Count Your Teeth

—The Last Day— Glam awoke to the cold. It crept through gaps in the blanket to drag an icy tongue across his skin and lock his limbs in place. A fierce bout of shivering finally broke him free from its insidious embrace, and he popped awake with a gasp. He sat up. The lightbulb above him was dark, and thin daylight struggled to filter through the snow piled up against the window. Devoid of color, the room was cold and still as a crypt. His breath formed clouds. He looked over at the space heater, its usually golden coils as gray as the rest of the room. Strange, he didn't remember turning it off. He bundled the blanket around himself and stumbled out of bed, the cold floor nipping at his soles and the chains rattling behind him as he stepped gingerly to crouch by the space heater. He squinted at it closely in the dim, turning dials and punching buttons, but nothing worked. Giving a frustrated huff, he rubbed his hands together and peeked behind the heater to check if the power cord had disconnected. A sharp pain zinged through his lower backside with the movement, and he sucked in air through his teeth. He ached all over, but it was a satisfying hurt that brought last night's memories roistering to the forefront of his mind. Had any of it really happened? If not for the evidence of Ches's presence around him, Glam would've almost believed he'd dreamed the whole thing up. But no, there was the cigarette butt ground out by the chair. The Twisted Sisters pendant around his neck. And, of course, sore muscles and overworked tendons that told the story of his own erotic endeavors. So that was what he had been missing out on. He dipped his nose into the blanket's folds, inhaling the scent of Ches tucked away there, and he allowed himself a shy smile. What they'd shared last night had been incredible, and despite the cold, Glam found himself warming from the inside out at the phantom feel of Ches's body slotted so perfectly against his, of attentive touches and hungry lips. Of Ches's love that Glam had finally found the voice to requite. Longing soured Glam's bliss. It hurt that Ches wasn't here with him now. He'd blown in and out again like a storm, and Glam was left solely with the memories to keep him company. Sighing, he shuffled to his feet. But Ches had proven that he always came back, so Glam just had to wait. He'd gotten very good at waiting, and if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to wait nearly as long this time. Giving up on the space heater, he next turned his attention to the electric kettle. It too was dead. As was the generator. This was, admittedly, more than a little disconcerting. He tried the sink, but when he turned the knob, only a short burst of water sputtered out before the faucet went dry. A low groaning rattled from somewhere behind the wall. The pipes must've frozen. This was now very disconcerting. But it was only when he caught sight of the panel of light switches by the stairs that he had real reason to worry. Something was wrong. Even from this distance, the change was so jarring it might as well have been painted in glittering neon pink. He blinked owlishly, not believing his eyes. The single light switch which had always been in the ON position was now set to OFF. In all the time he'd been here, it had never been off. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Wanting to get a closer look, he edged toward it before reaching the maximum limit of his chains, stopping himself as though an invisible wall stood between him and the panel. It was then he noticed the strip of ice-white light arching across his feet. This too was new. He followed it with his eyes up the stairs, where mute gray paled to silver, the very air itself lightening. Something was up there. "Ches?" The shaft of light urged him closer, and for the first time in four months, Glam took a step further. Click. The collar snapped open. Another step. Click. Click. The manacles at his wrists fell away. They clattered to the floor. Glam stared down at them in bewilderment then prodded them carefully with one toe as though they might be roused to life. However, they were nothing more than pieces of leather and metal. Small, harmless things. Distantly, he wondered how they'd ever held any power over him. But another, much more pressing thought was already vying for his attention. Go to him, it whispered sweetly in his ear. With the blanket wrapped around himself, Glam took the metal steps one at a time. He left the room, with its bed and tub, sink and table, tools and lightbulb. Now an empty tomb, it had nothing more to offer. And he ascended. A bitter wind gusted through a crack in the door, and it swung open on rusty hinges at the slightest tug. He found himself in a long hallway. The faint light of day guided him down its length. He teetered on unsteady