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He wakes up in the middle of the night with someone's hands on him and the urge to scream.
He needs to claw and bite and get away. He needs to flee. But his body is tangled in the covers and drenched in sweat and he can't fucking move, can't make himself do anything.
The room is plunged in darkness. The Dark Room. Mark's hands are unmoving on him and he notices he's naked, he's always naked for the photoshoots, but this time his mind is clear and he can feel the hands, he can feel the touches, they're not flashes. Everything is distinct and burning and he can remember it.
It takes an agonizing minute for him to realize he's in his bed, not Mark's, and these are Warren's arms around him.
Relief floods in like water through a bursting gate and he turns to bury his face against Warren's chest, his arms scrambling for a hold on him as the sobs start to come.
"Nathan?", says a familiar voice against his ear. He holds on tighter, says nothing.
"It's alright. It's alright, I've got you."
He nods dumbly against his chest, because he knows, he knows it's alright, he's knows he's alright, but it doesn't make the memories any less painful.
Warren's hands are stroking his back again. He wonders how he ever mistook them for Mark's. They're hot - Mark never was quite hot, lukewarm at best, chill most of the time - and comforting, with thicker fingers and blunt nails (Warren bites them), and they're gentle and reassuring.
"Go back to sleep", Warren says.
He cuddles a bit closer with another nod before letting his eyes close again.
*
"You wanna talk about it?"
Nathan looks at him and waits for elaboration.
"You know. You were crying last night."
"There's nothing to talk about. You were at the trial."
"But d'you wanna tell me how it feels?"
He struggles with a proper answer for a moment. How does it feel? It's so many things at once. It feels like illness sometimes, like nausea, and sometimes it feels like he's a fake because how can he be hurt if he can't even remember it? And sometimes it feels like sick nostalgia, and the next moment abject terror. He doesn't know how to explain.
"It feels like betrayal", he says eventually. "That he would tell them but lie to me."
"What do you mean?", Warren asks. He tries to explain what he means, but he can't find the good words, the right way to tell, and his hands raise frustratedly in the air as if to grab the words out of it. "It's cool, take your time", Warren says, and he breathes in deeply.
"When I was... Involved, with him, I noticed some stuff. I guessed around it. It was obvious in some ways, I just... Couldn't fucking see it. Sore in places I shouldn't have been sore. Bruises where there shouldn't have been bruises, hand-shaped ones. All the... All the naked photoshoots. He always said it was about innocence and all that bullshit. I asked him and he..."
He could remember the exact words.
"He said... What you think you remember didn't happen. I would never do that to you. You were high."
Warren raises a compassionate hand, and he bats it away annoyedly.
"And then at the trial, they asked him", he continues.
("Did you engage in sexual intercourse with Mr Prescott while he was unconscious?")
"And he just said yes. He didn't even lie. There wasn't proof or nothing, but he wasn't even ashamed enough to lie."
Warren tries to grab for his hand again, and this time he lets him as he looks down to his lap defeatedly.
"Like he hadn't done anything wrong. And, you know, he probably thinks it didn't matter. Everyone does."
"No, dude, nobody thinks that."
He breathes in deeply, because he knows, he knows it's not true. He knows some people think it doesn't matter, that he can't remember it and it didn't hurt him so why does he care so much, others have it worse. He knows, but Warren is right to a point. Not everyone thinks so.
"I thought I was wrong because he didn't do it to any of the girls."
Warren doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say to that. They stay silent for long moments.
"I'm sorry", Warren says.
"I hate when people say that. Like it's their fault." He hates it even more, because he knows Mark never will say it.
"You wanna watch Snuff 102?"
Nathan sniffles. "You're disgusting."
"Is that a yes?"
"Sure."