Work Text:
Automatic sliding doors opening.
Taking one, two, three seconds before pushing through.
Push push push elevator button.
Ignores the security guards concerned side glance.
Takes too long, considers the stairs. Might be faster if he can muster it all the way up to the fifteenth floor.
God it’s so hot in here, too, isn’t there any air-conditioning in a building like this? Contemplates on what to do, stains the button some more.
Fuck, fuck.
There’s blood everywhere, he’s so screwed. What’s he even thinking getting here?
Go away Theon I can’t handle you being here right now, just leave.
Fuck, he’s sweating so much it prickles his skin. Swears under his breath, push push the button some more. Isn’t that supposed to make it go faster?
Adrenaline rushing through his system, he could run and win a goddamn marathon. The screen is moving, he’s not. Fuck Theon, I told you that you had some serious problems. Why are you here? God, this all started out with this fucking – Goddamn why is this fucking elevator taki—
-ding.
Clears head, fog to the side for a second. Focus Theon.
Close doors, close close doors. Just mash the button, it’s faster that way.
God where even is he –third floor– okay, he’ll be fine.
Keep pressure, apply pressure, don’t let go now, keep applying pressure.
Almost there.
Fuck’s sake Theon what is wrong with you?
-seven,
Don’t show up with your mess.
-nine,
Can’t help you anymore Theon.
-eleven,
Seems to be always stuck, always. There goes thirteen. I’m afraid those might leave scars. More, more, she must mean more with that. Is that even possible? Can a scar scar further than a scar? Why’s he even here. Just look at yourself, Theon, how are you capable of such things. God, you’re just overreacting. I mean, you can still walk and think. Come in, I’ll help you. You know I love you right, seeing you like this hurts me Theon. Wait—no, that was never said.
Fogging up, elevator is still moving up if he’s to believe the shifting numbers above the door. God Theon, you are so fucked up. How come you’re even still alive at this point? Wouldn’t it all be better if you just–
-ding
He’s experienced instant soberness before. Likes to think right now might be an excellent explanation as to why he’s suddenly clear-minded again. No longer dialogue skipping through his head as he’s stepping out of the elevator.
Sees the hallway which leads right to the door of the apartment he’s been meaning to go.
Knock knock on wood.
Nothing.
Well, that was expected, it’s in the middle of the night.
Knock knock knocks some more.
Open up, it’s the suicidal twenty-four-year-old standing on your doorstep–doormat.
Is hanging against the doorpost when the door flings open.
Would smile if he could muster one but instead feels a giant knot form in his stomach.
Oh, the irony.
There’s Ramsay in his boxers, clearly irritated by the surprise late night –or morning, whatever your preference is, really—visit.
Assess the situation before him. Sees Theon in the suit he’s worn to the office yesterday, dress shirt no longer white.
“You’re bleeding on my floor.” Gets ruptured from his thoughts, reminds him why he’s here and what’s happening right now. Flinches slightly at Ramsay’s stoic and emotionless words.
His turn now, “It doesn’t stop, Ramsay.” Stops, breathes, shakes, and cannot manage to still his arms. “I can’t get it to stop.”
There’s a loud sigh, an unimpressed, “Go to the hospital, Theon. Call me later today.”
Gush of wind with the door closing in his face. Just some words and he’s supposed to manage himself. Well, fuck him very much. Swears under his breath and starts ramming the door with his good arm. “Ramsay!” Kicks and yells, “Ramsay open the fucking door!” Gives it his all with another kick, manages to shake the wood but not much more.
“Open the door Ramsay, now! You can’t leave me here!”
Yes, he can. Forms another possibility.
“I’ll bleed out dead on your doormat, Ramsay.”
Silence.
Panic is beginning to creep up his spine now.
Shouldn’t have come here. Should have just gone to the hospital. Stupid stupid, he’s so stupid. He’s growing desperate with the amount of blood he’s lost by now.
There’s a crooked look from aside. It’s the security guard contemplating how to approach this situation. “Sir,” he says, and Theon would have laughed at this under any other circumstances. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Theon decides to ignore him.
