#13 - Sprawling on a Pin, for kirstenlouise
Title: Sprawling on a Pin
Recipient: kirstenlouise
Author: fabiennen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Browning/Robert
Word count: 4810
Warnings: BDSM, child abuse/paedophilia, self-harm/attempted suicide, (possible) eating disorder
The grandfather clock in Peter Browning's study counts out the seconds with languid precision. Back and forth the pendulum swings, almost mesmerising as it measures its stately arch. Robert follows it with his eyes, the only part of him that he dares to move; he's alone, but in constant fear of being watched. Each sweep makes his resolve crumble a little further.
He didn't mean to do it. He tried to be good.
By his reckoning, he's been standing in front of Uncle Peter's desk for three hours, twenty-nine minutes and six... seven... eight seconds. His bare feet have long since turned numb against the biting cold washing in from the open window - it is January, after all, and snow lies thick upon the sill. His thin shirt and suit trousers offer little protection. He won't shift, though, not until he's allowed. He's disappointed enough people in the last few months that he'll cling to any shred of approval cast his way.
He'd known it was a mistake as soon as he did it.
He can hear footsteps in the corridor. The hardwood floors of his late father's house carry sound well. It was something that had fascinated him as a child, running up and down hallways in heavy-soled school shoes just to listen to the echoes bouncing off the walls and high ceilings. He's sure that someone must have told him off for it, but the memory is so far away that it's only a fond recollection.
The door swings open and he drags his expression back to careful neutrality just in time for Uncle Peter to enter the room.
--
Peter makes no sign that he's seen Robert. After locking the door, he crosses the room to his desk and deposits an armful of papers on the leather-covered mahogany surface, considers the open window briefly before closing it with a sigh and turning up the radiator. It's only then that he turns his attention to Robert, and slowly shakes his head.
“I didn't expect to keep you waiting that long,” he murmurs. “You could have closed the window if you wanted to.”
Robert opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. Uncle Peter smiles and nods. “You can speak, Robert.”
“You didn't ask me to close it,” Robert whispers, his voice hoarse from lack of use.
Peter chuckles. “Oh, Robert. Oh, my dear sweet boy. You're trying so hard, aren't you?” He lifts a hand to Robert's cheek, his warm palm splaying out across Robert's cold skin. “Poor little one. I'm afraid you're not going to get out of it that easily. I don't think you've fully atoned for what you did, have you?”
Robert shakes his head violently. “No, Uncle Peter. I haven't. I'm sorry.”
Peter's eyes meet his, hard and unblinking. His broad thumb drags across Robert's full and trembling bottom lip, then pushes inside, sliding over slick enamel and then the softness of Robert's yielding tongue. Robert dares a smile, because it's always a good thing to let Uncle Peter know that his attention is appreciated. He sucks instinctively, at which point Uncle Peter withdraws the thumb and pats his cheek a little more forcefully than before.
“There's such a thing as being too eager to please, Robert,” he says warningly, before leaning forwards and pressing a gentle kiss to Robert's forehead. “Now... I think we have business to see to, don't we?”
--
He's not sure what makes him do it. They are in a hotel room in Los Angeles, all moisture sucked from their lungs by the air conditioning, and Uncle Peter is yelling. He has harsh words. Robert is used to arguing with Peter; he's a volatile man but Robert trusts him enough to feel safe yelling back. But this time the verbal darts Peter throws are barbed, and Robert is shocked enough to wonder if he means them. So he does the first thing that the cowering seven-year-old inside him thinks of: he runs to the bathroom and locks the door behind him.
Peter Browning is a good man. After Robert's father died and Robert was lost and confused, unsure of who he really was any more, plagued by frightening dreams like images seen from the window of a speeding train, Peter was his rock. Where Robert might have assumed responsibility for the day-to-day running of Fischer-Morrow, he instead handed that responsibility to Peter, and to this day Fischer-Morrow continues to grow. Robert knows he isn't like his father - he isn't meant for the world of business. Uncle Peter doesn't approve of his other interests. Art, psychology, literature, philosophy, none of the things he's been schooled to be fascinated by yet all of which captivate him. Uncle Peter expects him to remain the public face of Fischer-Morrow, because it's a Fischer that people want to see at the helm, but Robert is no longer interested in being the shadow of his father, and this is how most of their arguments begin. This time, though, it's different. Peter says he'd trade Robert to have Maurice back. Peter - Peter who has never said a cruel word to him and meant it in Robert's entire life - tells him that he's a disappointment, that he's not worth his father's name.
Robert is frightened by how much he loves Peter in spite of this. He wants to know that Peter still cares, even if his words say otherwise.
He can hear Uncle Peter pacing and throwing things on the other side of the door. He's surprised by how clear-headed he is all of a sudden as he runs the hot tap in the bath and searches his washbag for what he needs. Peter will know that something is wrong. And if he doesn't... it will be for the best.
With the aid of nail scissors and slashed thumbs, he pries one of the blades from a safety razor and brings it against first one wrist and then the other, over and over until the tell-tale spurt that shows he's hit what he's looking for. The water in the bath is uncomfortably hot but he barely notices as he slips into it, trailing blood on the pristine white towels draped over the side of the tub. He must have damaged something vital because the blade slips from his nerveless fingers and lands with an almost musical clatter on the tiles. He's aware, in a very detached way, of the sickening, burning pain in his arms, but it's like it's happening to someone else.
