"So, after the whole ordeal," Acheron said, his voice quiet but steady, "I decided just to burn the painting. It felt… freeing."
Dr Pace blinked in mild surprise, then smiled, genuine and proud. "I'm impressed. That's a big step, Acheron." He was truly elated at the progress Anderson had been making. It was slow and gruelling at first, but his pace has now rapidly increased.
Acheron's lips twitched not quite a smile, but close. "Yeah… it was kind of scary at first, though. I thought I'd feel guilty. But watching it burn, it was like watching everything he left in me go up in smoke."
"That's a powerful image," Dr Pace said softly, jotting something down. "You've been making real progress lately. Honestly, I think we're nearing the end of your court-mandated sessions. Of course, if you'd like, we can continue after the trial. There is no pressure, but I just want you to know you have that option."
Acheron stared into his tea, watching the steam swirl and fade. "I hated coming here at first," he admitted, a small laugh escaping him. "I used to sit there and count the minutes until I could leave. But now…" He looked up, meeting Cloe's eyes. "It still hurts, talking about all of it, but afterwards, I actually feel lighter. Like breathing doesn't take so much effort."
"I'm glad you feel that way." Dr Pace's tone softened, that rare mix of professionalism and care that he always seems to balance so well.
For a moment, silence fell. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward, just peaceful. The old analogue clock on the wall ticked steadily, filling the space between their breaths.
Acheron shifted slightly on the couch, curling his legs beneath the blanket. The fabric bunched up just enough to reveal his socks, a mismatched pair, one bright blue with tiny strawberries and the other striped in faded rainbow colours. He caught Dr Pace's glance and tugged the blanket higher, cheeks pink.
"They were the last clean pair," he mumbled, clearly lying.
Dr Pace smiled faintly. "They suit you."
"Yeah?" His voice was soft, hopeful, almost.
"Absolutely."
He looked down again, grinning shyly into his tea. The mug was warm between his hands, chamomile and honey perfuming the air. A scent that had somehow become part of this room and now a part of him.
Dr Pace leaned forward slightly, folding his hands. "So, Acheron… what would you like to talk about today?"
Acheron didn't have to think for long because a memory had already surfaced while he was getting dressed that morning. He didn't even know what he felt at the time. It wasn't quite fear, not exactly, but more… of confusion. The kind that lingers in the body even when the mind pretends it's fine.
He rubbed the rim of his teacup with his thumb, then shifted, pulling one knee up under the blanket. His other hand drifted absently to his left ear, fingertips brushing against the small scar hidden beneath his hair; it felt warm to the touch. The motion seemed unconscious at first, just a nervous tick, but it stayed there, gentle and repetitive.
"We were hanging out at our spot again." Acheron's tone turned distant, almost fond, before faltering. "It was the same old abandoned clubhouse behind the sports field."
He glanced toward the window, eyes catching on the soft swaying of the lavender patch outside, though it was clear he wasn't really seeing it. The sunlight brushed against his cheek, but his gaze was far away, caught somewhere between the past and present.
"I was in high school by then," he continued, his voice trembling at the edges. "We'd sneak out after lunch, me and the others. Hadeon always led the way; he had a way of talking people into things. We found —Nick found this old couch once, saying it made the place feel more like ours."
Acheron's lips curved faintly, almost a smile, but it faded before reaching his eyes. "It smelled terrible," he murmured. "Like damp wood and cigarettes. But it was ours."
Dr Pace's pen moved soundlessly across his notepad. His handwriting was small and fast, notes weaving between the margins where countless others already lived fragments of Acheron's story, the things he said and the things he didn't.
Acheron's hand returned to his ear again. He rubbed at it softly, his thumb pressing against the lobe as if trying to ground himself. "We are sitting on that old couch just talking about nothing. The light came in through the broken windows, and dust just… floated everywhere. I remember watching it and thinking it looked like snow."
He chuckled lightly, a fragile, breathy sound that broke before it finished. "We were supposed to go back to class, but I didn't want to. None of us did. So we decided just to stay."
He took a sip of his tea, but his mind kept replaying the events of the day over and over again, as if he were trapped in an endless cycle.
Seventeen-year-old Acheron sat cross-legged on the couch, his fingers woven tightly together in his lap. He kept squeezing, releasing, then squeezing again, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. The couch's fabric was scratchy under his bare forearms, and the faint scent of dust and rain hung in the air.
The door suddenly slammed open. Hadeon and Tori walked in, laughing loudly, their arms heavy with shopping bags, mostly filled with snacks and a few bottles of something stronger peeking through. Behind them came Nick and Alaric, dragging blankets and mismatched pillows probably taken from their dormitories.
"Figured we'd make a night of it," Tori said, tossing a blanket over the back of the couch.
