Page 46 of Fear
TOBIAS HELD AS STILL as he could in Jake’s arms, shivery face pressed against Jake’s shirt, and wished he knew what the fuck was going on.
Jake wasn’t angry, not that he could be wholly sure with the way the world was going in and out of focus. He was holding Tobias like he hadn’t in days and telling him he had to go to bed, and Tobias didn’t understand any of it. He had always known that Jake was better, kinder than the guards, that he would never hurt him unless Tobias deserved it—What if he did hurt you? Wouldn’t it be a relief to know what would finally push him over the edge? Wouldn’t it be a relief to be treated a fraction like you deserve?—but he couldn’t begin to understand Jake holding him while Tobias coughed into his shirt and sickness burned from him.
Then Jake started taking his shirt off, and all Tobias could think was Oh God, finally?
But why now? Why when Tobias was so feverish that he couldn’t concentrate on anything, could barely bring Jake’s eyes into focus, but he could feel Jake’s hands on his chest, unbuttoning his shirt? He closed his eyes and tried to breathe as deeply and evenly as possible, fighting down another cough that threatened to close his throat and rattle him in Jake’s arms.
He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t make sense of his environment, but he tried to brace himself nonetheless. It was impossible to wrap his head around why Jake would get off on him being sick and nearly unable to draw a breath. But if it were true, he wished he had known earlier. I could have faked this, he thought. I could have done this for you if I had just fucking known.
Then Jake found a scar and followed it with his fingers. Tobias felt him tense, felt his interest change. The hands sliding the shirt off his back and turning Tobias’s body never became violent, but Tobias knew Jake wasn’t happy anymore. One quick glance at his face confirmed all of Tobias’s worst fears again. Rage, disgust, horror.
Oh shit, Tobias thought, he doesn’t like scars. He had to fight down a bubble of hysteria, something that rose up from his gut and threatened to choke him more thoroughly than the coughs. Well, I’m fucking screwed then.
But even while he fought that burst of delirium, a part of himself that he had tried to break a long time ago—the part that wanted things—whimpered and whined in the back of his mind, a place he could force himself to ignore except when Jake wrapped him in his arms. I can’t change that anymore. I tried not to get caught, I tried not to get beaten, but I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t stop them. What did you expect me to do?
Something, clearly. Jake hated the scars. Would shove him away at any second.
There had to be something worse than Jake pushing him away. Being sick and alone had been Tobias’s best option earlier, but now it seemed the worst. Worse than death, worse than Freak Camp.
The rational part of his mind knew that wasn’t true. There was nothing worse than Freak Camp and nothing safer than death. But Jake leaving him now . . . what would be the point of getting healthy if Jake hated the scars, would never look at him without disgust because of them?
I’ve done so much worse, Jake, Tobias thought. So many better reasons for you to hate me.
Eventually, Jake’s hands running gently up and down his back came to a stop, and he rested his head on Tobias’s shoulder.
This is it, Sam thought. Go ahead, Jake, just leave me.
“You need to rest,” Jake said at last. There was something wrong with his voice, something tight and choked, and Tobias shivered for a reason other than fever. Jake couldn’t be getting sick, not this fast, but he sounded like he felt as queasy and weak as Tobias. But his arms around Tobias’s shoulders never loosened, and Tobias couldn’t hear anything wrong in Jake’s lungs. He would be able to with his ear pressed so close to Jake’s chest. “Lie back.”
Jake started to push him away and down, and Tobias rallied the remainder of his resources to grab at his arm and hold his shirt. “Jake,” he rasped. But that was as far as he got before his chest clenched, and anything he tried to say dissolved in coughing.
Distantly, he felt Jake pushing him down on the bed, reaching for his pants. Tobias tensed and tried to turn himself, tried to help Jake as much as he could, even though the room was spinning and he couldn’t separate the feel of Jake’s hands from the pressure of his back on the bed and his clenched fists.
One second he was lying there, wondering if he was hallucinating, fantasizing about being claimed, finally taken by the only person in the world he had ever wanted. The next second, Jake was pulling a pair of sweatpants into place over his hips and working a shirt over his head.
Tobias gasped, bucked a little, struggling for breath, and Jake put a hand on his chest. “Shhhh.” He tugged the shirt the rest of the way down. From the side table he picked up a steaming mug (where had that come from?), fit his other arm under Tobias’s back to lift him into a sitting position halfway up, and gently brought the mug to his lips. “Come on, Toby, drink.”
Tobias did as he was told, even as his stomach twisted on itself and he couldn’t quite swallow properly. Jake had him take a small sip and then waited patiently while he forced it down. Oh God, what if he threw up on Jake?
Tobias would not let himself think about that. He couldn’t. Instead, he concentrated on the astonishing feel of Jake’s arm supporting him, the rim of the cup against his lips, the warm liquid moving down his throat. About three swallows down, he realized that he was hungry, and thirsty, and that he was still shaking but didn’t feel quite so damn cold. He looked down and saw a couple of water-filled soda bottles packed around his legs. Those were the sources of warmth. He had thought that it was just a normal reaction to having Jake still be there.
He had no idea how much time he had lost. He didn’t know what had happened. But he didn’t think it had been what he had expected. He didn’t think Jake had taken him. And yet, inexplicably, Jake was still there, feeding him soup and wrapping him with warmth and gentleness. It was so wrong. If a monster was sick, he didn’t deserve to be put in a warm bed in clean clothes, bundled with hot water bottles and . . . touched. He deserved nothing. Healthy he was damn near useless, but sick he was a burden, nothing but a dead weight. Tobias could hear every word of what the Director would say.
It was wrong to have Jake still beside him. So wrong and so wonderful. He couldn’t imagine anything better. There was nothing better.
When Jake took the mug away, Tobias couldn’t keep from smiling, couldn’t hold back the happiness, even though that might make Jake angry or make him think that Tobias didn’t know what a fucking useless burden he was. But Jake only looked a little relieved when he saw Tobias’s smile. He even smiled crookedly back at him, and that made Tobias feel loopier than he had at any point in the last two days.
“Hey, Toby.” Jake’s voice still sounded wrong, but Tobias reassured himself that Jake didn’t look sick. He just looked sad. He pulled the covers up to Tobias’s chest, picking up the towel he had set under Tobias’s chin. “You’re really sick. You need to sleep, okay?”
Tobias nodded. He took a breath and managed to exhale without coughing. Settling into the covers, he closed his eyes but snapped them open again when he felt Jake get up from the bed.
“Don’t go.” Now, why had he said that? Jake was helping him, he hadn’t thrown him to the curb yet, and here Tobias was fucking it up by being a needy, useless monster, so much more trouble than he was worth. He’d even involuntarily reached for Jake, fucking reached for him when he was sick and sad and wanted more than anything for Jake to stay.
It was a stupid, impudent thing to say, but the look on Jake’s face—surprise, hope, unnamable things, and a slow touch of wonder—said it hadn’t been stupid at all. Maybe it had been exactly right.
He came back.
Tobias still closed his eyes when Jake eased down on the bed and reached for his face. Jake didn’t like it when he flinched, and if Tobias saw the touch coming, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Not when hands in the past had ground against his eyes, his nose, forced hard gags into his mouth and applied knives and hot rods close to his face, though not so high that it would leave marks where the guards had to look at him every day.
