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This is a different room.
William lies in his bed, letting Victor busy about with medicine and stethoscope, and tries to figure out why he’s had that thought.
The curtains, he decides. They’re blue, not green. The broken grandfather clock is gone. And the fireplace is a hair larger, with different designs on the firedogs. Other details slip from his mind, but these, at least, he can hold onto.
“I’ve brought you some books,” Victor says, pushing up William’s lip so he can look at his gums. “You must be getting dreadfully bored, lying here all day.”
“Oh. Thank you.” William peers over at the bed-table, trying to get a glimpse of the titles. Victor’s shoulder gets in the way. He ventures, “Is there a garden here? Maybe the fresh air would do me good.”
“No, no, you’re far too fragile,” Victor tuts, pulling out his bloodletting equipment.
William glares at the hated things, mutters, “Perhaps if we skipped a day, I would not feel so ill.”
Victor snorts. “Who’s the doctor here, William?”
“Yes, yes.” He doesn’t bother to get up–-he’ll be too woozy to sit upright soon anyway–-just flops his arm in Victor’s direction.
“Won’t even unbutton your sleeve for me? Rude.” Victor leans over the bed, taking William’s arm in cool fingers to begin undoing his sleeve and rolling it up.
As Victor picks up the equipment, William looks away. He’s tried to find out if watching makes the process any more bearable-–and when did he do that? In a third room, he thinks, where the curtains had red tassels–-but the sight just made his stomach flop uncomfortably.
He tells himself he’s become accustomed to the pain, the feeling of his life's blood draining away, and tries to believe it.
As William drifts, Victor says, “Your neck has healed nicely. I think it’s time we resumed your wifely duties.”
That sends a bolt of terror up William’s spine, followed a second later by confusion. He’s not sure what Victor is talking about, so why should it horrify him so much? Slowly, flexing his free hand, he says, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Have you forgotten again?” Victor asks, trying for casual but leaking a kind of glee that makes William want to wriggle free and run.
It’s just Victor, he tells himself, forcing his body to lie still. It’s only his brother. There’s nothing to be afraid of. “Forgotten what?” he asks. “I’m a man, Victor, I don’t-–I don’t have wifely duties. There’s no such thing.”
When he looks over, Victor is smiling, teeth winking in the candlelight. “Yes, you’d think so.” He tidies up the bloodletting equipment, winding a bandage around William’s arm. “And yet.”
It makes William’s head spin, but he pulls himself up to sit against the headboard. Somehow, lying down doesn’t feel safe anymore. “Victor, you’re not making any sense.”
“Let me help you understand, then.” Victor stands, looming over the bed. His pupils seem enormous, too large even in the dim candlelight, and the way he licks his lips reminds William of a wolf. Almost gently, Victor says, “You must repay what you stole from me.”
“What I–-” William finds himself bracing back against the headboard. “I haven’t stolen anything from you!”
“William, William, don’t you remember?” Victor croons, sliding a knee onto the mattress. It bends towards his weight, slips William just a little closer to his brother. “You took Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth–-William’s mind fills with soft, gentle hands, proffering a beetle or a butterfly. Sometimes, simply offering to lace their fingers together. More than that, he can’t recall, the memories slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. But he thought– “We were promised,” he says slowly, and the words taste like truth. “She was… she was my fiance, not yours.”
“William,” and Victor’s smile looks more like a snarl, now. “That’s not right at all.”
“It is, I–-”
The backhand hits hard enough to leave stars dancing across his vision.
“William,” Victor says, voice dangerously level. “If you’re incorrect, I have to hit you. Understand?”
The fear vibrating up William’s spine is starting to come into clearer focus. When he can see again, he warily murmurs, “I took her.”
“Yes. Yes!” Victor smiles, pats gently at his cheek. “You learn so fast.” He brings his other knee up onto the bed, shuffles forwards so he can kneel by William’s side. “And so-–a wife for a wife.”
It still doesn’t make sense, even when Victor’s cool hands rest on William’s hips, or when they slide down to begin unbuttoning his pants. He just watches, uncomprehending, as Victor pulls his pants off and pushes up his shirt. It’s only when Victor sets a hand on both knees and presses them apart that William realizes what’s about to happen.
“No, no, you can’t seriously mean-–”
Victor just raises an eyebrow, fishes in his pocket for another one of his little bottles. “Can’t I?”
“But we’re both men,” William chokes out. “We’re brothers.”
“None of that matters anymore, cheri,” Victor laughs. “It’s only about righting a wrong.”
Something whispers that escape is futile, but William tries anyway–-forces his too-heavy body, his too-dizzy head, into scrabbling up and away from Victor’s hands. His brother catches him around the middle, throws him belly-down onto the sheets. A strong hand clamps down on the nape of his neck, holding him in place even as he tries to thrash free.
“Would you stay still?” Victor asks, sounding put-upon. “You always make this so difficult.”
Reaching around to claw at Victor’s wrist, William snaps, “Let me go!”
