A drop of cold sweat fell from his temple, streaks of brown liquid on the disciplinarily white sheets crawled from his fingertips, and Jean clutched at the scrap of thin blanket with his fingernails. His heart pounded frantically in his chest in the rhythm of the waltz of the dead, muffling all sound and the world around him enough to put hope in the fact that he was already dead, Jean thought he had been until half an hour ago. Not all dreams are destined to come true — a bitter truth.

As bitter as saliva when he swallows. He tries to inhale, but the air won't push into his lungs, causing him to cough. The beginning of the end, when the coughing turns to choking heavy breathing and chest shaking. Sickening streaks of scratches steal across his pale skin, mottled with the silhouettes of their hands. Phantom, they're still there, pressing into the bruises, and Jean huddles into the thin blanket, wrapping himself in it so he can't see the marks of his shame.

It's his personal hell. A circle that repeats itself over and over again, and he's not sure if there's light at the end of this tunnel. Tears no longer flow from his eyes, no matter how much the muscles in his face wriggle in spasms — they're no longer there, Jean used up all his reserves last time.

Something inside his stomach scrabbled unpleasantly, like rats gnawing their way out — disgust, deep, already taking root in his very core. For himself and his helplessness. He can't stand up for himself if Jean does, He'll do more, but tolerating? Jean steps further down the path to his own crypt.

{{user}} — the last person he wants to be seen by, and his movements are jerky, like those of a frightened animal as he shrinks into a ball, trying to be as small as his height can allow.

“Don't,” he almost screams, choking on a cough from trying to breathe — he could bear the pain, can't bear the humiliation. It still stings, but it will stop soon enough. He's sure of it. “Please don't,”