[And again, Ryan can't look at him, not with that glare fixed on him. Avoiding his eyes won't make it go away, he swears he can still feel it, but seeing it is worse. His hands are in his lap, fingers laced together as he fidgets anxiously.]
It's not like that, I'm not-- we're just friends, alright, that's all. He never came crying to me, I told you, it slipped and I got the rest of it out of him, it... we just talked. He's the only one I really talk to.
[Ryan's not even sure why he adds that last part. Not to make any sort of point, he knows it's probably not what Petre wants to hear- but he'd been told to be honest. Decided to listen to that demand. It simply spills out along with the rest.]
[He listens in the quiet, but nothing about his insides is serene. No, he's burning up inside. He knows there's more to what Ryan is saying, and the fact that he won't explicitly put it into words only infuriates him even further.
So he gets to his feet in a swift movement, steps over to the other bed in an intimidating stride. Forces Ryan to lean back as he leans forward, places both hands on his sides, pressing down on the mattress.]
Does that make you feel special, Ryan?
[No longer quiet. He's letting what he really feels slip through his tongue.]
I could give him to you. You say you're just friends? John doesn't have friends. What do you think's gonna happen? You're going to say the wrong thing, Ryan, you're going to say the wrong thing and you're going to fuck it all up.
[For him? For John? For Petre? He doesn't specify.]
You want him to say he loves you while his dick's in your mouth? I could do that for you. I could do anything you want me to.
[Petre isn't someone he can easily stand his ground against, especially not now, nor would he want to stay so close; Ryan leans back when he moves to loom over him, at a loss for anything else to do. The position chafes slightly- it's just another reminder of which of them is in control of this conversation- but he's not falling all the way back, he can at least take some pride in that much.
Does that make you feel special-- fuck, of course it does, John does, but his discomfort is only growing the longer Petre speaks.]
No--
[He shakes his head vehemently, the movement brief and almost jerky.]
No. Not like that, I don't want anything to be like that. I don't want you to do anything else to him, I just-
[And there he finally lets slip the frustrated thought he's been holding onto nearly this entire time.]
I just want you to leave him alone, Petre. This is so-- so fucked up, all of it is, everything you've been doing. He does have friends. And yeah, I probably am gonna say the wrong thing eventually, but that has nothing to do with you.
[No. No. Every single nerve in Petre's body wants to reach out for the other boy and hurt him. Make him kneel and bed for forgiveness.
Leave him alone - so what? So he can fuck around and believe the lie that he could ever be satisfied with just anyone else? No. What Ryan wants is a happy ending, and Petre has decided long ago that that's the last thing any of them will ever get.]
Look at me, Ryan.
[His eyes - ice blue, incisive and perverse - stare right at him, shifting from one eye to the other until he's sure the silence around them is so heavy they can practically feel it on their bones.
His next words are all orders. They slip into the brain and fester, buzzing with the urge to complete the task, lest something horrible happen in its stead.]
You're going to call John. You're going to tell him you want more. And when he says no, you're going to try to fuck him, and you're going to make sure it hurts. And when he fights back and leaves you here to bleed, you're going to let him. You won't tell a single soul about this conversation. You won't even think about it. This is all just between you and me. Got it?
[A pause. It's as though Ryan cut through Petre and what spilled out was acid.
He leans back, takes the barely touched cigarette and puts it out between his fingers. He doesn't feel like smoking anymore. This is a much better stress-relief. (There's no burn. Nothing can burn him.)]
[He tries not to look, he does, but he can't help it-- even if that's not where he starts the orders, when Petre tells him to do it that fear of what's coming makes him glance back up, pale green eyes fixed on his blue ones like he's caught in that look.
And then the orders start to come.
There's no missing the way he starts to tear up, his thoughts desperate and panicked, a constant loop of no no no don't, you can't, you can't do this, don't please don't--
Then that final part of the order comes, and any thoughts he might have had about warning John slip from his mind. This is between him and Petre, he's not thinking about telling John at all anymore, but he is still full of that same distressed panic at the orders he's been given. Ryan can't do this, he can't-- but the need for it is there already. He wants Petre to go so he can call John over, talk to him, tell him what he wants, and knowing it's only going to ruin everything doesn't make the urge go away.]
You can't do this.
[It's a small, broken little protest, knowing just how futile it is.]
[It isn't quite a smile that brushes on Petre's lips when he keeps the dead cigarette in his hand, looking down at Ryan like a giant looking down at a bug.]
I'm doing you a favor, Ryan. He would've just hurt you eventually.
[His tone is dripped in irony, sadistic and satisfied. Suddenly he seems like the perfect image of a young man, put together in nice clothes, honey-gold hair combed to the side, skin pale, lips red. Who could ever call him a monster when he looks like that?]
No, it's not, I can't... don't make me hurt him first, Petre, please.
[God, it's got to look pathetic, he knows it does, but he promised he wouldn't. He promised. Ryan reaches up, hands clutching at the front of Petre's shirt; what might be a threatening gesture from someone else is simply desperate from him.]
I'll stop, I won't touch him again, I swear-- anything you want but this. I'd do anything else you wanted if you just took this back, what do you want from me--
[He's grabbed but doesn't budge, sad little thoughts pouring into his head. Begging. That's good.
