, to stand and take it, hollow-eyed and twitchy. Balon never beat him, but Theon clawed himself bloody, and took care of it himself.

Ned Stark, in contrast, would be silent and beat him. The blows were measured, face slaps and spankings, hurtful enough for a mere touch days afterwards to be a reminder: to lay one's head on the pillow, to sit. Terms were never discussed. A beating could come suddenly and without warning. The only time Ned had ever touched him without violence was purely accidental and deeply uncomfortable for both of them. Theon, sixteen, had broken his arm falling off a horse, and had to be taken to the hospital to get it set. Ned had driven him, just the two of them. The parking lot was filled with mud, and Theon slipped. He was fine but dirty. Muddying the car was not an option, so Ned had to help Theon clean with window rags and baby wipes. The movements were too fast, too harsh, as if the idea of touching another man repulsed Ned, scared him. He'd looked everywhere but Theon's eyes. After a beating, Robb would curl around him in bed and whisper his sorrys. But a child's loyalty is a hard thing to break and thus father has his reasons hang heavy in the air. Theon tried to agree for many years, because the alternative was that there were no such things as a parent, a protector, an idol. The facade cracked after a while and he was left orphaned and strange.

Another memory: his biological sister, shielding Theon with her body, knife in her hand. Theon pressed between her and the wall, clutching her from behind, shocked-still. She was trembling but she stood her ground, between her little brother and father. "If you touch him again, I'll kill you."

.

.

A fisherman, returning home.

His dream when he was young: to return, with a great catch, to be welcomed back. He'd stolen the dream from the old sailors that'd surround his father (in truth mobsters, alcoholics, retired long ago), though theirs often had a good wife in its center, waiting, always waiting, head pressed up against the salt-slicked window between dirty curtains, screaming in joy when they'd return, running towards their long-long husbands with endless love.

Will Asha—Yara, he corrects himself—wait for him like a good wife? She still lives in their childhood home. They haven't spoken in decades. Yet she'd taken his phone when he called, corrected him when he used the wrong name, and answered yes without hesitance. She became his fourth option.

When he exists the car (he'd always known where his old home was, always, but he had never ever gone longer than driving past, the song from arctic loons resonating within him), Yara stands on top of the stairs, in the centre of the porch, smoking a cigarette. She looks at him as if he were the sun: she squints, and looks almost grossed out.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," she replies, and turns around, "C'mon. I've prepared your room."

Theon follows her up and is hit with a wall of memories, even before he enters the door. Everything smells the same.

Salt. Salt.

Always grey, always wet. His hair already is curling, and he doesn't know if it's sweat or dampness that makes a cool, thin coat of wetness cover his skin and make his clothing stick to it. Stone instead of tree, ocean instead of forest, cold instead of warmth: but each came with heaviness to them, nature trying hard to reclaim both homes: either a tree fell down the window, or a piece of the castle fell into the sea. Or... It is not a castle. When he was a child, he'd dreamt of being a prince, and this house was big—bigger than the Stark's—and his father had called it a castle, which made it Truth.

Even the porch leaves him voiceless: especially an old decorated wind chime, swinging in the sea breeze, a bad array of bone flutes and shells, it could be any child's, it could be Theon's.

"Dad's dead," Yara says, leaning on the doorframe.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. He was an asshole, and a coward. Drank too much and fell into the sea. Couldn't even go out in a brawl. " Yara's voice is rough and cigarette-punished, but she still speaks in the same soft-hard way, language too tainted with accent and slurs to soften her tone, but warmth still shines between the cracks, a smile: she lacks a front tooth. His ugly beautiful sister. "Aren't you gonna come in? There's coffee on the stove."

How can she stand to live like this? Quietly, politely, he voices his question.

"You talking about the house, or this thing?" She touches the flutes on the stupid construction, muting it. "Loathed it for a while. But I'm glad I didn't throw them all in the thrash. They're part of my childhood. Things that are too painful it's ok to throw out, but not everything. Forgetting ain't the answer." She sighs, turns on her heel. Theon takes a deep breath and follows her in.

