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"Let me go," Telemachus whispers. "Let me go, please. My parents are—" he swallows dryly, glancing back. "They're looking for me. Just… please."
This— this stranger who had presented himself as Antinous hadn’t stopped following him everywhere he went that night. And now, he had him cornered in his own hotel room, with his parents wandering the halls in the search of their son.
He winces when he hears his mother calling his name in the halls, voice ricocheting off the walls: light, soft. It rings against his mind, a fear clawing at him as dread relates a hymn to his ear.
He’s foolish, stupid, and everything in the book. He had turned his back, door slightly ajar and of course open, and now he’s stuck, with probably no way out. The man had pounced at him like an animal, closing the door in his wake. Be it a murder, or a kidnapping, his mind strays from his reins and prepares for the ultimate worst. Antinous had openly leered at him, whispering filthy things to his ear, and -
Antinous' face scrunches in an ugly snarl, eyes flickering with something viciously raw. "No," he says, “no, and dare you scream, I’ll cut off your tongue, feed it to you, and break your little bones one by one, and I repeat. One by fucking one.”
Something heavy pangs against his chest.
“Telemachus!” his mother’s voice, again, so close, so far. Firmer, wreathed with a small chance to escape. “We’re going to be late, darling. Where are you even?”
He closes his eyes painfully, drawing a deep breath. He opens them again, albeit with blurrier sight and undoubtedly with red eyes. Antinous tilts his head, crossing his arms.
“What do you want?” he asks with no second thought, taking a step forward. The man tenses, eyes narrowing, before relaxing stiffly once he realizes Telemachus won’t run like a cowed prey. “Tell me,” he continues, gaze softening, parting his lips. He leans in, half-lidded. “They can give you anything. Money, power, silk—”
“What can you give me?” Antinous’ voice is gruff, sober, and it’s enough for Telemachus to break like a strung string. “That’s the problem, pretty thing. Why should I hear you and your all mighty parents, when I’ll land in prison the moment I tear my eyes away from your beautiful and sweet promises?” his hands slide down from his waist to his hips, lifting the fabric of his shirt slightly. Telemachus clenches his fist at the gun. “See this? This gives me far, far more than what they can offer me. Than what your small head can think.”
Silence floods the halls, still and unnerving, and he stills when he sees the doorknob turn, before a loud sigh tramples fleeting hope. Something rustles, he can hear his father’s voice, and–
She’s gone. Maybe. But he can’t hear her anymore, and that’s what seems to matter. What truly matters.
He’s alone.
Antinous grins, all teeth.
Telemachus inhales sharply. “Then what?” he rasps, “why?”
His eyes brighten.
“Why not?” he barks out a laugh, one filled with disbelief, “fuck, boy. Why the fuck not? Spoils are sweet. And you, you,” the man licks his lips, chest dropping. “You’re the sweetest of them all. I was so insistent on your mother until I saw you, you know?”
Strands of throbbing fear blind him, eyes fixed on the arm with a cool and ashen unease. He looks at the door, then Antinous. If, only if, the man moves away from the door, Telemachus can run. His mother is sharp in hearing. Athena must be nearby.
“They wouldn’t pay for a ransom,” he mutters, because they would.
“A ransom comes up fucking short. Nothing they propose would make me give you away once you’re mine –” Telemachus scowls, somehow spurning Antinous’ on as his grin turns lewd, depraved, “c’mon, lighten up. That’s all you’ll ever be. Are. Even if that father of yours calls, I’ll let you hear his pleas before cutting the line. Gold’s good enough, really, more than. Everything outshines you, truly, but I don’t do sharing. ”
Telemachus blinks, forcing himself to come to. To concentrate. He flinches when a finger tilts his chin up, the sole sounds rattling against his mind a song of panic and a symphony of disgust.
Antinous has taken more than enough steps to be a breadth away from his nose touching his—when, he doesn’t ask, for the answer would be too humiliation to bear. Only thing that is important is that he’s close. Touching him.
He fights down the urge to retch, Adam’s apple bobbing.
The touch is gentle. “If you had tears in your eyes,” the man tugs him down and the gesture sears, with all its care. “I don’t think I’d have been able to stop myself. I’d have taken you already, even if she had listened.”
Telemachus doesn’t dare to close his eyes.
Fire, tears, envy - blood. That’s all he sees when he closes them.
No god brings him sleep, no god brings him salvation, so he waits. And waits.
“You’re particularly quiet,” Antinous cocks his head, “I liked you screaming.”
Telemachus’ pupils are probably dilated, blown-wide. He doesn’t care. “I thought otherwise,” he croaked impassively.
The man huffs, amused. His hand returns to his side, and Telemachus can’t tear his eyes away. Dirty. He’s soiled, marred, and no voyage for repent would wash away the filth. His stare remains on the door, unlocked, simply— there. He’s energetic, he’s sufficient in athletic sports, and still a youth. He could run. Faster than this beast, at least.
