[Carlos/Gael/Patrick/Ollie] What goes around comes around....

[memorylost]

Patrick Zeitlin had not been on the Deck in nearly 8 years, having first been sent to study and then to act as an ambassador within the British government. He had learned, many years ago, that certain people of rank knew a 'little' about their existence. It was a necessary evil to ensure that goods and trade existed- to ensure the safety of their peoples. All well and good and boring, yet his king had insisted. Patrick was too quick of mind, and sweet of tongue to be wasted on a trivial task within the deck.

But then he'd been called back, a 'mercy' no doubt as his grandmother was gravely ill and dying. He was, he imagined, supposed to be torn with grief and thus being given the time to mourn the woman who had raised him. When his parents had died, after all, she had taken him in. Given him everything. And been pathetically easy to manipulate as far as Spades went. Still- had it not been for her, Patrick never would have met the most wondrous of toys he had ever known.

Gael Shaw, his precious Gael Shaw. So fragile, so delicate- so deadly when pushed to the right corner. Gael had been but 14 when his father had died, so torn and broken by his death he had hardly noticed Patrick's claws as the then 19 year old wrapped his arms about him in comfort. By the time Gael did notice, though, it had been too late for him to fight back- he was ensnared. His. His alone. And Patrick had worked so very hard to keep it that way.

But then his king had ordered him away, and by then the 16 year old Gael had moved to the Hearts in a vaguely veiled attempt to put space between them. It had had the opposite effect, it had given Patrick the room to worm in closer, to guard him tightly and 'protect' what was his. It was his King that forced actual space between them. And if Patrick were ever given the chance, he might well make Jordan Novak regret that. Unfortunately, making his King pay for his slight would have to wait. First- he had to make Gael pay for his boldness, his...disgusting willingness to whore himself out to any man or woman who wished to touch that which was not theirs to touch.

He had seen Gael for the first time at the bar, Mooseknuckle. His arms wrapped tightly around a man, Oliver Byrd as he later learned, dressed as a harlot and in heels. There were bruises across his pale skin, and laughter bubbling out of him as he flirted and danced with so many that not. His lips had dared to touch with nearly half the bar's and he paid no notice to the simmering heat that had radiated off Patrick. Indeed, Gael had not even noticed the other man until right before he and Oliver Byrd were leaving.

The Heart seemed to diminish when his gaze crossed the bar, his smiled fade and his eyes for a brief moment grew wide- fear rolled off him in a brief, but potent way. It was that that gave Patrick grim satisfaction. And that which held his hand that night- Gael could suffering with wondering when his punishment would come, it was please him to know the Heart could not sleep for fear.

So he let the man worry at himself for a week, and then he struck.

Finding Gael's apartment was not difficult. Nor was climbing up the fire escape and prying the window into his kitchen. He found his way into the bedroom, and glowered at the scene- at the bed he could only imagine the likes of one of Gael's other lovers, Carlos Sanchez, forcefully taking his pleasure from the Heart. At the rope and whips, the sex toys, and the filth of another touching what was not theirs. It fueled his anger, his hate, his need to cleanse what was his. Had always been his.

Was it not him, after all, that had bred these desires in Gael? Taught him the pleasure of pain, the joy of being helpless, given him the need to be bound to find his release? Was he not the one who had taught Gael how to please his lover? To sharp in his softness?

The unlocking of the front door alerted him to Gael's return, and Patrick backed into the shadows as he waited for his prey. When Gael pushed into the bedroom, yawning from his 'hard day's work', Patrick watched observing the lithe frame of the smaller Heart. How easy it was going to be to break him. And he would need to be broken in order to be rebuilt and cleansed....oh yes.

Gael never saw the first hit, falling to the floor limply as he blow hit him solidly on the back of his head. Patrick, however, did wait for him to come back around- bound and gagged- before he began the process of 'cleansing' his object, his slave, his toy. His. The whip fell against the flesh of Gael's back and torso harshly over, and over. Patrick ignored the tears and the muffled pleas as his snapped his arm down harder, and then harder still. He ignored the blood that splattered the walls and floor as the leather cut through the fabric of Gael's shirt and skin.

When the pound of flesh wrought by the whip was no longer enough to satisfy his rage, he turned to his feet- kicking and stomping on the younger heart. It was only when the boy stopped moving, stopped crying that he stopped his assault. Chest heaving he glared down at the bloodied, beaten heap on the floor. He was not so beautiful now, was he? Bloodied, bruised and broken.

But breathing- yes, for now his precious was still breathing.

Sniffing, Patrick excused himself from the bedroom to wash his hands, and clean the blood from his face. Now, he thought, he needed only remind his precious just who had control over life and death for him. Turning back in the bedroom, he pulled Gael's cracked and bloodied phone from his back pocket and unlocked it with the boy's finger print. Finding the two he wanted he sent a text with a place and a time, before also sending them both a picture of Gael's bloodied and broken face.

Yes, Gael would live. At least long enough to see him taken the two men he seemed to 'care' for away from him.

"The things I do, my dearest love, to prove just how much I love you." He said softly, brushing the boy's hair back before he hoisted the limp body up and carried him back out of the apartment.

Comments

[fistandbone]

He was alone when his phone dinged with the tone he'd assigned Gael, and ultimately that was probably for the best, because his poker face wasn't up for the play of emotions. First amused pleasure, before he pulled the phone out, then horror at the picture, then rage that went from white-hot to ice cold. And finally - he wasn't even sure it was an emotion as much as a need, a need to get there as soon as possible, and if anyone called out to him between Club Castle and the theatre, Carlos was deaf and blind to them.

He was armed, of course; he always was - at least three knives, as Jordan Novak had taught Ty and Ty had passed onto him. But it wasn't knives he went for as he ran into the theatre. It wasn't any weapon, actually. Instead he paused and stared at the bloodied heap at center stage and then ran forward, easily hoisting himself up. "Gael," he said as he went to his knees by Gael's side. "Gael." He smoothed his hair away from his face, his eyes glittering with sharp anger that Gael couldn't see. "Wake up. Talk to me." But Gael wasn't moving, and Carlos was about to grab his own phone from his pocket to call someone, he wasn't sure who, someone to help.

Then the door slammed open again, and Carlos' head snapped up to see Oliver Byrd running down the aisle the way Carlos had just done.

"What the fuck is this?" Ollie said, and it would almost be comical if there was anything funny about this; the way Ollie's reactions exactly mirrored Carlos', even down to the way he fell to his knees at Gael's other side. "What happened? Who the fuck happened?"