None of them were paying any attention to Yakov, not even the woman who still had a hand clutched in his jacket and who was supposed to be making sure he didn't try anything – not that there was anything he could do in this situation, at least not now.
None of them, that was, except for Victor, who had barely looked away from Yakov since they were kidnapped. Cheerful, fearless Victor who had been smiling and chattering like normal only an hour ago, and who now, for the first time Yakov could remember, looked terrified under the façade of calm he was trying to plaster over his face. He kept looking at Yakov with his eyes gone huge, as though Yakov knew exactly what to do, as though he could fix this.
Yakov wished those things were true, too, especially since the moment they'd been forced into this dusty room with its boarded-up windows. Aside from the bits of stone and metal scattered in the corners on the bare concrete floor, the only thing in here besides the people with knives and guns was a wooden chair. Sitting in the chair was a man, a leader of some kind, who might have been handsome if it weren't for the cruel twist to his smile.
Yakov had been able to tell, right away, that this man probably liked young, pretty things. Probably liked breaking them. And Victor was young, only a teenager, and very, very pretty.
"Oh, what have we here," the man had said, his eyes lighting up as Victor was pulled in after Yakov. Yakov had been shoved to the side, unable to do anything with the gun trained on him, heart sinking as he realized that no, they wouldn't just be put in a side room while some ransom was demanded. The faint hope had turned to a sick feeling as Victor was walked up to the man, who was already running his eyes up and down his frame. "Perhaps we could have some real fun while we wait to hear about the money," he said, and several of the other people in the room had started looking quite pleased, too.
And then he'd pulled Victor sideways into his lap, causing laughter to break out. Put an arm around his shoulders. Touched a hand to his face and laughed as Victor tried to flinch away. He hadn't even untied Victor's hands from behind his back, so Victor was left struggling to keep his balance as he attempted to move away.
If Yakov had thought shouting would help, he would have yelled himself hoarse right then. But his hands were tied, too, and there were a good dozen people in here, all armed. If he reminded them of his existence, as they gradually became distracted by their leader playing with Victor, he wasn't sure what they would do to enjoy both of them suffering at once.
The man pulled the elastic from Victor's braid and started to undo it slowly. "What lovely hair," he said. "So long. And it really is silver, can all of you see it? I thought it was just editing in the pictures, and he was really platinum blond, or maybe bleach, but no, even his eyelashes are silver."
"Are you sure we can't keep him?" someone called out.
"I'm starting to consider it," the leader laughed.
Victor kept looking back at Yakov, his breath picking up. That calm front of his was beginning to break. Yakov wasn't sure if he'd ever felt so awful for not doing anything, so angry at his own helplessness. Here was Victor, begging him for help, and Yakov had always tried to help him, when it was reasonable, and here he was, doing nothing. Surely – there had to be something, surely, if only for a short while. To buy some time. He was fairly certain that the police were looking for them. Maybe he should make a nuisance of himself and see if they wanted to make Victor cry by hurting him, instead of watching him protest as they kept running their hands over Victor. Or maybe their idea of fun would be even worse, which was the only thing keeping him still for the moment.
"Lovely," the leader said again as he finished pulling apart the top of the braid. He ran his hand down Victor's hair, brought part of it forward over his shoulder. "I can't imagine why you would ever put it back. Hiding it. Why did you have it back?" He was trying to catch Victor's gaze; it worked, for a moment, before Victor's eyes skittered to the ground, then back to Yakov, and then back to the ground. "Hm? Why did you braid it?" He tugged on the section he was holding. "Come on, you can speak, can't you?"
Victor glanced at Yakov, who jerked his chin down. Yes, play along, don't let him get angry yet, he tried to communicate. Maybe it worked, because Victor swallowed and looked back at the leader. "It was in the way," he said, and his voice only trembled a little. He was being so brave. Yakov hoped that would help in some way.
"I see." The leader stopped playing with Victor's hair and touched his face again, crooked a finger under his jaw and went to kiss him. Already? Yakov bit back a curse. Victor tried to fling himself back. He almost tumbled off the man's lap and to the floor, and was only barely caught in time. "Come on," the man said. "It's just a little kiss. It's not gonna hurt." He tried once more, but Victor squirmed and turned his face away, the disgust and fear evident in his expression.
Eventually, the man tired of this and grabbed Victor, jerked him in and forced him into a kiss. Yakov watched him struggle even more, heard him make a little cry, and felt sick. Felt furious. This man had no right to be touching anyone, let alone Victor, who for all his annoying points had done absolutely nothing to deserve being hurt. Who had no business reeling as the man let him go, looking like he was on the verge of angry tears, when he should have been cooing over his spoiled dog or trying to convince Yakov of his latest crazy idea for his programs or sitting in the window and studying that French textbook he'd been so attached to lately.