.

.

There is actual coffee on the stove. Good coffee, a fruity taste, blackberry? He hasn't tasted good coffee in ages. The ghosts of his mother, father and brothers do not roam here: all there is are the grey curtains in the window above the kitchen table. When he tries to draw them apart to view the sea, his sister grabs his hand. "In this house we don't look at the sea," she says, firm. "It brings bad luck." After all, now the sea had claimed both their parents. Theon wonders if his father went as willing as his mother.

Both of them seated at the kitchen table, talking about their lives, until she'll say something that'll remind him who they are. She talks about her bad hip and that the disability check together with a part-time job keeps her well and fed. She talks about the dive her father used to live at, how it's changed by the owner's Christian son, with new Jesus-posters beside the old titty adds. She talks about the weather, and the storms, and the damage they bring.

"Asha," he begins, but she holds up a hand. He flinches, discomfort (because he understands), "Shit, sorry, I keep forgetting, I'm..."

"Don't overdo the sorrys. Apologize once when you forget."

"I... I understand, you see." It gives him pleasure to search up his old name online and find nothing.

On the shelves and table and the window frame, there are old brown beer bottles with candles in them. The deadbeat dad club: Theon could think of many a soul.

"My old name meant ash 'cos Dad thought I was gonna die as a baby, 'cos I was so bloodless and grey. Like a leech." Theon does not flinch, but he does when she frowns at him. "Theon means greatness. And Greyjoy ain't so bad."

"Heh. I wasn't talking about those. Not all my names mean greatness," he replies. She can't help but smirk, almost sadly: glitter on her face from sunscreen, hair in a bun, sleep in the corner of her eyes.

"'Guess not."

This is what she has done: abandonment of social structures. Blood, that once defined her, remains inside a part of her, but she realizes choice is more important. She legally changed her name when she became 18 for nobody but herself. He didn't respect it until ten years ago.

"Yara," he begins again, serious, "do you hate me?"

She thinks, he sees it. "...I hated you for a long time, yeah."

"Because I left?"

Certainty, quick and absolute: "No."

"Because I didn't want contact when we were teenagers?"

"No. Never. I got it, sorta, and you were still my little brother then."

He doesn't understand. "Then... When?"

"When I came to get you in the asylum."

"...What?"

Yara doesn't seem shocked that he doesn't remember, instead, her eyes are flat. "Was supposed to get you out. The whole Stark family had turned their back on you so I supposed now was the time to take you back as the loving sister. It sounds fucked up but I wanted to take care of you, to nurse you back to health, to save you. Sure, I was warned, and the papers were pretty clear about your state, how you'd broken down in the court 'cos that piece of shit stared at you, but I thought I could help. But when I got there, to your hospital room, you instantly called out my old name. Or, it wasn't you, because the picture I had in my head of my brother wasn't that thing, on the bed, you looked like you'd been in a concentration camp, all dead-eyed and skinny. I've never seen anyone that skinny. But you called my old name and I felt like a child again, back when the authorities took you."

Family bond becomes ragged with reflection. Siblings never get as close as when they were small. Unless... Unless there is a reason to. A big sibling in front of a little sibling, protecting, taking the blame / taking the hit, taking on the bad men; cops, fathers, social services, authority, who wore the faces of good, who starred as good guys in the movies and bad guys in real life, who threatened to rip her brothers out from her life again and again and again until one day they did.

"You called out my old name, and it was horrifying. I had the feeling that you were trapped inside this Other, like, y'know one of those dolls with multiple smaller dolls inside them? And then you started screaming, like the doctors said you'd been doing for months, but you sounded like you knew, right there. Like everything bad that had happened was revealed to you in that instant. I tried to reach for you, to calm you down, but you acted as if I was the one who was doing this to you, looking straight at me, just screaming."

Her eyes are dry but she's clutching her cup of coffee so hard her knuckles are white.

