Chapter Text
The problem with surviving shit a person really shouldn't have survived was the fact that they survived it.
Which sounded wrong and backwards, but that didn't keep it from being true. Of course, it was good to be free— fucking amazing to be free of the collars and chains and everything that had ever been done to him. Graf wasn't saying that it wasn't.
He'd survived the thing. He'd endured and fought and lived despite it all. He'd been pulled out of the hellhole he'd been sold into and found himself… unmoored.
Because he'd survived.
He'd survived the thing he'd known was going to kill him. The thing that he'd lived and breathed and endured for years. The thing he'd become so good at navigating and anticipating and bracing himself through. The thing that had kept him fighting and focused on one singular, all-consuming goal. The goal he had poured every bit of his soul into. Every moment of every day, he'd spent with one purpose in mind.
All that— all that drive and fight and focus— it was just gone.
There was no reason to fight anymore. No focus or one singular goal. No purpose.
And he didn't know what to do about it.
About any of it.
Graf scowled down at his hands as they methodically scooped the chocolate chip cookie dough onto Pakin's brand new cookie sheets, as his brain whirled and whirled around the same shit he'd been thinking about for the last month. He'd been considering it all and thinking those same thoughts over and over for a fucking month, and he still didn't have any answers or conclusions.
Because no matter how he framed it or what words he used, the truth of the matter was that he just couldn't think up why he needed those things. Why did he need a purpose or something to fight or drive towards? What was the point? There was no point— none that he could find anyway.
So what was he even living for now?
His one goal had been to fight the fuckers, and he couldn't think now that he was out, why he'd done that. Why hadn't he just succumbed to the first asshole who'd bought him? Why hadn't he just let that bastard win? Why had he held on for so long? What was the point?
There was nothing on the other side of that finish line.
Absolutely nothing.
No lesson learned, no character built, no gold medal for surviving what he had. No prospects or future or anything but the reality of having to live with it all inside his head for the rest of his life.
But worse than the trauma he now had to carry with him, worse than the silence that ate big chunks out of him whenever he gave it even the smallest opportunity, worse than any of the bullshit he had to deal with now was the fact that there was no one waiting for him.
No one.
And he knew he had no right to complain about that.
He didn't get to be sad about it, not when he'd done it to himself. Killed both the people who would have been there waiting for him at the finish line. Who would have cared that he'd survived. Who would have hugged him and held him and told him everything was going to be okay.
It was unconscionable of him to even fantasize about getting any kind of affection from them when he was the reason they were dead.
But Graf was a deeply selfish being, and he couldn't help wanting. He couldn't help remembering what his dad's hugs had felt like. He couldn't help imagining the soft fondness in his mother's eyes. He couldn't help but think of what they'd say to him if he'd never killed them. How they'd comfort him, how they'd be angry and wrathful and enraged about what had been done to him.
And he knew he shouldn't, but he was so goddamn starved for comfort.
Which was just fucking pathetic and beyond stupid considering how wanting warmth and affection had turned out for him before.
And even with all that bad history of wanting affection— all those consequences to his seeking warmth actions— it still didn't keep him from wanting.
If he could just hold another living person's hand. Or maybe he could ask someone to play with his hair, or pat his back. Or fuck, maybe even a hug.
He wouldn't ask for genuine affection. No one had to actually care about him to give him comfort.
But if someone would just hug him, maybe it would be enough. Maybe it would be something he could reorient around. Maybe a hug would hold him together a little longer.
It would be solid and warm and— and even if it was just for a minute or ten seconds, he'd take whatever.
Because he'd be able to feel someone else's heartbeat. He'd be able to pretend for a moment that the person hugging him was his dad.
A blast of heat hit him square in the face and knocked him out of his head when he opened the oven to carefully place his filled cookie sheet on the rack. The ache in his eyes and chest dulled as Graf forced himself out of his stupid pityparty. No use crying over spilt milk and whatnot.
He double-checked the temperature, set a timer, and then turned back to the island counter to check on his several cooling trays of cookies.
Unfortunately for him and his daydreams, there wasn't a delivery app for that kind of thing.
He had found several delivery apps for groceries, however. Which was how he'd been spending the last month. Buying every kind of food he could possibly imagine, stocking Pakin's empty kitchen with not only the basics but everything else he could get his hands on, and buying every possible kitchen thing he could find.
