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When Danny is finally left alone, he tries his hardest to do anything other than think about food. Unfortunately for him, he's never really been good at shutting things out, and as he lies with his back to the mattress, one leg chained to the foot of Greg's bed, food is the only thing on his mind. He remembers honey glazed ham for Christmas dinner, and warm, sickly sweet cinnamon rolls, still steaming from the oven. He remembers with bittersweet fondness picking at spicy nachos on Cai's plate and sharing delicious, moist cakes from Mariposa. God, he even misses picking honeysuckle in the spring and sucking the sweet dew out of the plant before using the flower as a projectile, always aimed at his sister's face before she throws her own back at him as she laughs. That cloying, sugary on his lips right now would be bliss.
Considering his predicament, perhaps his hunger shouldn't be at the forefront of his mind. Since Greg finally stopped holding himself back, five days ago now, the man has hardly let Danny breathe. Every last inch of him is violated and sore and yet his mind is stuck on the recurring thought that he would actually claw someone's eyes out for the just the possibility of licking the crumbs off of their plate.
The day before, Greg had brought Danny some soup and a roll and Danny had declined both. The reality of his predicament had settled heavy in his heart, and he was starting to believe his friends would never find him. Rescue was never going to come. The entirety of his future is here in this bedroom, being used over and over again until there's nothing left. He had turned away from the food because he knows what Greg is doing. The man is feeding him enough to keep him alive but never enough to replenish his strength in the fear that Danny try to escape again. And Danny decidedly does not want to be alive if this is his future.
Refusing to eat is one of the only things Danny can do to get himself out of this. It is the only decision he can make for himself and he makes it because the sooner he dies, the sooner his Uncle can never touch him again. Greg begs him to eat, leaving the soup beside him in the hopes that the scent of the food will eventually make Danny give in. To be honest, the food won't begin to scratch the surface of his need even if he does give in, which he doesn't. The soup sits on the bedside table long after it has gone cold.
Now though, now Danny wishes feverishly that he had made a different choice. If the day-old soup still rested on the nightstand, he would have taken hold of the bowl and tipped it down his throat, not even caring if it might give him food poisoning. The soup has long been removed, however, and there has been nothing offered since. Danny idly wonders if his uncle will even bother trying again, or just use up the rest of the energy Danny has and move on to someone else. He is decidedly torn on which of those he wants more.
So maybe Danny should be dreading Greg's return and just what exactly his uncle will do to him next, but he can't focus on the fear with his stomach hurting the way it is. 'Hungry' passed him by three days ago and yesterday the last of the deprivation-caused nausea left him. Now there is just pain. It's a deep ache starting in his belly, radiating out to the small of his back and clawing it's way up his spine. It makes his chest feel tight, like it's hard to breathe. He's hollowing out with every cramp and pang and Danny rolls over to his side, curling up around his throbbing middle. His head is pounding too, and much heavier than it should be, like someone wrapped too many bandages around it, too tightly and then left him to suffer. His thoughts seem dull and colourless unless he's fantasizing about the feast he wishes he was having, and then he's fairly sure he's never been so creative in his life.
He tries to cry, but honestly wonders if he's forgotten how. His throat tightens and spasms and his eyes water, but they're not the tears he wants to shed. He clenches his hands around the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut, willing death to come quickly. Hunger like this is not something he's ever experienced before. He doesn't know how long it takes to kill someone. All he knows for sure is that he fucking feels like death can't be too far away. That and he would honestly give anything for a plate of brussel sprouts right now. And Danny hates brussel sprouts.
The door to the bedroom opens with a slow creak, and Danny refuses to look. He curls up tighter until he feels a gentle hand on his hip. "Daniel," Greg says, his voice soft. "Sit up, okay?"
"No, fuck off," Danny hisses, his face practically buried in his knees. He doesn't have the energy to move away from Greg's grip, and he's sure if he tries, the dizziness in his head will cause him to be sick even if there's nothing in his stomach to throw up.
"Dan, please. I brought you some water."
He supposes he should be thankful that after the first few days, Greg hadn't kept him thirsty. The hunger was bad enough, but Danny vehemently never wants to feel that horrible burning in his throat, constantly demanding his attention ever again. Instead of sitting up, Danny reaches out a hand, expecting Greg to press a bottle of water into it.
"No, Dan. In a glass. Come on, sit up. I brought you something else too, okay? It's just a pie, but it's all I had in the fridge."
Danny feels his stomach literally twist in anticipation, and he loses every ounce of self-control he has inside him. He forgets he's trying to be strong so he can get out of this. He doesn't care any more because there's food and it hurts too much to say no. Sitting up, Danny snatches the pie off of the plate in Greg's hands, and he wolfs it down, one gigantic bite after another.
