bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter ten. ?

Sir cocked his head to the side, his mouth set in a grim line. "Really?"

Then, like a hairline fracture in a floodgate blowing open, all the energy and frustration Case had kept pent up inside for the last few days came bursting at the seams. "No! No—fuck-fucking, no!" Unable to stand still, he started to pace, gesturing aimlessly. "No! I'm not doing this! I'm not playing this fucking game with you!"

"I'm gonna give you a second to calm d–"

"Or what?" Case demanded, whirling around to face his captor. "Or what will you fucking do? Hmm? Drug me? Starve me?"

Sir met his fury with deadpan coldness. Case might as well have been screaming at a statue, expecting it to crack.

"Kill me? Is that what you're going to do?" Case advanced toward Sir—still seated on the bottom step, blank faced—fueled by his indifference. "Because I could do that myself. Soon as you leave, I could take a pair of sweatpants from that drawer and hang myself. What will you do then, huh? Mr. Trial-and-Fucking-Error!"

Sir rose to his feet.

Case stopped dead in his tracks, his anger derailed by a jolt of fear.

Sir's towering frame loomed over him. The muscles in his broad shoulders tensed, tendons and veins in his neck bulging.

Instinctively, Case took a step back, an appeasing I'm sorry making its way into his mouth. But his tongue refused to form the words, to utter even a syllable. Except Sir didn't come towards him. Instead, he turned into the space under the stairs, yanking open the dresser drawers. Grabbing clothes, gathering them into bundles in his arms.

Case scoffed, relief leaving him spitefully flippant. "Yeah, great. Go ahead, take them! Why don't you just keep me naked all fucking day?"

Sir hurled the clothes onto the ground. Grabbed the dresser, hauled it away from the wall. Lifted it chest high in the air. Sent it colliding into the exposed pipes in the opposite wall. A crash of metal, wood and stone. He spun on his heel. Stormed forward. The space between him and Case vanishing in his warpath. "You know what?"

Case backpedaled. Sir reached out, grabbing him in one hand. Fingers dug into the crook of his neck. Holding him in place as he leaned in close to Case's face. Close enough for Case to see the flecks of red around his eggplant bruises, and the weathered lines around his stormy eyes.

"You're right," Sir growled, his breath warm, stinging with malt and whiskey. "I would like that. To keep you naked and waiting like a personal whore. But I'm a patient man, and I know it'll be worth the wait. I wanna see the wet in your eyes when I've broken you—that's when I'll fuck you."

Sir's grip tightened, bruising the soft tissue in his shoulder and neck. Case winced. Quick recovery. Quick reaction. He spat in Sir's face.

Sir recoiled. A frothy blob of spit slid down the bridge of his nose. "Oh, you little cunt!" He snatched Case by the scruff of his neck. Dragged him across the basement. "You think you're so smart?" He stopped at the piles of discarded clothes. Forced Case's head down, as if he were a dog getting its nose rubbed into its own shit. "Go on, pick them up!"

Case landed on hands and knees, his fall softened by the scattered mess of hoodies, shirts and sweatpants. A dull ache in his kneecaps and wrists. A searing hatred in his core.

"Pick them up and make yourself a fucking noose!"

Case's heart thrashed against his ribcage. Blood whooshed and pounded in his skull. "Fuck you!"

Sir shoved Case down, face first into the pile of clothes.

Case pushed himself back up. Was knocked back down. Unable to lift his body against Sir's weight and strength. He swung his fist. Wrist caught in an iron grip. Arm twisted, pulled, pinned against his shoulder blades.