"So I left. And I went home and I told dad you were dead. He didn't say anything but later that day I found him in your bedroom, sobbing like the world had ended, crawling under the covers like a kid. And I got jealous of him. I wanted you dead, so I could get clean grief like dad's, theatrical and stupid, but clean, because he thought you were dead, gone, disappeared."

"And you had to live with the knowledge that I was alive."

She blinks, hard. "Sorry."

"I had to live with the knowledge that Ramsay was alive and it fucked me up." Correction: it fucks him up, how Ramsay is still alive. "So I don't blame you."

"...Want more coffee?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

She pours him some, and they sit in silence, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs outside. He knows why they keep the curtains closed. The sound fills him with peace, flattening the lines on his face, and when he sneaks a glance at his sister she has the exact same peaceful look.

"I'm gonna start at dinner. Do you know how to cook?" she asks.

He smiles and does not lie, "Yeah, I do."

They move around each other seamlessly, around familiar ingredients and spices, and they talk technique and tricks, and when Theon gets cold from the wind in the old house she lends him her wool sweater, and it smells familiar. She wasn't and will not wait for him, per se, but she enjoys his company, and he hers. And so, little by little, an old wound receives closure.

.

.

At night, in his old bed, he stares at the ceiling and thinks about Ramsay. He's taken the scalpel with him to bed. It lies under his pillow: unsafe, to remind him what waits.

.

.

Two days later, in a low candlelight, she tells him about her drug addiction.

Sucking on his cheek, he responds, "Sertraline, zopiclone, melleril, lofepramine, citalopram, fluoxetine, hydrochloride, thorazine, venlafaxine, seroxat. I'm off the drugs but I haven't quit my addictions," he says, and is grateful when she doesn't ask what his addictions are.

She says, "It's not my place to tell you how to recover. If recovery is to become a member of society only valued for their ability to produce and conform then I do not wish to recover. Then I have not. Recovered."

"Me neither," he says. "But for me recovery is a little more freedom. That's it."

All those years with Robb... Just another set of chains, chained to a present he had no wish to partake in, which he did not partake in, because he wasn't all there. Not to say there weren't good moments. There were just too many numb moments, in which he felt nothing at all, as if swayed by some great river. No chance to change. No choices.

She says, "I think it's good to like, accept your past, know what's in your gene pool, but be ready to fight it and stop apologizing for who you are. It took me a long fuckin' time to stop apologizing."

"How?"

A pause. "It helped that Dad died." She switches the subject immediately, and he is grateful. They resume their talk of ordinary things, but the wheels at the back of his mind keep churning.

.

.

A week or so later, they sit at the porch together, sharing a cigarette.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of much help," she says offhandedly, shrugging one shoulder. She looks older like this, sleepy, yawning fully.

This is my sister. Subdued pride, kinship maybe, something that warms his chest. "You've helped."

She takes the liberty of sucking the last drags from his cigarette butt, casual, "D'you know what you must do?"

"Yes."

"Will you come back?" she asks.

"I don't know," he says, "but I'll try."

Chapter Text

"There are people who believe there is a level of pain the mind cannot handle," a bastard boy lectures another. "If you meet someone who thinks like that, tell them to call me." A hand shoots up, pointing. "I'll tell them about that."

The body lies on the table. Pus oozes from its many wounds and it is delirious—but it is very much conscious, yes, as they smear remedies on infected flesh. The remedies produces such a sweet burning, and it is sad that the bastard boys insists it'll be drugged while they work.

But Ramsay, oh Ramsay, He would have known.

.

.

There is grime, oh yes. Dirty water—blood, they call it, but it knows the truth—pools out of it, and it feels so much lighter. Ramsay doesn't allow it to bathe and it doesn't understand this at first. Not until Ramsay puts up several mirrors in its cell. They remind it what it is. How close it is. There is no nice way to put it: it is covered in its own faeces. It's to show what resides inside, and alas, all part of the process. It prefers nudity, it doesn't need stupid things like pants or socks. Mostly it floats through the cage naked. That, too, is part of it all.

.

.

Ramsay fucks it and it feels it's fair.