"That's my good boy," Greg practically purrs at him, handing the glass over before reaching out to brush some of Danny's hair out of his eyes and instead of pulling away, Danny lets him. Oh god, he lets Greg touch him without protest because he's just so damn grateful to have food in his belly.
When the pie is gone, Danny's hunger is nowhere near satisfied, but at least he doesn't feel so goddamn desperate anymore. Instead he feels guilty because now death is just that little bit further away and he doesn't trust that he won't give in again. He never expected it to be this horrible. He has to figure something else out because every day in this place is worse than the last but the ache is too great and it's taking too long.
"Drink your water and I'll be back later," Greg reassures him in what is possibly the least reassuring way ever as Danny drains the glass of water and hands it back. "I'm going to go get a few groceries and I'll pick you up some ice cream, okay? Do you still like mint chocolate chip? It used to be your favourite."
Danny stares at Greg, wishing he could smack that earnest look right off the other man's face. There's no way he's strong enough, however. And even if he does, he's chained to the bed for good now. He could kill Greg if he had the strength, but then he would starve to death in that bedroom, alone and afraid. After just a taste of it, part of him wants to protect Greg and before he even realises he's saying it, the words, "please be careful," slip out. Is this what fucking Stockholm Syndrome feels like? If so, he wants to bleed the life out of whomever thought it was a good idea to define such a thing so he's painfully aware of it.
"Oh, Dan," Greg whispers. He leans forward to pull Danny into his arms and Danny silently curses himself for saying anything. The other man runs his hands down Danny's sore back and Danny believes for a moment that the shopping trip is about to be postponed while Greg takes advantage of him again, but the next moment Greg is pulling away. "I'll be careful, sweet boy. You want something more than ice cream? Some pizza? I'll get you some pizza, you should have more than just the pie, okay?"
With no strength left to argue, Danny simply nods. The door closes behind Greg and Danny is left alone again. After days and days of nothing, pizza and ice cream sounds like heaven and now somewhere in his traitorous heart, he's looking forward to Greg's return. The very thought nearly brings back the nausea because he knows it won't just be pizza and ice cream when the other man comes home. It'll be pizza and ice cream and Greg's hands and his lips and his tongue, and the traitorous part of Danny doesn't care if that means he'll be fed again; if it means he has a chance to once again hack away at the gnawing, clawing monster inside his belly which for the moment has only really been ever-so-slightly appeased.
He's so fucking weak. He knows he'll give in without hesitation and he hates himself for it because refusing food was his one choice and he's failing.
Curling in on himself once again, Danny tries his hardest to do anything other than think about food. About freshly baked bread and warm caramel sauce and his mother's fritatas which are so good it makes him moan against the mattress when he recalls how they taste.
There on the mattress, cold, empty, and afraid and with one leg chained to the bed, Danny remembers how to cry.
Considering his predicament, perhaps his hunger shouldn't be at the forefront of his mind. Since Greg finally stopped holding himself back, five days ago now, the man has hardly let Danny breathe. Every last inch of him is violated and sore and yet his mind is stuck on the recurring thought that he would actually claw someone's eyes out for the just the possibility of licking the crumbs off of their plate.
The day before, Greg had brought Danny some soup and a roll and Danny had declined both. The reality of his predicament had settled heavy in his heart, and he was starting to believe his friends would never find him. Rescue was never going to come. The entirety of his future is here in this bedroom, being used over and over again until there's nothing left. He had turned away from the food because he knows what Greg is doing. The man is feeding him enough to keep him alive but never enough to replenish his strength in the fear that Danny try to escape again. And Danny decidedly does not want to be alive if this is his future.
Refusing to eat is one of the only things Danny can do to get himself out of this. It is the only decision he can make for himself and he makes it because the sooner he dies, the sooner his Uncle can never touch him again. Greg begs him to eat, leaving the soup beside him in the hopes that the scent of the food will eventually make Danny give in. To be honest, the food won't begin to scratch the surface of his need even if he does give in, which he doesn't. The soup sits on the bedside table long after it has gone cold.
Now though, now Danny wishes feverishly that he had made a different choice. If the day-old soup still rested on the nightstand, he would have taken hold of the bowl and tipped it down his throat, not even caring if it might give him food poisoning. The soup has long been removed, however, and there has been nothing offered since. Danny idly wonders if his uncle will even bother trying again, or just use up the rest of the energy Danny has and move on to someone else. He is decidedly torn on which of those he wants more.
So maybe Danny should be dreading Greg's return and just what exactly his uncle will do to him next, but he can't focus on the fear with his stomach hurting the way it is. 'Hungry' passed him by three days ago and yesterday the last of the deprivation-caused nausea left him. Now there is just pain. It's a deep ache starting in his belly, radiating out to the small of his back and clawing it's way up his spine. It makes his chest feel tight, like it's hard to breathe. He's hollowing out with every cramp and pang and Danny rolls over to his side, curling up around his throbbing middle. His head is pounding too, and much heavier than it should be, like someone wrapped too many bandages around it, too tightly and then left him to suffer. His thoughts seem dull and colourless unless he's fantasizing about the feast he wishes he was having, and then he's fairly sure he's never been so creative in his life.