He hadn't gone looking for the cheap stuff either. He'd done his research and found the best of the best. Pakin now owned the finest bread maker on the market, a top-of-the-line standing mixer, the fanciest blender in the world, and so many other things Graf hadn't even used yet.
Pakin's empty kitchen was now brimming with excess, and Graf had been baking nonstop. Not only did he have to figure out how he was going to eat all of the thirty-six cookies he was making, but also all the rest of the baked goods he had squirreled away in Pakin's fridge.
He really needed to ease up on the baking, but it kept his hands busy. And if his hands were busy baking, then Pakin wouldn't be able to walk in on him cutting up his thighs for the fourth fucking time.
Graf couldn't help but heave a tired sigh at the thought.
The issue was that Graf hadn't had to face himself for the past two years. He'd been otherwise occupied, so he'd been able to forget exactly why he deserved all the shit that had been doled out to him.
But all those old feelings that used to suffocate his brain and hide inside his every thought— the oceans and oceans of guilt that sat in his lungs and drowned him and choked him with every inhale— the self-loathing that burned up his insides every moment of every day— the compulsion, the absolute driving need to do something about it— something to atone, to ease the guilt long enough that he could breathe without drowning for just a moment— all of that had seeped back into his awareness.
Which wouldn't have been a problem if Pakin wasn't constantly walking in on him doing something about it. Getting caught cutting into his thighs, not just once but three goddamn times, was a very awkward situation.
It was impossible to explain that no, he wasn't trying to kill himself, and no, it wasn't a cry for help. He didn't have the right words to explain to another fucking person why he had to do it. Who could even understand that hurting himself was penance? It was punishment for the wrongs he'd committed. And it was also the only lifeline he had in the oceans of guilt that he was always treading water in.
He had tried other methods in the past month, less obvious ones, but a scalding hot shower could only do so much. And he didn't want to break bones— that would just make him an even bigger hassle to Pakin.
"Graf," Pakin's voice sounded behind him and Graf couldn't help but jump. "You busy right now?"
He whirled to face Pakin, who was, as always, preoccupied on his phone. Graf had discovered during his time with both of them that they moved around the house like wraiths and always appeared out of nowhere. Which was just one more annoying thing to add to the list.
"These look delicious." Chai stood closest to the island counter, hand hovering over one of the several different cooling trays as if he thought he was allowed to select himself a cookie.
The fucking gall.
"Can you guys make some fucking noise when you skulk around?"
"I do not skulk." Pakin looked up to frown at him, offense all over his face.
Graf tried to keep his amusement to himself because he didn't want Pakin to catch on. Pakin was just so easy to poke at, and it was fun to fight with him whenever he was bored or found some new little thing that set the man off. Pakin, however, seemed to realize that Graf was angling for another round and pursed his lips.
"Do you have time right now or not?" He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, all annoyed and suddenly too mature for such shenanigans. Even though he'd spent fifteen minutes making fun of Graf's new slippers just that morning.
"Maybe." Graf made his face do the 'fuck off' thing at Chai, but he was too busy eyeing the cookies to see it. "Why?"
"We need to talk." Which was frustratingly vague, but Graf had learned that was just how the annoying man communicated.
Chai selected a cookie like it was his God-given right. As if he was allowed to eat the cookies Graf made. As if they didn't have this exact discussion every single time something came out of the oven.
Chai thought he got cookies? Graf's cookies? Chai thought Graf had spent his time making cookies so that he, of all people, could enjoy them?
The fucking audacity.
Graf leaned over the counter and plucked the cookie out of his hand before Chai could take a bite.
"When have I ever let you eat my food?" The outrage in his own voice was high, but he couldn't make it do anything else. Chai had to be a special kind of dense if he still didn't get it.
Chai made a stupid face that Graf figured was supposed to look sad, but mostly he just looked constipated. It would have been kind of funny if Graf didn't know he was just biding his time to attack.
"And you got your finger oils all over it." Graf scowled at the man and made direct eye contact as he moved to the trash can and tossed it right in.
He really didn't give a shit about finger oils; all he cared about was that Chai knew his little tricks weren't working.
"But you let Pakin!" Chai made a strangled choking sound as he watched Graf trash the cookie and then flung an accusatory finger towards where Pakin was standing.
"I do not!" On top of everything else, Chai was going to accuse him of being a liar?
