atehimrightup | (no subject)

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This is the longest that Lee has ever gone without Eating. He isn't sure why he's doing this to himself. Well, that's a lie. He knows damn well why, and he also knows, deep down, that it's futile.

He hasn't seen George in two days, told him he wasn't feeling well and needed some time to himself. Which is true, he supposes. He wants so badly to never have to lie to George, and there it is. That's the reason.

Eating has always been a difficult thing, no matter how good it feels in the moment. Now the thought of luring someone into some shadowy alley and ending their life just so his can continue makes him feel sick. He can't put his hands on someone, seduce them into a false sense of security, and then go look George in the eye with their meat in his belly. He just can't.

But he can't let go of George, either. Even though that would probably be wisest. Safest. It would be what's best for George, but Lee thinks about breaking his heart and he just can't. He can't Eat, can't face George, can't leave George, can't sleep and can't think about anything other than how hungry he is. He's stuck and he has no idea what to do.

He glances at himself in the mirror in the bathroom at his nearly empty apartment, noting that he looks sallow, more gaunt than usual. His eyes are so dark that they're almost black, lips pale and chapped. His jaw aches from how much he's been grinding his teeth. His belly aches with hunger, his blood burns, his mind races.

This isn't sustainable, but he has no idea what to do. He has to Eat or bad things will happen. But Lee is the bad thing that will happen. He's always the bad thing that happens.

He lets out a frustrated snarl and slams his palm into his own reflection, splintering the mirror until he can't make out his own face anymore. His palm is sliced open when he pulls it back but his blood is dark and sluggish. Unhealthy.

He leaves the apartment so he stops pacing a track into the carpet like a caged animal, wondering if maybe fresh air will help. He puts on one of George's hoodies and feels like he's drowning in it, like his skin is stretched tight over his bones. Earlier that afternoon he ate four double cheeseburgers and it didn't even make a dent in his hunger. It isn't what he needs, and Lee is so frustrated that tears spring to his eyes.

He finds himself cutting through Petros Park in the crisp fall air, breathing in deep, but the walk doesn't help. Each step makes him feel weaker and he stops in the middle of the path to pinch the bridge of his nose, waiting out a rush of dizziness as his stomach clenches.

It's been weeks. It feels like he's going insane. It feels like he's dying.

But he thinks of George's sweet, trusting face, and he wants to keep trying.

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"This is good," echoes George because, yes, there's things they can work with here. He immediately heads to the wall of knives, scanning for something that looks familiar in terms of handle and weight. Something he'll know how to handle without having to think about it too hard, if it comes to it.

God, he hopes it doesn't come to it. "We should take other things, no? In case we can't find our way out quickly."

George steps away from him and Lee has to bite his lip to keep from complaining, wanting to reach out and yank him back in, but he stops himself. The last thing he wants— well, one of the last things— is George getting the impression that Lee thinks he’s incapable. It’s not that at all.

Lee is just— he’s obsessed. He’s absurdly codependent in a way that he never expected. He’s never loved anyone or anything like he loves George, and he just wants George to be safe.

“Yeah, whatever we can carry without it slowing us down,” Lee says, nose wrinkling at how weak his voice sounds. He shakes his head a little and shuffles down an aisle to pick up an army green backpack, unzipping it and taking out all the paper padding inside. They could probably just go home and hole up there and be relatively safe, but then they’d be stuck here.

There has to be a way out. And they have to find it. So they have to move.

George grabs a few knives and then, after considering a moment, a canvas jacket in heavy khaki, because it feels like he needs more layers that he's wearing, and it also gives him big pockets to work with. He drops the knives into his pockets and grabs a medical kit, turning it over to study the contents. He hopes it won't come to it, but it feels like a useful thing to have.

Lee grabs a hunting knife from a display and stares at it, realizing belatedly that he's sliced his finger with the indelicate way that he'd picked it up. The blood oozes sluggishly, more black than red, and he sways a bit on his feet. Even the smell of his own unhealthy blood makes his teeth itch, and at first he thinks that's what makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

But it isn't. There's a noise, and then a scent that Lee had missed when they entered the shop. There's another person here.

