Chapter 33
SINN'OUS
The only way to describe it would be non-existently vacant.
That’s what Izz’s eyes are doing. Fixated forward, dilated and not blinking.
The boy is perched on the edge of the bunk where Sinn'ous placed him after carrying him to Izz’s cell.
Placing him here seemed better than elsewhere, this way, when he snaps out of whatever shock response this is he will be in a familiar secure environment.
Sinn'ous waves a hand in the boy’s line of sight, then snaps his fingers. No reaction. He has to say, this is a first for him. He’s seen many variations of shock, but nothing remotely this outwardly visual.
The sheet, still tucked firmly around Izz’s lower half, is red stained. He’s not sure if it’s from the men he killed or the boy. A hand to the chest has Izz flopping back onto the bunk, one bounce is all his body gives then stillness. If he didn’t know better he’d say the boy is on drugs.
The sheet is first to go, followed by the orange top and white undershirt, his lower half is bare, sending rage straight back into Sinn'ous and tugging a growl from his throat. One sock remains, and nothing more, save for the tinge of pink smeared over his inner thighs.
Fully exposed to give Sinn'ous the needed visual to check over his body while he lies there, eyes unblinking and unfocused.
Sinn'ous is clinical in his ministrations, running his hands up and down every limb, feeling for broken bones or abnormalities. Anything to indicate this state is a pain response to something internally wrong. When nothing is perceived as amiss, he slowly flips the boy over, handling him delicately. Next he starts from the hair, checking for head injuries before trailing his way down until he reaches Izz’s round globes of ample ass.
A deep breath is needed, a steeling of one’s mind to clear the raging words demanding he go back and violate all those men with dry, splintering wooden broom handles.
He pries Izz’s asscheeks apart, lips thinning into a snarl at the blush of blood he finds.
Fetching the sheet he dampens a clean corner, bringing it back to wipe over the reddened skin.
The anus seems fine, no large tearing or any fresh blood replacing what Sinn'ous cleaned away.
He is red and slightly puffy, but considering how bad this could have gone the boy is acceptably well.
If you ignore the unnerving lack of response.
He has Sinj to thank for his arriving when he did.
Once the remnants is washed off, Sinn'ous digs into the cupboard and gathers fresh clothes, setting it all on the bed beside Izz. Sucking in a lung full of air thick as rocks, he leans down and kisses both of Izz’s plump asscheeks. Their creamy give under his lips beg for him to take more.
Reluctantly he pulls off enough to turn the boy so he can begin the redressing process.
It’s almost an acrobatic sport, contorting limbs and maneuvering body mass to dress him.
Right down to his socks, all he skips are the shoes, no need for those when they’ll be staying in the cell, and it’s too cold in here to forgo socks.
Not unless you’re a masochist who wants to lose a toe or two to frostbite.
He scoops Izz back into his arms, sitting on the bunk and placing the light boy onto his lap. Untucking Izz’s sheet to wrap around the both of them, willing his body heat into the frail creature.
He’s not sure how long they sit there but eventually movement stirs in his arms and Izz nestles tighter against him.
“Izz?”
No reply comes, and no more movements occur. Guess Izz wasn’t actually coming back to them?
Satan?
Sinn'ous sends down an unspoken question of prayer. He wants to know if Izz will be okay, and at the same time he doesn’t want to know. Not if the answer is one he can’t handle. And right now he’s not sure he can handle it if his prey dies in his arms. Not by another’s actions.
He half jumps out of his skin when a guard walks into his peripheral vision. The only reason he doesn’t attack is nestled in his arms, clinging to him even while completely out of it.
“Sinn'ous, mind if I come in?” No authority is bled into Rogers’s neutral tone, it’s pitched calm and low.
“You drew the short straw,” Sinn'ous surmises offhandedly, eyes scanning over the delicate body in his hold. His anger dispersing the longer he stares at his prize.
You are all mine.
“Something like that.” Tentatively Rogers steps into the cell, eyeing Izz assessingly. “You have the guards’ stressing, I’ve been told you’re running around carrying bloodied individuals.”
A long pause follows, one in which no one fills. Probably because one of them is essentially comatosed, the other is treading on glass to not irritate the one who is a breath away from going on another killing spree.
Only time will tell who cracks first. Explaining why he is in his head over this incident is beyond his grasp of his own thoughts. He could be held at gun point, safety off and gun man a chronic epileptic, and he still wouldn’t be able to tell you why.
It makes no sense.
One thing he does know, his shoulder aches. Another thing he’s been unaware of, his hand moving slow circles over Izz’s back. He pushes forth words to block out the why’s to what he’s doing.
“What do you want.” It’s neither a question, nor a sentence. He is equal parts interested in the answer and not.
Rogers regards Izz for a time, then throws out a question. One of many he no doubt has. “Want to explain what’s going on? I can see he’s still breathing. Where’s he bleeding? We can take him to medical.”
“He’s not leaving my sight.” Rage hotter than anything he has ever felt spews up his spine, zapping into his arms to sizzle his joints. He turns that inner ‘fuck you’ straight onto Rogers, letting the guard see everything inside him written all over his face.
Rogers hands shoot up, a placating gesture if Sinn'ous ever saw one. “No. No. Of course not, no one’s trying to take him from you. I’m here to see what I can do to help. Nothing more.”
A grunt breaches Sinn'ous’s lips and he drops his eyes back onto Izz. Perched so silently in his lap. A soft rise and fall of his chest is a satisfying sight.
The boy still breathes. Even if he doesn’t yet respond.
What am I going to do with you?
It’s a question he’s not sure he’ll ever find the answer to.
He’s not sure he’s ready for the answer.