feet, each step away from his prison making him feel emptier, weaker, as though a part of him remained behind while the rest continued onward. He went down another hallway. Then another. A factory floor. A series of offices. There was a door. He walked through it. He met sunlight. Breathed fresh air. Snow was falling. He clutched the blanket. There were no tracks. He made his own. In the distance, roads. Beyond, a highway. Downtown buildings. A park on a hill. Toy cars along the arterial. He moved toward the model city. The sun lowered. Shadows stretched. Cold set in. He felt nothing. He was nothing, an apparition against the snow-laden landscape. A lone leaf whirled into view and landed at his feet, blown free from some distant tree. Glam stared at it, marveling at how something without legs or arms or even wings could only fly once dead. *** What happened next to him would be later summarized in the past tense. He was found by a factory worker on her way home for the holidays. Tottering by the side of the road in his blanket, he appeared for all intents and purposes like a vagabond. But being the kind soul that she was and full of the holiday spirit, she pulled up alongside him and offered him a ride. His answer was to promptly collapse on the spot. He was first rushed to the emergency room and admitted for hypothermia. As he was laid out on the hospital bed, it didn't take the physicians long to realize he would need a host of medical treatments. He was hooked up to an IV drip, administered broad-spectrum antibiotics, and—once the details of his admission were brought to light and further diagnoses were made—a rape kit. The medical team worked quickly and quietly, furtive glances shared between them as they tended to their charge. Because very soon it became clear that this was no ordinary patient. This was no mere John Doe. Speculation became rumor, and rumor became gossip. Within hours of his admission, word had spread throughout the entire ward, then the hospital, and inevitably to the media outlets. By Christmas dinner, everyone had heard the news: Sebastian Shwagenwagens was alive. His family was alerted immediately. They rushed to the medical center, having to dodge cameras and accusatory questions as they made their way to their son's hospital room. By then, he had been put on a strong dose of morphine and was hooked up to a jungle of wires and tubes, a flock of monitors all chirping away around him. Clad in nothing but a paper-thin hospital gown, pale arms lifeless atop the sterile bedsheets, he looked frighteningly small. More machine than boy. Hardly recognizable. This was how his family found him through the observation window. His mother, Mary, wailed on the spot. Lydia's tears, more reserved but stinging. And even Gustav Shwagenwagens was stunned into silence, his usually stony face fractured to reveal a glimpse of the fragile man inside. Hope for Sebastian's return had been tenuous at best, stretched thin with time and all but dead after that damning videotape. They'd already buried Sebastian in their mind, and now it felt like they were seeing a ghost. The prognosis they were given was grim: Sebastian had been through a lot. He would survive, but the experience would leave him deeply traumatized, likely taking months to recover from. His family would need to be gentle; he might never be the same boy they'd once known. But right now, what he needed most was patience and understanding. Yes, they swore. We'll do anything! Anything! For two nights and two days, their son was lost to a dreamless sleep while they waited. When he awakened, his mother was the first sight to greet his eyes. She bawled uncontrollably, scooping him against her bosom and crying for her baby, her sweet baby, who could have done this to her baby? Still drowsy and not all there, Glam didn’t move at first. Everything was so soft and warm. Was he dead? None of this felt real. Why was it so bright here? Where was here anyway? People were touching him, and fabric chafed his skin. His mind sloshed through the overload of stimuli, bogged down by the drugs. But gradually the scene fell into place. This was his mother. She was crying. Her perfume woke memories of a time he'd not thought of in months—before. Evenings of baroque music and grand foyers of marble, a fully stocked pantry and crackling fireplace. As he was crushed against her slight frame, the strength of her sorrow and warmth of her embrace cracked the shell that had formed over his heart. The tears first came as a trickle then all at once as he reached up to hold his mother and cry on her shoulder. Each sob brought emotion surging up from his depths, months' worth of longing and regret and his long-hidden wish for home roaring to life once again. How long he had wanted this: the safety of his mother's arms, his sister's reassuring words, and his