Acheron tried to smile, but his lips barely moved. He wanted to help, to get up, to be part of the laughter echoing through the crumbling room, but his body felt too weak.
Without a word, Hadeon dropped down beside him, the old couch dipping under his weight. Acheron's fingers tightened around each other again, his gaze fixed on the floorboards as Hadeon unpacked a small bag filled with white powder, a small spoon and a syringe.
Acheron's throat tightened. His pulse quickened, part dread, part anticipation. Acheron hated the feeling of dependency he had with his drug, but at the same time, he enjoyed the feeling once it entered his body.
Acheron hesitated, but Hadeon was already reaching for his arm, rolling up the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. Revealing the inside of his elbow, bruises and punctures on the inside of his elbow were dark and ugly against his pale skin. He tried to turn his face away, ashamed, but Hadeon tilted his chin back toward him, smiling that easy, dangerous smile.
Hadeon placed a soft kiss on Eron's forehead and injected the warm liquid. The world tilted. Heat bloomed through Acheron's body, spreading from the inside out. His eyes fluttered open, then rolled back, his breath hitching before settling into a slow, dreamy rhythm.
When his head lolled to the side, Hadeon caught him, pulling him close until Acheron was slumped against his chest like a child being rocked to sleep. The motion was gentle, deceptively so. Acheron's hair fell forward, silver strands brushing against Hadeon's fingers as they combed through them.
Hadeon leaned down, taking a long, satisfying sniff of Acheron's gland beneath the metal collar. Roasted coconut pheromones filled his lungs, bringing a smile to his face.
"Feeling better, my love," Hadeon whispered, this time pulling Eron's whole body completely onto his lap.
Acheron is barely conscious, his mind slipping between the clubhouse and an endless darkness. He barely caught what Hadeon had said, only allowing for a small moan to slip out as a response. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for something, before curling weakly against Hadeon's shirt.
The room around him blurred, the edges of reality slipping. He could still hear the laughter of the others, though it was distant, as if he were underwater. Someone turned up the music; the sound mixed with the buzz in his head.
Hadeon's hand moved to cradle the back of his neck. "That's it," he whispered, voice low, pleased.
Acheron didn't hear at all. The words were muffled, broken up by waves of dark and light washing over him. He drifted, caught somewhere between the old couch and an endless black.
Acheron was already asleep, his breath shallow and uneven, the faintest tremor still visible in his fingertips. Hadeon chuckled lowly, a dark hum vibrating in his chest as he reached into his pocket for a different kind of white powder in a sealed packet. Hadeon tore it open with his teeth, eyes gleaming under the dim light.
This drug didn't need a syringe; instead, he poured the powder along the curve of Acheron's neck, pale skin exposed beneath the metal collar. Then, slowly, he leaned in and sniffed it clean. The sharp burn flared through his sinuses, clearing his head and igniting a feverish rush through his veins.
Unlike Acheron, Hadeon loved to feel the clarity, the feeling of being untouchable. He hated the dark quiet that came after the high, the drifting haze that Acheron seemed to sink into so easily. Hadeon preferred to feel powerful; he craved invincibility.
Tori dropped herself down beside him with a heavy thud, the couch creaking under her weight. She had an open bottle of liquor dangling between her fingers. She took a few long, sloppy gulps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she exhaled a satisfied sigh. Her glassy eyes drifted toward Acheron's face, which was slack but still soft, his lashes trembling against his flushed cheeks.
"He's already out cold," she muttered, leaning forward. With almost a gentle motion, she brushed the silver fringe away from his closed eyes.
Before she could tuck the hair behind his ear, Hadeon smacked her hand away. The glare in his eyes was enough to freeze her.
"So possessive," she sneered, more amused than angry.
She then turned and reached for Alaric, tugging him onto her lap. He let out a lazy laugh, arms looping loosely around her shoulders. Nick passed him a blunt without looking up, settling next to them and letting his head fall against Tori's shoulder as he took a drag. The air thickened with smoke and sweat and something sour.
"I'm not into sharing like you guys," Hadeon said flatly, pulling Acheron closer into his lap as if to make the point tangible.
Tori laughed, loud and messy, before tilting her head to kiss Nick, then Alaric, one after the other. "You're missing out," she purred against their lips. She took a few deep swigs, then swiftly passed the bottle back to Hadeon with a sly grin.
He grunted, accepting it. The glass bottle clinked softly as he tipped it toward Acheron's parted lips. The Omega stirred weakly, a faint whimper catching in his throat as the burn of alcohol met his tongue. He coughed, struggled, but Hadeon tilted the bottle again, forcing him to swallow.
The taste of strong liquor jolted Acheron slightly awake. His lashes fluttered, his reddened eyes dazed and unfocused. He sat up halfway, rubbing at them with slow, clumsy hands.