The water turns dark much quicker than he thought it would. He waits, and he waits, and he waits for Uncle Peter to rescue him. He's cold even though the water has turned his skin scalded red. There's a tide washing further out with every slow open-close of his eyelids, and each time it drags him with it. He's almost beyond the safety of the shore when the door crashes in.
--
Robert is removing his clothes. Or at least, he is trying to, fumbling under the cool scrutiny of Uncle Peter, who reclines against his desk and regards Robert like a specimen under a microscope.
In his frenzy he damaged the nerves and tendons in his wrists and no amount of physical therapy is going to make them the same again. Uncle Peter knows this, of course; he's waiting for Robert to swallow his pride long enough to ask for help. Robert's fingers are clumsy on the buttonholes. This, he supposes, is part of his punishment, and it's the part that hurts the most. Eventually he raises his gaze to Peter's, and his godfather sighs.
“All you need to do is ask, Robert.”
Robert licks his lips. “Uncle Peter... can you help me?”
The bandages hide the ugliness of the stitched-up wounds, wounds that will scar and leave a permanent reminder of what he tried to do. Uncle Peter takes his wrists first, runs his fingers lightly over the thin gauze, before moving to the half-undone top button of Robert's shirt. His hands are warm on Robert's cool skin as it's revealed inch by inch. He can see his reflection in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that line the study's walls as Uncle Peter pushes the shirt off his shoulders and allows it to fall to the floor. His godfather will tell him that he's too thin, that he needs to eat more, sleep more, rest more, get rid of that nervous energy that's kept him constantly on edge since his father died, but they both know that he won't listen, preferring to work and worry himself into the ground. He sees collarbones and ribs thrown into sharp relief by the pale light filtering through the window. Uncle Peter will berate him for this later, he knows, but they'll carry on as they always do.
His trousers fall to the ground as quickly as his shirt. He doesn't bother with underwear - he can take the pretence too far, and he knows Uncle Peter enjoys the thought of him wandering the house while he's bare underneath.
“Over the desk, I think,” Uncle Peter says, gesturing.
Robert sucks in a breath and steps forward to lay his upper body across the smooth surface. The leather has a warm, comforting smell as he rubs his cheek against it, and he stretches out his arms to grasp the opposite edge, knowing without being told that he will not be allowed to let go. This is the kind of thing that grounds him, this ritual, this routine; it doesn't come often, but he can always tell when it will, can almost taste the anticipation and see the spark in his godfather's eyes. When he's unravelling, Peter Browning stitches him back together. It might be messy, but it's effective.
“I don't think I need to tie you down this time, do I?” Browning says, his voice unexpectedly close to Robert's ear. Robert shakes his head awkwardly, knowing that his injured wrists make it impossible, and his heart skips a beat as he hears the slither of Uncle Peter's belt being pulled through the loops.
--
The vase is expensive, an antique. He's not quite sure what that word means, but it's one of his mother's favourite things, standing in pride of place on the table with spindly legs before the window in the dining room. He's fascinated by the way it catches the sunlight, captures it and fractures it and sends it off in other directions. He's not tall enough to see it properly, but he's in the habit of taking a chair from the table and clambering up to prop his elbows on the tabletop and stare at it for hours. If it's one of his mother's favourite things, it'll be one of his favourites too.
This morning, however, he catches the tablecloth just wrong. The vase topples, rolls off, and smashes into a hundred pieces on the floor.
Any sensible child would have run, and blamed it on someone else if questioned. Robert doesn't. He stands there, paralysed, staring at the shards of crystal scattered around his feet, until a hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes hard enough to be painful. He looks up. It's Uncle Peter, clearly attracted by the heart-stopping noise of a priceless heirloom's demise, and his face is angrier than Robert has ever seen it before.
“What did you do, Robert?” he asks. His tone is oddly gentle, in sharp contrast to his expression, but his hand remains tight on Robert's shoulder.
Robert looks at the shattered crystal and feels tears well up, but he doesn't let them fall. “I broke it,” he says, and then, “I didn't mean to... I just wanted to look at it...”
If it was his father who'd caught him, he'd already be getting the thrashing of his life, he's sure of it. Uncle Peter is different. He believes in discipline just as much as Maurice does, but he teaches lessons along the way. Robert has already learned via Uncle Peter's creative ministrations that he must always eat his vegetables, that he shouldn't pull the cat's tail, that he should never take money from his mother's purse no matter what it's for. The lessons hurt more than his father could ever manage, but he knows not to do those things again.
Uncle Peter picks up a piece of the broken vase from the floor. It catches the light as he lifts it, and Robert is mesmerised. The fractured edges are knife-sharp and cruel. “Hold out your hand,” Uncle Peter says, and Robert does, thought he knows it's the last thing in the world he wants to do right then. The crystal falls into his palm with an ominous weight.
“What...?” he begins to ask, but Uncle Peter silences him with a finger pressed to his lips.
“You know this is for your own good,” he says, closing his large hand around Robert's far smaller one and holding it as tight as he can.
Robert gasps and bites his tongue to stifle the sound as the crystal cuts into his palm. Really he'd known how this lesson was going to go right from the start, but that knowledge makes it no easier to prepare for. Uncle Peter kneels in front of him so that they're eye-to-eye, tells him he only does this because he loves Robert and he wants him to be the best person that he can be, while blood runs down Robert's arm and soaks into his sweater (later, he will tell his mother that he cut himself trying to hide the broken glass, and earn another beating from his father). Robert nods and understands completely.
