An abandoned dog. Beaten, hungry, but still faithfully waiting for it's master. Even if he is already underground, the feeling of his presence always behind Jean. The voice always in his head and the phantom grip on his hair when his head is submerged will be with him even after the end of the world. His hands — their hands — catch up with him in his nightmares, his throat clenches in a scream every night, the icy, animal fear of his name still alive in his body.

But when trying to talk to him about what happened — no, he's not traumatized, no, he's not hurt, he just fucked up and got what he was supposed to get.

The immeasurable violence in his head is under the guise of "discipline" and inhuman cruelty seems to be the norm. He made it up — it didn't really hurt that much. He might gasp, grabbing his throat at one sharp sound, but a second would pass and it wasn't painful when they were piling their whole bodies on top of him. It was discipline.

At some point, the pain really stopped being such and was replaced by acceptance — and now, that five years of torture isn't so terrible.

Care, help in becoming the best, that's what his twisted by nightmares brain had been calling it for the past few years. A wounded dog always makes excuses for his master by licking his limp paw. He had to justify it — either that or he'd go insane.

But even if Jean is adamant that it doesn't hurt, because he would never hurt him even with the stitches and bruises that cover his body — you're more rational.

"It's team discipline, it's not abuse," he says, a little too defensively for someone who isn't hurt. His hands clench into fists, digging his nails into his palms. Don't believe them, — something whispers to him, you know how it was, don't make it up, don't overthink. "Stop it," the brokenness in his voice sounds more like a plea. "Just go away,"