He is not gentle (thank the gods) and takes it on the floor, one hand on the wall to support himself and the other holding the body's lower half up. He makes guttural noises and digs his teeth so deep into the grimy back that he can taste the filth. His property remains mostly motionless; it is too deep inside itself now, and no matter how hard Ramsay thrusts, he cannot always reach it. There's an occasional twitch.

This too, is a part of the process.

Every day it comes closer to vanishing.

.

.

There doesn't exist cleaning materials, disinfectant, rubber gloves anymore. There's blood and shit everywhere. Stale air. The wooden cage is so rotted through in the centre that its the body sinks down into a whirlpool of scum. Slabs of filth hang off its body, shifting with each breath, dream catchers from his childhood, tectonic plates of the earth responding to a subterranean disturbance. The eyes don't blink. They take everything in but also reflect back out. 

A ray of light descends from a crack in the kennel door, and Time begins. Disorientated, the body awakens. Single-minded, it recognizes hunger. With its good hand, it starts scraping out something from the space between the tiles, and mashes it into porridge so he can eat it. The salt burns in the mouth sores. It keeps its eyes empty. Nobody bothers it anymore. No dreams, nothing. No familiar faces staring in disgust or sadness. And that's okay. It doesn't need them anymore. It talks to itself. It lives of itself. It eats itself. On the walls it scratches words so people will visit this museum and ask themselves how a human ends up like this. It felt the slow drips of pain before, swirling inside. But now it's almost cleansed.

The kennel door opens further, allowing more light into the room, and so it sees itself in the donzens mirrors put up so it will know what it is. They're the reason it isn't lonely. They talk back to it all the time!

Outside the cage: footsteps.

"M—ma—," a stammer, mouth too dry to speak, "my name," it forces out, skin on its lips almost ripping when it pulls them apart, "it rhymes, with—"

"Shut up."

Familiar voice, but not Him.

A flashlight blinds Reek, and then a bag is pulled over its head. Its heart almost explodes in shock.

Another game? Previous screaming spells echo in its mind but it's smarter now, doesn't make a sound, doesn't struggle. Its guts clench around the bugs it'd eaten. The spray of water makes it scream of momentary shock before it realizes it's washed with a garden hose—again. Dripping wet and shuddering uncontrollably, it's dragged somewhere, no sense of direction or time; a squirming, wet, white lump. It's being toweled dry, clothed, sprayed with perfume. It dislikes clothes. Too much skin; fabric that gets stuck in open wounds. It briefly recalls a time before: a phantasmagoria of shifting identities, a constant lack of control, fracturing foundations, a half-man that twisted and contorted to fit the views of others. But mostly its mind stay clean.

Then it's back to being dragged. A door slams. Cold night air, fresh air, it greedily gasps a lungful through the wet bag. Wind. What kind of place has wind? Someone grabs its head and guides it through a cramped, heated, thrumming space. A motor, somewhere. A smaller door is slammed shut behind it, and the bag is removed. The backseat of a car. Black plastic beneath it. Familiar. It remembers being fucked in a car, windows fogged up, slammed against it like a dumb fly, foreign hands groping everywhere while it cried. The eyes go hollow.

Two men in the front seat, a driver and a man looking straight at Reek. "Theon, right?" the man asks. There is a muddled space where the face ought to be. Not Ramsay. His hands are wrinkled, liver-spotted, with white knuckle hair, and his posture is that of an old man's. The weather outside is snowy, dark. Street lamps pass them, and Reek realizes they're driving. The sound of windshield wipers, thythm slow.

The eyes do not blink.

"Listen, we're not gonna hurt you. We even brought you food, see?"

Something is thrown into the creature's lap. A sub sandwich in a plastic bag. Absurd.

"C'mon, eat."

All the flesh that is eaten. The teeth tearing into it. The tongue tasting its savour. The hunger for that taste. "I," Reek whispers, "can't."

"What, he's starving you too now?"

The driver moves their head, barely, but it has the effect of making the man straighten in fear. Reek realizes who it's got to be afraid of.

