Chapter Text
Children ought to smile, Elliot thinks.
Harley Sawyer does not. Or, rarely does, anyway.
Over the past year, it’s become something of a personal mission of his, to tempt some display of true joy from the boy. A laugh, preferably, but even a mere grin would do. Anything but the tiniest flicker of a satisfied smirk when an experiment goes his way.
Thus far, he’s been miserably unsuccessful.
It’s unnatural. Unnerving. On Ludwig’s worst days, irritating, even. What comfort will this boy be to his daughter, if he cannot so much as nod his head along to a joke? It is untenable that Elliot should continue on with his plan, to bring Harley into his family. Unimaginable that he should even continue tutoring him, in fact. Within his protégé he sees his own manic drive reflected back at him, and the discomfort at what that says about him– about what he’s doing– is suffocating.
Pearls of rain peal down the window pane of his office, the glass rattling in its frame as the wind demands entrance. The light has long since faded from outside, but there is no moon, no stars, just black, smokey clouds choking the sky.
A letter sits upon his desk, half-drafted.
Harley,
I won’t beat around the bush, as I know you prefer direct communication. It is with great pain that I have decided to remove
Harley,
I do not wish to discourage you by sending this letter, but I feel compelled now to act. Despite how impressive your ability, your lack of humility troubles m
Harley,
I’m very sorry, but I
Harley,
Let me begin this with a bit of bluntness, as I know you appreciate not dancing around what needs to be said. Despite how much it pains me, I’ve decided to
Elliot growls in frustration. Then takes his pen and aggressively scribbles over every last word he’s written in the last half hour.
A few other possible versions of the same letter are balled up in the trash-can behind him, all having met the same fate as this one.
You’re being ridiculous, Ludwig.
Harley cannot become his prototype. He’s too emotionally volatile, too cold. Elliot knows this, in his heart of hearts.
And yet.
The paper, still wet with ink, is crumpled and tossed over his shoulder atop a mountain of defeat. Trash can at maximum capacity, the new arrival jostles the pile and sends a few of the earlier rejections spilling down the side. A useless mess.
Elliot buries his face in his hands with a laboured sigh. Pen abandoned, it rolls off the desk, spattering ink over the floorboards with a clatter.
He can’t do it.
It’s just as his earlier journal reflections say: the boy needs guidance. He needs to be surrounded with kindness, lest his mind twist into something truly evil. Elliot needs to lead him, to nurture him, not abandon him. Even if he is useless for his purposes.
Although… perhaps all is not lost. Sawyer may not be suited for a brotherly role to Poppy once she is back with him (because she will, she must, return), but he is still special.
His intellect, his drive, his determination. Those precious qualities, all driving forces behind scientific innovation, Harley possesses in abundance. Already, he’s assisted in propelling their research into poppy gel further than Elliot had dared hope for. It’s as good as a trail of gold dust in what has lately felt like chipping through a mine of pure gangue.
The boy can stay.
But, if he proves to be too great a distraction… well, he’ll cross that bridge if he comes to it.
He swivels round in his chair and contemplates the waste basket. The papers will all have to be burned, of course. Sometimes Harley seeks solace in his office, and he’d rather not risk the possibility of having to explain himself awkwardly should his little guest manage to stumble across one.
That is tomorrow's problem, however. His students aren’t due to arrive for a few days yet, which gives him ample opportunity to pay a quick visit to the incinerator.
Until then… Elliot spares a glance at his watch. Only a little after midnight. There’s still time for a few more hours in the labs.
-----------------------------
The morning sun halos the factory as it looms over Harley in welcome, looking like a warm embrace after his foster parents coldly dropped him at the gates.
Far from being disappointed about the end of half-term, he wastes no time dallying outside. His hopes of being the first one in the dormitory are dashed, however, when he bumps into two of his peers in the cheerfully decorated lobby.
Bruno and Carmine, the most tolerable of them, at least. Both sets of parents linger with the boys, fussing over this and that.
Irritating background noise.
Harley’s quick to scoff under his breath and takes the opportunity to step around them and head to the elevators.
Despite knowing better, he can’t help but scan the hallway for any trace of his mentor. Elliot’s busy with his duties as CEO, of course, trusting that his pupils can by now find their own way to their rooms. Though later in the afternoon, while the others are busy with their frivolous mingling, Harley might find him in the labs. The man’s company would be a welcome solace after the tempestuous ‘holiday’ he’s had to endure this last fortnight.
With all the patience of a man being chased by the devil, Sawyer mashes the button of the lift, blatantly ignoring distant calls to hold the doors— but alas, just as it looks as if he might get to enjoy the ride down to the dorms in peaceful solitude, White and McKabe bustle in, their far-too-much luggage accompanying them. Fantastic.