Graf looked over at the man in question, and sure enough, the fucker had one of Graf's cookies in his stupid mouth. Graf couldn't hold back the scoff that came out of him. They were both so delusional.
He marched over to Pakin, who tried to quickly chew the bite in his mouth and stuff the rest of it in, but Graf reached him before he could and plucked the cookie out of Pakin's hold and stomped over to chuck it in the garbage.
"You always throw it away— if it's gonna wind up in the trash, then just let me eat it." Chai reached for another cookie, and Graf slapped his hand away.
"No! These are for me. Not either of you." Graf pushed and shoved and crowded them until they were out of the kitchen and away from his baked goods.
There was no way Graf was going to eat all the stuff he made, but it would be a cold day in hell before he shared it with either of them.
Especially Chai.
Chai harrumphed and glared at Pakin as the man smirked, and he continued to chew all haughtily. Like he had one-upped Chai by successfully getting a bite. So much for him pretending to be too mature for shenanigans not ten seconds ago.
"Are you busy or not?" He spoke with a mouth full of cookies.
"I have five minutes until the last batch is done, and then I'm free."
"'Kay." Pakin nodded and then jerked a thumb at the living room. "We can talk in there." He turned on his heel to take the ten steps to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. Chai followed, scowling and grumbling.
Graf tidied the kitchen and did the used dishes as he waited for the timer to go off. Their voices were a low thrum from where he was standing, and it was kind of nice to hear the noise they made as they chatted. It almost made the place feel lived in.
Chai made sure to say goodbye when he left, and Graf made sure to roll his eyes at him. Chai was incredibly consistent with his fake kindness and congenial attitude, and maybe it would have convinced someone less jaded that he wasn't the asshole he was pretending not to be, but it wasn't going to convince Graf.
When the last of the cookies were cooling, Graf made his way into the living room and took the spot opposite Pakin.
"So what's up?" They'd had several conversations throughout the month about random stuff. Pakin hadn't walked in on him cutting himself up in a while, so hopefully the topic of conversation would not revolve around that particular bag of cats.
"Okay," Pakin tossed his phone on the cushion beside him as he let out a long breath and rolled his shoulders back. "We need to sort you out."
"Sort me out?" Graf straightened in his seat and watched Pakin's face as alarm bells started ringing in his head.
What did that even mean?
Dick's constant threats of selling him off if he didn't stop instigating fights at school were front and center in his brain. Blood was suddenly surging to his head, and his heart was thumping in his chest, too loud and too fast and fuck. He was freaking out for no reason.
Because that wasn't the case with Pakin.
Graf had been good; he hadn't provoked a single fight— not a fist fight anyway. Not that there was anyone to fight— except Chai. And he hadn't really done anything to Chai but glare at him and deny him baked goods. And the verbal fights he'd provoked didn't count because that was just banter, and he was like eighty-seven percent sure that Pakin enjoyed it just as much as he did.
And Pakin wasn't a piece of shit like Dick. Pakin pretended like he was, but he'd proved he wasn't. What was the point of all the stabbing Pakin had done if he was just going to turn around and sell him?
It didn't make sense. He needed to calm the fuck down.
"Yeah, we need to figure out your next steps." Pakin sat forward and braced his forearms on his legs, and Graf mindlessly did the same. "I was originally going to keep up the charade for a bit longer, but, as you're well aware, my fucking father came back sooner than I anticipated."
The thunder rolling in his brain died down a little. Richard had never sat him down before and talked about next steps. 'Next steps' sounded so… normal and harmless and businessy.
"It would probably be smarter to keep you here longer, but I obviously can't leave you unattended, and I can't keep hanging around the house— it's just not something I can do."
Wait. Wait.
He wanted to call it quits already?
But Graf hadn't even started thinking about anything. Not housing. Not bank accounts. Not government-issued ID. He didn't even have a proper pair of shoes yet.
Anger was the first emotion that welled up inside of him, but Graf bit his tongue. Anger had never worked for him before, not in anything outside of keeping him alive. So he breathed through it and tried to do the opposite.
"I…" Graf's voice was too thready and quiet, so he cleared his throat and tried again. Pakin had said months when they'd made their deal that first night. He'd said months, and it had hardly even been one yet. "I can be alone—"
Pakin opened his mouth to say something, but the look on his face was denial, and Graf couldn't let him reject the idea yet.
Because Pakin was safe.
