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The worst part about the box is the way even his breathing echoes, every small sound he makes ricocheting off every corner a million times over until it's deafening. The most miniscule hitch of breath becomes a scream, a whimper let slide despite his best efforts becomes a roar, and he swears his ears are bleeding, his eardrums rupturing, and at least it will be a mercy when it's over so he no longer has to hear it. Of course, it's never over. It never ends. I will die here, Aoba thinks, is sure of it, as his lungs expand and deflate so furiously he's certain they'll burst. I wish I could die here, he amends.
He reminded himself, in the beginning, to stay calm, that panic wouldn't do him any good. It was a mantra in his head, then, stay calm, stay calm, don't give in, stay calm, but even that had spiraled upward and outward, as though contributing to his own mass in this too-small space until he didn't fit any longer. Trapped in the fetal position, unable to uncurl, to stretch his muscles, Aoba felt smaller, more useless than he ever had under the cruel and disinterested hands of Virus and Trip.
That was the first ten minutes. It gets worse.
He realizes with sudden clarity that the sides of the box are narrowing, lowering, coming down and around on him. It’s shrinking slowly like trap rooms in hidden temples on American action films he’s watched in the past, except it’s not entertaining, it’s just horrifying. They will compress him until he is a tiny cube of smashed flesh and broken bones. He wonders if Virus and Trip will extract him then, admire the way his body has been forced into geometric shapes. Perhaps they will put him on display, the compact viscera of their shared fucktoy and old flame. Perhaps even then, he will not die, will still be able to feel everything they do to the faceless cube of flesh that is him, and his torture will continue indefinitely. Perhaps Trip and Virus will never die, and he will never die, and this is it, he is in hell for the rest of eternity.
A shudder of revolt and terror wracks his curled body from head to toe. Unlike a shiver from the cold or a chill of fear, it does not stop. He just keeps shaking, trembling so hard he feels like he’s going to vibrate his insides to a pulp, vibrate the air right out of his lungs. His lungs, he remembers those and takes a gasping breath, realizing he hasn’t been breathing. How long? His exhale comes out a sob. He tries to jerk his head up, to open his airway, and is met only by the hard, unrelenting metal of the box’s interior. He screams, which was a mistake, it echoes on him and magnifies indefinitely and scares him, god, he is so scared, he’s so afraid, he’s sure he’ll have a heart attack and die. He wants it. He’s desperate for it. Kill me, he pleads to no one. But there is no mercy here.
He exhausts himself, eventually, or maybe he’s just not getting enough air to his brain, but either way, he passes out. He wakes from a nightmare he can’t quite recall, but it terrifies him all the same, and when he opens his eyes to only blackness and dull, aching pain, he panics. They’ve blinded him. They took out his eyes. They took out his eyes and bound him and he cannot move. Then he remembers his fate, in the box. He’s pissed himself twice and it reeks. He dry heaves, which is painful in this position, and nothing comes up. He tries to thrash, to stretch out, to move his limbs, anything to ease the ache and tension and the trapped feeling and nothing at all comes of it, he can’t, he’s stuck, he’ll be stuck here forever. He’s so scared.
It gets worse.
Language returns to him once, twice. He tries pleading, chancing that someone was nearby to hear him, “Please, let me out, I'll do it, I'll do everything, I'll take initiative, fuck me dry, let me suck you, gag me, hurt me, burn me, cut me, I don't care, let me out, let me out, let me out-” He screams more, and it just makes him panic, makes him thrash more. He hurts, he’s stewing in his own excrement and he can’t breathe and he’s so fucking afraid. He’s going to die, except he will never die, not here, because he is in hell and this is the end for him, this is his eternity now.
It
gets
worse.
