Chapter Text
-Thailand, 2015-
First jerks awake, heart pounding, as the sharp crack of a door slamming echoes far too close. Darkness hangs in the room, thick and suffocating, but his eyes adjust quickly. Too quickly. He’s still here.
The wall behind him is cold and damp, pressing into his spine like a reminder that escape is not an option. He breathes in slowly, trying to keep the rising panic away.
Footsteps.
Laughter.
They’re coming.
A tremor runs down his arms as he stares at his hands. Filthy. Trembling. Useless. He prays they’re going to pump him with enough of whatever drug they use to keep him numb, dull, forgetful. But his body’s too used to it now. It’s not enough anymore. His mind is still too loud. Too clear.
The memories of last night crawl back in, slick and rotting.
He flinches.
The disgust makes him want to tear off his own skin.
The door across from him crashes open, and he’s swallowed in blinding white. He flinches, throwing an arm over his eyes as if that could shield him from any of it. From them.
“Looks like our little pet’s awake,” one of the voices sneers.
The other laughs, sharp and joyless, before a boot connects with his thigh. Pain blossoms down his leg like fire, and he doesn’t even cry out.
What would be the point?
In the unforgiving light, the damage becomes clearer. His legs are rusted with bruises. Some fresh. Some older, turning yellow at the edges. Blood crusts over cuts that never seem to heal. A thick cuff bites into his ankle, heavy with the chain attached.
His eyes flick to the IV needle buried in his hand, a silent reminder that even his own bloodstream isn’t his anymore.
He dares to look up.
The one in charge today looks different. Clean. Polished. His hair is slicked back, his face shaved, dressed in something too pristine for a place like this. First doesn’t have time to wonder why before the man crouches down in front of him, lips curled in disgust.
Then he spits.
Right in First’s face.
First doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t move at all. He’s learned. Any twitch, any spark of defiance only fuels their rage. He swallows the bitter taste of humiliation and drops his gaze, trying to disappear into himself.
“You’re in luck, Pet,” the man says, his voice a mockery of kindness. “You’re going home.”
The words barely register before a fist swings down like a hammer.
Everything goes black again.
· · ·
“First.”
The voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but it pierces through the remnants of sleep. A gentle hand pats his back, featherlight.
He flinches at the contact, instinctively jerking away with a low, mumbled, “Go away,” his voice raw and cracked from disuse.
“First, sweetie, it’s time to get up. You have to be at the airport in an hour.”
Her voice remains calm. Careful.
Too careful.
He lets out a groan, dragging himself closer to the edge of consciousness. His eyes crack open, lids heavy and stinging from the light flooding through the windows. The sun cuts across his room in sharp, golden angles, illuminating dust floating lazily in the air.
His mother’s silhouette moves steadily across the room, purposeful as she hums a soothing song. He squints, barely making out her shape.
Fumbling across the sheets, he searches for his glasses, his fingers grazing the nightstand before closing around the familiar frame. The moment he slides them on, the room sharpens into view.
Three large suitcases sit open across the floor, already packed to the brim with neatly folded clothes, toiletries, and the kind of essentials only a mother would believe he’ll need. First doesn’t ask what’s in them.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it feels real yet.
He pushes himself upright, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. His mom is already tugging one suitcase toward the door, her voice still hushed but upbeat.
“I made breakfast. We’ve been waiting for you to eat before we leave. Hurry up and get ready, okay?”
She keeps her voice in that same soft register. The one she’s adopted in the weeks since he came home. No sudden movements. No raised tones. Always gentle. Always measured.
She’s learned what sets him off. What pulls him under.
She’s lived through his silent breakdowns. His gasping fits in the middle of the night. The times he curled into the corner of his bed as if the walls might collapse on top of him.
She’s still trying to keep the walls from shaking.
First shifts his legs off the bed and pauses, staring down.
His breath catches.
His legs are bare. Vulnerable.
The wounds are mostly closed now. Some faded into thin, silvery scars. Others still raw and pink around the edges. A few scabs cling stubbornly to the deeper ones. His ankles are the worst. Angry red rings where the cuffs used to bite into him, the skin cracked and sore.
They throb faintly. A slow reminder of everything his body still remembers, even if his mind tries not to.
They probably need to be cleaned again. Wrapped. He knows that. But his hands start to tremble just thinking about it.
He presses them into the mattress to steady himself and breathes in.
The shower is already running, steam curling around the edges of the bathroom, but First still stands at the threshold, unmoving. The scalding spray hits the far wall, the rhythm constant. Predictable.
It hisses and hums, louder than the thoughts clawing at the back of his skull.
That’s why he always sets it too hot.
It burns, especially over the wounds still stubbornly refusing to heal, but the pain is something clean. Something real.
Something he can control.
He steps under the stream.
The water hits him like a slap, and he exhales sharply. His entire body jolts, then eases, sinking. The tension in his shoulders bleeds away as the water runs over his skin. He tilts his head back and lets it tangle through his hair, lets it cling to his cheeks, his forehead, his neck.
It’s only when he slides slowly down to the ground that he realizes how tightly he’s been holding himself.
The tiles are icy beneath him. A violent contrast to the heat above, but it helps. It makes him feel like he’s still here. In his body. Not floating somewhere far away.
Knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them, he lets himself go still. The pressure of his limbs wrapped tightly together feels like the closest thing to safety.
Minutes pass. Maybe more.
He doesn’t care.
He tells himself he needs to move. He has a plane to catch. But the thought feels foreign. Like someone else’s life he’s meant to step into.
Eventually, the water shuts off with a squeak of the knob.
First’s eyes flick automatically to the blank space above the sink. The pale, clean square on the wall where the mirror used to hang, before he tore it down in a panic days after coming home.
Flashes of the reflection that was staring back at him pound in his head.
A memory he refuses to let himself forget.
He grips the counter, knuckles white.
The flight ahead is long. Longer than any he’s taken. But Tay will be with him, and that’s the only thing stopping him from falling apart entirely.
England is waiting.
A new place.
A clean slate.
He can be a stranger there. A blank face in a crowd.
Here, he’s still First. Or at least, the ruined version of whoever that boy used to be.
He stares at the empty wall and feels hollow. Piece by piece, the old First was scraped away. Hours alone in that tiny locked room. The motel. Everything in between. The motel especially.
He doesn’t let himself go there. If he even thinks about it too long, his chest tightens. His lungs shrink. The images burn at the edge of his mind. Blurred. Fragmented. Stained in red.
He shuts it all out. He doesn’t have time to break down right now.
But the anger starts anyway.
A slow boil in his gut. Heavy. Bitter. He clenches his jaw, tries to shove it down, bury it under reason, under movement. But it pulses. Growing warmer. Spreading.
Anger at himself. For remembering. For slipping. For letting those images in, even for a second.
He promised he’d try.
But his brain won’t listen. It never listens anymore.
The drugs helped. They numbed the world. Made the memories quiet.
But his mom flushed his stash three days ago. Said she loved him. Said it softly. As if softness could fix what’s already shattered.
He’d screamed. Grabbed at her wrists, her clothes. But she never raised her voice. Just stood there in her pathetic calm while he came undone.
By the time he makes it to the kitchen table, every inch of him is strung tight. His skin feels wrong. His stomach churns at the sight of food, and the smell only worsens it.
He sits out of obligation. Not hunger.
His father clears his throat, opening his mouth to say something.
First’s head snaps toward him. Eyes burning. Jaw tight. The look is enough.
His dad shuts up.
“I’m not hungry.”
The words slice through the silence.
No one argues, but when his eyes meet Tay’s across the table, something in him twists.
Tay’s expression is calm. Too calm and behind that stillness is the one thing First can’t stomach.
Pity.
As if that’s going to help him.
· · ·
-England 2017-
“Now, First,” the psychiatrist says, her voice even and practiced. The kind of voice trained to hold weight without ever seeming to press. “We’ve spent a lot of time discussing the pain you endured. The drugs forced into your system. The people you encountered. The trauma that surrounded you. But today, I want to shift our focus slightly.”
She leans forward just a bit. The clipboard in her lap remains untouched, as if she already knows this moment is too delicate for notes.
“We’ve looked backward for so long. But I want to ask, gently, if there’s anything from that time. Anything at all. That we might use to help you move forward.”
She pauses.
“Something small. Something that helped you survive, even if just for a moment. Was there anything, or anyone, that brought you even the smallest sense of peace?”
First stares at her, bewildered.
As if she’s speaking another language.
Peace? In that place?
He almost laughs. Almost.
But the sound dies in his throat.
All he feels now is the same rage that never leaves him. Not even in sleep. It’s not hot anymore. Not the kind that explodes. It’s worse than that. It’s steady. Deep. Always there. Curling under his ribs like a second spine.
Rage that his parents let this happen. Rage that they had known. That they had helped.
He had pieced it together slowly, during the first months of therapy. Sessions that left him numb and shaking. At first the memories came like static. Conversations barely audible through the thick fog of drugs.
But over time, they grew clearer. More precise. Sharpened to a point.
His parents knew who had taken him. They knew why. And they had let him rot for eight long months.
His jaw tightens. His fingers dig into the armrest of the chair.
But just as the rage swells again, something else stirs beneath it. Something small. Something that doesn’t belong.
A flicker. A warmth. Soft fur against his face, damp with tears. A sandpapery tongue against the back of his hand. The tiniest weight curled against his ribs while his body shook from cold and fever.
A quiet purr. Low. Rhythmic. Filling the silence when nothing else could.
His shoulders begin to ease. His throat tightens, but not from anger this time.
“There were… cats,” he says quietly.
His voice cracks like old wood.
The psychiatrist doesn’t speak.
She waits.
His eyes lower, unfocused now, as the memory plays out. Shaky. Worn. But real.
“They came through a hole in the wall. At first they just stole my food. Not that there was much. But I let them. And eventually they stayed. One of them, an orange one, used to sleep against my hip. Sometimes two or three at a time.”
He swallows.
“They’d press close, and I’d pet them. They’d purr, and it helped. I didn’t feel so alone. They didn’t want anything from me.”
His voice softens.
“They just stayed.”
He exhales slowly, as if the words have taken something out of him, but also left something behind.
Stillness.
“That’s good, First,” the psychiatrist says gently. “A really good start.”