father's quiet but solid presence. The Shwagenwagens gathered around him on the hospital bed, holding him and each other. A family reunited through trauma. Finally, when the worst of their anguish had calmed and his mother could stand to leave his side for more than a minute, the police conducted their interrogation. It would be the first of many. Did he remember what happened? Where had he been taken? Any identifying information on the culprit? Did the name "Har... Ha..." or something ring any bells? Son, it's very important that we find out who did this. He can't get away with it. When there were no answers forthcoming, one of the officers asked how he had managed to escape. Glam's reply only left them more baffled: "He said I was ready." In the end, Glam could give them nothing else. It was difficult thinking back to where he'd come from, the memories already dissolving into a surrealist mosaic of impressions. And besides, he was too distracted by the fact his piercings had been removed while he'd slept. This was in order to conduct the necessary tests, it was explained to him, and as for why he couldn't get them back—well, they were taken away as evidence. Why would he want those horrible things anyway? He'd said nothing in reply, just looked down at his bare chest through the loose opening of the hospital gown. At least he'd been allowed to keep his pendant, and he now sat with it locked in a fist at his heart. The bandages wrapped neatly around his neck and wrists itched. The lead physician put her hand over his and told him it would be all right. He was safe now. The nightmare was over. She kept saying this, although Glam didn't quite understand why. In fact, everyone kept saying it. And by the end of his fourth day there, Glam began to believe it too. When he wasn't being monitored by the cadre of doctors, questioned by the police, or in the company of his family, Glam was glued to the window. From his vantage point on the sixth floor, he could see the news vans and reporters all vying to get a glimpse of the missing boy who had come back from the dead. A Christmas Miracle, the headlines read. Some reporters waved up to him. Others shouted their questions through megaphones. And one particularly industrious journalist snuck into the hospital with a fake staff badge and photographed Glam while he slept. He was transferred to his own suite immediately afterward; the photograph sold for thousands. Under the hospital's best care, Glam regained his strength. He was taken off the IV, and soon it was announced that there was no risk of infection from his wounds, although without reconstructive surgery, the scars would remain. As for his discolored nails, there was nothing they could do. He was released just in time for New Year's. Shwagenwagens Manor was swamped when they pulled up to the front door that cold and windy day. Paparazzi and onlookers alike trampled the lawn, hoping to get in a tasty soundbite or simply get a look at the miracle boy themselves. Glam was hustled quickly into the house, his wild, overgrown hair and manic smile caught in the flash of their cameras, no doubt to be printed in tomorrow's newspaper. Wealthy Heir Returns Home With a Smile! it'd read. Or maybe something clever like Reprise for Violin Prodigy! Dinner that night was a grand affair, the entire house staff showing an outpouring of support and affection for Young Master Sebastian. Even Roft was uncharacteristically warm, serving up his famous suckling pig to the many impressed exclamations of those in attendance. Extended family had come in from out of town just for the occasion. There was too much revelry to notice that the guest of honor himself turned down the offer of pig. The room was all bright-white smiles and diamond jewelry that glistened in the candlelight as the night wore on. In this palace of opulence and splendor, a toast was raised in honor of Sebastian, how good it was to have Sebastian here again, and how brave their little Sebastian had been after what must've been a truly dreadful experience. When he was asked to stand and say a few words, he raised his glass and announced simply to his audience: "My name is Glam." His bedroom was, in fact, not gutted as he'd originally expected. Everything was still in its place, exactly as he'd left it, right down to the model city tucked beneath the floorboard. Looking at it now, he saw it for the childish toy it was. Once a source of entertainment and fantasy—a chance to play God in a world of his own making—it no longer held any appeal for him. It'd merely been an exercise, he realized, one that he didn't need anymore. Vigils were held outside his window for several weeks after, mourning parents hoping he might be able to help them find their own missing son or daughter. But Glam couldn't help them. They didn't know the first thing about what he'd