#frothing at the mouth for quaritch and spider

[undercoverpan]

A young boy opens his eyes, facing the ceiling. He does not recognise the room he is in, but doesn't panic.

Well, he would, but he can't. He can feel a vague sense of something in the back of his head, but he can't grasp it. Like running water slipping through his fingers. He could focus on it, but then his mind aches worse than his body. It feels like a bleeding wound, and the more he presses, the more blood and pus leaks out. It hurts, he doesn't like it. It's–, it's–,

"Scary?" 

A helpful voice responds from right next to him. There is a large creature, with blue skin and yellow eyes, sitting next to him. He has his large blue hands through his hair, running a hand through short, (short, short, short, why?) curly locks that just reached a bit past his shoulders. They are slightly matted, but the creature's fingers gently pull them apart. He is so patient with his hair, he wonders if they do this often.

He does not respond, but the creature takes this as confirmation. Unfocused brown eyes are still staring at the ceiling, no longer seeing anything. His head, it's in his lap, right? The rest of his body is curled on the cold floor, but he barely registers his form shivering.

"Miles? You've gotta talk to me, that's how this works."

Miles. Who's Miles? He twitches, tilting his head. Dull brown eyes shone lifelessly, but managed to hold a questioning gaze.

The creature huffs. "You're Miles, remember?"

The boy, 'Miles', frowns. He blinks once, twice, before narrowing his eyes. Still, his lips remain firmly pulled together.

"I'm Quaritch. I'm—-," he hesitates, "--I'm your dad, remember, Miles?" The creature leans over, and they look at each other. His hair is long compared to his, he noted. His eyebrows are pulled downward, and there's this emotion in his eyes that he cannot place. They stare silently.

'Quaritch' looked away, muttering something about Jesus Christ (is that also his 'dad'?) and that something was being taken too far. Strange. Was Quaritch always this strange?

"C'mon kid, you're telling me you have no idea who I am? Who you are?" He asked, and his tone shifted. Something about it stirs an emotion deep in him, one that hurts. He doesn't like it. It makes him feel small and useless, and he kind of is, at least in Quaritch's lap. He muttered even more, the hand in his hair holding onto him securely.

He has done something wrong, hasn't he? It's the only thing that can explain the, the shame that has crept upon him. How does he fix this? Can he fix this? Will he hurt him? What's going to happen?

The hand in his hair trails down to his face, gently cupping his cheek. "Don't worry about anything, kid. I'll talk to Ardmore, see if I can do anything."

Miles wants to ask who Ardmore is, but decides against it. He has a feeling that knowing won't do him any good. So he just focuses on the warm hands on his skin and lets himself drift.

_______

There's no way to tell time in this room. He still doesn't know where he is, but that's not bothering him. He knows time has passed since Quaritch was here, though. Pale legs are crossed on top of each other as he sits on the bare mattress in his room. The room is mostly empty, cold and grey. There is only the mattress and a thin blanket. The door leading in is heavy, and has a slot that they pass his food through.

He's already eaten today.

_______

There is a blue creature in the room. He doesn't know who or what it is (I don't know anything, I don't know anything, please pleaseplease), or what it wants. Its hands are on his shoulder, its mouth wide and stretched upwards, revealing sharp fangs. The eyes, a sharp yellow colour, look friendly. Is it friendly?

"Miles! C'mon kid, I'm taking you out!" It said, it's tail swishing back and forth. The boy blinked owlishly at it and the creature sagged.

"We've been over this. You're Miles. I'm Quaritch. I'm your dad." Quaritch said. It straightens itself and turns to walk away, it's arm pulling him along. Miles stops as the door opens, his breath hitching. He feels himself freeze and pull back. Quaritch runs a hand through his hair. It feels safe and warm.

He follows it--him? outside. The floor is just as cold, but the air is less stale. This room is no less new to him than the room he woke up in. It has more inside, tables and chairs and papers littered with symbols that hold no meaning to him. There are other figures in this room, wearing all white, watching him as he passes by. Their eyes make him uneasy. He clings to his dad, who barely reacts to the boy. 

