Chapter Text
Bright white LED’s are inlaid through the popcorn ceiling, buzz echoing in the barren room. The white walls and silver furniture reflect enough of the lights above to make the space feel like it’s glowing.
It’s giving you a migraine.
You sit quietly in the sterile room, squinting against the sensory nightmare that is the occasional flicker.
Be still, be quiet.
You’ve played Outlast. You don’t know that much about mental hospitals, but you don’t want to die.
You choke down the urge to squirm, to fiddle, to pull the itchy hospital gown away from your bare skin. You swallow down your discomfort, because your feelings don’t matter. Your feelings and your sensitivity are what got you in this mess in the first place.
You just couldn’t be normal. You just couldn’t fake it.
You could play pretend, though. Pretend here and now, to people who don’t know you, that you’re perfect. That you belong in a loving home. That you don’t belong here. Maybe they’ll tell your mom that you’re a good kid. That she should appreciate you more.
That she should love you.
You love your mom.
Why can't she love you?
You don’t break your silence with tears. Boys aren’t supposed to cry, or something. Your dad said that. He didn’t really pay much attention to you.
He doesn’t love you either.
The lights feel like they’re buzzing your brain out of your fucking skull, but you miss the relative silence when a nurse walks in. He’s tall and gaunt, nose crooked, probably from another patient punching him. You know this place is violent.
He nods silently at you, before sneering at your long hair.
You like your hair.
You don’t know why so many people think boys with long hair are weird.
Unable to stop yourself, you tug gently at the tips of your hair, pulling at the thick locs just hard enough to spark pain. The feeling is grounding enough for you to focus again. The nurse, doctor(?),whatever, frowns. His spikey stubble curls into the wrinkle of his lips, yellowed teeth flashing dully under his pale pink lips. His eyes are dark.
You feel paranoia prickle on the back of your neck, the fine baby hairs there raising. You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it continues to suffocate you as the man stares.
He’s looking at you like your existence is a disservice.
He’s looking at you like your parents do. Did.
He smiles at you, no light in his dulled, shadowed eyes, and says:
“Welcome to hell.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺˚₊✧
He shaved your head.
You fight not to cry as the man ushers you away from the too-white room, trying to keep the thin hospital gown from tearing away and exposing your thin frame. He drags you by the upper arm, rushing you when you’re too slow taking corners. At one point he grabs you so aggressively he rips your paper shirt.
You hold the pieces to your chest like your life depends on it, keeping your eyes resentfully on the floor as other patients, some far older than you, stare at your exposed skin.
It’s cold.
You’re still shivering when the man shoves you into a small room. It’s mostly devoid of life, and completely void of personality. There’s a man in his twenties sleeping on the bed on the left side of the room, directly in line with the door. The light hits the man’s face, but he doesn’t stir. You’re shoved towards the empty bed, and the door slams behind you.
The room is audibly airtight, and your ears pop as the light from the hallway vanishes. You swallow desperately in an attempt to unpop them as you stagger to the sanitized cot. The blanket is more like a sheet. It’s thin, horribly itchy, and does precious little to protect you from the vicious cold that leaks from the A/C unit directly above the bed. You curl into a tight ball and try to keep your breathing even.
You try to play your favorite song in your head but you keep forgetting the words, so you just mentally hum the melody.
It doesn’t do much to comfort you, or soothe your anxious nausea.
You’re terrified, barely clothed, and locked in a room with a random guy.
It takes you a long time to fall asleep.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺˚₊✧
You wake up to a loud alarm.
You jolt upright, grasping at your chest as your heart rate spikes. Hurricane.
Hurricane’s aren’t that crazy, but the alarm is nerve wracking. You launch from the bed, holding the scraps of your shirt together as your eyes dart around the room. Your arms are riddled with goosebumps because it’s still fucking freezing in the room and your adreniline is kicked.
The man on the other cot sits up, opening his eyes smoothly. He’s calm. Weirdly calm. He doesn’t yawn, or rub his eyes or anything either, just… awake. He looks you up and down and smiles.
You try not to grimace.
“You a new transfer, kid?”
You nod stiffly. “What’s going on? What’s with the alarm?”
The man laughs, his pearly white teeth shining in the artificial light. It’s only then that you realize there are no windows. Weird. Very claustrophobic.
He smiles fondly at you, like you’re a puppy chasing your tail. Or just a particularly stupid teenage boy. “That’s just the wake up call.”