When the bloodied piece of broken vase finally falls to the floor, Robert's aware of the reaction he's had before when Uncle Peter's been teaching him a lesson. He's not sure why it happens, but he's sure it's something to be guilty about, something else he could be punished for, and he's always tried to hide it. But this time, Uncle Peter notices. Robert doesn't understand the strange flash in his eyes, the tremor that passes across the man's face, but he understands that it feels nice when Uncle Peter touches the front of his trousers. He feels strange, like he ought to be sick, but it's too good for that.
“This will be our secret, Robert,” Uncle Peter says, unbuckling Robert's belt. Robert doesn't know how to stop him, but right now he doesn't want to. Uncle Peter's fingers are trembling and his breath comes hard and fast, and there's something thrilling in knowing that it's Robert who's done that.
And with wide-eyed seven-year-old wonder, Robert learns by Uncle Peter's steady, careful hands, quiet voice and soft mouth, just how to take care of himself.
--
Robert flinches as the belt lands across the top of his thighs. It's not hard enough to really hurt, but he knows it's only a warning; there's a gentle, stinging warmth, and the sound is more than enough. The second blow is harder and he bites down on a cry. Uncle Peter is practised enough in this art that the two strikes land almost precisely on top of each other. It would be easier to handle if the pain of it didn't go straight to his cock, if that horrible, wrong sense of longing were ever to go away, but it never does. It's something so engrained in his psyche that it's virtually a part of him, like Uncle Peter is a part of him, a second half that always seems to know what he really wants.
“I don't hear you counting, Robert,” his godfather says, his voice low and dangerous. Robert doesn't have much sense of self-preservation, but he knows not to question that tone.
“Three,” he moans obediently as the belt lands in a line of pure fire right across his arse. He imagines he can see Uncle Peter's approving smile, and manages a smile of his own.
He keeps count long past the stage where he can feel each individual strike. His entire world is narrowed down to those escalating numbers, keeping hold of the desk, and remembering to breathe, enough that he doesn't even hear the jangle of the belt falling to the floor; it's the pressure of Uncle Peter's hands on his raw skin that pulls him back to reality.
--
Robert is eleven years old.
It's a few weeks after his mother has died. The house is mostly silent, for most of the time. The string of heartbroken relatives has long since dried up, and Robert is the invisible boy. His father has buried himself in work, shut himself away in his office from dawn until dusk, leaving Robert to wander the cold, empty hallways in search of his own amusement.
He's been told he's a wicked child for his lack of outward grief, but in truth he doesn't understand how to express the fact that he misses his mother more than he can say. His father would find tears and hysteria unbecoming of his future heir, and he can't affect helpless anger nearly as well as Fischer Senior. The first person who sits down with him and asks him how he is feeling is Uncle Peter.
He knows that Uncle Peter is not a real uncle. He is related neither to his father nor to his mother, but he is Robert's godfather and has been one of the few constants in his short life. He knows that Uncle Peter misses his mother too, and he has heard the angry words exchanged behind the closed doors of his father's office between his father and his oldest friend. He also knows that what Uncle Peter does sometimes, late at night in the stifling warmth of Robert's bedclothes, or under the guise of chastising him for some mild misdemeanour (Robert is always a very well-behaved child), is wrong. It's why they keep it secret from Robert's father, and why Robert must never, ever tell another soul. But it makes Robert feel special, makes him feel wanted when he's been cast aside by the person who should care for him the most; and, though it makes his gut twist with hot, sickening guilt, it makes him feel good, and grown-up, more than the other children he knows. Uncle Peter knows all of this too, because Uncle Peter understands Robert like no one else can.
"The thing is," Uncle Peter says, looking out at the gardens while Robert swings his legs on the too-high window seat, "the thing is, Robert, you're going to have to grow up sooner than your friends." He glances down at Robert, a tight smile curling the corners of his mouth. "You want to take over your father's empire one day, don't you?"
Robert nods. He's never really considered that he has any other option; it's the notion he's become used to since he was old enough to realise his father's importance, and the one thing he wants above everything else is to make his father proud of him.
Uncle Peter looks thoughtful. Robert knows how to read his feelings very well - Uncle Peter's face is unfailingly expressive, and Robert's always been good at seeing what happens behind other people's façades. It comes of being constantly lied to from an early age. “Then you have to learn quickly, little one.” It's his pet name, one he's used with Robert for as long as he can remember, and Robert's stomach clenches in a pleased sort of way. “Now, how do you think you get ahead in the business world?”
Robert smiles. He knows this one by heart. “You fuck other people, or you'll get fucked yourself,” he recites, gazing up at Uncle Peter demurely through his eyelashes. Uncle Peter chuckles and ruffles his hair affectionately.
“Well-put, though go easy on the curse words, hm?” He studies Robert's face. “But did you know, Robert, that sometimes you can let someone think they're fucking you, and then right at the end you let them know that you've been fucking them all along?”
Robert doesn't know what Uncle Peter means, but he grins all the same.
--
Robert is shaking. He's like a pinned insect, struggling desperately on his labelled piece of card yet unable to break free. He wants nothing more than to slide to the floor, curl up in a ball, hug himself and sob until he's drained of everything, but he won't do it, because Uncle Peter tells him he's better than that.
Uncle Peter is behind him, his hands moving over the bruises, welts and weals that decorate Robert's lower back, arse and thighs. They seemed warm before, but now they're blessedly cool on the heated skin. As Robert flinches away from the touch he grinds against the desk, and the stimulation is almost too much for his overloaded senses.
“I think the message has sunk in, don't you?” he whispers. His breath is very close to the base of Robert's spine, and it makes him shiver. He's desperate to turn around and see what Peter's doing, yet he doesn't dare. His fingernails leave marks in the leather as he wrestles with his self-control.