Pakin threw himself into unfair fights on his behalf.
Pakin stabbed people for him.
"You can leave me alone. I'll just hide better! I can take a hit if they find me again. It's not…" He could deal if Pakin had his back. He would deal because Pakin was safe and Graf wanted to stay safe. "It's not anything I haven't already survived. I won't… it's not like I'm not already used-up. What's one more fuck—"
"No." Pakin slashed a hand through the air, and Graf flinched away. He was too tensed up, and sudden movements weren't helpful. "That wasn't our deal. I won't let you get attacked again— not if I can help it. But we can't keep going as we are, so we need to figure out what to do with you."
"But I…" His muscles were tight, his palms were sweating, and he could feel blood throbbing in his head harder and harder. "I want to stay here."
Graf didn't know Pakin, not really. The only things he really knew about the man was that he was a ridiculously wealthy mafia heir who could fight and kill without blinking an eye. And that should have been scary. That probably should have terrified him, but the man had done it in defense of him. And that made Pakin safe.
Graf wanted to stay where it was safe.
"That's no longer an option." His tone was firm, and his jaw was set, and Graf didn't know what to say to convince him otherwise. He wasn't good at talking. "I'm not going to just toss you out on the streets— the way I see it, you have two options."
Graf's eyes burned in his skull, and his whole body flinched with every word spoken. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be safe.
What even were other options for someone like him? There were no options. Not good ones.
"Your first option," He held up his pointer finger. "If you decide that you want to stay in Bangkok, you'll continue to be under my protection. I'll get you set up with a new ID and in a place with a nice kitchen. However, if you do decide to stay, then you will be under my care, and as my responsibility, there are some nonnegotiable things you will have to do."
"What things?" His voice was a croak.
Option one didn't actually sound that bad. Pakin wasn't going to just let him loose on the streets and leave him to his own devices? Maybe he could even invite himself back to the penthouse sometime.
"It's nothing bad—" Pakin waved a dismissive hand, and Graf blinked in confusion because his brain had not gone in that direction even a little bit.
Nothing bad? Like running drugs or cracking skulls for the mob? Graf wouldn't be opposed to it if it kept him in Pakin's vicinity.
"You're just gonna do all the stuff you should already be doing. You'll get your GED, get into a university, and graduate with a degree of some kind. Oh, and go to therapy— that's a must. And eventually get a good job, but that's a bit far off to be thinking about right now."
"What?" His heart stuttered in his chest.
"What do you mean what?" Pakin frowned and then sighed like Graf was being deliberately difficult, and then continued. "You can't get a decent job without a degree, and you can't get a degree without at least a GED. And it'll give you something to do."
"No, I mean..." He could be calm. He could have this conversation and not freak the fuck out. "Therapy? I don't need fucking therapy."
"Graf." Pakin scoffed and shook his head like Graf had just said the most outlandish thing he'd ever heard. "Yes, you fucking do. What are you even saying?"
"I don't." He did— he fucking knew he did.
What he'd survived in the last two years alone, Graf was well aware that was trauma. He knew it was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. That he was going to suffer and suffer because of it— but that wasn't a good enough reason to let another fucking asshole into his head.
He wasn't stupid enough to do that again. Not again— not when that was how Richard had gotten his hooks in him. Not when he was finally out from under Richards mind control and the hellscape he'd been sold into. Not when he was old enough to know better.
He wouldn't let himself be twisted and manipulated again— he re-fucking-fused to be some new fuckers plaything.
"Graf, I have walked in on you cutting your own fucking body up three times in the past month. Who even knows how many times you've done it without my knowledge. I had to hide all the fucking tacks in the house because you stab yourself with them constantly— how many times have I taken them from you? You think I can't hear you yelling at night? I literally had to keep you from burning your own fucking hand the other day—"
"I wasn't actually going to—"
"Don't fucking lie." He slashed a hand through the air again, and Graf sat back.
His brain was too busy panicking to figure out how to explain himself. He tried to mentally grapple for some kind of reason— anything at all to get him out of going to another fucking therapist, but he was coming up blank, and Pakin was making some good points.
"You stared at the burner with your hand hovering over it for a good twenty seconds before I stepped in. You need therapy, and if you're going to stay in Bangkok, then you are going to get it."
His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest that Graf was sure Pakin could hear it. His hands were shaking, so Graf squeezed them into fists and tried to focus on Pakin instead of the fear swelling up inside of him.