"He's a fighter," someone chuckled, though Yakov could barely hear over the sound of his teeth grinding against each other.
"Good," the man said, sliding his arm from Victor's shoulders to his waist, pulling him closer, leering. "It's always so much fun when they—"
Yakov couldn't stand to see it for a second longer. "Get your hands off him," he snarled, stepping forward and pulling his surprised guard along with him.
Everyone else started and looked over at him. "Oh," the man said after a second of staring. His eyes slid to the woman, who had readied her gun again. Yakov noticed, though, that she wasn't holding it right. "Weren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on that one?"
"I'm very sorry, sir, it won't happen again."
"It's fine," he said, still eyeing Yakov, who kept glaring at him. "Although, you know... why don't we play a game? What do you think, pretty?" he asked Victor, tugging on his hair again, that creepy grin on his face. "I'll even let you choose what we play."
"What are you talking about?"
Yakov was pretty sure he had an idea after the man helped Victor to his feet and stood himself, then gestured for Yakov to be brought closer. "Untie his hands."
Victor looked lost. The leader was still holding him firmly by the shoulder, and he cringed away when he went after his hair again. Yakov kept his eyes squarely on the man as he rubbed his freed wrists. Following more directions, he shrugged off his trench coat as slowly as he dared (anything to buy more time), then draped it on the back of the chair before sitting down. He put his hands on the arms and stared back at the leader.
"This is your coach, isn't he, pretty. How long's he been teaching you?"
Victor sent him a questioning look. Yakov made a tiny motion again. Anything that would keep him talking instead of touching. "I don't know." Victor paused. "Seven or eight years?"
"You like him? Is he nice to you?"
"Yes?" Victor leaned away as the man tugged him in, started to play with the hem of his shirt.
"How nice?" he asked in a teasing tone.
Yakov try to banish the nausea he felt at where this was going. Victor didn't seem to get it, or if he did, hid it well; his eyebrows knit together with confusion. The man laughed, and Yakov was ready for him to ask something more blunt, or at least lewd enough that Victor would catch on, but apparently he decided that it would be more fun to force Victor into another kiss, rough and long.
Yakov's hands tightened on the arms of the chair until he could hear the wood creak, aching to get up and do something. If only there weren't so many of them. He would have enjoyed dragging this man off Victor and punching him in the face.
"Here's the game, pretty," the leader said when he finally released Victor, who panted and tried to pull away from him. "Option number one." And he threw Victor into Yakov's lap.
Yakov caught him before he could overbalance, or fall back on the ground. Victor struggled to right himself without the use of his hands, but then he snapped his head up and stared at Yakov, expression blank.
"You let your dear, precious coach fuck you first," the leader continued, prompting another outburst of laughs with some comments thrown in. "Or, you decide that you'd rather he just watch from up close as we have some fun. What will it be? Oh, wait, you're nice and young, aren't you? Maybe it's not fair to ask you to make such a big decision. I should be asking your coach. Which will it be, Mr. Feltsman?"
Yakov spared a moment to glower at him over Victor's shoulder – which only made him grin more widely – before looking back at Victor. From this close, he could see the bruise starting to form on Victor's jaw, the way that he was trembling. "Vitya," he murmured lowly, hoping it might calm him momentarily. Which option would hurt him less? One would give them more time, hopefully, but the thought of forcing Victor through something so cruel was making him taste bile at the back of his tongue. But watching these people do it instead, letting them touch him without even delaying them, seemed just as awful for Victor.
Victor ducked his head, though due to the way he was kneeling on the chair, Yakov could still see his face through his hair falling around it. He mouthed something; Yakov wasn't an accomplished lipreader, but it looked like please. Please what? That didn't tell him anything. He tilted his head, and Victor glanced up at him, pleading. Scared. His fingers were digging into Yakov's arm to the point of pain. Another word – no, two. Not them.
Fine. If Victor preferred it this way, then fine. Yakov would make himself do it. He could try to be as kind as he could, try to make it not hurt, at least. And if, even with that, Victor couldn't stand to be near him afterward – if it came to it, and there was nothing else to do, Yakov could help him find a new coach. He had connections. Almost anyone would be willing to take him on, no matter how disobedient he was, with his natural grace and beautiful skating and the way he cheerfully followed his whims to such effect.
He heard feet shuffling. They were getting impatient. He slowly wrapped an arm around Victor, glared up again. "I'll do it," he growled. Victor's hand tightened even further on his arm, then relaxed.
If only a look could kill. The leader looked far too pleased (and healthy) as he smiled at Yakov and took a couple steps back. "Then by all means. Get started."
Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]
None of them were paying any attention to Yakov, not even the woman who still had a hand clutched in his jacket and who was supposed to be making sure he didn't try anything – not that there was anything he could do in this situation, at least not now.
None of them, that was, except for Victor, who had barely looked away from Yakov since they were kidnapped. Cheerful, fearless Victor who had been smiling and chattering like normal only an hour ago, and who now, for the first time Yakov could remember, looked terrified under the façade of calm he was trying to plaster over his face. He kept looking at Yakov with his eyes gone huge, as though Yakov knew exactly what to do, as though he could fix this.
Yakov wished those things were true, too, especially since the moment they'd been forced into this dusty room with its boarded-up windows. Aside from the bits of stone and metal scattered in the corners on the bare concrete floor, the only thing in here besides the people with knives and guns was a wooden chair. Sitting in the chair was a man, a leader of some kind, who might have been handsome if it weren't for the cruel twist to his smile.
Yakov had been able to tell, right away, that this man probably liked young, pretty things. Probably liked breaking them. And Victor was young, only a teenager, and very, very pretty.
"Oh, what have we here," the man had said, his eyes lighting up as Victor was pulled in after Yakov. Yakov had been shoved to the side, unable to do anything with the gun trained on him, heart sinking as he realized that no, they wouldn't just be put in a side room while some ransom was demanded. The faint hope had turned to a sick feeling as Victor was walked up to the man, who was already running his eyes up and down his frame. "Perhaps we could have some real fun while we wait to hear about the money," he said, and several of the other people in the room had started looking quite pleased, too.
And then he'd pulled Victor sideways into his lap, causing laughter to break out. Put an arm around his shoulders. Touched a hand to his face and laughed as Victor tried to flinch away. He hadn't even untied Victor's hands from behind his back, so Victor was left struggling to keep his balance as he attempted to move away.
If Yakov had thought shouting would help, he would have yelled himself hoarse right then. But his hands were tied, too, and there were a good dozen people in here, all armed. If he reminded them of his existence, as they gradually became distracted by their leader playing with Victor, he wasn't sure what they would do to enjoy both of them suffering at once.
The man pulled the elastic from Victor's braid and started to undo it slowly. "What lovely hair," he said. "So long. And it really is silver, can all of you see it? I thought it was just editing in the pictures, and he was really platinum blond, or maybe bleach, but no, even his eyelashes are silver."
"Are you sure we can't keep him?" someone called out.
"I'm starting to consider it," the leader laughed.
Victor kept looking back at Yakov, his breath picking up. That calm front of his was beginning to break. Yakov wasn't sure if he'd ever felt so awful for not doing anything, so angry at his own helplessness. Here was Victor, begging him for help, and Yakov had always tried to help him, when it was reasonable, and here he was, doing nothing. Surely – there had to be something, surely, if only for a short while. To buy some time. He was fairly certain that the police were looking for them. Maybe he should make a nuisance of himself and see if they wanted to make Victor cry by hurting him, instead of watching him protest as they kept running their hands over Victor. Or maybe their idea of fun would be even worse, which was the only thing keeping him still for the moment.
"Lovely," the leader said again as he finished pulling apart the top of the braid. He ran his hand down Victor's hair, brought part of it forward over his shoulder. "I can't imagine why you would ever put it back. Hiding it. Why did you have it back?" He was trying to catch Victor's gaze; it worked, for a moment, before Victor's eyes skittered to the ground, then back to Yakov, and then back to the ground. "Hm? Why did you braid it?" He tugged on the section he was holding. "Come on, you can speak, can't you?"
Victor glanced at Yakov, who jerked his chin down. Yes, play along, don't let him get angry yet, he tried to communicate. Maybe it worked, because Victor swallowed and looked back at the leader. "It was in the way," he said, and his voice only trembled a little. He was being so brave. Yakov hoped that would help in some way.
"I see." The leader stopped playing with Victor's hair and touched his face again, crooked a finger under his jaw and went to kiss him. Already? Yakov bit back a curse. Victor tried to fling himself back. He almost tumbled off the man's lap and to the floor, and was only barely caught in time. "Come on," the man said. "It's just a little kiss. It's not gonna hurt." He tried once more, but Victor squirmed and turned his face away, the disgust and fear evident in his expression.
Eventually, the man tired of this and grabbed Victor, jerked him in and forced him into a kiss. Yakov watched him struggle even more, heard him make a little cry, and felt sick. Felt furious. This man had no right to be touching anyone, let alone Victor, who for all his annoying points had done absolutely nothing to deserve being hurt. Who had no business reeling as the man let him go, looking like he was on the verge of angry tears, when he should have been cooing over his spoiled dog or trying to convince Yakov of his latest crazy idea for his programs or sitting in the window and studying that French textbook he'd been so attached to lately.