Just as his head jerks up, a man comes barrelling out from the back of the shop. He misses Lee and sets his sights on George, looking sweaty and wild-eyed. He sees George and his scent changes, goes spicy with something like arousal and Lee stares with an almost strange sort of calmness as the man lunges for George and grabs at his wrist, yanking him away from the wall of weapons. It feels a little like his grain is shutting down. Like something else is taking its place.

"What do we have here?" The guy asks, showing off yellowed teeth as he tries to drag George toward the back of the shop. "You wandered through the wrong door, boy."

George is fumbling in his pocket for a weapon to defend himself, and he must cut himself on something because Lee can smell the blood. It's all he can smell, and between that and the rage suddenly overtaking him, Lee barely thinks about it before he's rushing forward and driving the hunting knife into the side of the guy's neck with both hands, snarling and shoving it deeper, cutting through sinew and hitting bone as the man crashes into the wall, blood spurting out of him and hitting Lee in the face. In his mouth.

Panic spikes through him as he's fumbling in his pocket for the knife, mainly because he doesn't even see it coming. He doesn't have time to understand anything that's happening, his boots scrabbling on the floor and then Lee is all but slamming into the man, blood spraying everywhere, and George is stumbling back, skidding to land painfully on his arse and the heels of his hands.

"Lee!" he says, hating the note of fear in his voice. "Be careful. I..."

Lee can’t hear anything except the blood rushing between his own ears. Desperately, he wants to turn away and check on George, make sure he’s okay, but he can’t move. He stares down at the man twitching on the floor, blood pumping out of the wound in his neck.

So much blood.

Lee leans over and pulls the knife out, head tilting to the side as more blood spurts from the wound. The man dies then, letting out one last gurgling breath, and Lee feels the knife slip from his hand and clutter to the floor.

George says his name, but Lee takes a step closer to the body without giving himself permission to do so. It’s like his body isn’t his anymore, and he lets out a broken sort of sob as he drops to his knees.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s aware enough to know that this is it. This is going to be the end of everything. But he can’t stop himself now. He’s tried so hard for so long, but he’s lost the tenuous grip on his control.

“I’m so sorry.”

Still, he tries to fight it. He tries so hard, shoulders jerking, but it’s no use. His brain clicks off and instinct takes over, but his heart still breaks as he feels himself leaning over the body, feels his teeth tearing through the exposed flesh of the man’s neck, and he can’t stop.

His body isn’t his anymore. Not right now.

It’s all over.

At first, he just doesn't really understand what he's seeing, even though it's happening in front of his very eyes. There's so much blood, and Lee is bent over the body, hunched out of sight, and he keeps apologising, and George doesn't know what he's sorry for, and...

Oh. Oh, God.

He understands, all of a sudden. He ought to run. He knows that. He stays, staring, still sprawled back on the floor and rooted helpless to the spot.

Lee isn’t sure how much time passes, how long he spends hunched over the man’s body like a frenzied animal, but eventually he starts to come back to himself in increments.

First, it’s the physical. He feels strong again, all of a sudden. Blood pumps through his veins, through his heart, color coming back to his skin, eyes brightening. There’s a moment of satisfaction that doesn’t feel like his own, like the monster in him is smug. See, it says, this is what you needed.

But then, unfortunately, he seems to come back to himself entirely, blinking as he swallows the meat in his mouth. The man’s body is a mess beneath him and Lee fully grasps what’s just happened. What George saw.

Lee was going to tell him. He was.

He doesn’t bother looking behind him. There is no way George hasn’t run, no way he hasn’t put distance between himself and the monster in front of him.

Lee blinks again, wiping his mouth and then looking down at his bloody hands. The enormity of it all feels too much to bear and Lee’s mouth opens around a wail before he even realizes what’s happening. He rocks back onto his heels as his body is overtaken by great, heaving sobs, because he doesn’t want to be like this but he can’t stop it.

