aware (peterick)

3

Sweat rolls down his forehead. He replays that horrible scene over and over. The tattooed boy gave him a blanket. But then they took it away. They grabbed him by the biceps, twisted them behind his back and secured them together with tight cuffs. They dragged him into the sun. He remembers shrieking as his naked skin sizzled and his limbs jerking as they manhandled him into the back of their van.

If they'd arrived any later, he would have killed the other boy.

He had tasted so sweet. He hadn't eaten in a very long time.

Now the ridges between his teeth are clear of knotted fur, and the curves of his cheeks have been wiped of blood and grit, the healing abilities in his blood clear of any infectious diseases that could have killed his meal.

He's frightened at the prospect of almost killing a man. He doesn't understand what caused his urge to attack. But he's still hungry, and given the chance, he'd happily do it again.

They've dressed him all in white. He's lying flat on a padded bed, his wrists and ankles restrained to it with tight leather buckles. Deprived, he wriggles weakly against them and jerks his head violently from side to side, trying to rid himself of the uncomfortable metal brace wedged in his mouth to prevent his fangs from extending.

His gums are sore and bleeding. The taste only causes him to lust for more.

The two clear pouches hanging above his head are filling him up with liquid substances, steadily flowing through narrow tubes into his body. The red substance is clearly blood. He can smell it. He can feel its warmth as it penetrates his unnaturally cold skin, but he thrashes in desperation as there's no way to get to it. It's giving him the nutrients he needs, but it's not doing the job of satisfying his hunger. The other pouch is filled with a clear liquid, some kind of sedative. It's supposed to be keeping him fast asleep, but it seems he's a fighter. He can barely even feel its distinct, numbing tingle.

He feels as though he's being watched. If he strains his ears, he can almost hear shouting through the thick walls detaining him within this room. Buried deep in the Detainment Recovery Ward – a ward used explicably to keep "untrained" vampires contained while recovering from starvation or trauma – methods of rehabilitation are far from humane.

Then again, he's not exactly human.

What sounds like a fist colliding with a window causes him to flinch. He can feel them watching. He can feel him watching. The tattooed boy. He shouldn't be here, it's not his business to care. They have no morality down here. So why does he care?

He has given up his struggle. He hurts. Everywhere, he hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut, his eyelashes coated in tears. He didn't know he could cry. He didn't think he'd be able to hold any emotion at all anymore.

He hears a beep, followed by a soft pop.

His eyes open and his head turns to the side. A nurse walks into the room and quickly ushers the dark-haired boy inside before locking themselves in. His canines throb and beg for release. Now that he can see his face, he remembers his name. Pete. Pete tries to approach him, but the nurse holds her arm out to stop him from getting close.

"You are fully responsible for him," she is saying. He closes his eyes again as she approaches him calmly, slipping something he can't see out of her lab coat pocket. "You are to supply him with blood, a place to rest during the day, and you are to keep him under your watchful eye at all times. Think you can sacrifice your sleep schedule to do all that?"

He doesn't know what she's saying; she's talking too fast. Are they taking him somewhere else? Are they going to lock him up and torture him? He doesn't believe so, because if that were the case, Pete would probably have his hands around the nurse's throat.

He opens his eyes once more, this time catching Pete's gaze. He holds onto it. He can tell Pete is trying with all his might not to rush to his side and release him from his captivity. All he can do is keep their eyes locked from a distance and silently reassure him that everything is going to be ok.

"Easily enough," he mutters.

"On occasion you may leave him alone during the day or night. But if and when you do leave, take my advice and keep him chained up. Though I recommend you do that as often as possible, anyway, even when you're with him."

Pete's mouth curves downward. "No, I don't want to do that."

"You're loss if you end up dead," the nurse pipes with a shrug, inserting something sharp into his neck. He flinches. "And if that does happen, I can assure you he'll be brought back here permanently, under the penalty of death."

"Death?" Pete whispers worryingly, his eyes unblinking.

He starts to feel that distinct, numbing tingle as the liquid is slowly inserted. He figures it's another sedative, only this time it's strong enough to knock him out. His eyelashes flutter and he begins to drift off, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Though he isn't able to open his eyes any longer, he can still hear them speaking to one another. Not that he has any idea what they're saying. He can still feel, too. He can feel the air shift as the bed is rolled across the floor, and then he can hear the faint click of the steel door as it is being unlocked.

"We'll supply you with the chains. I promise you're going to need them."

He can still feel, but Pete doesn't know that. The nurse doesn't, either.

But he can feel Pete's hand.

It's warm.