You frown, because that’s a fucking awfull wake up call. “What if… an actual emergency happens?”
The man shrugs, speaking in a vaguely formal tone of voice that contrasts his flippant vocabulary, “We’re fucked. My name’s Claudius. But you can call me Claude.”
You give him your name, though it’s kind of hesitant. He slips out of bed, approaching you slowly. He pats your shoulder gently, then squeezes. He doesn’t seem surprised that you instinctively flinch. He sighs, “You’ll do good here, kid. Just stick by me and you’ll be alright.”
His teeth flash again as he smiles brightly. “You seem like a good kid. I’ll keep you safe.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺˚₊✧
Claude doesn’t lie about keeping you safe, at least. You’re strip searched twice throughout the day, which is humiliating, especially because the rough ass guard ripped your shirt the rest of the way. The other patients stare at your bare chest when you’re escorted back into the cafeteria. You skirt around the round, white tables until you make it back to Claude’s side.
Your Adam's apple bobs roughly as you try your best to ignore the eyes on you. Some are curious, some are annoyed, hopefully for your sake, and some lined with blatant want. You’re too nauseous to eat your food, so you slide it over to Claude. He shakes his head, shoving both of your plates to a very buff dog monster also sitting at the table. The man nods firmly at the both of you and slowly eats. You wonder if Claude has a deal with him. Food for protection.
Your teeth clench as you fight against shivers, cold sweat paired with the fucking ferocious A/C unit three tables over and the fact that your shirt was ripped off of you means you are freezing.
Your abdominal muscles spasm with a shudder as you curl into yourself, trying to block your body from sight as well as trying to keep warm.
Claude frowns at the scattering of scars on your torso, tugging you closer under his arm. He’s not all that warm, but touch that doesn’t hurt is incredibly welcome.
When the eyes don’t leave, he pulls his own shirt off, very carefully, and tugs it gently over your head, helping you put it on. You’re still cold, but the remaining eyes finally leave you.
You sigh softly and lean into the vague warmth Claude offers. He pats your back and continues his conversation with the large monster. You relax into the affection.
You could be one of the guys. Why didn’t your dad ever.. Try?
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺˚₊✧
Every male in the facility has their head shaved. The girls aren't allowed to cut theirs, but they often do with the occasional shiv or kitchen scissors. You see a girl get caught cutting her hair, get dragged kicking and screaming away. The next time you see her, her head is shaved,with several bloody knicks dotting her scalp.
You feel sick. She just wanted to feel like herself.
When your hair starts noticeably growing, about two months into your stay, you don’t struggle when they pull you away and you don’t move when they shave your head again.
They don’t let you take a shower after, so you squirm the rest of the day trying to get the little hairs off your shoulders. Claude, who’d gotten a new shift since that first day within the day, tries to help by brushing his cold hands against the back of your neck and scratching your upper back through the paper shirt, but the pricking just agitated your scars until you’re able to take a shower. The showers are open, and despite being here for a month, the other men still look at you. You don’t understand why they wouldn’t separate the institution by age.
Claude, who showers at the stall next to you, who you’ve never seen look in your direction while you were unclothed, tends to loudcap the creepers. By asking if they’re interested in him. Very loudly.
It makes you laugh, just a little bit.
Claude makes Ebott institute… bearable.
He smuggles you in several books, listens to your rambles, protects you from the far crazier patients.
He doesn’t ask you for anything in return.
…
Well.
Just one thing.
Claude leans on your shoulder, crowding you against his side with an arm thrown over your back. “You know I do a lot to protect you, right?”
You flinch.
But nod.
He does.
“Yes, sir?” Your voice is scratchy, nervous. Conversations that start this way rarely end well.
Claude smiles, “Awe, come on. You know my name.”
You clear your throat, try to sound a little tougher, “Claude.”
Claude laughs, “Better. I protect you… without asking anything from you. Now, don’t get freaked out, I know you didn’t ask for my protection. You did accept it though.” He looks at the vent in the ceiling. “And I just need one little thing from ya.”
You grimace, but nod against his shoulder, “..Anything.”
You owe him, after all.
He smiles like he smells blood in the water.
—---------------
The favor is, in theory, simple.
Help Claude escape.
You would also escape.
You’d both be free, together.
…
For once, you wouldn’t be alone.
“Anything,” You’d said.
You meant it.
It changes your life forever.