Petre cups his face carefully with one hand, angles his head and presses his lips against his in a quick succession of movements. While what would have been a threatening gesture to others is desperate for Ryan, what others would perceive as a tender kiss is a vicious attack in return.]
You'll thank me for this. You'll see.
[He's unnervingly quiet, unnervingly collected and soft. His fingers slip down from Ryan's skin, settle down on his shoulder.]
Don't fuck it up.
[And with a smile, he grabs Ryan's hands to force him to let go, and turns to leave.]
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no subject
It's not like that, I'm not-- we're just friends, alright, that's all. He never came crying to me, I told you, it slipped and I got the rest of it out of him, it... we just talked. He's the only one I really talk to.
[Ryan's not even sure why he adds that last part. Not to make any sort of point, he knows it's probably not what Petre wants to hear- but he'd been told to be honest. Decided to listen to that demand. It simply spills out along with the rest.]
no subject
So he gets to his feet in a swift movement, steps over to the other bed in an intimidating stride. Forces Ryan to lean back as he leans forward, places both hands on his sides, pressing down on the mattress.]
Does that make you feel special, Ryan?
[No longer quiet. He's letting what he really feels slip through his tongue.]
I could give him to you. You say you're just friends? John doesn't have friends. What do you think's gonna happen? You're going to say the wrong thing, Ryan, you're going to say the wrong thing and you're going to fuck it all up.
[For him? For John? For Petre? He doesn't specify.]
You want him to say he loves you while his dick's in your mouth? I could do that for you. I could do anything you want me to.
no subject
Does that make you feel special-- fuck, of course it does, John does, but his discomfort is only growing the longer Petre speaks.]
No--
[He shakes his head vehemently, the movement brief and almost jerky.]
No. Not like that, I don't want anything to be like that. I don't want you to do anything else to him, I just-
[And there he finally lets slip the frustrated thought he's been holding onto nearly this entire time.]
I just want you to leave him alone, Petre. This is so-- so fucked up, all of it is, everything you've been doing. He does have friends. And yeah, I probably am gonna say the wrong thing eventually, but that has nothing to do with you.
no subject
Leave him alone - so what? So he can fuck around and believe the lie that he could ever be satisfied with just anyone else? No. What Ryan wants is a happy ending, and Petre has decided long ago that that's the last thing any of them will ever get.]
Look at me, Ryan.
[His eyes - ice blue, incisive and perverse - stare right at him, shifting from one eye to the other until he's sure the silence around them is so heavy they can practically feel it on their bones.
His next words are all orders. They slip into the brain and fester, buzzing with the urge to complete the task, lest something horrible happen in its stead.]
You're going to call John. You're going to tell him you want more. And when he says no, you're going to try to fuck him, and you're going to make sure it hurts. And when he fights back and leaves you here to bleed, you're going to let him. You won't tell a single soul about this conversation. You won't even think about it. This is all just between you and me. Got it?
[A pause. It's as though Ryan cut through Petre and what spilled out was acid.
He leans back, takes the barely touched cigarette and puts it out between his fingers. He doesn't feel like smoking anymore. This is a much better stress-relief. (There's no burn. Nothing can burn him.)]
Nod.
no subject
And then the orders start to come.
There's no missing the way he starts to tear up, his thoughts desperate and panicked, a constant loop of no no no don't, you can't, you can't do this, don't please don't--
Then that final part of the order comes, and any thoughts he might have had about warning John slip from his mind. This is between him and Petre, he's not thinking about telling John at all anymore, but he is still full of that same distressed panic at the orders he's been given. Ryan can't do this, he can't-- but the need for it is there already. He wants Petre to go so he can call John over, talk to him, tell him what he wants, and knowing it's only going to ruin everything doesn't make the urge go away.]
You can't do this.
[It's a small, broken little protest, knowing just how futile it is.]
Don't make me, please--
no subject
I'm doing you a favor, Ryan. He would've just hurt you eventually.
[His tone is dripped in irony, sadistic and satisfied. Suddenly he seems like the perfect image of a young man, put together in nice clothes, honey-gold hair combed to the side, skin pale, lips red. Who could ever call him a monster when he looks like that?]
He's using you. It's better this way, you'll see.
[But he'd love to hear him beg some more.]
no subject
[God, it's got to look pathetic, he knows it does, but he promised he wouldn't. He promised. Ryan reaches up, hands clutching at the front of Petre's shirt; what might be a threatening gesture from someone else is simply desperate from him.]
I'll stop, I won't touch him again, I swear-- anything you want but this. I'd do anything else you wanted if you just took this back, what do you want from me--
no subject
[He's grabbed but doesn't budge, sad little thoughts pouring into his head. Begging. That's good.
Petre cups his face carefully with one hand, angles his head and presses his lips against his in a quick succession of movements. While what would have been a threatening gesture to others is desperate for Ryan, what others would perceive as a tender kiss is a vicious attack in return.]
You'll thank me for this. You'll see.
[He's unnervingly quiet, unnervingly collected and soft. His fingers slip down from Ryan's skin, settle down on his shoulder.]
Don't fuck it up.
[And with a smile, he grabs Ryan's hands to force him to let go, and turns to leave.]