gone through. By the end of the second month, the crowds had dwindled to a few dozen, then a handful, and then they stopped coming altogether. With their leaving, life could go back to normal. Even better than normal. Glam had the loving home he'd always wanted. Treated like a treasure rather than trash, he walked the manor's halls at last feeling like he belonged. Getting reacquainted with the creature comforts of high-living took some time, but soon he was indulging in hour-long showers and gushing over the fresh ingredients of even the simplest meal. Never again would he eat something out of a can. His new litany of quirks were overlooked, from his unnerving grin to the panic attacks brought on by the sound of footfalls overhead. The symptoms of his PTSD, they said, would eventually fade. His family just needed to be patient. And they were. At first. His mother doted on him every chance she got, and kind words and tender hugs were never in short supply. Father was more generous with his praise, telling him his vibrato was impeccable when he picked up the violin again. Their father had changed, Lydia insisted after they'd shown each other their scars. They'd grown closer, reaching a level of understanding Glam thought he'd never have with his sibling. Everything would be all right now, she'd said. And Glam believed it. For the first time in a long time, he could say that he was truly happy. He was re-enrolled at the conservatory, the director only too happy to have the esteemed violin prodigy—and now national celebrity—back in their ranks. It added a certain notoriety to their already illustrious student body, and the school never turned down the opportunity to boast to psychologists everywhere about the healing effect music had on such a traumatic case. No one seemed to remember the scholarship student who had enrolled the previous semester and then mysteriously dropped out. Glam, meanwhile, did his lessons with all the rigor of a model student. He performed on stage, played first violin, memorized what couldn't be doubled in a sixth chord of basic triads, engaged in personal development like a good boy and excelled where he applied himself, much to the satisfaction of his parents and teachers. By all appearances, he was a success story, a testament to the power of resilience in the face of hardship. But inside was a different story. Despite the accolades and the awards, Glam recognized that he was merely going through the motions. Where he'd once felt enlivened by achievements, it was all so...empty. Nothing moved him anymore. Nothing felt real. He had everything anyone could ever want, and yet he found himself preoccupied, as though waiting for something. He just didn't know what that something was. Before long, the honeymoon phase of his homecoming ended. It was bound to happen eventually, and in all honesty, Glam couldn't say he was surprised when it did. Like a dying hearth left unattended, the fire of his family's love faded, the few remaining embers holding little warmth. Short tempers and accusatory glares became the norm once again, this time not for anything Glam did but for what he was—a stain on the family crest. Because no matter how harrowing his story, it didn't change the fact that he was tainted. Even dressed in his tailored suits, hair neatly trimmed and slicked back, the evidence of his defiling could not be erased from his parents' minds. It was written most obviously in the stigmata that branded his neck and wrists. The help eyed them warily when they thought he wasn't looking, and classmates whispered behind his back with ever-wilder speculations of what had happened to him in the months he'd been missing. Glam purchased a black choker and matching wristbands to cover them. His nails, he painted black. But it made no difference. He could never truly hide what he had become. Dr. Hans tried very hard to find out the truth, even got close on one or two occasions during their weekly sessions. But Glam deflected his probing questions with that smile that had become his armor. He could talk endlessly about the trivial stuff: school, lessons, family, the sweet kitten his mother had gifted him. And what's your kitten's name? Oh, it's— But, ah-ah-ah, Glam knew better than to let it slip, and he hid his secret behind another ear-to-ear grin. He knew his parents were frustrated with Dr. Hans for not making any progress, but how could Glam tell them that the son they'd had was gone forever? The police showed up for some more questioning. They'd had a break in the case. The remains of a downtown gangster with a penchant for call boys were discovered scattered in dumpsters across the city. One of the dumpsters had been located near the Shwagenwagens estate, and they suspected there might be a connection to the kidnapper. Glam was able to elude their inquiries under the excuse