“Please... Uncle Peter... I...”
His godfather chuckles. “Don't worry, Robert.” And then there's a knee nudging between his thighs, pushing them apart. He spreads his legs obediently, shuddering uncontrollably with anticipation, but he's entirely unprepared for the sudden sensation of Uncle Peter's mouth where he most wants it. The heat and the wetness and the light scratch of stubble on hypersensitive flesh makes his eyes roll back and he moans unashamedly as he's opened up, first by tongue and then by saliva-slicked fingers, until he hears the sound of Uncle Peter's zip and feels the sudden stretch and burn that he's never grown used to. He doesn't want to. It feels too good, every time, and for some reason he finds himself close to tears. Uncle Peter loves him so much. He's too good to Robert, to take such care with him, to concern himself so intensely with his well-being.
The rhythm is familiar and oddly comforting. Uncle Peter leans over his back, avoids the most damaged parts, strokes Robert's damp hair back from his face and whispers words of comfort as he fucks him into the desk. He stops when Robert is close to coming, holds him at the base until they're both ready, and when they fall over the edge, it's together. Robert feels safe, and warm, and loved, as Uncle Peter holds him through the aftershocks and kisses his cheek, murmuring nonsense into his ear.
--
Robert is seventeen years old when he finally understands the feeling that consumes his every waking moment. He's heard his peers talk about it, although it always seems to be the girls - it's not the sort of thing a normal seventeen-year-old boy admits to. But he's sneaked a look at their magazines and even read the books in the school library in search of an explanation, and he's sure.
He can't explain to Uncle Peter that he's afraid of growing up. He's afraid that when he grows up, Uncle Peter won't want him any longer, that he'll be cast aside by the older man just as his own father has cast him aside. At first it makes him sick; he loses weight, shrinking beneath his school uniform, and suddenly realises how to stop growing up for good. It's frighteningly easy.
If his father notices, he doesn't say. The most Robert ever attracts from him is a critical frown, the vaguest sign that Maurice Fischer notices that something is not right with his only child, but to him Robert is easily old enough to look after himself. Robert is strangely grateful for that concession; it's the only time that he prefers his father over Uncle Peter, because his godfather sometimes seems to forget that Robert is nearly an adult and not a seven-year-old boy any longer. That's what terrifies Robert the most - Uncle Peter cannot ignore that forever.
“Uncle Peter, do you think I could speak to you in private?” he asks nervously, standing at the door of his godfather's office. It's been one of those days where he's returned home to find dinner laid on with no sign of his father; he's used to eating on his own, and now it makes it easier to hide the food rather than consuming it. He cycles to Uncle Peter's house instead of taking the car, even though he can legally drive it, and arrives breathless and light-headed as Uncle Peter returns from his evening jog. He's always welcome there. It's one of the few places he feels he could call home.
There is only the cleaner dusting the hallway, and she is paid to clean, not to listen, but Uncle Peter takes Robert by the shoulder and leads him inside. He frowns as he lets go, and smoothes out the fabric of Robert's sweater where it has become crumpled. “Have you lost weight?” he asks, tracing the edge of Robert's collarbone, and Robert tries to hide the flush that creeps up his face.
“Maybe. A little. I don't know. I don't have very much appetite recently. Father's never at dinner.”
Uncle Peter nods. “I'll try to talk to him, hmm? You should be careful, little one. You don't have weight to spare!” As though to demonstrate, he pats the small paunch that has of late begun to strain at the front of his shirt, that Robert has taken a secret liking to. “Now, what did you want to say?”
So Robert, with much twisting of fingers and stumbling over words, tells Peter Browning that he's in love with him.
They keep it a secret, as much as they've kept many secrets since the day Robert broke his mother's vase. Maurice Fischer once asked his son why he would never bring girls home, never take them out on dates like normal boys did, going to the cinema or out to dinner or even for an evening drive. Robert diverted the question then, explaining that he would prefer to concentrate on his studies than on chasing girls, if he was to enter his father's company when he was old enough. Maurice seemed oddly sad at that, but he never asked anything as long as Robert's grades remained perfect. Robert wanted to feel guilty for lying, knowing the dance that he and Uncle Peter performed behind Maurice's back.
He likes to think of it as a dance, still; it makes it sound more poetic than it really is. He's learned so much from his godfather that school would never teach him. He's learned the cold, harsh, truthful reality that pain is the best mentor a boy can have. He's learned how to please, how to use his hands and mouth and body to his advantage, because nature has granted him that one thing - a physical appearance that attracts both girls and boys like so many wasps crowded round a pot of jam. Later, long after this day, Uncle Peter will teach him how that attraction can be used in the world of commerce, where there are men willing to forgive a pretty face and a skilled hand for a moment's indiscretion. All of these things can be used, and Robert is very much familiar with being used, but it's different when it's all for the greater good.
This time, Uncle Peter says he loves him back. Robert doesn't know if he means it, but it doesn't matter, not right now. Uncle Peter will bend him over his desk and show him that he loves him in the most effective way, with the praise of his body. Robert won't see the pain in the older man's face at the sharpness of Robert's bones or the thinness of his skin, and he won't care if those hands and mouth falter, because to him he is loved by someone and that's all that matters.
--
“I love you.”
Robert doesn't often say it, and it's murmured against his godfather's shoulder, muffled by skin still tacky with sweat. Uncle Peter shifts, hugging Robert closer beneath the thick quilt, sharing his warmth with that fragile body that always seems to be cold.