Croaks a “Please,” against the door again, and can’t help new tears spilling. “I don’t know what to do.” Goes on with talking to a closed door. “Ramsay, please, you’re the only one that can help me.” Head against wood he’s begging for the door to open. Feels like his ten-year-younger-self who got locked out of the house. Scared for being left out in the cold. Admits that “Ramsay I’m scared, help me.”
Knock knock knocks some more, which becomes more of a patting, little strength left with the begging now. “Ramsay please.” Salty tears streaming down his face.
“Ramsay I’m sorry, please, open u—” Stumbles forward with the door opening, almost loses his footing when he’s getting hissed at to, “Shut up.” He does and waits, shaking now that he’s actually managed to get the door to open. He hadn’t really thought beyond this point.
There’s a harsh hand around his wrist, pulling him in. A muffled apology about him drinking too much is supposed to shake off the alarmed security guard. Whether it works yes or no doesn’t make a difference as the door is flung shut.
Meanwhile Theon can’t help but scream as there’s fingers twisting in painful gashes. Is mindlessly pulling at the forceful hand that seems relentless to let go. “Ramsay, you-you’re hurt-hurting me.” Looks into dark eyes and goes silent with what they’re saying to him.
Then, “Go to the bathroom and wait there.” Doesn’t relent. Still a vice like grip around Theon’s wrist. “I swear, Theon, if you spill another drop on your way there.” Doesn’t finish.
“Then what?” Dares to look into those eyes. Is threading on very thin ice and should just count his blessings here.
Gets grabbed by the chin and jerked, fingers digging in his cheeks.
“Don’t tempt me, Theon.” A promising whisper he doesn’t dare exploit.
His cheeks get squished together, lips puckering. “Wlet go.”
“Bathroom is to your left.” And that grip finally relents.
Dares a glare. “As if I didn’t fucking know that.”
“Don’t hurt yourself on your way there.”
***
With the adrenaline running thin he’s growing more and more tired. Is seated on the toilet, closed eyes and waiting. Shaking violently with the cold and stress. Trying his best to not look in the mirror that’s opposite of him.
Feels himself drifting into a welcoming sleep. Cannot even remember the last time he’s slept well.
Dozing off now, calming down, tired and dizzy when suddenly–
“‘Oh, Ramsay, please help me. It doesn’t stop.’” Even with it sounding so overdramatic it still cuts deep. Can hear the serious anger in his own spoken words. “‘It always stops Ramsay.’ I do this so often I don’t even dare to roll up my sleeves anymore. It always worked out perfectly before.” Ramsay is standing in the doorway of the bathroom and looks down upon Theon.
“Stop.”
“‘I don’t know what to do, Ramsay. It’s not stopping this time and I’m scared. Help me please.’”
“Ramsay, stop.”
“‘I don’t have anyone else, Ramsay’. Nobody really cares about me other than you, so you’re doomed to help me.” Voice getting louder, no longer just mock but clear hatred, “Right, Theon? I’m doomed to help you until you really slip up and it’s over.”
It’s so final when it comes from someone else.
“But then isn’t that what you want, Theon?”
The first aid kit is thrown to the floor, hard plastic on marble floor. Manages a slight flinch with great effort.
“Well? Isn’t it?”
A fat tear rolls down his cheeks, lip trembling, “Please. I’m sorry.”
“Begging, how original.” Swallows around the lump in his throat as his arm is jerked. “Come on, get up and let me see.”
Ramsay’s hands move to rip away the shirt. There are slow movements from Theon, croaks the softest no, for fear of finding out what’s underneath. It’s jerked from him, fingers no longer able to grasp the cotton that was holding back his last few liters of blood.
He’s yelling. He doesn’t register it, but he is. Mouth wide open he’s yelling for help. With every heartbeat there’s another spray. He’s begging to make it stop, put that back, stop stop before he’s going to die here.
It’s all happening before his eyes and he does absolutely nothing but scream.
