Escape. Escaping. Getting out. Going home—! If they have him—! If only they had him—!
Tristan's heart, it was racing. Erratically pounding. With adrenaline pumping. His skin was pinching. And his eyes were pressuring—
Because with that boy's power alone, it'd be possible. It all would be possible now!
"Hey." He patted this nameless boy's shoulder. And squeezed. "Hey. You—you don't want me to go, right? You're—afraid I'll be caught, right? Me too. I'm afraid too. I'm afraid! But we have to fight, right?"
The boy's eyes. So dark. So fathomless. What was he thinking? Regardless of whatever he was thinking, Tristan would use what was offered to him without looking back.
This moment. This situation. These people. It was perfectly poised for something. Some action they'd all be taking. Something like greed was stirring—
Manic behaviors that wouldn't be seen again for years and years to come. Of course. It was necessary. They had to get home. They just had to!
Starving, beaten, and downtrodden, they were running out of time. This—
Would be their last time.
***
But Tristan was gripping that boy's arm firmly now. "Your name. What is your name?"
But he stared blankly. Name? What name? He—couldn't remember any name. What were names really?
Nothing but the distinction of one body to the next. The smell remained the same in the end.
But this Tristan, his name, it somehow suited him. From the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, that name had presence. Substance. And a visceral, pleasing kiss. His heart. It was beating harder. This feeling. It was…?
Tristan's blue eyes that were constantly piercing. Then softening. Hardening. Then spitting fire from one moment to the next—
Helping. Comforting. And confronting—
His own were bland. And muddy.
Just like the rest of them, he had blankly sat amongst them even as the torture continued, and trembled. So, this name, it truly meant nothing to him. Just one body that would be replaced by the next.
"You don't have one? You—don't remember, do you?" Tristan gripped harder. "You have to have a name. You—have to be named by me!"
"Just what are you thinking, Tristan?! We don't have time—" The others. They were whispering. Truly. They had to leave. They had to prepare for the worst that was coming—!
Tristan! He was the one who convinced them!
But Tristan's hands were shaking. Hesitantly, he patted them. Clenched them. And squeezed. Because Tristan had once squeezed his. Because that—
Had been comforting. Pleasing. And Intense.
This naming. It didn't mean anything. But it was Tristan asking. And so he nodded. And squeezed back. "If you want," he whispered.
"I'll name you. I will. There's—" But the sounds of footsteps echoed. And Tristan's grip loosened resolutely. "Haven. My mai—well, you'll do as I ask, won't you, Haven? You can do it, can't you? Just like last time, you can kill them, can't you, Haven?!"
He tilted his head. This Haven.
He should be happy. He wasn't just a body any longer. Haven was his name now…this was his name…
Tristan gave it to him. And deemed him worthy.
Though it felt empty. Hollow. And weak. It truly didn't ring.
The footsteps. They were closing in quickly—
"Tristan!" A fierce whisper. "Hurry! You said we have to surprise them!"
There was no forgetting this moment. Not for any of them. Because of the bloodshed that followed. Because of the beast within their midst. It was terrible. immoral. And cruel. And yet—
Intensely, violently satisfying.
***
Waiting. Waiting. They were terribly, horribly waiting. There were fists. Grimaces. And teeth. All enduring.
Wind that followed motion. And the sounds of breathing.
They attacked all at once, quickly confronting the small group of adults and ramming their fists into their sides and stomachs and thighs to move them—
And then, they were barreling past the surprised faces of many, too many masked men in the hall walking—
A yelp. And a short, staccato scream. "What the hell?! I thought—!"
"Shut up and move! Ring the bell! Hurry and warn them!"
The sounds of the bells ringing. And the stretch of time as they were running. But of course, that wasn't the end of the hallway—
A fist. And Tristan was sent flying. His back hit the wall with a crack. And the other boys froze in place at the emergence of masked men from the darkened room off to the left—
"You lot are really quite surprising. No matter." The leader rubbed his gloved hands together sinisterly, saying softly, "We'll be sure to kill you properly this time."
Terror. Screams. And the sounds of fighting. And all the while, Haven was staring at Tristan. Because Tristan, he was bleeding. Harshly, heavily breathing.
But his eyes. They were raging. Burning. And terribly, horribly gleaming—!
"Haven," he said slowly, "Help me, Haven! Help me! We're dying—!"
He felt it. Haven. He felt those eyes compelling him. It was necessary—
He felt his limbs going numb. Saw his hands distantly as if he were dreaming. Yes. This was always his reality.
He has a name now. Now, he won't be nameless. Faceless. And without…family…
His fist clenched. Then released. Tristan wouldn't look at him like that. He wouldn't cower. Surely this was a divine meeting.
His eyes closed. His breath stilled. And he felt the air was heavy. And the cold was piercing. He focused on that. And felt the noises around him distantly softening. Farther away.
Far. And away. Far. And. Away.
A hand. It dug deeply into his shoulder to turn him—
Though a harsh wrenching soon washed out the sound of clothing ripping. A pained scream. And the hand of Haven's was holding something profusely, grotesquely bleeding.
Skin. It was skin that had been torn from the man's wrist. And the bone that had shattered instantly from Haven's touch shone white and ugly amidst the dim torchlight that was burning.