surface_level | (no subject)

He swallows convulsively against the choking of the leather, one hand going up automatically to claw at it, a piercing sort of strangled whine escaping him. But he keeps his lips pressed together and his eyes shut tightly.

Satisfied, he loosens his grip and the belt again gives Leif room to breathe. As he lets him recover from the shock, Lucas reaches into his pocket and draws out his lighter. He flicks it and it ignites and he waits, letting it burn.

"It is not weakness," he says softly. "To scream. It is release. You will feel this by the time we are finished."

He's shuddering a little now, breathing in short, raspy bursts, like he isn't quite sure how long it'll last, or if he should relax secure in the guarantee of oxygen. The tiny flame of the lighter catches his eye, and he gives it an apprehensive sort of look, shoulders automatically hunching together, protectively. He doesn't give any sort of answer to Lucas's comment.

"When you do... I will know that you have received what you came for."

Lucas digs his knee in as if in reminder that he shouldn't try to leave. After a moment longer, he blows out the flame, yanks the belt tight again, and then digs the burning hot metal at the top of his lighter into the cluster of nerves at the small of Leif's back.

Having expected to be burned with the flame itself, the feeling of scorching hot metal jabbing into his back gets a strangled sort of squealing yelp from Leif, that he immediately cuts off, clamping his lips together and shuddering violently, but silently.

"Let go."

The belt creaks as he pulls the leather tighter and begins to grind the metal into the skin he's burned, deliberately twisting it back and forth.

There's a dry, almost hoarse sob, but that's it. His nails are digging into the dirt floor, gouging deep furrows into it, but he's still silent.

"You are so very close."

His voice sounds almost soothing. He sets the lighter aside and then runs his long fingernails gently from one side of Leif's waist toward the other, still holding him firm between the belt and the weight of his knee. The touch is gentle until he reaches the broken skin, and then he swipes across it, nails catching and tearing the crackled and red skin.

That gets another sound, still strangled from the belt, something that might be a scream and might be a sob and might be a "stop". He's squirming now, clawing desperately at the floor, obviously trying to get away.

Lucas loosens his grip on the belt. "You know the word," he reminds Leif quietly as he inspects the red lines his nails created.

Leif exhales raggedly, reaching up and rubbing at the belt, coughing a couple times. But then he nods, almost imperceptibly, lowering his head again so his forehead brushes against the dirt.

He pauses, then nods and maintains the current grip on the belt. It will be loose until Leif moves, then tighten immediately. He reaches down with his other hand, carefully, and slowly begins to exert pressure with the tip of his nail into the wound. Blood starts to rise around where he presses.

He's holding himself still with difficulty, letting out soft, whimpering sorts of moans, feeling the blood welling up, shutting his eyes as tight as he can. His shoulders are hitching and shuddering -- he's crying now, very softly, not making a sound as the tears drip from his chin and dot the dirt floor.

The nail continues to twist and press, deeper. Lucas can see Leif shaking and, without thought, he begins to hum. The melody of the lullaby rumbles out of him, and then the words, very faintly. "Спи, младенец мой прекрасный, Баюшки-баю..."

He pulls back with his hand, then shoves his fingernail quickly harder into that bloody center, a sudden jab.

If anything, the soft humming makes him cry harder, hands fisting against the dirt floor, nails chipping and cracking from being dragged against the hard, packed ground. The sudden jab gets a sound that's less a scream and more the sound a wounded animal would make -- sharp, piercing, broken.

His eyes flick to Leif's hands and he lets the leather loosen immediately, pulling his thumb back.

"You are hurting yourself."

Leif freezes, because that's against the rules after all. It takes him a full minute to realize what, exactly, he's doing, the gesture of clawing and curling his fingers almost instinctive. But he pinpoints it eventually, the dull aching pain that comes from scraped-up and broken-off nails, and he quickly curls his hands into fists.

"S-Sorry."

"I will tie you if it is necessary." The words and the structure of the sentence convey a threat while his tone sounds as if he considers it a helpful offer.

He's very quiet for a moment, obviously debating something. Then he nods. "That will help."

"It will be arranged. Next time."

Lucas doesn't exactly have access to anything he could use to tie Leif with in this strange place, and there aren't many options for one who no longer has a wand and whom the Room blatantly dislikes. Besides, the blood is oozing down Leif's waist from the open scab at the center of his back. They had come far - Leif had cried for him. It was a first step. He undoes his belt from around Leif's neck and removes his knee, leaning over and sitting beside him on the ground.

Leif shudders a little, curling up on his side, tears still sliding slowly down his cheeks. He doesn't make any attempt to wipe them away, or the blood pooling at the small of his back. He does reach up and massage at his neck, speaking hoarsely.

"...I could not even do this right. I did not obey you."

He frowns at Leif and reaches a hand out toward him before pausing and letting it fall. He assumes any attempt to show caring would be rebuffed. It is perhaps ironic, that inflicting pain in an attempt to help leaves him feeling painfully helpless. But Lucas has never felt he fully understood the definition of irony, so he could be incorrect.

"Most do not," he finally says, looking at his hand.. "It is a part of the process. It is expected."

Leif starts to roll onto his back, then hisses under his breath and stops, though he rolls his head back and looks up at Lucas with red-rimmed eyes. He notes the hand and, rather than flinching away from it -- like he'd expected himself to -- he gives it a look that's almost longing.

"I do not feel released. Am I meant to, yet?"

When he isn't rebuked, Lucas briefly lifts a brow, then reaches out again. A thin, cold finger crooks and wipes away tears on Leif's cheeks with gentle movements. It is easier for him to focus on that finger than to meet Leif's eyes.

"You were close. It is best at first to take small steps."

He shivers a little, but it appears to be more due to the temperature of Lucas's skin, than out of aversion to the touch.

"I feel worthless. But that is not anything new....perhaps knives would have worked. Perhaps...triggering things might be more effective.

...I am babbling. I'm sorry."