And he says nothing at all.
Recipient: kirstenlouise
Author: fabiennen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Browning/Robert
Word count: 4810
Warnings: BDSM, child abuse/paedophilia, self-harm/attempted suicide, (possible) eating disorder
The grandfather clock in Peter Browning's study counts out the seconds with languid precision. Back and forth the pendulum swings, almost mesmerising as it measures its stately arch. Robert follows it with his eyes, the only part of him that he dares to move; he's alone, but in constant fear of being watched. Each sweep makes his resolve crumble a little further.
He didn't mean to do it. He tried to be good.
By his reckoning, he's been standing in front of Uncle Peter's desk for three hours, twenty-nine minutes and six... seven... eight seconds. His bare feet have long since turned numb against the biting cold washing in from the open window - it is January, after all, and snow lies thick upon the sill. His thin shirt and suit trousers offer little protection. He won't shift, though, not until he's allowed. He's disappointed enough people in the last few months that he'll cling to any shred of approval cast his way.
He'd known it was a mistake as soon as he did it.
He can hear footsteps in the corridor. The hardwood floors of his late father's house carry sound well. It was something that had fascinated him as a child, running up and down hallways in heavy-soled school shoes just to listen to the echoes bouncing off the walls and high ceilings. He's sure that someone must have told him off for it, but the memory is so far away that it's only a fond recollection.
The door swings open and he drags his expression back to careful neutrality just in time for Uncle Peter to enter the room.
--
Peter makes no sign that he's seen Robert. After locking the door, he crosses the room to his desk and deposits an armful of papers on the leather-covered mahogany surface, considers the open window briefly before closing it with a sigh and turning up the radiator. It's only then that he turns his attention to Robert, and slowly shakes his head.
“I didn't expect to keep you waiting that long,” he murmurs. “You could have closed the window if you wanted to.”
Robert opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. Uncle Peter smiles and nods. “You can speak, Robert.”
“You didn't ask me to close it,” Robert whispers, his voice hoarse from lack of use.
Peter chuckles. “Oh, Robert. Oh, my dear sweet boy. You're trying so hard, aren't you?” He lifts a hand to Robert's cheek, his warm palm splaying out across Robert's cold skin. “Poor little one. I'm afraid you're not going to get out of it that easily. I don't think you've fully atoned for what you did, have you?”
Robert shakes his head violently. “No, Uncle Peter. I haven't. I'm sorry.”
Peter's eyes meet his, hard and unblinking. His broad thumb drags across Robert's full and trembling bottom lip, then pushes inside, sliding over slick enamel and then the softness of Robert's yielding tongue. Robert dares a smile, because it's always a good thing to let Uncle Peter know that his attention is appreciated. He sucks instinctively, at which point Uncle Peter withdraws the thumb and pats his cheek a little more forcefully than before.
“There's such a thing as being too eager to please, Robert,” he says warningly, before leaning forwards and pressing a gentle kiss to Robert's forehead. “Now... I think we have business to see to, don't we?”
--
He's not sure what makes him do it. They are in a hotel room in Los Angeles, all moisture sucked from their lungs by the air conditioning, and Uncle Peter is yelling. He has harsh words. Robert is used to arguing with Peter; he's a volatile man but Robert trusts him enough to feel safe yelling back. But this time the verbal darts Peter throws are barbed, and Robert is shocked enough to wonder if he means them. So he does the first thing that the cowering seven-year-old inside him thinks of: he runs to the bathroom and locks the door behind him.
Peter Browning is a good man. After Robert's father died and Robert was lost and confused, unsure of who he really was any more, plagued by frightening dreams like images seen from the window of a speeding train, Peter was his rock. Where Robert might have assumed responsibility for the day-to-day running of Fischer-Morrow, he instead handed that responsibility to Peter, and to this day Fischer-Morrow continues to grow. Robert knows he isn't like his father - he isn't meant for the world of business. Uncle Peter doesn't approve of his other interests. Art, psychology, literature, philosophy, none of the things he's been schooled to be fascinated by yet all of which captivate him. Uncle Peter expects him to remain the public face of Fischer-Morrow, because it's a Fischer that people want to see at the helm, but Robert is no longer interested in being the shadow of his father, and this is how most of their arguments begin. This time, though, it's different. Peter says he'd trade Robert to have Maurice back. Peter - Peter who has never said a cruel word to him and meant it in Robert's entire life - tells him that he's a disappointment, that he's not worth his father's name.
Robert is frightened by how much he loves Peter in spite of this. He wants to know that Peter still cares, even if his words say otherwise.
He can hear Uncle Peter pacing and throwing things on the other side of the door. He's surprised by how clear-headed he is all of a sudden as he runs the hot tap in the bath and searches his washbag for what he needs. Peter will know that something is wrong. And if he doesn't... it will be for the best.
With the aid of nail scissors and slashed thumbs, he pries one of the blades from a safety razor and brings it against first one wrist and then the other, over and over until the tell-tale spurt that shows he's hit what he's looking for. The water in the bath is uncomfortably hot but he barely notices as he slips into it, trailing blood on the pristine white towels draped over the side of the tub. He must have damaged something vital because the blade slips from his nerveless fingers and lands with an almost musical clatter on the tiles. He's aware, in a very detached way, of the sickening, burning pain in his arms, but it's like it's happening to someone else.
The water turns dark much quicker than he thought it would. He waits, and he waits, and he waits for Uncle Peter to rescue him. He's cold even though the water has turned his skin scalded red. There's a tide washing further out with every slow open-close of his eyelids, and each time it drags him with it. He's almost beyond the safety of the shore when the door crashes in.