Quieter, the man says, "Sorry, Theon."

"Not Theon," Reek whispers.

"Then who."

A test? "Reek," it says, "it rhymes with freak."

"Oh yeah. Yeah. Reek." He turns to the driver, explaining, "Ramsay gave the old bastard's name to this one. Real clever. Made him believe it, too. All of us had to play along."

The driver's mouth moves, but Reek can't catch the words.

"Of course," the guy grunts in reply, turning to the driver, "or we'd get skinned. But don't you worry, none of us forget who's the real boss." More questions from the driver. "No. Yes. No, cops haven't bothered us since you—or, it wasn't in your name, I know—bought up the school. Yes. Soon. Yes, I'll... Theon," he turns again, "or Reek, whatever, how far would you say that Ramsay's gone? You'd know better than anyone."

"I don't... understand," Reek admits. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with meek. Roll over and show some belly. Teeth will descend regardless but less painful, because it's less fun hunting submissive prey. "I'm stupid, I'm sorry, I..." shouldn't exist.

"Ramsay Bolton. Your master. What's the... ugliest... thing he's done, till now?"

Reek—good Reek, my pet Reek—says softly, "My master does beautiful things."

Grin in his voice, he says, "Pardon me. What's the most beautiful thing he's done?" Upon Reek's pause, he adds, "We're all friends here, right?"

Rabid dogs trapped inside a closure, showing teeth. We're all friends here.

Reek grins back, meekly, lowering its head, "Last time I was let out of the cage he made a bitch eat nails, then soaked it in gasoline and lit it on fire. He wanted to see if he could get the nails back."

"A dog?"

Reek frowns, tilts its head to the side. "No?"

"You said it was a bitch."

Another confused look. "They're not human."

The driver clicks his tongue, tries again. "...What it the most beautiful thing he's done?"

Reek studies its hand, a gangly ugly fleshy thing, fingers too bony and twitchy. Tumours. Suddenly it is filled with a vision, and tries to make itself remember to ask Ramsay to hack them off, using the meat cleaver, again. Off, off. Everything's gotta go. "You cannot hurry a process," Ramsay had told him once. And then, "Remember who you are," which is hard in ecstatic agony.

"The most beautiful thing he's ever done?" Reek rasps, struggling.

"Yeah."

Its world had been cracking for a very long time. Pieces of it, falling. A slow, haemorrhaging wound. The stripping of excess, to get to the essential, to get to where it really is, underneath all the grime and petty desire. Its soul, that is. Pure and white and thoughtless. Only then can it reach inside the core of its pain and remove it, so it'll be purified. There is something very holy about this.

But it's not there, not yet.

"Me," Reek says with absolute clarity, "I'm his greatest project."

The driver twitches.

"You?" the man shakes his head, "No, no. I know what he's done to you, but you're not dead. Everything was fine before he started killing them, right?"

No answer. The car slows down until it isn't moving.

"Ben," the driver says in the softest voice Reek's ever heard, "let him take your place, then exit the car."

"Why? We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Ben," the driver repeats, no change in the tone.

The movements that follow are too hasty for Reek to follow, warm air, cold air, warm air, but somehow the creature winds up in the front seat, "Ben" shutting the door. Reek does not look at the driver. The car engine starts again.

They drive in silence for a while.

"Who are you?" Reek asks.

He says, "I am a liar."

Reek's mind jars, stretches, stops. The eyes that stare at it are Ramsay's, but at the same time not.

A blissful realization dawns. Reek trembles with the force of it, thought a bodily thing, people who walk fast when they think fast and Reek who hasn't thought a single thought before now "I passed another test, didn't I?" he says eagerly. "Reek could tell Him apart from everyone! And you're not Him!"

The man doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to.

"There isn't much left," Reek says fondly. "I'm almost there."

Every day this body... this person, this I...  get closer to vanishing.

When they find it it'll be expressionless. No loneliness. No pain. Nothing. It'll be eaten through. It will pass through all of them. Silently. Like wind.

