Work Text:
Finney had the perfect plan— he thought.
There was little in the room not bolted down and less to use as a weapon, but the lid of the toilet tank was hefty. The corner behind the door was a good hiding place for when it opened.
At his size, Finney could not fully reach to knock the Grabber over the head, but he managed a good strike against his back. A yell and a groan betrayed how much it hurt. It sent the man stumbling, grabbing the heavy door for support and losing that grip when Finney hit him again. The door shot from his hand, clicking fast into its cradle as the Grabber spun around and wrenched the weapon from Finney's hands.
Not only did his plan fail, its failure had consequences.
The porcelain lid was in pieces against one wall. Finney had an aching arm and bruises from retaliatory anger. Worst of all, the door was locked, with the Grabber on his side.
They were trapped together.
"You... You have to have a failsafe, right?" It only made sense. Finney did not think he needed to ask because of course he did. There had to be secret egress only he knew. "How do you get out when this happens?"
He was ignored as the man pulled the door handle in different directions, knowing better than anyone it would not work.
"What do you—"
"Stop talking." He was mercifully calm due to his distraction at the door.
The man took a knife from his belt and stuck its tip into the screw holes of the door's face plate, but it was too narrow and sharp to gain traction. He would have to dull the thing terribly to work— if it worked. It was a plan to revisit.
Eventually, he gave up.
Finney got out of his way as the man crossed the room and sat on the mattress. He needed to think.
The Grabber knew his basement outside and in, memorizing it during the renovations of his purpose. The dour expression he wore because of that was concerning.
Finney had thoughts. He knew what he wanted to try now that there was something tall and climbable in the room.
"You could, uh... You could give me a boost," he suggested.
The Grabber followed his gaze to the high window. They could remove the grate and let Finney yell for help or climb out entirely, leaving his captor with a promise he would return. Oh, he would return— with police.
"I think... I would rather die." He meant it. He preferred the cursed threat of lying entombed with Finney. It was better than helping him escape the basement while he stayed behind. He would not be party to such an ironic twist on their roles.
After an interim of thought, the Grabber paced the room, searching and touching every corner, pretending he had an idea. Finney went everywhere he was not, avoiding a man who might hurt him for fun or frustration. His arm was still sore from before, pushed to its limit stretching behind his back, until he apologized for hitting the man. Finney held it close with the other hand.
In the torment of shuffling feet, artless dancing, and awkward silence, the phone rang. On instinct, Finney took a step towards it to answer, but he stopped himself. There was no subtle way to pick up a broken phone and speak to the Grabber's previous victim without being noticed. Even if the boy on the other end had advice tailored to their situation, Finney could not accept.
The phone rang.
And rang.
"Shut up!"
Finney started at the man's outburst, not expecting that same phonecall to provoke him. The reprimand worked. The caller let their plea for communication utter one last cry of the bell, and then it died.
Silence set back in like liquid filling a glass.
It had to be five minutes later, with an uncountable number of reconsiderations in between, when the Grabber said, "You hear that too?"
He saw Finney respond to its call. He knew. But there was allure in being defiant. Let the man think himself insane.
Maybe they were both mad.
Finding the best, most lukewarm answer, Finney replied, "Sometimes." The continued circuit of his pacing distracted from and dismissed a serious conversation about the matter. "Static electricity, right?"
With something like disappointment in those barely visible eyes, the Grabber waved his hand and answered, "Right."
He wanted to say more. Regardless of the fact that the phone troubled him, if someone else heard it, the man wanted to discuss cause and meaning with his kindred spirit.
Finney was special.
"I should rip it from the wall already," he said instead, watching for Finney's reaction.
It was difficult to remain stoic, to pretend the loss would not break his heart and all his hopes of salvation. He swallowed, that same throat beating a wild pulse of anxiety and despair. Remaining outwardly calm against his test, Finney told him, "Maybe later. It doesn't matter now."
The Grabber did not like his measured response, but he would have to tear the phone down and smash it to get more of a reaction.
"Maybe later," he agreed.
Circling back around to the scene of the crime, the Grabber kicked his boot around porcelain shards from the toilet lid and selected the largest piece, around one third its original size. He left the room, and after a moment, there was banging in the adjoining area.
Cautiously, Finney peeked around the corner. The man was on his knees in front of the wall, ramming the scrap of porcelain over and over against it. When he paused to catch his breath, Finney spoke.
"What are you doing?" He was curious about all the man's concepts of escape. He had a vested interest.
Long hair was pushed away from his eyes and behind a devil's horn. "There's... There used to be a hole in the wall here." Why he said anything was unclear. It was possible he always wanted someone around to whom he could explain his thoughts. Everything he did, all the clever designs he rigged, had to stay inside his own head. Finney was an inconsequential soundboard, but he was special enough to hear. "I patched it, but..." He trailed off, but the idea was still understood.
"The wall would be weaker there."
He was right, but the Grabber did not confirm. After all, if he could not get through (and it did not look like he would), Finney was better off not knowing all his weak spots.
