Missing [ST]

Forty Five

Anton was back. The loud slam of the door and the obnoxious whistling was enough to wake Steven up, which meant he must've passed out again.

His numbed arms twitched behind him, and he managed to wiggle his sock covered toes, but he was so dehydrated and weak, he didn't really feel alive anymore.

At least when he was out, he didn't have to be constantly reminded of everything he should have done differently. Everything in his sad, pathetic life that had led him to this exact moment in time. Punishment for the betrayal of people he loved, his greed for drugs, and a blame he could only hang on himself.

He wasn't the role model type anymore. He wasn't really anything anymore.

"Time to go," Anton declared in his thick accent.

"No, mm'notd going," Steven moaned, shaking his congested head at the approaching figure.

"You don't have a choice."

With his strength gone and body inexplicably sore from hunching in the same position for so long, Steven started crying; he just couldn't help it. His cracked lips quivered uncontrollably, and his chest rocked and shook with silent weeps that sent more pain through his damaged ribs.

"Why cry, hm?" Anton mocked, stepping over the unmoved water bottle. He had a pocket knife in hand, and some sort of frayed fabric bag scrunched up in the other.

Steven couldn't respond. There were no more words. He was scrunching his eyes shut to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks, and sniffling his stuffy nose that remained to be hot and swollen.

One of the zip ties on his ankles snapped and his whimpering became more audible, but even through his uncontrolled cries, he heard silenced gunshots and a definitive slump of bodies against walls.

Steven cracked open a misty eye, trembling, but he shared the confusion of the man by his feet.

"The fuck?" Anton got up, backing up to the door cautiously, and reached into his jacket.

A tiny explosion was next, and the door was kicked off its hinges.

"Hands where I can see them."

This man was English, and brandishing a handgun tightly in his outstretched hands. His elbows were locked and an index finger was pierced over the trigger.

The gun may have been visible before his body, but Steven recognised that voice. He could barely think straight, but his memory didn't fail him.

"You?" Anton retorted, scrambling with his hands in defence. "I knew I shouldn't have hired you!"

"Get the fuck out," came the strong response. "Now, before I shoot you too."

With his hands up, Anton gave Steven one last shitty grin and obeyed, the gun tracking his every move. He wasn't stupid enough to get mixed up in a fight he would lose.

"Holy hell, Steven."

Steven was squinting through tears because he was still crying, but this time it was not out of fear. He was crying because he knew this guy who was frantically inspecting the state he was in with patting hands.

"W-will?"

"Yeah, it's me."

If Will wasn't there to catch him and hold his weight up as the right restraints were snapped, Steven would have fallen off the chair. It meant he cried out as his ribs were pushed, but the prickling of blood flowing past his elbows was more beautiful past the pain.

"You need to get out of here."

Steven, who had been re-seated carefully, slowly dropped his arms that slung haphazardly over Will's shoulders. The morphed frown of hurt grew deeper in disagreement.