“You’ve done this before.” There’s the sound of a cork leaving the bottle. “Sometimes you even enjoy it.” Then something slick and cold drizzles all over William’s–he can’t think it. Can’t do more than claw and fight and snap until suddenly a finger breaches him and–-
It feels wrong, and reminds him of that horrible tongue, wriggling beneath his skin. The feeling shocks him into stillness, just long enough for Victor to add two more. William has the vague thought that this is too easy, that his body shouldn’t be yielding so quickly to the onslaught.
You’ve done it before, Victor said, and the thought fills William with cold dread. He looks at his arm, at all its little scars, and wonders–how many times?
“Let me go,” he tries again, and his voice cracks right down the middle.
“Don’t be frightened,” Victor coos. His fingers slide out, and then there’s the soft noise of rustling fabric.
Turning his face into the pillows–-as if he could hide from this!--William whimpers, “Don’t, please, don’t–”
“This is what a wife does for her husband, cheri.” Something presses at his entrance–Victor presses at his entrance–and William can’t help the little sob that escapes him. Petting his flank like he’s soothing a startled horse, Victor clucks his tongue. “You want to be a good little wife for me, don’t you?”
“I want you to stop,” William chokes out, and tries once more to struggle free. But his limbs are heavy, too heavy, and Victor’s grip on his nape is so tight it hurts.
“I won’t,” Victor hums, as casually as if they’re discussing where to eat, and shoves inside.
William, if pressed to think about it before now, would not describe his brother as a particularly large man. Now, though, he struggles to breathe around the intrusion, struggles even to think. Victor pulls back–-just enough of a reprieve for William to gasp, fist his hands in the sheets–-and thrusts again.
“Please,” William whimpers, and Victor laughs in his ear.
“More?” and that was not what William was asking for, not at all, but somehow Victor pushes himself deeper, faster, and in doing so he presses right up against a spot that makes William wail.
It shouldn’t feel good, he thinks, horrified at his own body and its treacherous nerves. It shouldn’t feel good–
Victor smiles against his skin, readjusts and brushes that spot again, and again, until little “unh–unh–unh”s are escaping William with every thrust. He hates it, he hates himself, and he finds himself arching back into Victor like a cat in heat. Underneath them both, his cock gives a valiant twitch.
Whimpering, William forces out, “Stop it, stop it-–”
“But you make such lovely noises,” Victor hums, and reaches beneath them to press the heel of his hand against William’s cockhead. Letting out a startled moan, William can’t decide if it’s a mercy or not that he can’t seem to get hard. Maybe it would be a distraction. Maybe it would be just another way for his body to betray him.
“Look how I’ve unmanned you,” Victor purrs, sounding so hungry it sends terror sparking across William’s shoulders, and he decides–-it’s no mercy, it’s a damnation.
Trying one last time to escape only earns William Victor’s teeth in his neck. It makes him stiffen in remembered panic, but the searing pain he’s expecting–-why is he expecting it?--never comes. Oh, it still hurts–an ache that makes him sob and twist and try to get away–-but it doesn’t undo him, sending him spiraling down into the black.
He wishes it would. Wishes he could slip free of this body, slip under the door, go running out into the daylight. But Victor holds him in place, pinned like one of Elizabeth’s insects, and all William can do is whimper and shake and fist his hands in the sheets.
“I prefer you like this,” Victor purrs, and oh, William hates him.
When he comes, it’s a surprise. He didn’t even know he could come with a soft cock, but here it is, jolting through his body in a way that leaves him wrung-out and panting. Surely, he thinks fuzzily, the gentlemanly thing would be for Victor to at least let him pause? But then, Victor never was very much of a gentleman, and even as William shivers his way through the comedown, the thrusts keep going.
Soon, too soon, every movement becomes too much to bear. He finds himself sobbing, clawing at the sheets, caught between Victor’s teeth and his cock.
“Oh, cheri, are you crying?” Victor croons, false concern dripping from his voice like crocodile tears. Leaning forwards, he laps at William’s salty cheek, tongue rough as sandpaper.
“Please-–” William croaks, and then he can’t beg even if he wanted to, for Victor’s forced fingers into his mouth.
He’s full, too full, and William chokes and shakes and sobs while his brother’s laughter fills the room. He can’t think, can’t bear it–-and yet it keeps going, even as his eyes roll up in his head and his breaths turn gasping and shallow–-
–-there is an animal wailing somewhere, choked and pathetic. Someone should shoot it, William thinks dimly, and put the poor thing out of its misery.
Victor coming is a relief, even as the feeling of warm liquid dripping out of him fills William with revulsion. His brother pulls out, so torturously slow it must be on purpose, and it hurts the whole way. Horribly, when he’s gone, William feels empty.
“Excellent,” Victor hums, and the bastard doesn’t even sound out of breath. “Good to see you’re back in top condition.”
William wants to tear out Victor’s throat with his teeth, but for the life of him, he can’t make himself move. He’s sore, and his throat is raw, and he needs to crawl into a deep dark hole and never come out.
A finger brushes over his hole, and William jerks, makes a high scared noise before he can even think to stop himself.
“You’ll get used to it again,” Victor reassures, and bends down to press a cold kiss to William’s forehead. “You always do. Now-–” and this time, the bite sears through William, makes him scream, fills him up with pain until there’s nothing left–-
–-only Victor, saying, “Sleep.”
–-and exhausted, heart-sore, William gratefully reaches for oblivion.