"You'll need to switch your clothes if we're going outside." He remarked, and Miles looked down. He was wearing a blue gown, one that felt uncomfortable against his skin. He didn't know what the outside looked like, nor why he needed to change. He looked away from Quaritch. "Oh? You wanna stay in the dress?" Hesitantly, Miles nodded. It was the only thing left of the room he can now barely recall. It was comfort. (Wrongwrongwrong, these are not his clothes, where are his clothes.)

________

Time had passed again. He did not know where he was. There is a mask over his face, and he's holding a tall creatures hand. His hand is large and blue and engulfs him, but it feels safe and warm. There are large things around them. Some glowed when he touched them. Some were very sticky and smells odd. This room is strange. There are no walls nor ceilings, and the light stings his eyes and leaves odd shapes in his vision.

The creature watches and pulls him back. He wants to see this wall-less room more. It feels free and new. If everything before made him uneasy, then this room made him feel easy. They (whowhowho) said he couldn't breathe the air here, but he felt elated. He wanted to run and jump and climb everything he could!

Clumsily, he grabbed onto the little bits poking out on the….thing…., and pulled himself up. This felt easy, but not new. His body moved like it had a mind of its own, arms and legs pushing himself higher, higher, higher. The higher he got, the better he felt. This is not new! He knows this!

Though his breath ran ragged and his limbs ached, he breathed easily. He laughed; a happy, ugly sound that bounced in the room.

And then he fell. 

This was not new, but it was sudden. It frightened him. He barely registered the air whizzing past his ears, could only hear blood rushing to his head as the room tilted and rushed past him. He's going to hit the ground! It will hurt! He laughs again, grinning. 

He does not meet the ground. Instead, he lands in the arms of the blue creature. His blue face contorted, eyebrows pulling down frowning. Slowly, he matched the boy's expression, teeth baring themselves in sharp corners. "Having fun, kid?" He asked. The boy nodded vigorously, wrapping his arms around the others blue shoulders, his face against sharp collarbones. 

His chest starts to shake with laughter. And though he can't see, the creature looked at him fondly, his hold turning possessive. "Yeah? Falling's fun?" The boy's laughter quieted down. He pulls his head away from the shoulder to look up at the creature. His blue face is still smiling, but there's a snarl hidden in his expression. Aggression. 

"Don't. Don't go falling off of trees, alright?" He hissed, and the boy nodded. He felt shame. Like a child who'd just been caught doing something bad. 

The creature did not put him down. He spent the rest of the day in his tightening hold, catching glimpses of the room around him. He mourned the loss of feeling the ground beneath his feet, but it felt safe in the creature's arms. His body is warm, and the beating in his chest is grounding. The boy does not know how much time passes, but he knows the ceiling is darkening. The room comes alive, softly glowing. 

"It's gettin' dark, huh." The creature remarks. "Should head back." Violently, the boy shook his head. "Oh, wanna stay out here? In the cold, with the man eating animals?" He pushed, but the child frowned. This place is good. Kind. Not dangerous. He wants to stay here forever. He'll forget, if he leaves. But then again, he'll forget even if he stays.

_______

They're walking back when it happens. Something rustles in the bushes, and the creature stops. He gestures his head towards the noise and another blue creature (since when were there others?) approaches, a large weapon drawn. The one holding him looks around, then his ears twitch and his eyes widen. He shouts something, but the boy doesn't understand. 

Other blue creatures emerge from the trees (he'd told him that that's what they were called. Trees.), their weapons drawn. They are speaking, and the boy feels that he should know what they're saying. Instead, their voices just sound like noise. Strange noise, with sharp sounds. Swiftly, they shoot their weapon, and something long and sharp imbeds itself into the tree next to the other creature. It grazes him, leaving a small trail of red rushing down his cheek.

The reaction is practically instantaneous. The arms that wrapped around him grew unbearably tight; practically suffocating him. He is shouting something, loudly, and it makes the boy's ears ring. Suddenly, they are moving faster, away, away, away. The ground is a blur beneath him, and he's holding onto the creature for dear life. The other creatures, the fully clothed ones, were moving with them, turning back to shoot their weapons at the newcomers. The sound rings loud and clear in his ears, making him wince and turn, burying his face into his shoulder. 

They run for what seems like seconds. There is shouting, noise, loudloudloud. He hates it. His ears are ringing. If this keeps up, he'll get sick. He is abruptly thrown to the floor when something hits the one who held him. He scarmbles, the short fall leaving him disoriented. He digs his hand into the ground and tries to push himself up, but he feels a heavy weight on his back, pushing him down. There is something sharp at his neck, but the weight doesn't allow him to turn and look. He still struggles, though it is futile.

