Who: Adrian, Taj, Kareem, Andy Where: An abandoned place When: After this, this, this and anything else that happened before Taj and K got there What: A rescue mission Warnings: Mentions of sex, abuse, ungoodness, the usual angsty fun
In terms of spirit and as a rule, Andy had very little left in him. He'd never argue his corner quite as loud as if he were standing up for someone else because he genuinely believed he had no worth. He'd tried to kill himself before and it didn't take much to trigger him into panic attacks or to start of an episode of very difficult depression, even when he was on his meds. As listless and unconcerned about his own well-being as he was though, that day would have found anyone curled up on the floor unable to get up.
Andy was cold; even more than the hunger, the thirst, the discomfort and the fear, the cold was the thing that Andy was slowly succumbing to. He'd been shivering even before his meds had begun to wear off, leaving him nauseaus and tremoring. He didn't know how he'd come to be in the cage he was in, something like an indoor crate for a large dog but made of stronger stuff and impossible to kick, pry or sork open; his sore, nicked and bloody fingers attested to that. The floor was unfinished concrete that darkened with a damp that seemed imprinted into the floor. The empty cavities in the walls where windows had once been let any wind straight through, the cage situated far enough away from the walls that they offered no shelter. The whole place creaked and groaned and dripped with damp, weak joists, against the pressure of any wind and through it Andy lay, naked and huddled and shivering.
He didn't know how long he'd been there. He'd tried to keep count but he couldn't remember if he'd miscounted or slept through a day and eventually lost the impetus. The longer he stayed there the more tired he became, losing will and strength until he eventually slumped over and curled up around his knees on his side on the floor. Sometimes food appeared, but he couldn't eat it. Water arrived in a dog dish and as much as he knew it was wisest to ration it he couldn't, losing himself to desperation and impulse and gulping it down, only to spend the next few hours trying to keep it down. The gaps between water refills grew shorter and Andy took to licking condensation off the bars and the concrete ground. He spent his days listless once he'd realised he couldn't break out, after he'd lost his voice from shouting for help. He lay down and tried to keep his brain from steering back to what he'd done to end up there (those long nights being screwed by Rhys), who had ended up transporting him there (a figure of some man, he thought, tall and forbidding and that was all he could call back). He was sore inside and out from the treatment, and even those his bruises began green-greying out, he still had sores working into his skin where it was pinched between cement and his cushion-less bone. The cold and exhaustion, lack of nutrition and fluids and the constant chilling wind began taking it's toll on Andy. His temperature climbed day by day, hovering on the edge of a high fever but never quite hitting it, even his sickness unable to distract him from his situation.
He didn't cry. He didn't call out anymore. He lay still and wondered if Rhys was still leaving Adrian alone, keeping to his side of the horrible bargain. He wondered if Adrian had known he was gone of if he'd just assumed he was screwing someone else, if he was screwing someone else instead. His mind swung around to his brothers, his gorgeous, warm, loving brothers and it was then that tears would threaten to spill out, water that couldn't really be wasted. He thought of them more and more as he lay there and moved less and less, thought back to better memories and happier times and soon that was all he was thinking of as he wearily passed out.