“What gives?” Carmine snaps at him, adjusting his rucksack on his shoulders.
Harley mirrors the action with a shrug, and instantly regrets it with a barely hidden wince. Bad idea. Still sore from Father dearest’s beating.
“You’re slow,” he mutters. “Some of us actually want to get back to work.”
“Teacher’s pet,” McKabe grunts, as Bruno glances between them with worried eyes.
The rest of the downward journey crawls by in silence.
A good start to the new term.
Naturally taking the lead, Harley barely waits for the doors to reopen before he forces himself out of the lift, trotting past the bubbly posters of toys without a second glance. It’s a lot warmer down here than his house, that’s for sure. More so than he remembers, actually. Ludwig must be over-compensating now that they’re on the cusp of the seasons turning for the colder. Unfortunately, the man’s care appears over-administered, for by the time Harley reaches the door of the boys’ sleeping quarters, he finds himself uncharacteristically out of breath, a light sheen of sweat clinging to his temples.
Close behind him arrive Bruno and Carmine, and Harley finds himself carelessly shoved aside.
“Sorry,” McKabe crows, “you’re slow.”
Strangely, the two seem utterly unfazed by the temperature, despite lugging around twice the amount of baggage as he. He pauses, briefly touching the back of his knuckles to his forehead. Warm, unsurprisingly. … If he’s developing a cold now, right when he’s just gotten back… well, there won’t be a lot he can do about it, but he’ll still be angry.
Following his peers inside, Harley’s hit with the familiar smell of the dorms: freshly washed sheets, and dusty old books. The decor is a little old-fashioned on account of Ludwig’s old taste, but it feels homely in a way that makes him wish he could spend forever there, irritating housemates aside.
When he reaches the first of the boy’s rooms (his room), he finds Bruno cross-legged on the floor, already in the process of stashing his belongings in the wooden chest beneath his bed. He glances up and gives him an uncertain smile, which Harley pointedly ignores in favour of heading to his own bed on the opposite side of the room. He still hasn’t cooled down any, and the rivulets of sweat crawling down the back of his neck are taking their toll on his temper.
Crouching down, he moves to take his rucksack off.
Agony stabs through him like a spear, whiting out his vision as his entire back throbs with heat and misery. The intensity of it catches him utterly off guard, and he’s helpless to muffle the pained gasp that wrenches itself from his chest.
Bruno’s head whips around in alarm. “You okay? What happened?”
God, has his voice always been that grating? Harley snarls at him, his head still swimming. “It’s nothing! Mind your own business.”
White, pushover that he is, offers up no resistance.
Each haggard breath that Harley takes seems to rattle in his chest. His hands jitter as he wipes the fresh beads of sweat from his face. Worst of all though, is the pain. It faded after its initial appearance, but unlike before, when he caught his wounds in the elevator, it refuses to disappear fully. Rather, it continues to wash over him in pulses, making his stomach twist with discomfort.
What the hell is going on? He knows they’re fairly fresh, but they had begun to scab over, at least. Perhaps he had managed to tear off the healing skin. Not a pleasant thought.
Gritting his teeth, he gathers up his composure and sticks to his original intention to unzip his bag. There isn’t much to put in the storage chest that Elliot gave each of them, just a few changes of clothes, some toiletries, books and stationery, which is a small mercy given that each movement causes him distress. Still, by the end of it, he’s so exhausted that he feels sick, knees wobbling as he stands up.
“I’m going to go to the library,” Bruno announces, oblivious. Then adds hopefully, “want to come with me?”
Harley, bracing himself on the headboard of his bed, struggles even to process his words. “What?”
The flicker of hope behind his eyes is snuffed out. “Oh, um, nevermind. I’ll see you at lunch?”
He thinks he nods in response, but keeping track of what his body is doing is becoming increasingly difficult. As soon as the door closes behind Bruno, he peels off his jumper and t-shirt and curls up on his side, in his bed.
With his awareness boiled down solely to his injury, the world becomes a haze around him. All he knows is that the next time he opens his eyes to glance at the clock, is that it’s just past noon. Time to join the others in the cafeteria, where Elliot would likely put in a brief appearance. But the thought of walking all that way is…
His stomach lurches, and he clutches it, groaning.
Best to stop by the bathroom first. Splash some water on his face to cool himself down, get a drink, too, that’ll make the trip easier. Then, while he’s there, he’ll just say he has a headache and ask for some painkillers.
Plan fixed, he pushes himself upright on weak arms. Everything seems to tip sideways, prompting another rush of nausea. All the more reason to hurry up.
