Chapter 17
Sabastian
I felt horrible.
It was a rude reminder why I didn’t drink myself to sleep. I may be twenty-five fucking years old, and most people my age did drink themselves to sleep almost every night. But me, I hated it.
Last night, it was a great idea. Drinking so much I couldn’t remember why I was drinking to begin with.
At least, until I did fall asleep. Then, there were dreams of a certain boy who was crying. A boy who was clawing at his body and I was too far away to help him.
Now, at the kitchen table, my eyes kept traveling to Oakley. He stared down at the tabletop, either lost in thought or waiting for orders. His hands were clasped in his lap. And he sucked away at the pacifier, as if he’d had it forever instead of just one night.
Did he find comfort in it? Or was it just a way to try to please me because I gave it to him?
Leaning against the counter, I watched him, which thankfully made the throbbing headache lesson.
He was beyond tired, half asleep as he sat there. He kept nearly falling forward, catching himself each time.
How long had he knelt beside me?
I hadn’t expected him to be there, either. But he seemed to keep surprising me.
He could have run, could have hid, while I was passed out to the world. He had plenty of time to do so.
When he nearly fell forward again, catching himself right before his head hit the table, I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
The toast wasn’t too warm now, but I still put a slob of butter on the top before taking him a piece.
He jerked when it landed on the table before him. And, since I was right there, I took the pacifier out of his mouth, knowing better to assume he’d do it. It made a pop sound as I did so, and then I slipped it into my pocket.
His eyes went to me quickly before he dropped them back to the food. In that one look, so many expressions crossed his face.
Confusion, thankfulness, sadness, and defeat.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I took my own seat, edging just a bit closer than I had the day before.
I was done fighting to keep space between us.
I’d keep things simple, as they have been.
My heart wasn’t allowed to enter the picture here, though.
Nope. But this boy needed a kind touch, one to show him that I wasn’t like Donny.
Because if he had any hope of finding a life, he couldn’t be a scared boy out there in the world.
Oakley lifted a shoulder, picking at his toast.
The cuts on his face were still red, leaving a light bruising behind. I needed to check on his other bruises, but that’d be after I could think a bit clearer. The pain reliever should be kicking in for me soon enough.
“Well,” I started off, causing him to jerk. Was he going to jump every time I talked? Or moved, for that matter? “I slept good once the booze hit my system.” Maybe, if I opened up enough, he’d do the same.
Oakley was human, after all. Talking was the first step to anything. or so I assumed.
He flicked his eyes my way before picking more at his toast.
“Eat.”
Only then did he take a small bite, but that was it. Back to picking at his food.
Lifting a hand to his head, he jerked, pulling away before righting himself. He held his breath as I reached out, touching his forehead, fingertips along his hairline.
No fever.
Maybe the anti-anxiety meds I gave him made him feel unwell.
“Oakley?”
Quickly, he pushed a bigger bite into his mouth, nearly gagging at it while he forced it down.
He went to take another bite, but I stopped him by placing a hand on his before it could get to his mouth. He froze, holding his breath for a moment before gasping and forcing a sob back down.
I knew he wouldn’t talk willingly, even if I tried to coax it out of him. Oakley wasn’t a sharing type of boy, which was okay.
“Come here, little one.” I pushed my chair out enough before pulling him to my lap. Once there, he sat on my legs stiffly, keeping his body rod tight.
I wrapped my arms around him, forcing him to lean against my chest. His head went to my shoulder after a moment, even though he still didn’t relax. But that was fine.
I didn’t expect him to be comfortable in my hold. I was, after all, his owner for all intents and purposes. I was a stranger. One who screwed up with him from the start.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll let you have the paci back if you answer me.” I assumed he liked it, since he hadn’t spit it out.
He simply shook his head again.
“Then the guessing game,” I sighed, not entirely in the mood for that. “I want the truth. No lying.” I gave him a moment, hoping he’d maybe just tell me what was wrong. When no words came out, I made my first guess. One that was obvious. “Tired?”
A very small nod, as though he feared my response to the answer.
“Stomach hurt?”
This time, a little shake of his head.
That’d be my guess, given the long few days.
“Don’t like my toast?”
He went to reach for the plate, and I once again stopped him. “Leave it, Oakley.”
Trying to think on what could possibly be bothering him, I came up empty.
“I give up. I’m not good at this game,” I huffed, kind of hoping that if I was over dramatic, it’d get some sort of response out of him.
Instead, he slumped in my hold, not leaning into me, but also not so stiff against me, either.
“You have to tell me what’s wrong. I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me. ”
Nothing. Not a single word.
“Oakley.” I deepened my voice, and all that did was make him fight against my hold. Letting him go, he fell to his knees before me, butt in the air and head touching the floor.
Shit.
It didn’t help that his butt was bare to the room, and to me. At least the bruising was better, but still not what I wanted from the boy.
Ever.
Not sure how to respond, I stood, taking his uneaten food to the trash, and putting both of our plates in the dishwasher. I took my time, trying to settle on what to do.
Obviously, I was still messing up.
Running a hand over my face, headache throbbing anew, I barked out orders that I instantly regretted. “Go to the bedroom.” Before I could retrace my words, Oakley was up and running, a sob catching in his throat.
All I wanted was to hold him, to take away his torment. I wanted to heal him, and show him that I wasn’t a monster.
I gave Oakley a good five minutes, hoping that’d be enough for him to calm down before I followed him up.
Once in the bedroom, he wasn’t anywhere. He wasn’t in his corner by the dresser, either. Although, there was a certain book that was peeking out from behind the dresser. I’d deal with that later. I did lift an eye at it, knowing the boy failed at being sneaky.
Taking the paci out of my pocket, I put it on his pillow. He’d eventually find it. Then, I shuffled out of my clothes on the way to the shower.
I just barely stopped, spotting the hiding spot.
Huddled between the sink and toilet, was one boy who was biting into his hand. That was certainly something we’d be working on, but after I took a shower.
Ignoring him, I tossed my clothes towards the hamper, turned on the shower and waited for a few seconds for the water to warm.
I hated ignoring Oakley though, especially when he was clearly upset. But I didn’t know what to do.
I was used to littles and their tears. I was used to tantrums, which I didn’t put up with. I was used to having to give a boy or girl a time out, or taking away their favorite blanket if they had a warning to behave.
But I couldn’t do any of that with Oakley. I couldn’t take away things he didn’t have. Heck, I didn’t even know what he liked or wanted, so I couldn’t bribe him either.
Looking at Oakley, shaking and crying, all I wanted to do was coax him out of the corner and cuddle him. I wanted to wipe away the tears and tell him everything would be all right.
But, I could easily tell he didn’t want to be touched. Least of all by me.
I breathed out a harsh breath, turning to the shower to wash off the horrible night. Then, I’d figure out what to do. One way or another, I had to get him out of his mind, to answer me, and to talk.
Littles were easy, even ones that didn’t know they were a little. But Oakley was different. He was more like an abused animal. If I did one wrong thing, he’d be back into a corner.
Time.
I needed time that I didn’t have. Instead, I’d give him something else. something that could be his own, with only boundaries he set.