of mental exhaustion, and the police were dismissed with a stern reprimand. They didn't have the chance to question him further. He slept fitfully that night. Nights were the one time Glam let down his smile. Armor could be a heavy load to bear, and it was only when he was without it that memories of the basement would slink out from the shadows. In dreams, he'd walk down those stairs, one clanging step at a time, while chains rattled in his ear and his breath formed clouds. What lay at the bottom, however, he never got to see because that was always where the dreams ended. One morning, he awoke to find his kitten had failed to use the litter box. Glam took one look at the shit it'd left on the floor and wrung its little neck. Then he placed the body inside the box marked with a 37 and, along with his model city, dumped it in the trash bin by the curb. If anyone noticed the kitten was missing, they said nothing about it. Months passed. Winter gave way to spring and then eventually summer, but Shwagenwagens Manor only grew colder. Not even a full year later, and Glam found himself right back where he'd started—despised, derided, dismissed. Nothing had changed. And yet... Everything had changed. Normally, the rejection would have left Glam bitter and resigned. Instead, he felt nothing at all. He was untouchable, his mind elsewhere entirely so that even the judging looks of his family could not reach him. It was amazing what some distance could do. Just as when an object held close to the light can form a looming shadow too large to fathom, when pushed away, the dark aspersions cast by his family shrunk to nothing. In their place, that nameless something else waited for him. It'd since taken up the space within him where vulnerability once dwelt, a restless anticipation that invaded his thoughts and thrummed beneath his skin like a living presence, uncomfortably tight and baying for release. By the time his father picked up the ruler again, Glam had already made up his mind. He had to go. On the day he left for good, he never once looked back. He was 17 when he joined a professional band. He was 20 when he redid his piercings. He was 22 when he was hit by a fire-haired Valkyrie on a motorcycle and fell in love. He was 24 when he became a father. *** Glam pulled up the driveway, whistling a cheerful diddy. "Hello, beautiful home!" he practically sang as he twirled out of the car. Arms spread wide, he reveled in the feel of sunlight on his face and soft breeze in his hair. "Hello, beautiful springtime!" Goodness, what a glorious day it was! The May flowers were in full bloom, the bees were buzzing, and the birds were chirping. "Hello, beautiful neighbor!" he called out to Ms. Rose beyond the wrought-iron fence. The cantankerous old woman just shot him a peculiar look, which he shrugged off. There was simply nothing that could ruin this day. Unloading the groceries from the backseat, he bumped the car door shut with his hip and waltzed up the short path to the front door. Their front door! It'd already been two years since he and Vicky had crossed the threshold as husband and wife, and he still couldn't believe this was their home! From its dramatic steeples to the old, gnarled apple tree out front, Glam was convinced it was the loveliest house on the block. He glanced skyward as the first stray raindrops began to fall, remembering how the weather forecast was calling for thunderstorms this afternoon. Thunderstorms, of all things! This early in the season? Even lovelier, he mused. It'd be romantic to watch the lightning from their bedroom veranda. Two years! How quickly time flew by. Little Dee was already climbing down from the furniture without help, and Vicky had just announced yesterday that he'd be joined by a baby brother—or sister! Imagine that, they'd be a family of four soon! He didn't think it possible, but his smile stretched even wider. Lady Luck must really love him, to have blessed him with such a wonderful life. He slipped the key into the lock and glided inside with a squeak of his leather boots, hearing his wife's boisterous laughter coming from the kitchen. Looked like he wasn't the only one in a chipper mood today. "Hello, beautiful wife!" he called out in his lyrical voice. "I'm home!" "In here! I'm with your friend!" Tossing his keys onto the hook, Glam plucked the wine bottle from the grocery bag. Something special he'd picked up from the store, it was a California Chianti to pair nicely with tonight's lamb. Vicky would be sure to love it. They had every reason to celebrate, just the thought of growing their happy family enough to make Glam's heart soar. "Friend?" he hummed distractedly, gazing at the label as he turned the corner into the kitchen. "What friend, my love?" He looked up. And froze. "Look who suddenly showed up!" Seated at the table, Victoria turned around