"What's the second option?" He was the picture of calm and controlled. He wasn't going to lose his shit on Pakin and prove that he did, in fact, need therapy.
"Well, the second option would be that you go back to your life. We send you back to your family…"
Pakin's mouth was still moving, but Graf couldn't hear anything being said, and he wasn't sure why.
There wasn't thunder cracking and rolling in his head or sirens blaring or even blood roaring— there was just nothing.
Nothing at all.
Huh.
Okay.
So those were his options.
Pakin wanted him to pick between two hells.
Graf tried to refocus because Pakin was still talking, but it was impossible. It was like he was behind a soundproof sheet of glass. He could see the man's mouth moving and the stern expression on his face, but that was it; he couldn't hear a word. But really, what else was there to hear?
He had his options. His two choices.
Become a new fuckers cum-rag or go back to Dick.
"Excuse me for a moment." The words were odd in his mouth. "I have to use the restroom." He couldn't hear himself speak and didn't know if he was being too loud or too quiet, but there was nothing he could do about it.
And somehow he was in the bathroom.
The sink was cold against his hands. He knew it was supposed to be his own reflection staring back at him, but Graf didn't recognize the face in the mirror.
But that was okay.
Everything was going to be okay.
Everything was going to be fine.
Because there was clarity in the silence. The obvious answer to the question he'd been thinking about for the last month. There was no point. No purpose. There was just more suffering. More torture and rape and fighting tooth and nail just to survive and do it all again.
But that was okay because he had his own option. His own choice. There was no reason to debate or think or hesitate because it was something he should have done already.
Something he should have done back when he'd killed his dad.
If he had just ended it there, he would have taken his jinx with him to the grave. If he had, his mom would still be alive.
It was ridiculous that he'd even lived as long as he had.
Graf found the box of razor blades he kept hidden from Pakin in the back of the cupboard and glanced around the bathroom.
It was big and spacious, and if he just let himself bleed out on the nice, clean tile, then some unlucky individual would have to clean it up. And he wasn't going to be a burden in death as well.
Best to contain the mess.
The tub it was.
He didn't pause or hesitate or flinch away from his decision because it was so obviously the next step that Graf was kind of embarrassed it had taken him so long to see it. It was an easy choice when everything else was so hard.
He tripped over the lip of the tub and landed hard on his knees, but he couldn't feel the pain he was sure had to be shooting up his legs.
Graf didn't feel it when he cut up the tips of his fingers trying to pluck a singular blade from the box.
He didn't feel it when he stabbed into the soft flesh of his wrist and dragged the blade down.
He didn't feel it on the other wrist either.
The rivulets of blood were pretty against the stark white tub. Graf watched them run as the world got softer around him.
And it was kind of funny that he was following in his mom's footsteps.
Was that why she'd chosen the tub too? So Graf wouldn't have to clean up all the blood when he'd found her? That was nice, actually. It was kind of hopeful. Because maybe even in her last moments— the moments Graf had driven her to, she harbored some fondness for him.
He was cold. He was too cold, and his head was fuzzy and dizzy, but that wouldn't last for much longer. Graf ignored the cold and the spinning in his head and tried to focus.
He didn't want his last thoughts to be of the terror that awaited him on the other side of the bathroom door. He wanted his last thoughts to be good and warm and nice.
Before everything had gone to hell when she'd discovered what Graf had been doing with Richard, his mother had been acknowledging his existence again. And that had been good. She'd even bought him a cake for his birthday. She'd sung to him, smiled, and patted his head with affection.
Like maybe things would be okay again.
Like maybe she could love him again.
That was his favorite memory of her.
Memories of his dad were fuzzy. He'd been so young when he'd gotten the man killed. But he remembered the warmth. He remembered what it was like to be hugged and safe and protected.
Maybe he'd even see them if there was some kind of afterlife.
Pakin's face was suddenly swimming in his vision. That was weird. Why would Pakin be popping up in his brain when he was trying to think warm thoughts? But there the man was, blurry and scowling and saying shit that Graf couldn't hear.
Hands were on him.
His wrists were being manhandled. And then he was too.
His brain wasn't present enough to keep tracking what was happening. His vision was fading, and thoughts were harder to think in the sludge that was his brain. All he really knew was that he was in Pakin's arms and the man was warm against him.
It was almost like a hug.