Ramsay? He’ll shove it off as an accident. Would feign importance, fake concern and would soon utter his absolute distance to the wreckage that is Theon Greyjoy.
“Yes, he was already there when I woke up this morning, officer. I mean he always had problems, but he never shared them with me. We were just colleagues, you know? How was I supposed to know that he was suicidal? Oh, he’s attempted before? No, no I never noticed anything odd, he seemed fine, really, he did. Such a shame, I mean, he really had potential. God bless his soul.”
There’s a harsh voice but he cannot focus. Once more a clouded sound, a muffled scream. Doesn’t reach, doesn’t hear. Voice going strong and eyes wide open.
There’s an unbearably loud smack, a hard ring and harsh pain in his cheek. Registers now that Ramsay’s screaming at him, telling him to shut the fuck up.
There’s more muttering, but he’s tired and blocks it. Angry sounds and forceful hands around his face when suddenly, there’s two fingers, digging their way down his throat.
He’s not subtle about it, never has been. Is choking on Ramsay’s fingers. Cross that of the fucking list. Now gagging hard when they shove themselves even further down. Ugly sounds coming from his throat as he’s retching. Hand still in the way when there’s a whole lot of disgusting wetness making its way out.
It’s coming, still coming, and he cannot breathe. He’s choking on his own vomit, no break for a breath when in comes that hand again. This time even further and he’s retching before he can register it even touching the back of his tongue.
Out comes more, doesn’t stop until there’s all but bile, burning its way through up and out. All black before his eyes when he opens them, hot tears running down his cold face.
Manages a breath after what feels like being twisted inside out. Looks up and sees little with how wet his eyes are.
“What did you take?”
Sounds registers too hard, pounds his eardrums and pulls funny at the brain.
“Wha?”
Has the light here always been this bright?
“Theon, what did you take?”
God, it smells disgusting in here. Is that him?
“Not-nothing.”
Not counting the five pills he took right before coming over here. Pills to fall asleep and another one to get back asleep after he wakes up. Pills for the pain -which he didn't have so long as he didn't include the forever burning heartache- and other pills for his persisting anxiety.
Someone open a window before he’s retching the last of his intestines up.
“You’re barely bleeding, Theon.”
Oh.
“Isn’t that a good thing? For you.”
A loud sigh. “God, Theon. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Well, frankly, he’d like to know the answer to that, too.
“I’m sorry.”
Is closing his eyes. Feels Ramsay’s presence leave beside him. Hears him rummaging through the kit, throwing its content everywhere until he finds what he needs. Mumbles an irritated, “You really did a number on me.”
Eyes jerked open when there’s an incredible sting from the disinfectant that’s biting down at his fresh scars. Is genuinely crying out now, eyes tearing up as he attempts to escape from Ramsay’s grasp. Tries in vain to get away from the bottle that just keeps on pouring. Keeps bringing him the pain he cannot handle now.
Succeeds somewhat when he’s let go of but is slipping and falling with the lack of Ramsay’s steadying support. Finds his way down to the hard floor, thumping his head against the sink in the act.
“God. You’re such a mess.”
Whispers he’s sorry. He’s always sorry now. Is rubbing his head slowly, trying to understand what happened and why suddenly he’s on the floor. Cannot process the situation this quickly. Wonders why he’s even here when he gets his answer.
“You know, Theon, I’d say there’s some sort of masochistic tendency in you somewhere.” Squats down to where Theon is staring into the abyss. “I mean, why else would you come back to me. You say you want to quit but you never do. You could walk away but you’re still here. You’re even apologizing to me. If this situation isn’t the most–”
He’s blurring out. Eyes closing slightly. There’s a lot of talk above him but cannot register what’s being said. Hears the beginning and nearing end merging into one another. He’s wondering how: Yes I’ve done what you asked last night. I’ve scheduled a meeting for later today. The copies for the case you asked are on your desk, I’ve managed them last night. Thank you, sir, let me know if there’s anything else I can do.