and raised her beer in Glam's direction. "Glam, why'd you never tell me about your friend from your hometown? This guy's a hoot!" She gave a toothy grin as she teased, "Now I'll finally get to hear all those embarrassing stories from when you were a kid. I never knew you snuck out of the house at night! And here I thought you were too straightlaced for that..." Her voice faded into the background, the scene going fuzzy as Glam stared at the man who sat so casually across from his wife. Hooded eyes, chestnut hair that now brushed past his shoulders, swarthy skin, and lips lifted in a gap-toothed grin. Glam would recognize him anywhere. When his stormcloud gray eyes met Glam's own sky blue, that one look pierced Glam's very soul. All at once, Glam was transported back a decade, down to that basement of concrete and shadows. Long-buried memories he'd thought would never see the light of day again rose up, stripping him of his defenses until he was once again that desperate, half-wild thing. Days spent in torment, nights spent in pleasure. His heart pounded in his head, deafening as a drum, everything going distant. "Whoa! Glam, baby! Careful!" Glam blinked, and Vicky was standing right in front of him, emerald eyes narrowed with concern, a hand on his arm. He glanced down at his feet. The wine bottle was now in pieces, red spattered all over the kitchen floor and up his pant legs. "You okay?" "Oh. Y-yes. Yes, I'm fine. I was just...so surprised." Glam flashed what he hoped was a convincing smile, although it shook at the edges. He put the bag of groceries down on the counter and grabbed fistfuls of paper towels from the roll. His hands were shaking as he quickly began to sop up the mess, plucking the largest pieces of glass with care. "Clumsy me." Right then, the sound of a toddler's fussing wafted down from upstairs. Within moments, it'd swelled into a full-fledged wail for his mommy. "Aw, shit. And I'd just gotten him down for a nap too." Vicky scrubbed a hand down her face and pouted her lips. Finally she shrugged and punched Glam in the arm just as he was dumping the soiled paper towels into the garbage. "Guess I'll leave the two of you to catch up." She shot a look back at their guest. "Ches, right? When I get back, you've got to show me that video you were telling me about." Ches had his own beer raised to his lips, but he nodded in quiet acknowledgment before giving her a two-fingered salute. "Thanks again, babe. You two have fun!" Leaving Glam with a quick peck on the cheek, she disappeared up the stairs. And Glam was left on his own. For a few tense moments, neither man moved. Glam stood at the counter, shoulders hunched as he gripped its edge for support. Clouds curtained the sun, and the kitchen suddenly dimmed like the light had been switched off. The air was electric. "Nice house you've got, Glam," Ches started conversationally behind him. His voice had deepened, Glam noted, raspier around the edges. Gravelly. It sent a chill down his spine. "Nice family too. Hot wife. Sweet kid. A second one on the way, huh?" He conducted himself with all the aplomb of a well-mannered guest, even as each pleasantry fell like a threat from his lips. "I always did enjoy kids. Think they'll like having an Uncle Ches around?" The first rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance, and Glam lunged away from the counter with a growl, crossing the floor in two quick strides. Grabbing the front of Ches's shirt, he hoisted him bodily from the chair to hiss, "What the hell are you doing here?" His eyes blazed with blue fury as he glared at the one face that had haunted him in nightmares and delivered him in dreams. The years had not been kind to Ches. Crow's feet already pinched the corners of his eyes, too much sun, booze, and whatever other shit Ches shoved in his body adding too much age while not giving him enough height. Glam towered over him by a good head and a half. But hidden strength still radiated off of him as he studied Glam with a disquieting mix of calmness and cunning. "Nice to see you too. You're looking...good." Ches paused, that half-lidded gaze taking in Glam's features where he was held mere inches away. He must've seen something he liked, because he gave a roguish smile. "What is it they say? The older the violin—" He pushed up the bridge of Glam's glasses where they'd slipped down his nose. "—the sweeter the music?" "Don't you fucking touch me!" Tightening his hold on his shirt, he drove Ches back, pinning him against the nearest wall. A picture frame showcasing his wedding day rattled noisily, just as a streak of lightning flashed outside. A boom of thunder followed. The hair on his arms bristled with satisfaction when Ches sucked in a pained breath and refocused his gaze through narrowed eyes. "Better be quiet, Glam. You wouldn't want the missus hearing us." Ches