Like iron, he did not sway, feet planted on the ground. He hears the bed creaking beside him, the cheap mattress rigid and taut. Telemachus tensed before forcing himself to breathe, for the concerns to be cleaned and forsaken from his mind.
“Do you think I can break this?” Antinous asks, smooth, like a hellish thing leading to temptation - to cruelty, anguish, and torture. “ We. You seem like a whore who prefers it rough.”
Telemachus bites his tongue and exhales.
He runs. His legs move, at last, and the air, fresh and crisp, hits his face.
The man mumbles a curse, and he stretches his hand for the door. He’s yanked back at once, breath punched from him, harsh and unforgiving. There are hands on his waist, Antinous digging his nails as he wrenched him against his chest. Telemachus growled and elbowed him in the ribs, twisting and flailing wildly.
He shakes his head feverishly when Antinous moves his grasp above, hastily jamming his forearms under his arms. He bites down on his wrist when it falters. A hiss, and the warmth is ripped from him, a candied relaxation sinking deep into his bones as Antinous stumbled back. He heaves, throat burning, parched, before the realization dawns on him, purring, like the sun rising, like the moon draping the earth.
“I’ll kill you,” the man threatens, half-prophetic, half-shriek.
He lurches forward.
Telemachus’ fingertips brush against the knob before a force hauls him behind anew, fingers threading through his hair finding his scalp and tugging. When the stinging fades, he’s being pressed against Antinous’ body again.
He aches. Soreness spreads like a wildfire.
Still, he throws his head back, relishing in the groan and how the grasp on him softens.
His vision drops, and he sees the man’s legs intertwined with his, the boots.
Telemachus steps on them, kicking up, and his eyes widen when Antinous covers his mouth desperately, hand fumbling and being moved up and down from his jaw to over his actual mouth as he recovers.
It clicks, then, something so obvious.
“Mom!” he screams, hoarse. He throws himself forward when Antinous tenses and wraps an arm around his torso, pressing harder against his lips. He moves his head, up, down, left, right. He kicks the knee, and the man endures when he bites down. Iron, he finds, is a tolerable taste, despite its dominance. “Dad - dad! Mom! Help!”
“Stop moving ,” spits Antinous, voice just beside his ear, yet low - the thrill and danger so loud as they pump on his veins. “Hold still, you fuckin’ brat—”
He feels the phantom of the gun. “Athena!” he shrieks louder, pitched and drawn, as he hurls ahead and his whole chest leans too close to the ground to be considered standing. The hands on his waist are loose, and he resists . “Anyone, it’s- me—”
A gasp falls from his lips.
A grey rag is on his face, and it throttles his voice.
So he screeches more.
“M– mom -” he pleads, weaker. The man shoves it inside his mouth, locking his hands behind, on his back.
There’s a thud, and it takes him far longer than his pride allows him to discern it is him on the floor. His ass burns, and his knees quiver. He arches his back before getting on his knees, raising his hips, and tries to crawl before a sole kicks his side. He falls, twitching. The boot pushes him over completely, back on the ground, and pushes down .
He twitches, whimpering.
“The room’s soundproof, bitch ,” Antinous says, “you cunt . I will rape you until you bleed, I will slit your fucking throat - no, no, fuck. ” He looks around, not paranoid, but hysterical. Mad, panting. Blood drips from his nose. “That’s too easy. You have to live.”
His eyebrows are furrowed, lips pursed, glare dismal.
Wrath is the only sentiment Telemachus can draw from it all.
He spits when Antinous kicks him a final time, moaning weakly with his cheek on the floor. He glowers, baring his teeth when the man kept staring - indescribable, vowing to ruin him. His eyes follow the man, fingers twitching against the tiles. He doesn’t look away for a reason that escapes him, but it’s all he can do. Now, anyhow. He tries to lift himself up by his elbows, subtle, raising his head.
Antinous walks to the door, grim. He stops, hand hovering over —
The doorknob twists, silent. The lock clicks.
He flumps down.
“I’ll have you beg,” Antinous says from where he is, and - he already had him imploring, in a way, hadn’t he? “Daddy’s money won’t help now, fucker.”
The echo of his voice grows louder, deafening. Telemachus grunts softly when he’s raised by the man with a hand pulling on his hair, relentless.
“Fuck off,” he hissed, “‘m not yours.”
The man smiles, tender. “You are,” he coos, “and I’ll show you.”
Telemachus lets his lashes fall, a drowsiness setting. Absent-mindedly, he feels Antinous picking him up and placing him on the bed nigh carefully, mattress dipping under the weight.
It’s going to be a long night - even if Antinous spared him and allowed sleep to fetch him, the following dawn would be misery. If there even was a following morning, instead of his corpse being ditched to the sea, or in an alleyway. He doesn’t quite fear death when those two are the sole options.
Wandering hands slip under his shirt and yes, he doesn’t fear death – truthfully, he might prefer it.