Chapter Text
Eret hadn't always been a mafia boss (or a Don, as some people liked to call it). They hadn't been born and told what they were nor had their parents actually divulged what their jobs were. At least, not until they were dead.
Their parents had been murdered when they were seventeen. Five years ago, a lucky mercenary had gotten past their estate's bodyguards and security and had slit their parents' throats right in front of them.
They'd been rocked, half traumatised by the first truly gruesome thing they'd witnessed in their sheltered life. The revelation had come in their shared will, only half of which they'd been privy to.
"To Alastair, our son: we leave our legacy, our fortune, all physical and monetary assets and all properties." With a playful after-note of, "Keep the boys in line."
But they'd been young. Young and so unsure. Scot Griswold had been there for them, an advisor and possibly the best they could've ever had. He'd helped them get steady on their feet, but not quick enough.
He'd been shot dead in front of them. The (what they'd later learn to have been a 40 .cal) bullet had ripped a whole through his head and they'd screamed so loud their voice was lost for days afterwards.
It had been another local gang behind that murder. The group had moved in, taking over everything that was Eret's. Except, they hadn't been Eret back then; they'd been Alastair and they'd been he and far too meek.
In short, they were weak.
They hadn't even had a chance to meet their syndicate before it was ripped away from them.
The invading boss had taken a liking to them, then, and that had been the only thing to keep them alive. He'd taken them as a pet, the greasy skinned, bad breathed asshole.
He'd kept them under close watch for months, time dragging on as he ordered them about, making them sit by his feet and humiliating them, forcing them to do his every want.
But they'd kept quiet, little Alastair had been something close to mute. They'd gained his trust, lapping up to the man with no sense of fashion or hygiene and had taken the hits and the coy grabs and touches. They'd taken the sly insults, the scorching, tingling bruises and each and every grope. They'd rolled with it all.
And they'd finally gotten their own back, one morning in rural Spain.
It was sunny, roasting hot in the hotel room. The thin curtains were no more than scraps of fabric, the gentle breeze rustling them. The view beyond was beautiful, or had been when Eret was grounded enough to actually be able to see it - colourful, layered rooftops spinning round to create a whirlwind of a small, media-isolated town. The bright overhangs of market stalls lit up the ground during the day, floating lanterns and fairy lights dazzling the scene at night.
A honeymoon suite had been rented out, one with a large queen-sized bed and a bucket full of wine bottles. There was a bathroom with a large shower to the right of the door, the bedroom taking up the rest of the large space. Silently, a tv flashed images from its vantage over the bed, telling a story or a local newsline Eret couldn't make out.
"We've got to head over to Vincent's today, then down to check on the workers," the three hundred and sixty pound man had said, clutching a wine glass in his huge hands, thick fingers dwarfing the small glass. He stood like a human blob in the wide doorway leading onto the balcony, leering over the town he was inching closer to taking over through his latest human trafficking ring.
Eret had always despised human trafficking. The disgust it filled them with, a tightening in their chest, had been the feeling that had drowned them that morning. It had swamped them, settling over their senses as a fog thicker than the scent of sex the hotel room held onto.
The sun had glinted off his wine glass, shining into their eyes. Strewn over the large bed, near paralyzed, their heart had hammered rapidly in their chest as their body worked through the round of drugs the man had pushed into them in preparation for some one-sided fun earlier that morning. Small mercies consisted of the fact they were now too numb to feel where he'd touched them and where the needle had pierced their skin. "You listening, toy?"
"Yes, sir," they'd slurred, shivery cold despite the heat. The thin blanket over their lap was barely enough to cover them, and certainly did nothing for hiding the bruises sewn into their skin. The lust in the man's eyes was clear when he turned bodily to look down at them.
"Good," he said, and even then his name had been foggy in Eret's memory. They'd heard it once more, after they'd gotten away, but that mouth had quickly been shut. "I'll get a shower and then we can get breakfast. Be good, little toy."
Nearly completely out of it, vision patchy and blurred, they jerked when the man gripped their bruised ankle. As their limbs spasmed painfully, he cackled; a long, low thing that would forever haunt them. "Good boy," he leered, slapping their bruise once more before leaving them there, on the bed like a trophy.