raised a finger to his lips, silver bands shining in the waning light. His collection had evidently grown over the years. Glam knew what each one of them meant, and his blood ran cold. He thought of Vicky and Dee upstairs. Trying not to let his panic show, he eased his grip just enough to let Ches's shoes touch the floor again. "What do you want?" "Would you be flattered if I said 'you'?" Ches's voice slid over him like velvet. "I've missed you." Glam lifted his lips in a snarl. "Quit playing games. I'm this close to calling the police on you right now and—" "But you haven't," Ches cut him off easily, so calm and steady and in control that even after ten years, Glam still felt his resolve threaten to buckle. "In fact, you won't. If you really wanted to get rid of me, you would've done it already." "I-I will!" "Glam, please." Ches rolled his eyes. "There's no one here but us. You can drop the act." He tilted his head, eyes falling to the time-worn pendant hanging around Glam's neck and then back up again. "We both know you want this. Me. You've never stopped wanting me." "No!" Renewed fury lent Glam its strength, and he glowered, summoning all of his hatred. "How can you even say that? You—you ruined my life!" "Ruined it?" Ches arched a brow. "From what I've seen, I'd say you're doing pretty well for yourself." "No thanks to you! Do you have any idea what I had to go through? What I lost? I've worked too damn hard to get where I am, and I'm not about to let you take it all away again! You were the worst thing that ever happened to me!" He slammed him again. "My parents never accepted me after—" Glam clamped his jaw shut on a curse for feeling like he had to justify himself to this maniac. "I could never come back from what you did to me!" Ches's counter was swift and sharp as a guillotine. "And wasn't that the point?" "What?" Glam gaped at him, pulling back as though physically struck. He suppressed a tremor when a bolt of lightning lit the sky outside. "That 'home'. That 'family'. Your old 'life'. Call it what you like, Glam, but it's obvious it was a prison. And I'm the one who got you out of there." Ches pressed on, shackling Glam's wrists in his hands. Keeping him in place with nothing more than the intensity of his gaze. "I freed you." Glam's mind was sent into a tailspin. "Freed me? You kept me like an animal! Imprisoned me! Tortured me! Made me do things—" Here his courage nearly deserted him as the most horrific memories came flooding back, and he had to look away, licking his lips that had suddenly gone dry. "I didn't want any of that," he finished in a small voice. "That's not true." Ches's purr in his ear sent a frisson of excitement through him, the words coming fast and hot like a fervid caress. "You wanted a new life, and that's precisely what I gave you. You'd been a slave until I found you. Dancing like a little puppet on strings for your masters. But I cut the strings, Glam. And when you fell, you were finally able to stand on your own." "No." The word came out automatically, even though Glam didn't entirely believe it. "Yes. I taught you how to keep going after you've been pushed to the edge. It's only once you go past your limits that you learn what you're truly capable of." Ches's palm stroked his cheek, and Glam stifled a gasp, wedging his eyes shut. "I knew you were ready to face the world the last night we were together. If you could learn to let me in, trust me, love me, after everything I put you through, then nothing could possibly stop you." He shook his head, unable to look Ches in the face. "You tortured me," he said again, reciting the one line he'd told himself over and over when he'd had no other words for what he'd endured. He could feel something begin to shatter inside him. "Y-you broke me." "And I built you up better. Look how strong you are now, my brave Glam. If it weren't for me, you'd have never found the courage to leave that poor excuse for a life behind. And you wouldn't have all this." Glam remembered the kitchen they stood in. His career. Vicky and Little Dee. This life where he was truly happy. It was a far cry from his wealthy upbringing, and he'd had his fair share of struggles, but he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. The thought of losing it was too much to bear. He'd spent four months having pain and fear pounded into the very marrow of his bones. But in the end...he had survived it, stronger than ever before. Could what Ches was saying be right? Glam started to hyperventilate, his breath short and thwarted, as denial burned in the back of his throat. His vision swam. None of this was happening the way he'd imagined it. Rain pelted the window in a deluge, and an invisible weight bore down on his chest, trying to drown him. He couldn't breathe. "I can't breathe...!" Shushing him softly, Ches eased Glam forward to rest