He tries to cry, but honestly wonders if he's forgotten how. His throat tightens and spasms and his eyes water, but they're not the tears he wants to shed. He clenches his hands around the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut, willing death to come quickly. Hunger like this is not something he's ever experienced before. He doesn't know how long it takes to kill someone. All he knows for sure is that he fucking feels like death can't be too far away. That and he would honestly give anything for a plate of brussel sprouts right now. And Danny hates brussel sprouts.
The door to the bedroom opens with a slow creak, and Danny refuses to look. He curls up tighter until he feels a gentle hand on his hip. "Daniel," Greg says, his voice soft. "Sit up, okay?"
"No, fuck off," Danny hisses, his face practically buried in his knees. He doesn't have the energy to move away from Greg's grip, and he's sure if he tries, the dizziness in his head will cause him to be sick even if there's nothing in his stomach to throw up.
"Dan, please. I brought you some water."
He supposes he should be thankful that after the first few days, Greg hadn't kept him thirsty. The hunger was bad enough, but Danny vehemently never wants to feel that horrible burning in his throat, constantly demanding his attention ever again. Instead of sitting up, Danny reaches out a hand, expecting Greg to press a bottle of water into it.
"No, Dan. In a glass. Come on, sit up. I brought you something else too, okay? It's just a pie, but it's all I had in the fridge."
Danny feels his stomach literally twist in anticipation, and he loses every ounce of self-control he has inside him. He forgets he's trying to be strong so he can get out of this. He doesn't care any more because there's food and it hurts too much to say no. Sitting up, Danny snatches the pie off of the plate in Greg's hands, and he wolfs it down, one gigantic bite after another.
"That's my good boy," Greg practically purrs at him, handing the glass over before reaching out to brush some of Danny's hair out of his eyes and instead of pulling away, Danny lets him. Oh god, he lets Greg touch him without protest because he's just so damn grateful to have food in his belly.
When the pie is gone, Danny's hunger is nowhere near satisfied, but at least he doesn't feel so goddamn desperate anymore. Instead he feels guilty because now death is just that little bit further away and he doesn't trust that he won't give in again. He never expected it to be this horrible. He has to figure something else out because every day in this place is worse than the last but the ache is too great and it's taking too long.
"Drink your water and I'll be back later," Greg reassures him in what is possibly the least reassuring way ever as Danny drains the glass of water and hands it back. "I'm going to go get a few groceries and I'll pick you up some ice cream, okay? Do you still like mint chocolate chip? It used to be your favourite."
Danny stares at Greg, wishing he could smack that earnest look right off the other man's face. There's no way he's strong enough, however. And even if he does, he's chained to the bed for good now. He could kill Greg if he had the strength, but then he would starve to death in that bedroom, alone and afraid. After just a taste of it, part of him wants to protect Greg and before he even realises he's saying it, the words, "please be careful," slip out. Is this what fucking Stockholm Syndrome feels like? If so, he wants to bleed the life out of whomever thought it was a good idea to define such a thing so he's painfully aware of it.
"Oh, Dan," Greg whispers. He leans forward to pull Danny into his arms and Danny silently curses himself for saying anything. The other man runs his hands down Danny's sore back and Danny believes for a moment that the shopping trip is about to be postponed while Greg takes advantage of him again, but the next moment Greg is pulling away. "I'll be careful, sweet boy. You want something more than ice cream? Some pizza? I'll get you some pizza, you should have more than just the pie, okay?"
With no strength left to argue, Danny simply nods. The door closes behind Greg and Danny is left alone again. After days and days of nothing, pizza and ice cream sounds like heaven and now somewhere in his traitorous heart, he's looking forward to Greg's return. The very thought nearly brings back the nausea because he knows it won't just be pizza and ice cream when the other man comes home. It'll be pizza and ice cream and Greg's hands and his lips and his tongue, and the traitorous part of Danny doesn't care if that means he'll be fed again; if it means he has a chance to once again hack away at the gnawing, clawing monster inside his belly which for the moment has only really been ever-so-slightly appeased.
He's so fucking weak. He knows he'll give in without hesitation and he hates himself for it because refusing food was his one choice and he's failing.
Curling in on himself once again, Danny tries his hardest to do anything other than think about food. About freshly baked bread and warm caramel sauce and his mother's fritatas which are so good it makes him moan against the mattress when he recalls how they taste.
There on the mattress, cold, empty, and afraid and with one leg chained to the bed, Danny remembers how to cry.