"He's a fighter," someone chuckled, though Yakov could barely hear over the sound of his teeth grinding against each other.
"Good," the man said, sliding his arm from Victor's shoulders to his waist, pulling him closer, leering. "It's always so much fun when they—"
Yakov couldn't stand to see it for a second longer. "Get your hands off him," he snarled, stepping forward and pulling his surprised guard along with him.
Everyone else started and looked over at him. "Oh," the man said after a second of staring. His eyes slid to the woman, who had readied her gun again. Yakov noticed, though, that she wasn't holding it right. "Weren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on that one?"
"I'm very sorry, sir, it won't happen again."
"It's fine," he said, still eyeing Yakov, who kept glaring at him. "Although, you know... why don't we play a game? What do you think, pretty?" he asked Victor, tugging on his hair again, that creepy grin on his face. "I'll even let you choose what we play."
"What are you talking about?"
Yakov was pretty sure he had an idea after the man helped Victor to his feet and stood himself, then gestured for Yakov to be brought closer. "Untie his hands."
Victor looked lost. The leader was still holding him firmly by the shoulder, and he cringed away when he went after his hair again. Yakov kept his eyes squarely on the man as he rubbed his freed wrists. Following more directions, he shrugged off his trench coat as slowly as he dared (anything to buy more time), then draped it on the back of the chair before sitting down. He put his hands on the arms and stared back at the leader.
"This is your coach, isn't he, pretty. How long's he been teaching you?"
Victor sent him a questioning look. Yakov made a tiny motion again. Anything that would keep him talking instead of touching. "I don't know." Victor paused. "Seven or eight years?"
"You like him? Is he nice to you?"
"Yes?" Victor leaned away as the man tugged him in, started to play with the hem of his shirt.
"How nice?" he asked in a teasing tone.
Yakov try to banish the nausea he felt at where this was going. Victor didn't seem to get it, or if he did, hid it well; his eyebrows knit together with confusion. The man laughed, and Yakov was ready for him to ask something more blunt, or at least lewd enough that Victor would catch on, but apparently he decided that it would be more fun to force Victor into another kiss, rough and long.
Yakov's hands tightened on the arms of the chair until he could hear the wood creak, aching to get up and do something. If only there weren't so many of them. He would have enjoyed dragging this man off Victor and punching him in the face.
"Here's the game, pretty," the leader said when he finally released Victor, who panted and tried to pull away from him. "Option number one." And he threw Victor into Yakov's lap.
Yakov caught him before he could overbalance, or fall back on the ground. Victor struggled to right himself without the use of his hands, but then he snapped his head up and stared at Yakov, expression blank.
"You let your dear, precious coach fuck you first," the leader continued, prompting another outburst of laughs with some comments thrown in. "Or, you decide that you'd rather he just watch from up close as we have some fun. What will it be? Oh, wait, you're nice and young, aren't you? Maybe it's not fair to ask you to make such a big decision. I should be asking your coach. Which will it be, Mr. Feltsman?"
Yakov spared a moment to glower at him over Victor's shoulder – which only made him grin more widely – before looking back at Victor. From this close, he could see the bruise starting to form on Victor's jaw, the way that he was trembling. "Vitya," he murmured lowly, hoping it might calm him momentarily. Which option would hurt him less? One would give them more time, hopefully, but the thought of forcing Victor through something so cruel was making him taste bile at the back of his tongue. But watching these people do it instead, letting them touch him without even delaying them, seemed just as awful for Victor.
Victor ducked his head, though due to the way he was kneeling on the chair, Yakov could still see his face through his hair falling around it. He mouthed something; Yakov wasn't an accomplished lipreader, but it looked like please. Please what? That didn't tell him anything. He tilted his head, and Victor glanced up at him, pleading. Scared. His fingers were digging into Yakov's arm to the point of pain. Another word – no, two. Not them.
Fine. If Victor preferred it this way, then fine. Yakov would make himself do it. He could try to be as kind as he could, try to make it not hurt, at least. And if, even with that, Victor couldn't stand to be near him afterward – if it came to it, and there was nothing else to do, Yakov could help him find a new coach. He had connections. Almost anyone would be willing to take him on, no matter how disobedient he was, with his natural grace and beautiful skating and the way he cheerfully followed his whims to such effect.
He heard feet shuffling. They were getting impatient. He slowly wrapped an arm around Victor, glared up again. "I'll do it," he growled. Victor's hand tightened even further on his arm, then relaxed.
If only a look could kill. The leader looked far too pleased (and healthy) as he smiled at Yakov and took a couple steps back. "Then by all means. Get started."