Quickly became: Grab lunch? I have a meeting later so I can’t. Yes, I’m free tonight, I can come to your place. Yes, sure, I’ll see you then.
Then became: No I’m not free tonight. No, I wanted to go see Robb actually. Please let go. Not here. Please Ramsay, not here. Sir, no. I’m sorry, you’re right. I won’t go see him. Nine is fine, I’ll come straight after work. Yes, I’ll be there.
He’s slipped down. He was doing so well with his career, now look where he’s at.
Registers hands, a soft and tender caress, thumb streaks down his cheek. Comes to with Ramsay’s face in front of him, just in time for the next words spoken to slice him open in all the already tender places.
“—if I were to bring you to the hospital right now, they’d probably strap you down to a bed.” It’s a whisper, nothing more, yet still so definite it might as well have been shouted at him. Voice soft and loving, so different as opposed to a few minutes ago. Sounds almost worried, bitter, perhaps, but in a good way. In the way he would hate for this situation to get to this point. “You know, with you being a danger to yourself, I’d say that would be the protocol to handling you.”
Fingers softening and caressing old scars Ramsay’s voice softens even more, “I’d express my concern and ask to hospitalize you. Doctor, please take good care of him. He’s not feeling well. He’s a danger to himself these days.” Is caressing the thick scars on his wrist. “You’re carrying the proof along with you.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” but it comes out small. Uncertain.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I need help, Ramsay. I do. I’m just so tired,” Theon said, meek.
“I know. Let’s get you to the bed.”
“We’ll sleep?” he asks, hopeful.
“If you want to, yes.”
Is lifted off the floor. Nooks his head in between Ramsay’s neck and shoulder.
Forces the voices in his head to shut up.
“Will you help me?” he asks, timidly.
“Quiet now. Let’s get you to bed.”
***
He’s waking up restless, coming to slowly. Turns around, reaches for his head as to help him realize why it’s pounding so hard. Takes quick notice of stark white bandages around his wrists and feels the events of last night hit him in the face like a brick.
Barely has time to lunge his thinning body to the side of the bed as to throw up there in a seemingly strategically placed bucket. He’s reeving, shaking hard with the next cramp his stomach is sending up for him to retch over once again.
Is using his shirt to wipe away at his mouth and rubs at his tired eyes, scooting back to the headboard and realizing only then where he is, taking in a quick notice of the much fancier bedroom, very much unlike his own.
Sees the ceiling high windows with the curtains slightly opened, allowing the afternoon light to peek in and recalls everything now. There’s this ache, physical and mental, making its presence known to him. Whispering to him all about last night, reminding him just how very wrong this had been, how it must have shifted many things, how it would have an after-effect for so much longer than he wishes it will.
Stupid, he’s so fucking stupid.
Feels his skin crawling, perhaps seeking another place to find home, surely everywhere but on him. Why invest into something that’s destroying itself.
He wants to curl in on himself, ball up under the covers and let himself be found there by someone.
How did he let this happen again. Just when he figured he could get his head together his life takes a de-tour and he heads right back to the source of all his problems.
The shower in the bathroom is running, door slightly ajar. His pants and dress shirt on the floor.
He could get out of here, there’s nothing physically restraining him. Besides, he’s still free to roam and make his own decisions, thank you very much.
These things happen all the time, anyway. He’s done it before, though that was at least two years ago. Still, he can play it off, can twist this situation a little, will make himself believe that it was nothing more than a simple meet up – again, had been greed and lust. Nothing more than a quick fuck. He’ll block all other events out of his head. Besides, there’s really no need for staying here and making things more complicated.
He’s fine. He is.
He’s standing up, ignores the dull ache between his legs when he shoves them in his expansive dress-pants. Ignores the events of last night when he slips his slim arm through his stained-red on white dress-shirt. Hurries to stuff it in his pants to make it look somewhat decently and tightly fastens his belt in the last notch, swiftly scooping up his matching shoes.
Just his phone and he’s out of here. He’s fine, he’s got this.
“Leaving already?”