The task of chiseling away at the wall was slow and arduous, and Finney grew bored. He knew it would not work. The compromised porcelain kept breaking into smaller pieces, scraping the wall but falling apart. He did not want to stand there listening to the Grabber become more and more frustrated, muttering about the, "Damn brat," under his breath. He was the one to break the lid in the first place, but Finney would get the blame.
The man was stubborn, but even he had to abandon that plan. He stepped out of the bathroom area and threw fist-sized pieces at the wall. Finney cowered but was grateful he took his anger out on the already abused toilet lid.
When he killed Finney, it would be for recreation, not for his temper.
Night unavoidably set in.
It was bright day when he entered so the lights were off. They sat in the dark, nothing but streetlights through the window and the beam of a bare bulb from the bathroom.
He took Finney's bed. There was no timidity on his end over them sleeping together, but the boy nestled in the hard, safe corner on the other side of the room.
Stillness made the silence unbearable.
"Will he come?" Finney asked for the sake of saying anything.
"Who?" He knew.
"The man upstairs."
Sighing and inhaling, the Grabber uttered, "Probably." If his van were home but he was gone, that other man would check everywhere— eventually. Certainly by morning he would become bold enough to enter a forbidden place. Finney would scream for help when the door opened. Another sigh. "I'll have to kill you before that."
He said it so casually that it had to be on his mind for hours. Murdering Finney, doing it so soon, was not something he wanted, but self-preservation mattered more.
"I won't," Finney swore for that same reason. "I won't make a sound. I'll- I'll hide in the bathroom. I'll be quiet."
The man would not hear his brazen lies. "I'll make it quick."
He called a swift death his mercy. Depending on what the others went through, maybe it was.
Someone had to die for their predicament to work out: the Grabber, Finney, or the man upstairs when he came. Someone had to die. The choice was obvious.
Finney did not want to be it. He was going to be.
He held his emotions off for several minutes, and even when he failed, he kept it quiet. A quick, sobbing inhale ruined that, and suddenly the Grabber knew he was crying.
The room swelled with his naked, unstoppable emotion. Sheer awkwardness became unbearable.
The man got up. He approached. Finney trembled. He fought the hands that reached for him, that turned harsher when he did not cooperate. He fought being picked up and carried like dead prey. He fought being held inescapably against a broad chest, barely able to breathe. He gave in, sobbing in the bed, knowing he was not dead yet but would be soon.
Finney was held like parent and child in a thunderstorm, tight and comforting. Too tight. Not comforting. He could not be comforted by that man, not really.
It was a place to cry himself out.
Finney exhausted his whole body in emotional indulgence. It would make him easier to kill when the time came, and if he had any tears left to shed, they would have started anew over that fact.
The Grabber let go of him when Finney stopped openly sobbing. When even the silent tears petered out, he dismissed the boy entirely, rolling onto his back.
He was not a warm person. He was not a caring person. Making Finney cry over his fate was simply more guilt than he wanted to deal with while locked in a room with him. He did it to make the boy stop.
Time passed. All they could do was pass time, until one of them conceived a plan or the man upstairs came down.
Blue eyes were closed in the sockets of their mask, but that did not mean the Grabber was asleep. His breathing was too shallow and uniform. He was awake and in thought.
Finney had thoughts of his own.
"Will you... take off your mask?" His throat was slightly raw from crying.
"No," came the immediate reply, followed after by, "Why?"
"Never mind."
It was a ridiculous thought. Even if he had the man warming up to him, getting sweet on him, Finney knew there was nothing he could do to change anything. At best, he would make the Grabber mourn at the loss of murdering him. Violence would still happen. Maybe it was that inevitability which possessed Finney's thoughts, a portion of them. He was going to die. Nothing mattered anymore. There were countless experiences he would never get to have. A first kiss— a last— did not have to be one of them.
It would be.
The mask would never come off.
So when Finney leaned over, it must have looked as ridiculous as it felt when he put his lips to the cold, hard, wicked smile of the Grabber's facade. All he gave it was a peck, lasting no longer than a second.
That was all.
It startled and scared him when the man sat up. Finney tried to jump away, but his arm was grabbed, keeping him.
Slowly, cautiously, a free hand reached for the back of long hair and worked at a frustrating buckle. The bottom of his mask fell away and was caught, placed in the floor on his side of the bed. When he looked at Finney, shielded eyes were shadows in the dark. An exposed jaw had five o'clock shadow. A nervous tongue licked at lonely lips.
However long it was since someone last kissed him, Finney knew none of the other boys ever had— not of their choice, if at all. It made him special in horrible ways.
The hand on his arm let go, moving to the back of his head, holding him with something weaker and breakable. Finney no longer wanted to kiss the Grabber, but he was the one to wave meat at a wolf. It was his fault a grown man moved closer and pressed lips to his. The first kiss was Finney's choice, but the second one felt taken, even if it looked like a gift. It was what the Grabber wanted, Finney's first real kiss.