He has no choice, no say in the matter at all, and now it’s cost him everything.

He's seen men on their way to the gallows, but he's never heard any man weep the way Lee does, right then -- huge, wracking sobs that sound like they're being wrenched from the heart of him. He's soaked in gore, monstrous, and George knows that he ought to run, he ought to put as much distance between them as he can.

And yet. And yet.

"We...we can't stay here," he says.

The last thing that Lee is expecting to hear is George’s voice. Lee goes silent immediately, spine stiffening, and he wonders if he’s imagined it.

It takes a moment, but eventually Lee turns his head and looks over his shoulder to see George’s feet where he’s still sprawled on the old linoleum.

Lee’s chin jerks to the front again because he’s afraid to look at George’s face, afraid of what he’ll see. His heart pounds in his chest and he isn’t sure what to do because in all the scenarios he’s agonized over, he never imagined one where George actually stayed.

“I—“ His voice is cracking, throat raw, and he clears it as he slumps to the side, sitting on his backside and pulling his knees up to his chest, rubbing his mouth against the denim of his jeans. He still doesn’t look at George. “This is what I haven’t been telling you.”

Because George had to know it was something. He probably never imagined it was something like this.

"This is where you go, when you won't see me," says George, and it isn't a question. His stomach roils sickly, a foul taste in his mouth. "I... Thought you were ill. I'm a fucking idiot, apparently."

He gets to his feet, wiping at the blood on his face with the sleeve of the jacket he's wearing.

"I meant it, Lee. We can't stay here."

“I am ill. I’m not doing this for fun,” Lee argues weakly, but he knows that isn’t much of an excuse. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that George is still here, even if he doesn’t sound happy about it.

But then Lee remembers that they’re trapped in some weird place, and maybe sticking by the only familiar thing he knows, even if it’s an awful thing, is better than being alone.

Lee sort of just wants to shrivel up and die, but he has to get George out of here.

He nods and pulls himself to his feet with a strength and ease that wasn’t there just minutes ago, still too ashamed to actually look at George’s face.

“Just— give me a sec.” Lee steps over the body and goes into the back, stripping his shirt over his head as he does. He cleans his face and hands off as best he can in the sink, steadfastly not looking in the mirror. He finds some clothes, sweats and a long sleeved black tee that are both too big for him, and pulls them on without taking off his boots.

When he emerges again, head tipped down, he’s surprised to see George’s feet still there.

“We can go,” Lee says quietly, blinking a fresh set of tears out of his eyes. “Will you— can you please let me try to explain? Not— I won’t ask you for anything else.”

Lee comes back with less blood on him, looking more like himself, and George wishes that was enough. God, he really does. An hour ago -- less -- he might have held out his hand to Lee to help him up off the floor. Now, though, he hauls himself to his feet.

He looks at Lee for a long moment. The tears in his eyes make them look luminous in the low light.

"Not now," he says, shaking his head. "Later."

Lee flinches a little but doesn't argue. Everything in him is screaming at him to reach for George, to cling to him and beg him not to leave him, but he knows that he doesn't have the right. He knows it isn't wanted, so he sniffs and rubs his hand under his nose, blowing out of breath as he looks around. Still not at George. He couldn't bear it.

He takes a knife off of the wall and walks past George and out the front door, looking up and down the dark and ashy street. He doesn't know where to go, or what to do. He's never felt so hopeless in his life, and that's really saying something.

George follows and Lee takes a wide step to the side, not wanting to crowd him, or make him any more uncomfortable than he already must be. He wants to open his mouth and tell George that he would never hurt him, but he doesn't. He just stays quiet, standing rigid with the knife at his side.

"I don't know what to do," he admits in a small voice. "I just want to get you somewhere safe and-- and then I'll go."

George has a knife in his hand, his dark eyes darting as they move down the street. It feels odd to have so much room between them but, right then, it also feels needed.

"Let's focus on the first part," he says. "We can worry about what comes later once we both get out of here with our skin intact."

Even now, it doesn't actually occur to him to fear Lee. It's more complicated than that.