his forehead against his, his hand nestled in the hair at the back of his head. "It's all right. Let yourself feel this. You're almost there." The slightest tilt of his hips, and something hot and hard grazed the inside of Glam's thigh. Meeting the hardness that was trapped inside his own pants. Heat burned Glam's cheeks, and he gulped down a lungful of air, somehow feeling dizzier. "How...how can you do this to me?" Shaken and in awe at how he could be reduced to this so quickly, he tucked his hips to rub shamefully back at Ches, his grip on Ches's shirt melting into one of desperation. There was a knowing grin in Ches's voice. "I told you before, Glam. No one will ever love you like I do. Because no one will ever know you like I do." It was true. Glam had never told a soul about what had happened in that basement. Not even Vicky. Especially not Vicky. She wouldn't—no, he couldn't put her through that. He'd told himself that she simply wouldn't be interested. After all, the past was the past. Why bring his drama into their marriage? But deep down he knew the real reason: He doubted even she would stay if she ever found out the depths of his depravity. "I've seen you for what you really are, Glam. I've seen you at your worst." A flash of a body haloed in blood appeared in his mind's eye. "Your best." Their final night together, entwined in the throes of passion, one hand bracing Ches against his chest as they kissed. "And everything in between." The flimsy constructs of his identity were falling apart around him, fail-safes giving way. His armor was gone. Without it, he felt pitiably small and vulnerable. Another salacious rub of their cocks, and the stiff line of his shoulders crumbled magnificently until Glam nearly collapsed where he stood. Ches welcomed him with open arms, offering him a comfort Glam hadn't found anywhere else. He still loved Victoria. His love for her was as genuine as the day they'd met. Their marriage, just as sacred. He would never do anything to hurt her. And yet what right did he have to say that? He'd already kept the greatest secret from her all these years, one he'd chained away in the basement of his mind. For so long he'd felt that something was missing. Now he finally knew what that something was. It was this, here, to be so thoroughly disarmed, laid bare and entrusting himself to the one person in this world who knew him better than he knew himself. Ches's palm smoothed down to cup him, and his involuntary moan was swallowed by a peal of thunder. "Tell me, Glam, what did you feel when you were down there? When it was just the two of us? When I could do whatever I wanted to you, and you begged me for more?" Glam shuddered, the storm of lust quickly wearing down his conviction. Face pressed to the crook of Ches's neck, he didn't remember when he'd started crying, but hot tears now dripped down his cheeks. He struggled for words, feeling lightheaded and dazed. "I-I was so afraid." "What else?" He traded his hold on Ches's shirt to wrap his arms around his neck. Shakily, he pulled back enough so that he could look into Ches's face. He was met by a placid smile, eyes gazing into his and demanding only honesty. "Like I was going to die." "How did that make you feel?" The air crackled between them, heavy with potential, as he breathed the truth against Ches's lips: "I felt...real." Another bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, directly overhead, as Glam kissed his captor, friend, tormentor, lover, and savior all in one. His Ches. What Ches did to him was unlike anything else, no one else capable of making his body burn and his soul sizzle like trapped lightning. This was rapture in its purest form, that keen yearning to be taken away, elevated, stolen from anything he'd ever known. Brought home. He was already blubbering when they parted, his thanks tumbling out of him in an unrelenting surge. "Thank you... Thank you..." Words were not enough, as Glam overflowed with gratitude for all that Ches had done for him, that he'd at last come back to him, and that he would accept him when no one else could. The storm raged, both inside and out, as Glam clung to him. Ches really was a thief, in every sense of the word. He'd taken so much from Glam, leaving him desolate and hollowed. Ready for Ches to sweep in and supplant reality with his own twisted version of it. Without Glam's even realizing it, he'd snuck inside and stolen his heart. How else could he make Glam feel precisely the way he wanted, admit the very words he'd promised he'd one day say? Although Glam wore no chains, he was still just as much a prisoner. Trapped in the way that only love can entangle you. The old proverb had never rung truer, the one that warned of those whom we let in, those whom we trust, and above all else, those whom we love: When a thief kisses you, count your teeth.