Sometimes he has these faint and distant memories of a church by the sea, of voices in his head (that’s a laugh, somehow, it makes him laugh, and he keeps on laughing and laughing until his lungs burn and his sides ache and then he’s crying and then he’s screaming and he wishes he didn’t have a mouth or a tongue or vocal cords or a face. If he had no face this wouldn’t have happened), but it’s garbled and wrong because the sea shouldn’t smell like piss and vomit. Sometimes he hears a kind voice from far away, like a dream forgotten on waking, and he wants his mother. Mother. Mom. Mommy. Haruka. She is there with him, she died not long after she and Nine left Midorijima. Virus and Trip caught her and they killed her slowly, in the dark, in a small, metal box. In this very same one, in fact, and here is her ghost, haunting it, haunting him. What would she say? Would she be ashamed of him, that he is here like this?
What about Nine? What about Koujaku? Granny? Ren? Would they laugh at him? Would they tsk and tilt their heads to the side and smile like it can’t be helped, like Aoba is just showing his true nature here, in a puddle of filth, in the dark, in a box?
He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to cover his ears but he can’t move his hands to them. He didn’t think he had tears left, but he’s crying again. He’s so thirsty, his mouth is paper-dry and his tongue sticks to the roof of it and his lips are chapped and this is hell, he is in hell. Here he is.
A convulsion takes his body without warning and he thrashes again. He barely moves at all, but he hits the back of his head on the wall of the box. Good. Good. That’s good. He can do this. This is something. He snaps his head back and hits it again. It’s painful and it’s concrete and it’s right. Again, again, again. He sets up a rhythm, knocking his head back against the side of the box over and over and over. It’s comforting, the dull, low, clang, clang, clang and he doesn’t stop, even giggles a little. Then he hears an even louder sound, a more metallic noise coming from outside, like someone kicked the side of his box. His box. He freezes.
“That’s enough.” It’s Trip, “Do you want to die in there, Aoba?”
Aoba doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t make a move. He finds himself trying, for the first time, to tuck into himself, to become even smaller. He’s trembling, he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. It’s a wonder he hasn’t worn them down to stumps, the way they chatter so much.
He doesn’t hear anything else, and he doesn’t hit his head anymore.
He is in a metal box. This box is made of metal. Metal, metal, metal. Metal, metal, meddle. Don’t meddle in the business of others. Metal, meddle, meddle. Metal, meddle, mettle. Mettle. He has none of that. Metal, meddle, mettle. Meddle, mettle, met all. Met all. Ha, ha, ha, what does that even mean? Meddle, mettle, met all. Mettle, met all, menthol. Menthol. Menthol smokes. Koujaku, Koujaku, Koujaku.
He thinks he sobs, but it doesn’t really sound like his voice. He thinks Koujaku used to stand on his veranda, smoking with Ren and Beni in his arms. He thinks Koujaku used to flash him a quiet, private smile. He thinks Koujaku used to shove cake down his throat and tie him up and rape him – except it wasn’t really rape, was it, the way his body responded, the way he came every time, the way he so clearly wanted it –
No, that wasn’t Koujaku. Koujaku never did that. That didn’t happen. He’s losing it. He’s completely losing his grip. Let me die, he thinks.
It gets worse.
He goes slack. He can’t feel his limbs or his back anymore. Somehow, they still ache. How can he hurt if he is numb? These are the lessons Virus and Trip are trying to teach him, he thinks, and maybe once he learns they will let him go. Maybe this is where he must come to an understanding. He’ll say, “Ah-ha, I see now,” and they’ll smile and praise him and pet his hair. They will be so pleased, and then he can go. Go where? Back to his box. Yes.
Except-- that’s not right. Oh.
This time, he doesn’t remember when he started shaking, just that it’s getting painful, the intensity of it. He can’t stop. This time is it, he thinks. It will truly be the end of him. He will shake until there is nothing left of him and he will. … Die? No, he can’t die. He will never die. This is his punishment, for the rest of time.
His thoughts drift and nothing makes sense. The darkness is hands around his throat and it suffocates him. The darkness is thumbs in his eye sockets, gouging out the slick organs that lend him sight. No need for those anymore. The darkness is tendrils slipping into his ears, thrashing until he is deaf, sliding their way to his brain where it can seep between each curve and line of the pink-gray matter there, where it can inhabit him fully.
Will it tickle…?