The noise–, the voice is sharp, sharper than the blade at his neck. They sound angry. Scary. He whimpers. 

With a rough push, he is flipped onto his back, and a strange sight greets him. The one threatening him is also large and blue, but wears very little clothing. He is holding something long and sharp, a spear, and pointing it right at his neck. He is saying something, but the boy can't understand. The creature repeats himself, but when it becomes clear that he can't understand, he huffs. Raising his hands, he brought his weapon down on his neck.

The boy was scared, but like almost all his feelings, the sensation was like wrapping himself in a ratty, old blanket. He knew it provided warmth in the past, provided comfort and familiarity. But now it was worn out and torn, a reminder of what it used to be. What it used to give. His fear was all consuming, but it felt like he'd already been consumed by it, a long time ago. 

(If it were 2 years ago, when his mind was still his, he'd cry with relief and fear. He'd been found, but not saved.)

The spear never meets his neck. Instead, he watches as the creature is tackled by another. He makes quick work of the one who tried to kill him, thin lines of blood splattering across the mask that lets him breathe. The sounds the two were making made his head spin. All sharp and aggressive, teeth bared, gurgling on his own blood. After their short struggle, the victorious one aproaches him. He kneels down, reaching his hand towards him, and the boy cowers and whimpers, trying to push himself away. The creature frowns.

"Miles?" He says, and the boy is confused. Who is–, "You. You're Miles. I'm Quaritch, I'm your dad." He says solemnly. His dad picks him up easily, but Miles is tense. He cannot keep his distance in the others arms. Quaritch holds him close to his face, gently checking him over for injuries. He can feel his knees sting, and now that he thinks about it, his hands are shaking. He is clammy and sweaty and wants to leave. He wants to be safe. This room is not safe, it is dangerous, it is scary. 

(Please, Eywa, let him stay here. Let him die here. Let him rot here. But please, do not send him back there.) 

He clings to Quaritch hashly, nails digging into his skin, when another approaches. This one is dressed like his dad, but different. Quaritch seemed to notice his weary grip, because he turned around sharply, before relaxing. "That's just Wainfleet, kid. He's safe."

Safe. He's safe. He won't hurt him? Is Quaritch safe?

He looks at the body of the creature who attacked him, now laying lifelessly on the ground. A large slash laid across his throat, blood running from the injury like a river. His chest felt tight, and he felt like he knew that man. Had seen him before. He can't remember. Can't remember. Can't remember. Won't remember.

What?

______

He wakes up inside a room. He is sitting on a chair, metal digging into him uncomfortably. There are restraints, binding him tightly. There is panic running through him. He knows why he is here. He can't remember, but he knows.

His chest had wrapped itself into tight coils, so he was struggling to breathe. He is still shaking, he noted. He is clammy, sweaty, and breathing heavily. 

He knows this. He knows this.

He is afraid.

_______

A young boy wakes up in a room. He tastes blood and his skin is burning. The room is cold and hard, but he is resting against something warm. The boy feels his throat is too dry and torn to even try to speak, so he settles for a pathetic, questioning moan.

"You back with me, son?"

He tries to turn, but he cannot. The slightest movement hurts him. It feels like his nerves are on fire.

His hands, rubbed raw and bloody, are gently clasped in another's hold. They look tiny in the others blue hands.

"Yeah, that was…uh…a long session, huh? Thought you'd be used to it by now, but ya scream just as loud every time."

The son can tell it's meant to be a joke; a casual remark, but he can also hear the grimace in the man's voice. The gritted teeth. His tightening hold. He is upset. Why?

His wounds sting. The son sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. It hurts. His hands, they hurt. The large man behind him seems to take notice, as his hold loosens, barely. He breathes, uneven, but more easily. It hurts less. Insignificantly less, but less is something.

The boy notices a hand through his hair. It is warm and gentle, and massages softly into his scalp. 

He doesn't know his own name, nor the person behind him. He does not panic, though.

The end

For now?

I actually don't know if i want this to have multiple parts or not all i know is that there is a tortured boy w daddy issues and i love him i want to tuck him into bed mwah mwah