surface_level | (no subject)

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."

"You believe this did nothing for you?"

He slides his hand around the curve of Leif's jaw to catch the tears lingering there, not quite falling.

"...I cried. That is something, I suppose." He shivers again, tilting his head a little, shutting his eyes in something like shame for being this desperate for contact.

Assured now that the touch is not unwanted, Lucas ceases to be tentative. He reaches over and takes hold of Leif by the shoulders, gingerly dragging him across the floor until he rests Leif's head on his leg. It isn't the most comfortable surface, but it is a form of contact, and it allows Lucas to leave his hand loosely curled around Leif's shoulder.

"You may continue to do so, if it is a help."

He squirms just a bit at being tugged, trying to scramble by himself, but stopping as his back gives a stab of pain. He lies still for a moment, part of him anticipating the return of the belt or the lighter. But then he curls himself tighter, reaching out in the miniscule room, fingertips just brushing against the wall. There are drawings on it, close to the ground, childish stick figures, trees, birds and dogs and such, scratched into the whitewash.

He gives a shudder, shutting his eyes and letting his hand drop. The tears are more of those same soft, animal-like whines and moans, stifled by Leif's hand over his mouth.

His thumb moves on Leif's shoulder as he feels him shake, watching him. He remembers being this. He hurt himself with morphine withdrawals and binges, and cried curled on the street outside the penthouse he'd shared with Alexi, unrecognizable to the people who'd held doors open for him months before.

Leif shudders for only a few minutes, all told, ending up hiding his face in his arms, shoulders hunched tightly, from the force of the embarrassment and shame he feels. Somehow the location, this place, which had been a place for happiness and good memories, makes him feel even more ashamed.

"I'm sorry."

"Do not be." His thumb continues to move. It's as close as he usually comes to a friendly cuddle.

He whines a little, softly, fidgeting and reaching up to fray at the edge of the Ace bandage.

"Thank you."