The driver drives Reek back to the kennel, follows. His oyster-eyes tell Reek that he's learnt what he came to learn. The meeting doesn't leave much of an impression upon Reek and so it forgets. Reek doesn't understand that in the eyes of the one whose eyes resembled Ramsay's, this was the most important moment in Reek's—and by extension, Theon Greyjoy's—life.

.

.

Instead, this is what it believes to be the holiest moment of them all:

Your devotion.

Show me.

Ramsay hands him the meat cleaver, calm and intense. "You're right to want it, if you're even capable of wanting. But what you want is irrelevant. The wounds here are infected. So they'll need to be removed anyway." And Reek hears the game / test that lies beneath it. The slow sliding of eyes; Reek unravels at the attention. Reek is a lunatic and always plunging. In that instant, the image of an animal under distress eating her children comes to it. Long ago, in the borderline of 'he' and 'it', he'd been afraid that Ramsay would grow bored of him. But because along with all that is Reek, Ramsay's own madness had grown. Ramsay is nothing without His Reek.

Reek says, "Yes," because no hasn't got any meaning, here.

"Perfect," Ramsay whispers, but Reek knows the truth. Nearly. Nearly there.

"How many?" Reek asks. Ramsay shrugs.

Even when —

(Everything that comes off of it is sacred.)

— it hacks —

(Every hair. Every eyelash. Every fingernail. Every piss. Every body part.)

— its eyes are overwhelmed by love.

(Its body is a church—and you can't see it when it goes inside. It feels gods move through it. All of them. "It's alright," they say, "you're almost there.")

Death. What Theon (the fool!) had mistaken for a search for love, even if he couldn't say it, was in fact a search for death. Reek knows and its ruined mouth form a grin at the realization, but it hides it quickly, knowing He won't like it. But He is busy looking at the random number of fingers lay on the table for Him to inspect. The table, a sacrificial altar. For you, my master, my everything. Fingers splayed, uneven in their cuts, ugly like Reek.

"This was a final test," Ramsay says almost fondly. Of course, of curse. "Things have gotten… difficult lately. Cops are on our asses. They're figuring it out. Figuring me out," Ramsay admits, and Reek's eyes narrow into slits at the force of a smile it can't help; nope, nah, no, only Reek truly knows Ramsay, but Ramsay knows it so he won't say it.

Maybe He will finally allow Reek to die, now? It imagines itself decomposing in some weird bodhisattva trance. Reek shudders under the force of the idea. Reek's smiles get's a peaceful edge. The sort you see on dead people.

This is what I've been waiting for since the moment I was born.

Ramsay says, "I need you to take the fall for me by becoming me."

Reek blinks slowly. Takes a moment for it to register the question. Takes a moment for it to grasp the meaning.

Ramsay says, "I love you."

Reek halts. Brittle lips actually crack and bloody as they're pulled apart, in a disbelieving whisper, "What?"

In that instant, something dead rolled over in its stomach.

"I love you," Ramsay says, and he collects Reek up and presses close, presses close to the filth and the stink and the reek, uncaring. Reek hugs back on instinct, even as something dead awakens, something something, wrongness so deep it sets its heart on fire. This is wrong. Its master—torturer, saviour—does not love him. No, no, the words have always set its heart on fire, but with the physical , is this… a… game? Yes, maybe, please say it's a game.

(Theon looks up. At eyes. Overwhelmed by—)

"So you're do it, right? For me? You're gonna become me. You are me."

This was not part of the deal they made, so long ago. The deal was to shred and transform, into something, into air. Not into the thing that wears human skin.  Reek has no illusions about Ramsay being human. He is everything to Reek because Reek exists solely as a pathway to something greater; the ceasing of an existence, long rotten, long overdo. But to take the fall for Ramsay, to become Ramsay, would mean Reek had to wear his skin, and with that comes what defines him: the demand to live—fully and without stop. It's the exact oppisite of what Reek, and the man Reek once pretended to be, seeks.