Hadeon smiled down at him that same sweet but poisonous smile before finishing off the last of the bottle himself.
"Wanna play a game?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over each of them.
The rhythmic click of the wall clock and the scratch of a pen against paper slowly brought Acheron out of the memory and into the present.
Acheron blinked, the edges of his vision sharpening again. His throat felt dry. He reached for the cup in front of him, gulping down the now-cold tea, and set it back carefully on the small coffee table. His hands were still trembling.
"What happened next?" Dr Pace's voice was soft, but it broke through the stillness like a ripple over calm water.
Acheron's fingers tightened around the blanket's edge. His thumb rubbed small circles into the woven fabric, the tassels tangled between his pale fingers.
"I'm… not sure," he said after a long pause. His voice was thin, uncertain. "I can only remember some fragments. I think we played truth or dare, but then it turned into just dares."
He gave a short, shaky laugh that didn't contain any amusement. "It always did."
The quiet that followed wasn't empty. It hummed faintly like a breath held between them. Acheron's gaze drifted toward the window again, where the lavender garden swayed lazily in the breeze. His reflection in the glass looked smaller somehow, with his shoulders drawn in and eyes distant.
He reached up and rubbed at his left ear. The skin was already flushed from the constant friction, but he didn't seem to notice. His fingertips kept moving in small, repetitive and soothing motions.
That was until Dr Pace gently said, "You're touching your ear again."
Acheron blinked, startled, and dropped his hand into his lap. "Oh. Yeah." A nervous smile ghosted over his lips. "It… feels weird sometimes. Like it remembers things I don't want to."
"Tell me what it remembers," Dr Pace said quietly.
Acheron swallowed. His throat bobbed once, twice. "The most complete fragment I have… is of Nick and Tori holding me down."
He hesitated. His voice thinned to a whisper. "They were already so drunk and high. Everyone was."
His hands began to twist the tassels tighter, knotting them between his fingers. "Hadeon was heating a needle with his lighter. To sterilise it"
His words caught. He pressed his lips together, breathing through his nose. " And then he pierced my ear."
Dr Pace's pen stopped moving.
Acheron's gaze stayed fixed on the blanket. "I still vividly remember his eyes. He was… staring right at me while he did it, like he wanted me to fight back. As if he'd be disappointed if I didn't."
A tremor ran through his shoulders. He gave another quick, embarrassed sniff and forced out a quiet laugh. "He was laughing the whole time. Everyone was. I think I cried, but maybe that's just something my brain added later."
He drew a shaky breath and tried to steady his voice. "Sometimes I still smell the metal and blood. Other times, I feel the needle again. Like it's just under my skin."
A beat passed. His lower lip trembled, and he ducked his head so his hair fell over his face. "Most of the piercings I had… Hadeon did them. He said they made me look special."
Acheron picked at a loose thread on the blanket, his movements small and fidgety.
"The next thing I remember," Acheron began, his voice trembling just enough to shake the air between them, "was Hadeon on top of me. He was pressing my face into a pillow."
His words came in short, uneven bursts as if forced through too small a space. "His grunts were… so loud in my ears. I could feel his teeth—" his breath hitched, "—scraping against my neck."
He went still after that. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet, careful breaths. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, but no tears fell; they just shimmered, caught in the light.
"I don't know how long it lasted," he said finally, his voice almost gone. "Everything was loud and heavy and… wrong. And then…" He blinked rapidly, a faint, bewildered smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile people wear when they're trying not to break. "Anyway, the next thing I remember, we were all back on the couch. There were these flashing lights. I think we took photos."
For a moment, the room felt too quiet. Only the hum of the air-conditioner filled the space.
Dr Pace sat very still. He'd learned how to school his expression, but his throat felt tight as he swallowed. His fingers tightened around his pen before he set it gently on the desk. He took a slow sip of his iced lemon water, hoping the coolness would settle the small knot forming in his stomach.
He looked at Acheron, analysing his body language. The boy's hands were in his lap, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. His rainbow-striped socks peeked out from under the blanket again, one foot tapping lightly against the couch. It was a small, rhythmic movement, a nervous habit he wasn't even aware of.
Dr Pace cleared his throat softly. "Acheron," he said, his voice low but steady. "You don't have to rush through this. You're safe here. You're doing incredibly well."
Acheron's gaze lifted briefly, then fell again. "I just… hate that it still feels like it's happening at times," he whispered. "Like if I close my eyes, I'll open them and be back there."
Dr Pace nodded slowly, resisting the urge to lean forward. "That's a normal response to trauma," he said gently. "Your body remembers what your mind tries to forget."
Acheron's lips pressed together, trembling slightly. "It's stupid," he muttered. "I should be over it by now."
"It's not stupid," Dr Pace replied immediately. "You survived something horrific. Healing isn't about getting over it, but more about learning that you're allowed to exist beyond it."