Maybe he pisses himself more, it’s hard to keep track. The flesh on his ass and the bottoms of his feet is starting to peel off, he thinks, from being wet for so long. Maybe he will rot away and become a pool of nothing but broken down flesh. That would be nice, he thinks. He will be fluid and then nothing can really contain him anymore. Or, rather, he will simply bend to the shape of his container, and it will be so effortless, so painless. A liquid cube. Virus can put him in another box, a box of another shape, and he will mold to the sides of it in much the same way. He sighs at the thought, relaxes. He wishes his body would hurry up and decompose.
He starts to shake again, his body convulsing inward on itself, and he wonders how much more of this he can take. This time he’s sure it will never stop again, he’ll shake to hasten the progress of his descent into liquid, and that will be all. It would be a comfort if it wasn’t quite so agonizing, but even the pain is good in its own way.
That is his last thought when suddenly the box opens.
The light outside is so bright he has to cover his eyes. It will blind him, it will sear his eyeballs until there is nothing left. He doesn’t move, and he feels a rough hand grab his arm and tug him forward and out, holding him up.
“What a mess,” Virus sighs with a calm smile. “Have you learned your lesson?”
Aoba can’t say anything. He’s limp and his knees won’t hold him. Virus drags him to the tub and hoses him off with the showerhead. The water is cold, but it doesn’t register at all to Aoba. He hauls him out into the living room and shoves him forward. Aoba would fall, except Trip catches him, Aoba’s face pressed against his chest.
“Ah~? Aoba is looking rough,” Trip says with a sullen tone.
“Well, he misbehaved so he had to be punished,” Virus says placidly.
“Poor Aoba. You’ve been so mean to him,” Trip tsks, holding Aoba around the waist to steady him. His free hand comes up to stroke his hair, and the touch is so gentle that Aoba begins to shake again, hard. He reaches up with feeble, weakened hands to clutch at Trip’s waistcoat.
“Shh, shh, Aoba, it’s okay. Virus is such a bully.”
“Haa, Trip, we can’t just go around spoiling Aoba-san whenever we feel like it.”
“That’s true,” says Trip, but his hand doesn’t still in Aoba’s hair. “But look at how much he is shaking.”
“Mm, he’s shaking quite a bit. Do you think I overdid it?”
“No,” Trip says, “But he’s done his penance, so maybe I’ll reward him.”
Aoba is crying now, and he’s holding onto Trip like Trip will take care of him, like Trip will save him. He won’t, of course. Trip is just as brutal as Virus, in a different way. But Aoba has no one else to comfort him, and if they’re going to play this game, he’ll let them. He needs it. He is so weak. He has nothing else but to take solace in a very temporary, very unstable lie.
“I suppose that can’t be helped,” Virus says gently, adjusting his glasses. He’s still smiling. “Still, don’t be too nice. We don’t want him getting used to that.”
“Of course not,” Trip agrees. “Come on, Aoba, you can stay with me tonight.”
Aoba’s knees completely buckle from under him, but Trip catches him, easing him up into his arms, one hand looped around his shoulders while the other tucks under his knees, minding his head. It’s so effortless, the way Trip can carry him, and Aoba finds it in himself to wonder if he has lost that much weight, or if Trip is truly that strong. Perhaps a combination.
“I’ll take good care of you,” Trip purrs. He pauses, lets his electric blue eyes meet with Virus’ matched pair.
“Goodnight, Virus. Bye-bye.”
“Bye-bye,” Virus agrees with a smirk, and each of them drift towards their respective rooms.
Trip sets Aoba carefully on the side of his bed, then pulls back the blanket and tucks Aoba beneath the sheets. The gesture is so tender that Aoba begins to cry anew.
“Ah, there-there,” Trip says gently, brushing Aoba’s bangs out of his face. “It’s okay, Virus can be so rough sometimes, I know. But it’s just the way things are.”
Aoba hates him. He says nothing.
“Are you thirsty, Ao-ba?”
The question makes Aoba’s heart leap into his throat. Fuck. Yes. He is so thirsty. He hardly realized, with the amount of agony his body is in, but he wants nothing more than a drink of water. For once, Trip is not sadistic enough to force him to answer – he only smirks and says, “I’ll be right back.” And then he’s gone from Aoba’s side.