Lee only nods, swallowing back bile and clutching at the knife so hard that his knuckles are white. It feels like there is an ocean between them and tears keep leaking out of his eyes in a way that he can't seem to stop, but he just lets them fall as he looks around, letting his gaze sweep back and forth to try and spot something that looks like that shimmer.

George wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Lee. He was just trying to do something nice and bring Lee soup because he thought he was just a regular sort of sick, and now this. There's a quick intrusive thought that flashes through his mind, him shoving the knife into his own chest, and the only real thing that stops him is the knowledge that he can't leave George here alone. He has to make sure that George is safe. And then what?

He tries not to think about it. He still doesn't look at George.

"It's going to be dark soon. Let's find a place to get you settled," Lee begins in a ragged voice, one exhausted but thick with emotion at the same time. "And I'll go look for doors. I'll get you out of here, okay? If it's the last thing I do."

Hell, maybe it will be.

"No," says George, quickly and convulsively, shaking his head. "I need to...I'm going with you. We'll find it together."

He's going to get through this without thinking about the yawning horror of what he saw and what it means about the man in front of him. He's going to get through this by pretending that it didn't happen until he's got time to think it through."

There's a very brief moment where Lee feels a small flicker of something a little like hope, but it's quickly snuffed out. Of course George doesn't want to be alone here. It doesn't mean that they'll be okay.

"Whatever you want," Lee says quietly, wiping at his face with the cuff of his sleeve, red-cheeked and warm all over despite the chill in the air. They walk side by side but not really, Lee is in the gutter and George is up on the sidewalk, and the feet between them feels like a desert that he has no hope of crossing.

They're headed toward home. Lee blinks at that, feeling his stomach twist. They're headed toward George's building. Lee gets the feeling that it isn't his home anymore.

By the time the building comes into view, the already dim gray sky has gone black and there are no stars, no streetlights, only the faint glow of the moon hidden behind thick clouds. That screeching sound rattles the trees and Lee reaches out for George on instinct, but pulls his hand back before it can make contact. "It's getting too dark to keep looking. I-- I'm sorry but we need to find a place to take cover until morning, I think."

George would be hard pressed to explain how violently he doesn't want that, right then. Not because of Lee -- not only because of that -- but because he desperately doesn't want to die in this place and the longer they spend here, the more likely it feels.

He nods, the gesture curt, as he looks around.

"The apartment," he says. "We can barricade ourselves in until daybreak. If there is such a thing in this godforsaken place."

Lee still won't look at George above the shoulders, but it's easy to see the way he goes rigid with tension. He doesn't want to do it, doesn't want to be trapped here with Lee, and-- well. Lee can't even blame him.

"I'm sorry," he says again, quietly, swallowing hard and moving forward to jog up to the lobby, looking through the glass door to make sure it's clear before pulling it open for George and keeping his head bowed, jaw clenched hard as he stares at the toes of his boots. They have blood on them. The same blood that's currently making Lee's cheeks burn with shame. "I'll keep my distance."

It's on the tip of his tongue to tell Lee that he doesn't have to, but he doesn't say it because, honestly, he doesn't know how he feels. Every time he looks at Lee, he sees him with blood on his mouth. He's hunted enough to know the look, to understand it.

He nods, walking past Lee. He ignores the elevator and takes the stairs. Relief floods through him when his key works in the kick and he finds the apartment mostly whole when he opens the door.

George doesn't say anything, walks right past Lee and starts going up the stairs, and Lee chokes back a strangled sort of noise before turning to follow. He stays half a flight away from George, looking down but keeping an ear out for any sounds. The whole building is eerily quiet, and once they're in the apartment Lee immediately does a sweep of the whole thing, checking closets and cupboards and the bathroom. The place is dusty and sort of abandoned, and it doesn't have their stuff. Lee's favorite cereal isn't on top of the fridge, and George's soft throw blanket isn't on the sofa. Everything looks somewhat generic. It doesn't look like home at all.