--
Robert is removing his clothes. Or at least, he is trying to, fumbling under the cool scrutiny of Uncle Peter, who reclines against his desk and regards Robert like a specimen under a microscope.
In his frenzy he damaged the nerves and tendons in his wrists and no amount of physical therapy is going to make them the same again. Uncle Peter knows this, of course; he's waiting for Robert to swallow his pride long enough to ask for help. Robert's fingers are clumsy on the buttonholes. This, he supposes, is part of his punishment, and it's the part that hurts the most. Eventually he raises his gaze to Peter's, and his godfather sighs.
“All you need to do is ask, Robert.”
Robert licks his lips. “Uncle Peter... can you help me?”
The bandages hide the ugliness of the stitched-up wounds, wounds that will scar and leave a permanent reminder of what he tried to do. Uncle Peter takes his wrists first, runs his fingers lightly over the thin gauze, before moving to the half-undone top button of Robert's shirt. His hands are warm on Robert's cool skin as it's revealed inch by inch. He can see his reflection in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that line the study's walls as Uncle Peter pushes the shirt off his shoulders and allows it to fall to the floor. His godfather will tell him that he's too thin, that he needs to eat more, sleep more, rest more, get rid of that nervous energy that's kept him constantly on edge since his father died, but they both know that he won't listen, preferring to work and worry himself into the ground. He sees collarbones and ribs thrown into sharp relief by the pale light filtering through the window. Uncle Peter will berate him for this later, he knows, but they'll carry on as they always do.
His trousers fall to the ground as quickly as his shirt. He doesn't bother with underwear - he can take the pretence too far, and he knows Uncle Peter enjoys the thought of him wandering the house while he's bare underneath.
“Over the desk, I think,” Uncle Peter says, gesturing.
Robert sucks in a breath and steps forward to lay his upper body across the smooth surface. The leather has a warm, comforting smell as he rubs his cheek against it, and he stretches out his arms to grasp the opposite edge, knowing without being told that he will not be allowed to let go. This is the kind of thing that grounds him, this ritual, this routine; it doesn't come often, but he can always tell when it will, can almost taste the anticipation and see the spark in his godfather's eyes. When he's unravelling, Peter Browning stitches him back together. It might be messy, but it's effective.
“I don't think I need to tie you down this time, do I?” Browning says, his voice unexpectedly close to Robert's ear. Robert shakes his head awkwardly, knowing that his injured wrists make it impossible, and his heart skips a beat as he hears the slither of Uncle Peter's belt being pulled through the loops.
--
The vase is expensive, an antique. He's not quite sure what that word means, but it's one of his mother's favourite things, standing in pride of place on the table with spindly legs before the window in the dining room. He's fascinated by the way it catches the sunlight, captures it and fractures it and sends it off in other directions. He's not tall enough to see it properly, but he's in the habit of taking a chair from the table and clambering up to prop his elbows on the tabletop and stare at it for hours. If it's one of his mother's favourite things, it'll be one of his favourites too.
This morning, however, he catches the tablecloth just wrong. The vase topples, rolls off, and smashes into a hundred pieces on the floor.
Any sensible child would have run, and blamed it on someone else if questioned. Robert doesn't. He stands there, paralysed, staring at the shards of crystal scattered around his feet, until a hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes hard enough to be painful. He looks up. It's Uncle Peter, clearly attracted by the heart-stopping noise of a priceless heirloom's demise, and his face is angrier than Robert has ever seen it before.
“What did you do, Robert?” he asks. His tone is oddly gentle, in sharp contrast to his expression, but his hand remains tight on Robert's shoulder.
Robert looks at the shattered crystal and feels tears well up, but he doesn't let them fall. “I broke it,” he says, and then, “I didn't mean to... I just wanted to look at it...”
If it was his father who'd caught him, he'd already be getting the thrashing of his life, he's sure of it. Uncle Peter is different. He believes in discipline just as much as Maurice does, but he teaches lessons along the way. Robert has already learned via Uncle Peter's creative ministrations that he must always eat his vegetables, that he shouldn't pull the cat's tail, that he should never take money from his mother's purse no matter what it's for. The lessons hurt more than his father could ever manage, but he knows not to do those things again.
Uncle Peter picks up a piece of the broken vase from the floor. It catches the light as he lifts it, and Robert is mesmerised. The fractured edges are knife-sharp and cruel. “Hold out your hand,” Uncle Peter says, and Robert does, thought he knows it's the last thing in the world he wants to do right then. The crystal falls into his palm with an ominous weight.
“What...?” he begins to ask, but Uncle Peter silences him with a finger pressed to his lips.
“You know this is for your own good,” he says, closing his large hand around Robert's far smaller one and holding it as tight as he can.
Robert gasps and bites his tongue to stifle the sound as the crystal cuts into his palm. Really he'd known how this lesson was going to go right from the start, but that knowledge makes it no easier to prepare for. Uncle Peter kneels in front of him so that they're eye-to-eye, tells him he only does this because he loves Robert and he wants him to be the best person that he can be, while blood runs down Robert's arm and soaks into his sweater (later, he will tell his mother that he cut himself trying to hide the broken glass, and earn another beating from his father). Robert nods and understands completely.