He returns in a few minutes with a cup of water – plastic, Aoba notices, Trip is not stupid – and sets it on the nightstand before sitting down on the side of the bed.
“I brought you water,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. Aoba reaches toward it, but Trip catches his wrist, pressing it back down to the bed, “I want to give it to you now.”
Aoba feels his blood run cold. When can he turn his reactions off enough to not be surprised by the treatment he gets from these two? Shouldn’t he be numb now? He turns his head away, but Trip just laughs and lifts up the cup of water, tipping it to his own lips.
Then he’s descending upon Aoba, one hand rising to grab his jaw and hold his face still. Trip presses his lips to Aoba’s, parting them with his tongue before sealing them together and letting water trickle from his own mouth into Aoba’s.
It’s shameful, but Aoba moans, drinking the water down eagerly, never mind that it’s from Trip. His body rises to it almost on its own, so thoroughly dehydrated that it’s beyond his control.
Trip smirks as he draws back. “Good boy,” he croons, and goes to take another sip from the cup.
This time, Aoba half sits up, grabbing the back of Trip’s head and jerking him towards him, fastening their mouths together and sucking the water from him. Trip laughs when he’s emptied.
“I love it when Aoba is eager for me,” he says, and takes another mouthful of water.
They continue like this until the cup is empty. Sometimes Trip plays hard to get, turning his head away or drawing back so Aoba has to come forward towards him for his drink. But soon enough, he drinks his fill.
“More,” he whispers, and his voice sounds so ruined he barely recognizes it.
“Yes, yes,” Trip says with a laugh, and takes the cup to go get more water.
Aoba doesn’t even think, just stares at the door, anxiously awaiting Trip’s return. This time, Trip has water and also a plate with two slices of toast on it. Aoba almost sobs.
“Shh,” Trip says, “We need to go slowly or you’ll get sick.”
Trip gives him two more mouthfuls of water in the same way, teasing Aoba now that it’s less urgent, making him work for it. Then he rips off a small piece of toast and holds it out to him. Aoba only hesitates for a moment before leaning in, mouth open, accepting it out of Trip’s fingers without a second thought.
“You’re so shameless, Aoba,” Trip grins, “Since you’ve been through so much, I’ll let you choose: Do you want more food or water first?”
Aoba hesitates. He doesn’t trust his voice. Speaking doesn’t come naturally to him anymore. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. He clears his throat tentatively.
“Water,” he rasps.
Trip just smiles and takes another mouthful of water, and Aoba drinks it from him, wrapping his arms around his neck, pulling from his mouth until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop.
“You’re so good, Aoba,” Trip drawls, and carries on, feeding him, watering him, and Aoba accepts it all, water from Trip’s mouth and bread from his fingers.
When both are gone, and Aoba finishes the last bite of bread, he sucks on Trip’s fingers. It’s not even a conscious decision anymore. Trip has given him comfort after his suffering and now Aoba will repay him.
Trip watches him through lowered lashes, then laughs.
“Aoba is being so good, now. Maybe Virus should punish you more often.”
Aoba freezes again, draws back abruptly, and Trip laughs.
“I’m teasing,” he says, “Maybe. Come here, let’s go to sleep.”
It’s too good to be true, Aoba thinks, that Trip is joking about more punishments, that Trip will feed him and give him water without hurting him, without fucking him or making him do something humiliating.
But Trip has stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers, is between the sheets and holding his arm out for Aoba.
He doesn’t like to be touched by either of them, doesn’t want to be held by either of them while he sleeps, but he catches himself wondering if he’d even be able to sleep without their arms around him, their weight against his back, after all of this.
It’s a good thing no one will ever find him, that he’ll never get out. He is ruined, and there is no other life for him now. There is no going back.
He tucks his body against Trip’s, feels Trip wind an arm around him. And that’s it. That’s all. He will never die here, because this is the end for him, and it will go on forever.
He does this to himself.