There's a large cabinet near the entryway and Lee shoves one shoulder against it, teeth gritting as he shoves it in front of the door. Once things are as secure as they can be and George is still just standing in the living room, Lee wrings his hands and opens his mouth, then closes it again and turns to walk into the bathroom and shut the door.

He doesn't have other clothes here that he knows off, so he strips off what he's wearing and quickly gets into the shower. The water is icy cold and Lee doesn't even bother trying to see if he can change it, letting it hit his skin like shards of glass as he scrubs the blood from his skin as fast as he can, tipping his head back to rinse out his mouth. There's a dusty old towel hanging from a hook and Lee gives himself a cursory pat down with it before pulling the shirt and sweats back on, leaving his feet bare. He still doesn't look in the mirror.

After taking a few deep breaths, he opens the door and takes a few steps back into the living room, arms curled around his chest. He's shivering after the cold shower, but he doesn't really notice.

"I know that I have no right," he begins shakily, looking down at the floor. George is somewhere nearby. Lee can smell him. "But can I please just have five minutes to explain?" There's a pleading edge to his voice, but he doesn't care. He'd drop to his knees if he thought it would make George listen. "Then I'll answer any questions or-- or I'll shut the fuck up. Whatever you want, just-- please."

George ends up sat at the table, his hands flat against the wooden surface. He listens to the sound of Lee moving around in the bathroom, the water running. When Lee speaks, he looks up. With his wet hair pushed back from his face, shivering, it's hard to see anything other than the person he loves. Loved? He's not sure about the tense, but, God, it feels more complicated than it did before.

"Talk," he says. "I'll listen."

George's voice is more terse than Lee is used to, but he allows him the chance to speak. Lee nods and clears his throat, stepping closer to the table but still too ashamed and afraid to look George in the face, let alone sit down across from him. He wrings his hands together, blinking past tears, and tries to decide how to start. At the beginning, he supposes.

"I don't know if I'm totally human," Lee gets out, and it's the first time he's ever said it out loud. And once he starts talking, he can't seem to stop. "All I know is that I was born like this. With this-- hunger. It started when I was a kid and my mom-- that's why she hated me. But-- but she's the one who had a kid with someone who--" He pauses and forces himself to take a breath. "I don't think she knew about my dad, but-- but it came from him. I didn't even know. I thought I was all alone in this, but then-- then he tried to eat me." He reaches up to rub his cold fingertips against the scar on his cheek. "So I killed him. For that and for everything else. For cursing me with this."

He wipes at his eyes and sniffles, wet hair spilling in his face as he stares at the kitchen floor. "I-- I tried to live by a code. I tried to make sure to only take people that the world would be better off without, and-- and I know that probably means me. And I tried that, too. I've stood at the tops of bridges and I'm always too much of a fucking coward to jump." He takes in another shuddering breath. "So I eat rapists and murderers and people who hurt kids and tell myself that's the only way, but I fucking hate it, George. I didn't ask for it. I don't want it. I-- I fucking hate myself and the blood in my veins and I hate what I have to do to survive. But if I don't eat, I'll die or I'll lose my mind."

He blinks and bites his lip, shaking so hard it's a wonder that he's still standing. "I tried. I really tried to go as long as I could, George. I didn't want to keep lying to you. But I was dying. I could feel myself dying and then there was all that blood and it just-- the choice wasn't mine anymore because I'm a fucking monster and I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry for not telling you, and I'm sorry that you had to see that. I'm sorry that I was too selfish to let you go when I felt myself getting too close."

Tears are streaming down his face now and he buries it in his hands, trying to take a breath as he leans back against the counter. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Edited 2025-10-22 20:26 (UTC)

Part of him wants to get up from the table and go to Lee, wants to kiss his forehead and wipe the tears from his face. Wants to tell him that none of it matters.

But he can't. Because it does. The truth of it yawns open like a chasm and he feels like he's teetering on the edge of it, and he can't see any way to reach the other side.

"I've lied and cheated," he says. "I did everything I could do send Somerset to the gallows. Why not me?"