When the bloodied piece of broken vase finally falls to the floor, Robert's aware of the reaction he's had before when Uncle Peter's been teaching him a lesson. He's not sure why it happens, but he's sure it's something to be guilty about, something else he could be punished for, and he's always tried to hide it. But this time, Uncle Peter notices. Robert doesn't understand the strange flash in his eyes, the tremor that passes across the man's face, but he understands that it feels nice when Uncle Peter touches the front of his trousers. He feels strange, like he ought to be sick, but it's too good for that.
“This will be our secret, Robert,” Uncle Peter says, unbuckling Robert's belt. Robert doesn't know how to stop him, but right now he doesn't want to. Uncle Peter's fingers are trembling and his breath comes hard and fast, and there's something thrilling in knowing that it's Robert who's done that.
And with wide-eyed seven-year-old wonder, Robert learns by Uncle Peter's steady, careful hands, quiet voice and soft mouth, just how to take care of himself.
--
Robert flinches as the belt lands across the top of his thighs. It's not hard enough to really hurt, but he knows it's only a warning; there's a gentle, stinging warmth, and the sound is more than enough. The second blow is harder and he bites down on a cry. Uncle Peter is practised enough in this art that the two strikes land almost precisely on top of each other. It would be easier to handle if the pain of it didn't go straight to his cock, if that horrible, wrong sense of longing were ever to go away, but it never does. It's something so engrained in his psyche that it's virtually a part of him, like Uncle Peter is a part of him, a second half that always seems to know what he really wants.
“I don't hear you counting, Robert,” his godfather says, his voice low and dangerous. Robert doesn't have much sense of self-preservation, but he knows not to question that tone.
“Three,” he moans obediently as the belt lands in a line of pure fire right across his arse. He imagines he can see Uncle Peter's approving smile, and manages a smile of his own.
He keeps count long past the stage where he can feel each individual strike. His entire world is narrowed down to those escalating numbers, keeping hold of the desk, and remembering to breathe, enough that he doesn't even hear the jangle of the belt falling to the floor; it's the pressure of Uncle Peter's hands on his raw skin that pulls him back to reality.
--
Robert is eleven years old.
It's a few weeks after his mother has died. The house is mostly silent, for most of the time. The string of heartbroken relatives has long since dried up, and Robert is the invisible boy. His father has buried himself in work, shut himself away in his office from dawn until dusk, leaving Robert to wander the cold, empty hallways in search of his own amusement.
He's been told he's a wicked child for his lack of outward grief, but in truth he doesn't understand how to express the fact that he misses his mother more than he can say. His father would find tears and hysteria unbecoming of his future heir, and he can't affect helpless anger nearly as well as Fischer Senior. The first person who sits down with him and asks him how he is feeling is Uncle Peter.
He knows that Uncle Peter is not a real uncle. He is related neither to his father nor to his mother, but he is Robert's godfather and has been one of the few constants in his short life. He knows that Uncle Peter misses his mother too, and he has heard the angry words exchanged behind the closed doors of his father's office between his father and his oldest friend. He also knows that what Uncle Peter does sometimes, late at night in the stifling warmth of Robert's bedclothes, or under the guise of chastising him for some mild misdemeanour (Robert is always a very well-behaved child), is wrong. It's why they keep it secret from Robert's father, and why Robert must never, ever tell another soul. But it makes Robert feel special, makes him feel wanted when he's been cast aside by the person who should care for him the most; and, though it makes his gut twist with hot, sickening guilt, it makes him feel good, and grown-up, more than the other children he knows. Uncle Peter knows all of this too, because Uncle Peter understands Robert like no one else can.
"The thing is," Uncle Peter says, looking out at the gardens while Robert swings his legs on the too-high window seat, "the thing is, Robert, you're going to have to grow up sooner than your friends." He glances down at Robert, a tight smile curling the corners of his mouth. "You want to take over your father's empire one day, don't you?"
Robert nods. He's never really considered that he has any other option; it's the notion he's become used to since he was old enough to realise his father's importance, and the one thing he wants above everything else is to make his father proud of him.
Uncle Peter looks thoughtful. Robert knows how to read his feelings very well - Uncle Peter's face is unfailingly expressive, and Robert's always been good at seeing what happens behind other people's façades. It comes of being constantly lied to from an early age. “Then you have to learn quickly, little one.” It's his pet name, one he's used with Robert for as long as he can remember, and Robert's stomach clenches in a pleased sort of way. “Now, how do you think you get ahead in the business world?”
Robert smiles. He knows this one by heart. “You fuck other people, or you'll get fucked yourself,” he recites, gazing up at Uncle Peter demurely through his eyelashes. Uncle Peter chuckles and ruffles his hair affectionately.
“Well-put, though go easy on the curse words, hm?” He studies Robert's face. “But did you know, Robert, that sometimes you can let someone think they're fucking you, and then right at the end you let them know that you've been fucking them all along?”
Robert doesn't know what Uncle Peter means, but he grins all the same.
--
Robert is shaking. He's like a pinned insect, struggling desperately on his labelled piece of card yet unable to break free. He wants nothing more than to slide to the floor, curl up in a ball, hug himself and sob until he's drained of everything, but he won't do it, because Uncle Peter tells him he's better than that.
Uncle Peter is behind him, his hands moving over the bruises, welts and weals that decorate Robert's lower back, arse and thighs. They seemed warm before, but now they're blessedly cool on the heated skin. As Robert flinches away from the touch he grinds against the desk, and the stimulation is almost too much for his overloaded senses.
“I think the message has sunk in, don't you?” he whispers. His breath is very close to the base of Robert's spine, and it makes him shiver. He's desperate to turn around and see what Peter's doing, yet he doesn't dare. His fingernails leave marks in the leather as he wrestles with his self-control.