He can hardly contain himself as to not let his fear show. “Yes,” but it doesn’t sound angry or convincing. Makes a beeline for the door: locked.
“Ramsay, where’s the key? I want to go home.”
“I bet you do after such a night.” Theon looks over then, sees Ramsay with nothing more than a towel and specks of water on him, having just finished his shower he’s now rummaging through his wardrobe, grabbing some underwear.
Theon had always wondered how someone could be this intimidating with so little clothes on. Still tried to bend his mind into finding out why he was so sensitive for the words spoken next.
“I just wonder, Theon, should I have hospitalized you?”
“Ramsay…”
“No please, humor me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I want to quit this anyway. Us.”
“You want to quit this? Quit us.” There’s a cynical laugh, maybe the worst is it sounding so genuine, makes it even worse when the next words are said: “There’s no us, Theon.” The drawer is smashed closed, Theon flinches with the force behind it. “Maybe instead of yammering that you want to leave how about you explain yourself? Maybe thank me for my help last night.”
“I already did,” he says softly.
There’s little space left now with how Ramsay is closing in on him. “There’s just so much fantasy in your little head.” He’s mentally preparing himself for a slap to his face. Open handed smack that will ring in his ear, any minute now. Instead, his head is jerked, hands entwining behind his neck, cupping his face not-so-gently as he’s dragged closer, “Tell me, Theon. What’s going on inside your head?”
It’s uncomfortable standing like this, is swallowing hard at the sheer humiliation of being spoken to like a child. Cannot bear the close contact, adverts his eyes from those blue ones looking through him. “Ramsay please, let me go,” voice breaking almost as pathetically as he looked.
He twists his head, uses his hand to push Ramsay away with all the strength he has, starts for the door when a harsh hand pulls him back, devastatingly easily encircle his wrist with thumb and ring finger. “God, you’re so thin.” Throws him off guard with the sudden change in subject. Said so clear and bitter that it makes Theon’s skin pull tight. Then, like salt in an open wound, “Are you anorexic, Theon?”
“What?” Disgust clear on his face, grimaces, “No.” Allows those words to slice him open like it wasn’t enough already. Isn’t quick with his response, then barely managing his calm says, “No, Ramsay,” spits, “you think I enjoy looking like this?”
A careless shrug is all he gets. It sparks an anger in him he didn’t know he had anymore. Pulls hard on an unforgiving arm, twists and tries to free himself in vain. “What, now you suddenly care?” Is screaming when he spits “Now you’re all concerned, huh? Since you got what you wanted once again. Since now I look almost dead you just realize maybe now you should intervene? Congratulations Ramsay, you’re six months too late.”
“I think you should take a break.”
He pshhes, shrugs once more to try and free his arm, fails. “Don’t bother for a break now. I’m fine, really.”
He’s free and he cannot express how much it hurts to hear the complete shift in emotion with his next line spoken, hatred evident, “Fine, really? This is your definition of fine?”
“Ramsay, please. Haven’t you done enough?”
Shaking of head. “You’re sick, Theon.”
“And you made me.”
Something close to a laugh sounds. “Sure, I did. Whatever makes you feel better.” Ramsay puts on his white dress shirt, busies himself with buttoning the cuffs. “Keys are in the drawer, let yourself out if you want.”
There’s no need to think much beyond hearing those words, he’s already yanking the drawer back and grasping the key; eager to get himself out of this situation. Could punch himself for not checking any potential hiding spots earlier.
Nothing stopping him but a simple command he cannot seem to disobey. Even with the door open he cannot ever seem to run.
“Theon. Look at me.”
Does as he’s asked, isn’t even forced to look him in the eyes, could simply disobey but cannot at the same time.
He’s such a mess.
Then, “Don’t show your face again, I have no use for you.”
Feels bitterness and sadness overflow him, cannot hide the tears from spilling. Feels so small as he wipes his nose using his shirt. Now even the incredible amount of sarcasm cannot hide his devastation as he slurs “Yessir,” to an already turned back.
Makes sure to slam the door on his way out as hard as he can.