He tried to tell himself it was a good thing when lips moved softly against him. A thumb was so gentle rubbing his cheek while fingers massaged the back of his head, wrapping themselves in his hair. It was a good thing because the Grabber wanted it, wanted him. That was the real reason Finney thought to kiss him, never mind his own teenage curiosity. He knew none of the other boys did it. They did not think to do it. They did not want to do it. They did not consider giving the Grabber the one thing he might need above killing: acceptance.
It was obvious in the way he kissed. Finney saw high schoolers going at it sometimes, parked in their cars after school. They pawed and mouthed at each other like animals, trying to get impossibly closer, deeper. It was what he expected from someone like the Grabber, who only ever took. It might have been that way some other time. It would have been.
But Finney kissed him.
Finney kissed him, and it changed everything. The devouring animal craved kindness and affection more than carnivorous pleasure. He only wanted to chastely kiss and be kissed. He wanted it so badly, he did not notice how Finney barely participated. It was better to convince himself he was wanted as he wanted.
The Grabber moved him to lay down in bed. Finney feared it, but he went. Little changed but the angle. A big man loomed above him, long hair cascading down around the continued kiss.
Finney did not want to do it anymore. That decision was no longer up to him. If he resisted, he would be lucky if violent escalation took no more than the chaste kiss.
He was afraid of every escalation and had every right to fear it. The man could rob Finney of so many firsts, and they would hardly be as gifted. Lips pressing, that was where he stayed, as if it were a first indulgence of his own, but that could not be true.
Maybe there was a boy trapped inside that sick mind, a boy around Finney's age, a boy whose kisses never came from someone his own age. They still did not, but he acted out the overdue fantasy. Two boys sweetly kissing.
It went on too long, and when it ended with a gradual fade, the man pressed his masked forehead to Finney's. Maybe they were lovers now in his eyes. Despite the attack, despite trapping him, Finney was so special.
He was more special than those other boys.
A large, ruinous hand hovered above Finney's body, noticeably twitching as if something pushed it forward and he held it back, or maybe it was the other way around and he fought against some rule, trying desperately to touch. The duel was terrifying.
He won, or he lost.
The Grabber pulled his hand away, pulled his body away. Without a word, as if irate with Finney or having too many thoughts about him, the man laid with a vulnerable back to him. They both knew he had nothing to fear. The greatest chance Finney had was thwarted and broken upon the floor.
It was a relief to have him face away. Finney felt he could breathe without the looming distress of eyes watching him or hands touching him. He exhaled too loud and covered it up with a yawn.
He wanted to retreat across the room again. He did not want to be dragged back if that were not allowed. It was better to keep still and quiet than ask permission.
Inevitably, despite his heart pounding and his lips still feeling violated, he did yawn for real. He even fell asleep.
He was tired from crying.
He had no watch nor clock, but Finney knew it had to be early when the scratching sound woke him. The moon was moved away from the window, its absence saying three or four in the morning, and he heard the metallic scrape.
"What is that?"
The sound stopped. Sitting straight with his back to Finney, the Grabber said, "Go to sleep."
He could not, though he knew better than to ask more questions. Laying still and quiet, he listened to the grating noise resume. Every so often, from the corner of his eye, he would see the man's knife around the silhouette of his shoulder. It stabbed into the harsh concrete wall, the sharp tip accomplishing nothing. He hurt it. The Grabber dragged the steel blade over and over down the wall, grinding it down. The weapon he was saving for Finney, to keep him forever quiet, was repurposed.
He wanted to ask, "How are you going to kill me now?" Only his half-asleep and barely thinking mind thought that was a good idea. The rest of him knew to shut up, and he listened. Even with limited resources, a blunt knife could stab and a strong hand could strangle. The Grabber would always have options.
Finney tried to stay awake, but the process took a long time. Even though the shrill noise made him cringe, its repetition was consistent and oddly soothing. At some point, he fell back asleep.
Ordinarily, it was no great detriment to be a sound sleeper. Stakes were rarely high, rarely existed. Finney wanted to claim the heavy metal door woke him when it opened, but that was not true. He was left alone, and he did not know it until morning.
Blinking his eyes open in the sun, Finney came to slowly then all at once. He sat up and looked around. The Grabber was not in bed. He was not in the room. It did not sound like he was in the bathroom either. All he left was a hundred scratches in the wall. He unscrewed the face plate from the doorframe and left it on the floor.
Finney knew better than to open a door that could not lock and go upstairs. It might not be a trap, but that would not stop it from becoming one in an instant. The Grabber knew to stay close until he fixed the hole in his prison.
He came down ten minutes later holding a tray. The lower half of his face was covered again, so Finney could not see him smile over the fact his boy sat there obediently and never tried the door.
"Breakfast," he chimed in that voice he thought was kind and disarming. He acted as if the previous day never happened.
No. No, he acknowledged it, passively.
On the tray he set down were the same scrambled eggs as before, but there was bacon and toast to go with it. As much as Finney wanted to be excited for real food, he was sick over it. The meal was too generous. It was not rations to keep the captive boy alive. It was a breakfast spread to keep him happy and healthy. It was a gift.
From his pocket, the Grabber took a real screwdriver. "Let's get this back on," he said of the lock.
If he were going to keep Finney longer than planned, he needed a secure basement.