“Please... Uncle Peter... I...”
His godfather chuckles. “Don't worry, Robert.” And then there's a knee nudging between his thighs, pushing them apart. He spreads his legs obediently, shuddering uncontrollably with anticipation, but he's entirely unprepared for the sudden sensation of Uncle Peter's mouth where he most wants it. The heat and the wetness and the light scratch of stubble on hypersensitive flesh makes his eyes roll back and he moans unashamedly as he's opened up, first by tongue and then by saliva-slicked fingers, until he hears the sound of Uncle Peter's zip and feels the sudden stretch and burn that he's never grown used to. He doesn't want to. It feels too good, every time, and for some reason he finds himself close to tears. Uncle Peter loves him so much. He's too good to Robert, to take such care with him, to concern himself so intensely with his well-being.
The rhythm is familiar and oddly comforting. Uncle Peter leans over his back, avoids the most damaged parts, strokes Robert's damp hair back from his face and whispers words of comfort as he fucks him into the desk. He stops when Robert is close to coming, holds him at the base until they're both ready, and when they fall over the edge, it's together. Robert feels safe, and warm, and loved, as Uncle Peter holds him through the aftershocks and kisses his cheek, murmuring nonsense into his ear.
--
Robert is seventeen years old when he finally understands the feeling that consumes his every waking moment. He's heard his peers talk about it, although it always seems to be the girls - it's not the sort of thing a normal seventeen-year-old boy admits to. But he's sneaked a look at their magazines and even read the books in the school library in search of an explanation, and he's sure.
He can't explain to Uncle Peter that he's afraid of growing up. He's afraid that when he grows up, Uncle Peter won't want him any longer, that he'll be cast aside by the older man just as his own father has cast him aside. At first it makes him sick; he loses weight, shrinking beneath his school uniform, and suddenly realises how to stop growing up for good. It's frighteningly easy.
If his father notices, he doesn't say. The most Robert ever attracts from him is a critical frown, the vaguest sign that Maurice Fischer notices that something is not right with his only child, but to him Robert is easily old enough to look after himself. Robert is strangely grateful for that concession; it's the only time that he prefers his father over Uncle Peter, because his godfather sometimes seems to forget that Robert is nearly an adult and not a seven-year-old boy any longer. That's what terrifies Robert the most - Uncle Peter cannot ignore that forever.
“Uncle Peter, do you think I could speak to you in private?” he asks nervously, standing at the door of his godfather's office. It's been one of those days where he's returned home to find dinner laid on with no sign of his father; he's used to eating on his own, and now it makes it easier to hide the food rather than consuming it. He cycles to Uncle Peter's house instead of taking the car, even though he can legally drive it, and arrives breathless and light-headed as Uncle Peter returns from his evening jog. He's always welcome there. It's one of the few places he feels he could call home.
There is only the cleaner dusting the hallway, and she is paid to clean, not to listen, but Uncle Peter takes Robert by the shoulder and leads him inside. He frowns as he lets go, and smoothes out the fabric of Robert's sweater where it has become crumpled. “Have you lost weight?” he asks, tracing the edge of Robert's collarbone, and Robert tries to hide the flush that creeps up his face.
“Maybe. A little. I don't know. I don't have very much appetite recently. Father's never at dinner.”
Uncle Peter nods. “I'll try to talk to him, hmm? You should be careful, little one. You don't have weight to spare!” As though to demonstrate, he pats the small paunch that has of late begun to strain at the front of his shirt, that Robert has taken a secret liking to. “Now, what did you want to say?”
So Robert, with much twisting of fingers and stumbling over words, tells Peter Browning that he's in love with him.
They keep it a secret, as much as they've kept many secrets since the day Robert broke his mother's vase. Maurice Fischer once asked his son why he would never bring girls home, never take them out on dates like normal boys did, going to the cinema or out to dinner or even for an evening drive. Robert diverted the question then, explaining that he would prefer to concentrate on his studies than on chasing girls, if he was to enter his father's company when he was old enough. Maurice seemed oddly sad at that, but he never asked anything as long as Robert's grades remained perfect. Robert wanted to feel guilty for lying, knowing the dance that he and Uncle Peter performed behind Maurice's back.
He likes to think of it as a dance, still; it makes it sound more poetic than it really is. He's learned so much from his godfather that school would never teach him. He's learned the cold, harsh, truthful reality that pain is the best mentor a boy can have. He's learned how to please, how to use his hands and mouth and body to his advantage, because nature has granted him that one thing - a physical appearance that attracts both girls and boys like so many wasps crowded round a pot of jam. Later, long after this day, Uncle Peter will teach him how that attraction can be used in the world of commerce, where there are men willing to forgive a pretty face and a skilled hand for a moment's indiscretion. All of these things can be used, and Robert is very much familiar with being used, but it's different when it's all for the greater good.
This time, Uncle Peter says he loves him back. Robert doesn't know if he means it, but it doesn't matter, not right now. Uncle Peter will bend him over his desk and show him that he loves him in the most effective way, with the praise of his body. Robert won't see the pain in the older man's face at the sharpness of Robert's bones or the thinness of his skin, and he won't care if those hands and mouth falter, because to him he is loved by someone and that's all that matters.
--
“I love you.”
Robert doesn't often say it, and it's murmured against his godfather's shoulder, muffled by skin still tacky with sweat. Uncle Peter shifts, hugging Robert closer beneath the thick quilt, sharing his warmth with that fragile body that always seems to be cold.
And he says nothing at all.