"You said to me you wished to become someone else," Ramsay says, all crazy, so fond Reek wishes the dogs would have eaten Theon's heart from its—his!—chest. His name! He remembers his name!

Even as his fingers lay splayed, Theon looks up at Ramsay through dark eyelashes and says the forbidden word.

Ramsay blinks. "No? What do you mean no? I love you."

Theon tilts his head to his side. In truth he's dizzy with pain, but he still stretches his severed stumps, and says, "No," again and again, and laughter bubbles up. The noise rings in his ears and he laughs, laughs himself hoarse, rocks back and forth with the force of it. Reek, Theon, Ramsay, nothing matters because none of them are going to kill him anyway. Theon laughs and laughs. He has never been sadder than he is now.

Ramsay punches him in the face.

"You were perfect," he shouts, beyond himself, uglier than he's ever been: his face, his whole body a grimace. The face he so often saw flashes of now takes the whole of him. Fat and slobbing, pasty and dirty, Theon wonders why he ever thought this wretched creature of a man could help him, and laughs and spits blood. He's rolling on the floor, Ramsay on top of him, "Stop laughing stop laughing stop laughing," he commands, faced with a total lack of control. With something like a howl, he leaves Theon on the floor, and briefly exists whatever foul-smelling space they're occupying.

The whole room stinks.

Laughing, Theon wonders where they are. Finds he doesn't care. His lungs hurt. The whole of him, a bruise. His fingers lay splayed. He brings his mangled hands to his chest, presses down, feels himself breathe. Hates. Laughs.

There's the sound of something heavy being dragged his way.

The stink increases.

"I had a present," Ramsay says, darkly, "but I'm going to turn it into your tomb."

Theon cackles, interested. Ramsay grabs his hair and holds his head up so he'll see. A chest. Pretty big. Black, kinda old. It smells worse than Theon (!) and even Ramsay seems disgusted by the strain on his ugly face. When Ramsay kicks the lid off, a half-decomposed face shows itself.

"Say hello to your old friend," Ramsay says. And then: "Go inside."

In the exact moment that Theon finds out it's Kyra, Ramsay shoves him in.

"You're never gonna leave this box, you realize? Never ever!" But then his expression falls like a ton of bricks: suddenly his face is full of tears. "I never meant to create you. You never meant to survive. I loved you. I loved you. I love—"

(But that doesn't matter to him.)

"Shut up," Theon says softly.

Ramsay shuts the lid and locks it, leaving him alone, for the first time in years. Just him. And the corpse. And the darkness.

This is it then.

Death.

Sweet fucking escape.

Theon inhales the smell of what he cannot have and grows angrier and angrier and angrier, and he swears that if someone opens the box he'll give them the death he's been deprived of.

Chapter Text

"At the end of my suffering
there was a door—"

— Louis Glück, excerpt of The Wild Iris

.

.

Of all the photos, videos and audio recordings the press got their hands on, one particular photo stand out. It was printed the day after Ramsay Bolton was caught. The photograph takes up the entire front page of the paper.

Flash is used, making the white body stand out front and centre. It not only jumps from the paper, but commands the reader's attention and keeps their eyes glued to the horrific scene.

It appears to be late, judging by the lack of light. Three blurred blue-robed policemen hold up guns, bits of their backs to the photographer. The blue-red light of police-cars shines in puddles and adds to the high contrast of the picture. 

The figure is big, pasty and completely nude. He's drenched in bright scarlet blood, contrasting the pastiness of his skin. Though the black hair matted with blood, you can still make out a pair of flat grey eyes. Eyes that, throughout the trial, never did light up with understanding of what he's done. His arms are flat by his side and although it'd appear he's resisting arrest, the eyes are dead and crazy, like he doesn't understand what's happening. The lack of clothing adds to it.

The text that follows the picture details Ramsay Bolton's doings the last few days before capture, most notiably bearings his dogs to death, putting all the – living – women in school rooms, and locking a man into a chest.

.

.

That's what he needs to prevent.

