Dynasty Decapitated

But Why Cant We All Just Get Along?

((Me calling the police on myself after writing out the chapter of like getting fucking merked

Title from she looks like fun by attic monkeys))

Ashton's been sitting in a chair for two days now. Not anymore. Their kidnappers are clearly pleased enough with Luke losing his god damn mind and doing something stupid, so they'd opened up both the kitchen and a secret, fourth room that Ashton had never been privy to, prior to Luke's arrival.

It's nothing special, just a white painted room with a single double bed, all white sheets pulled tight at the corners, and a mound of pillows stacked high near the black headboard. Ashton pulls his chair from the warehouse and stacks a mountain of food in the corner, just in case he happens to walk out and the door slams shut and locks again. God forbid he lose track of Luke.

At first, he'd been hysterical. His broken and dislocated fingers had been throbbing as he'd squeezed Luke's arm desperately, trying to stop the hybrid dna from spreading through his veins. What if they'd completed the experiment wrong? Luke would die, and it would be completely Ashton's fault. He'd grabbed Luke when he'd passed out and pulled the blonde into his lap as much as he could, entire body shaking while sobs racked his body, petting at Luke gently like that would help.

He didn't know what else to do, though. He hadn't thought to make an antivirus. That would have done nothing, had he gone through with his original plan and injected himself. He had no idea how to even whip one up, and he knew he wouldn't be able to by himself. Hence the reason Luke was kidnapped to begin with. This was all his fault.

Luke's pale, green shift skin was covered with tears and his hair was sticking to his forehead by the time the two doors had sprung open. It took a few hours, but eventually Ashton had risked letting Luke go and venturing over to examine the new room. As soon as he had figured out there was an available bed, he'd grabbed Luke's wrists and pulled.

It hadn't occurred to him to rig up something with wheels. He hadn't been thinking, just moving. His fingers throbbed, but he figured he could reset them later. After what had to be a month, maybe three days, maybe twenty minutes, Ashton managed to hoist Luke into the bed, then fall onto the floor to cry hysterically again.

Luke's limp body was spread haphazardly over the sheets and Ashton was sure he was dead. He had to be. He wasn't breathing, he wasn't moving, he hadn't even flinched when Ashton knocked his head into the wall while trying to drag him into the room. So Ashton cried. He cried hysterically for hours, no tears appearing, just heaving and coughing and breathing like he'd forgotten how.

Eventually, when his vision started turning black from the edges in, he used his one remaining brain cell to recognize that he was hungry. And thirsty. The reason tears weren't coming out was because he didn't have any liquid in his body. Ashton had stood, stumbling, vision blacking out and head spinning momentarily, and slowly made his way into the kitchen. He'd left his hand braced on the wall as he went to the fridge and started shoveling sliced turkey into his mouth.

When the package was empty, he'd thrown it aside and started scarfing down any food available, going after a gallon of milk, an entire tin of muffins, a big package of bagels, until he was breathing heavily and slowing to a stop. And then he threw up. In the middle of the kitchen floor.

When he cried this time, tears rolled down his warm cheeks, healthier even with the taste of vomit in his mouth. 

Ashton ate slower the next time, starting with a package of saltines, then moving onto dry toast, before heating up the god damn stove and boiling some noodles and eating them dry over the course of an hour, taking long breaks for water and wiping the back of his wrist under his nose.