He stumbles across the room like a toddler and practically falls against the wall when he tries to lean on it for support. The walk down the corridor feels endless when he’s constantly tripping over his own feet, and all the while he could swear that his pain is just getting worse, worse, worse.
Finally, he reaches the door. With the last scraps of his strength, he slams it behind himself and locks it, then throws himself at the sink.
A drink of water. Splash some on his face. Go to lunch.
Easy.
…
It’s been twenty minutes since he should have been in the mess hall.
His hands are tightly curled around either side of the bathroom sink, the gushing faucet drowning out his laboured breathing as it fogs up the mirror hung on the wall in front of him.
The look in his eyes is manic; he hardly recognises himself. Sweat has plastered his curls to his brow, and his cheeks are unnaturally flushed. Nausea plagues his gut with cramps so violent that he finds himself intermittently doubling over, dry heaving over the basin.
All this, just within a few hours.
The roaring agony between his shoulder blades tells him that one of the wounds on his back must be to blame for all of this— the ones he can’t think about without remembering the glint of the buckle, the sharp crack of the belt.
He shudders and has to cling tighter to the porcelain just to stay upright as his legs fold beneath him.
As much as he wants to deny it, Harley’s all too aware of what these symptoms mean. They’re practically textbook at this point. Not that it helps him. It isn’t as if he can tell anyone about it! Bruises, easy to excuse. But angry, red, glowing gashes?
The cramps worsen, and he finally empties his stomach. But it brings no relief.
Tears squeeze from his eyes, bubbling down his face in hot streaks. Awful, awful, awful, hot and wet and sticky and—
He retches again, choking as his body tries to sob at the same time.
A rap on the door makes his head feel like it’s splitting in two.
“Harley! Are you in there, boy? Are you well?”
Elliot’s voice, he thinks, but it swims, disoriented in his ears until he can no longer make sense of the words being spoken. All he can do is groan in response.
Something else is spoken on the other side of the door, followed by the rattling of the doorknob. Emotion he recognises as confusion bleeds through in the fog of noise.
At the same time, Harley’s elbows finally give out, and he plummets, a dead weight, to the floor with a loud thump.
The doorknob begins to rattle more violently, the calling on the other side becoming louder, more urgent. It’s all so… dramatic.
Meanwhile, the tiles lining the floor feel so wonderfully cool against his blazing skin. All sense of self, of pride, forgotten, Sawyer nuzzles against them with a juddering sigh, eyes fluttering closed. That’s a little better. If he focuses on the sensation, the pain in his back dampens slightly, fading off into the distance.
SLAM
He really could do with another drink, though. The sound of running water is making him thirsty. Was his tongue always so dry and swollen in his mouth?
SLAM
Condensation is beginning to bleed out from beneath his fingertips, prickles of moisture building up on the tiles. He really must be warm. In a daze, he pokes his tongue out of his mouth and touches it to the floor. Nice and cool, and damp, and smooth.
A drop of water plops down in front of his nose. Mmm. Oh, that’s right. He put a plug in the sink, hadn’t he? To wash his face? That was right. Was that right? It sounded right. It’s been running for a while… it must be overflowing. Yes, that was it.
CRASH—-
He wails in agony. The sensation of miniature bombs going off inside his skull has him writhing on the tiles, clutching his ears and moaning; make it stop make it stop stop stop stop it!
Suddenly, he’s not alone anymore.
A blurry face appears in front of him.
“Harley— [ ]- what’s—- [ ]-- how did you—-“
A hand he vaguely recognises as his weakly paws out, though in aggression or pleading, he’s not sure.
“Hurts,” someone croaks.
“Hurts?” Someone else repeats.
There’s a sensation that feels an awful lot like hands, gently turning him over and feeling around his body. Waist, chest, arms, shoulders, ba—-
Harley’s entire vision flashes with white, his muscles convulsing. The pain, white, hot, blistering, arrives moments later. Again, he screams, a howling in his ears.
Somewhere beneath it all, he sees Elliot Ludwig’s face, ashen as can be, turning and shouting silent commands at someone outside of his awareness.
Fingers graze his forehead. Nice and cool. He whines and leans into them. They brush his curls out of his face, something that he didn’t even realise was bothering him.
“Shhh…” That was definitely Ludwig’s voice, more gentle than he’s ever heard it. “Shhhh… hold on, son. Hold on.”
He’s suddenly weightless, being manoeuvred, his head resting on something softer than the hard floor. The hand returns shortly after, gently massaging the roots of his scalp.
“Stay with me, Harley.”
Which, incidentally, is the last thing he hears before he goes under.