He is quiet-calm and slant-eyed, the look of a man who knows.

There is a door.

There is a door.

There is a door.

The scalpel is a presence in Theon's palm. With his other hand he wipes sweat from his forehead and into his equally wet hair, sees birds fly up ahead, feels old and finally takes in the full view of the old abandoned middle school that once served as a torture dungeon. Theon spits on the ground and starts walking, wary. Who knows what kind of fuckery Ramsay has been up to? A handful of days could mean a world for a man so far gone. Roose owns the school—even if it isn't in his name—and will not have actively stopped Ramsay.

Theon knows he's here. Because is where it started. This is where Theon and Ramsay's souls remained while various dogs took over their bodies. Theon inhales in an attempt to have his fill him again, but it's stuck to the walls, the floors, the ceiling, and his grip on the scalpel tightens: ready to cut. He'll cut himself out of this repetitive, endless cycle, that in reality does not exist. Room /+ time. He'd thought he would be stuck forever. He had sought an identity throughout the entirety of both his past and present, but he'd realized he could be anyone he wished to be regardless of who had potential control of his future (Robb), his past (Ramsay), and his present (Roose). His past is the worst, threatening to become present and future. The other two are already taken care off. Ramsay had broken Theon out of Robb's rhythm, but Robb had helped him survive for a period of time, but survival could only last so long before Theon got a taste of life. Theon will not think too much of Roose.

He has nothing in common with those that long back to childhood. What they long for is often the lack of habits and opinions; both of which dealt Theon greater damage than anything else, when he was small. When he was small he'd been a doormat for other's pain and so had been refused to be a child. He often feels as his lack of childhood is a hole, but childhood doesn't make a person. Later trauma shapes it, but also doesn't make it. He is full of holes, but the light that shines through is so all-encompassing and soothing he almost feels sorry for those who will never feel like this. God, he loves his heartbeat. I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.

It will be Jeyne's eyes when she talked about art. It will be his sister's gap-toothed grin on the porch. It will be the women in his life, happy, in the moment something unlodged in them. …Perhaps one of the men, too, Robb's little encouragements, in better moments, although it was never great. Theon is tempted to be bitter: to villainze the one who left. The blame is only partly on Robb, who got together with someone he didn't know who was, who bought a dog in order to fill up the gap of dead people, who did not realize he'd used another dog all along. Theon should've said something. I think I loved you, a little bit. But not enough. And so you left me, suddenly, but that's alright. I hope you're alright. I think I will be.

A realization: Suffering is not holy, nor is there any meaning to it. Suffering is suffering.

He enters through the door that sends him straight into the basement level, the very first door he went through, the one the janitor unlocked. He is halfway lost in the world. His past running together with the present.

The hall is long and just as it was in the beginning, sterile. It's light outside and so it's light in, too. There isn't any blood yet. But all the doors are closed. It fills him with old pain, their scream-songs echoing in his head. And so he wrenches open every door he passes.

He feels them all run past him, the torn cloth of their dresses brushing against him, out and into the sun. He feels all their souls, such warm, dripping, fluttering things, press up against the hollow inside of himself, tearing him with what he will soon have. Hundreds and thousands of them, all the girls Bolton killed, singing so beautifully about what he must do. Fullness; god, certainty. And then they are gone. Did they never exist at all? Not that it matters. Because he opened their doors. He opened their doors, and now he must open his own.

What awaits in R015?

Death.

But Ramsay's, not his own.

Because Theon will kill the part of himself that's so reliant on another. His self, ready to be cut from its bonds. Ramsay, Robb, Roose. Their words, their claims on him. "You are me." "You are sick." "You are nothing." They were all wrong. Unbeknownst to them, their intent to own and unite with him (well-meaning or not) gave him the means to finally free himself from the idea of an external savior made abstract.

Myself, his mind rings out. Myself. Myself. Myself.

I choose myself.

R015 lies in front of him: the room of all his nightmares. He clutches the scalpel, ready to rearrange his own anatomy and cut the infection from himself.

Theon opens the door.