They hated it. So fucking much. Sometimes they imagined rolling over in the middle of the night and strangling the man with something, maybe a shoelace, maybe even the blankets themselves (they would've done it with their own underwear, if they were given any). But they hadn't gone through with it, because there was always a hand around their waist and an eye on their chest.
Their parents were dead and so was Scot. They were alone - an eighteen year old stuck under a sneering, fat old man and forced to sit on their knees and take whatever he dished out.
In the bathroom, the water turned on. The spray was akin to a low roar, a sound that echoed and reverberated through their head. Eret lay on the bed, fingers gripping uselessly at their own hip as the boss grunted and shuffled his way out of his clothes. He stood on their peripheral, flexing jugs of fat before the mirror for a long moment.
"Good lookin' as ever," he guffawed, looking to them through the mirror. Eret, knowing better what would happen if they disagreed, offered a loose grin. "Buy you some more clothes today, pretty thing. I seen some shorts down by the market last night that might suit."
"Thank you," they forced themselves to say, tongue pulling on the vowels as they struggled to speak.
They blinked and opened their eyes to steam roiling out of the bathroom, the boss standing by the bed, coiffing his short balding hair. He looked down at them, evidently in a good mood from how he chuckled.
"Guess I gave you too much of that stuff, eh? Pete wasn't joking when he said it was strong."
Hiccuping, they drawled. "Strong like you."
"Damn right," he agreed fiercely, finishing the buttons on his shirt. He was wearing some abomination of orange and purple that was in completely the wrong shade. His khakis were some shade of beige and paired with his sturdy flipflops, he looked no more different than a tourist. Of course, the man's thorough lack of Spanish etiquette only aided this image.
Their eyes fluttered shut again as he turned back to the mirror to check his hair. What could've been anything from five seconds to ten minutes later, they felt his large hands on their purpled ankle, tugging them down towards him, and felt their body go limp and pliant despite the throbbing whisper of discomfort.
"Good boy," murmured the man, a warm washcloth in his hand which he palmed over them. He rubbed along their face and neck first, wiping away the dried saliva he'd left there and not being gentle about it.
In response to a wince of pain when a bruise was pushed down on too hard, he smirked and rolled their left nipple under his pudgy fingers. "You're doing brilliant, toy. Should we put you in your red summer dress today or those blue cargo shorts?"
Knowing whatever they whispered would be ignored, Eret remained silent, watching the cloth dip down past their thighs with half-lidded eyes. He was in a exceptionally good mood today, seeing as he usually made them shower themself whether they had steady feet or not. It could've been due to the drugs he'd pumped into them, having rambled on about how he needed to test his newest order of something.
"Yeah, I think the low-cut tank top with the shorts," he nodded along to an unspoken tune, leaning down to press a kiss against their lips. They didn't return it despite how the numbness was beginning to fade and they could now feel their face and arms. "Hmph. Those drugs are better than Pete said. We'll make big bucks off them for sure."
The door shook with a knock, the weak wood bouncing as the door was opened. A young man walked in, lighting up the room with his angelic green eyes and brown hair and made eye contact with Eret. "Sir, we have a problem."
"Of what sort?" Snapped the man, buttoning a pair of denim shorts around their waist they hadn't even realised had been pushed up their legs. He turned his head to look, his four chins bouncing as he squinted at the man. "I don't recognise you, who'd you work under?"
"Alastair's parents," announced the man and pulled a hand gun from the waistband of his shorts. One shot to the stomach had the overweight fucker stumbling, a second had him loosing balance.
"They send their regards, asshole. Don't expect to meet them in hell."
With that, the man tumbled out of Eret's life and the balcony. Screams echoed up from the narrow road below.
"My name is Dream, sir," said the man who couldn't have been any older than them. "I'm hired as your personal bodyguard through your father's wishes. I apologise for how long it took me to get here."
On that day, they cried for the first time in a long time. Reasonably, they knew that this Dream guy had probably only saved them due to some prior commitment or something for himself, but the joy that someone was on their side - even if just for those few moments - was so relieving it was almost crushing.
That day was the beginning of their mafia.