For the first time since speaking, Acheron gave a small nod. His hands stilled, then he rubbed the corner of his eye with the back of his sleeve, almost shyly, before letting out a soft, unsteady laugh. "You always make things sound like poetry, Dr Pace."
Cloe smiled faintly, relieved to see even a flicker of warmth return to him.
"How do you feel about the piercings now?"
Acheron hesitated. His fingers instinctively brushed the curve of his left ear again, thumb tracing where the holes once were. "They were all taken out while I was in a coma," he said softly. "I did like them…"
His voice trailed off, quiet but thoughtful.
Dr Pace nodded gently. "Throughout your relationship, Hadeon tried to control every part of you. The piercings, like so many other things, became another way to claim you. To make your body feel like it belonged to him."
Acheron let out a faint hum, not quite dismissive, more like a sound caught somewhere between agreement and thought. "Hmm." He tugged at the blanket's tassel on his lap again, twisting it between his fingers.
Cloe watched him in silence for a moment. Acheron's expression was soft and contemplative, but there was something distant in his eyes, as if he were replaying small fragments of memory, deciding what still belonged to him and what didn't.
"Acheron," Cloe said finally, his voice gentle but firm, "if you ever want to re-pierce your ear, you can. And if you don't, that's okay too. What matters is that this time it's your choice. No one else's."
That drew a small smile from him, fragile but real. "My choice," he repeated, testing the words quietly, as if they were foreign on his tongue.
"Exactly."
The session wrapped not long after. Acheron stood, neatly wrapping the blanket around the back of the couch, a habit Cloe had noticed he did at the end of every session. Eron adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, rainbow socks peeking out again as he slipped into his shoes.
"Thank you," Acheron said, his voice barely above a whisper but sincere.
"Anytime," Cloe replied, watching him step out of the office and into the soft light of the afternoon.
Through the window, he saw the sleek silver car pull up to the curb. Acheron slid into the back seat, tucking his sketchbook protectively under one arm before the door closed and the vehicle rolled away.
Cloe leaned back in his chair, exhaling quietly, and he glanced at the clock. He still had a fair amount of time before his next appointment. For a long moment, he just sat there, thinking. The office felt unusually still, the scent of chamomile tea faint in the air.
Then, with a small frown of decision, he reached for his phone and dialled a number. It rang twice before the line connected.
"Morning, Rabbit."
Cloe smiled despite himself when he heard his husband's voice on the line. That ridiculous nickname had started years ago, when August had first pursued him with unrelenting patience. He'd remarked that Cloe was like a rabbit always running from his feelings, but in the end, the tortoise always wins.
"Morning," Cloe murmured, his voice still heavy with the session's weight.
"I saw Acheron again today."
There was a soft rustle on the other end, the sound of bedsheets, a quiet sigh. August's tone shifted immediately, losing its teasing lilt. "How's he doing?"
Cloe leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He's fine… I— I'm not." He let out a shaky exhale. "He's been through so much, Gus. So damn much. And I sit there, trying to help him untangle it all, but I can't do anything. I just have to watch him hurt."
"Cloe," August's voice gentled, steady like a hand between his shoulder blades. "You're already doing the best thing anyone could have given him, a safe place to breathe finally."
"I know, it's just—"
"You want to do more for him," August finished softly.
"Yeah." Cloe's voice cracked. "He's… he's still a kid in so many ways. He shouldn't have to be this brave." He laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. "Sometimes I want to wrap him in a blanket and tell him it's all over. That he's safe now."
"I know you do, love." August's voice dropped to a whisper. "But that's not your burden to carry. You can't walk this road for him. Only beside him."
"I wish I could go through this trial for him." Cloe's throat tightened. "His wounds are barely starting to close, and the cross-examination is just going to tear them open again."
A silence hung for a moment, only the faint hum of the phone line between them. Then August said quietly, "In some ways, the justice system is more punishing to survivors than to the people who hurt them."
Cloe huffed out a bitter laugh. "This is the part where I truly hate your job, Gus."
"Me too, hun," August said, and Cloe could hear the exhaustion beneath the warmth. "Me too."
Cloe leaned back, closing his eyes. He imagined August in their kitchen, one hand resting on the counter, eyes half-open and soft with worry. The thought alone was enough to ease the tightness in his chest.
"Go back to sleep," Cloe murmured.
"Only if you promise to take the rest of the day slow."
"I'll try."
"You never do," August teased lightly, but his tone carried both love and faith.
When the call ended, Cloe sat for a long moment, phone still in hand, the silence of his office pressing gently around him. He stared at the empty couch across from his desk. A soft Knock on the door followed by a shy good morning as the next patient walked in and sat down.
On to the next patient and the next case.