smile hostage refuge [chapter five]
Title: Smile Hostage Refuge
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two | Three | Four
Just when Max begins to think he’s going temporarily blind (he knows it’s possible - it happened to Adolph Hitler), his head swims and a wave of nausea assaults him, all accompanied by the sudden view of his surroundings. He twists to the side, his shoulder trapped painfully underneath his weight, and vomits over the side of the bed, coughing harshly once he’s done.
“Jesus Christ,” Chase Mathers echoes, his tone tilting until it sounds more annoyed than it was previously; that is, until his eyes catch sight of the knots he’s personally bound around Max’s wrists and ankles, the skin around them cut and caked with dry blood. “... You’re bleeding,” he states solemnly.
“Bucket of piss!” He’s exhausted and his throat hurts, but Max still manages to scream the words, letting all of his venom and hate seep like black sludge through the proverbial floorboards. He feels disgusting - has no doubt that his insides are ugly, seething and guzzling and bubbling like hot mud, sticky with the drug. He hates that he craves the prick of his skin, the burning injection.
Oh, God.
“Cocky little...” Chase growls, reaching down to grasp Max’s forearm. He yards him into a sitting position, helping Max swivel so that his legs hang off the bed just a few inches away from his own pile of sick. Max groans with the movement, his body stiff, but doesn’t protest as his captor squats in front of him and begins to pick at the binding around his ankles. It’s electrical wire, Max realizes as he watches. And it’s stained red.
He takes a moment to observe the room he’s been kept in for the last four days. It’s stupidly normal, especially since Max was expecting something more along the lines of ‘creaky old cabin in the woods,’ or ‘haunted mansion.’ It’s just your everyday, low-income house. Bachelor pad. Whatever.
There are no windows, though, and no unnecessary decor. No framed pictures. It’s highly impersonal. The only thing that’s out of place is the table lined with disposable needles, among other things. His current position doesn’t offer a proper view.
After a couple of seconds of useless probing, Chase’s fingers still and he stands, hands planted on his knees to push himself up.
“I can’t untie them,” he states, and grabs Max’s arm again. He pulls Max to his feet and helps him balance, his grip rougher than need be.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Max mutters, pulling away as much as he can without falling over. He’s as good as a human pogo stick.
He hops alongside the other man to keep himself from being dragged, and allows his boxers to be slipped off and himself to be lowered onto the toilet that’s just a few paces down the hall. He doesn’t wait for Chase to leave before letting his bladder go - Max can’t believe he hasn’t pissed himself yet. Maybe he has, but was just too drugged up to notice. All he knows is that this feels fuckin’ good.
“Answers, now. Why’re you in my house, tied up and half naked?”
Chase’s demand snaps Max out of his reverie. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. He’s aware that the guy is dangerous... albeit misleading, what with his blonde hair and bright eyes. Max doesn’t know what the kid is playing at. Beside the fact Chase is playing dumb to the point of overkill, something has changed. Max just can’t place his finger on it.
He is too busy willing his veins to shut up to notice that Mathers is acting like an entirely different person.
“Let me go, you schizo asshole,” he spits, greasy hair falling into his face.
Because Max is definitely not the type of person to stop fighting.
Chase (or is it Mathers?) moves quickly. An open palm clips Max in the corner of the eye, causing him to blink back involuntary tears. It’s the closest he’s actually come to crying throughout this whole ordeal.
“I always knew I was justified in hating you. You and your immature little band,” Chase is saying, and suddenly Max doesn’t feel so brave, sitting prone and idle on the shitter. “Everywhere you went, you brought your arrogance. Thought you were something big, didn’t you? You and Mabbitt. Now look at the position you’ve landed yourself in. Not so high and mighty now, are you?”
“They’ll find you!” Max retaliates with just as much bite, if not more. “You’re going down, fuckass. Coward. If I wasn’t tied up I’d go ripshit on you.”
This time around, when Chase hits him, Max looses his seating and hurdles to the ground, crashing against the porcelain wall of the bathtub. Fearing that he may throw up again, he waits until his mind and stomach settle before tilting his head up and glaring.
Chase slows.
“You’re doing this for fucking nothing. You say you want your revenge on Craig, but Craig loves his fans. There’s no way he would’ve been a dick to you if you hadn’t been being a dick first, okay?” He’s trying to break through, trying to reason, but his voice won’t go any louder. It cracks. “He has a girlfriend, dude. And a daughter. Don’t do this.”
Chase stops.
His hazel gaze becomes unfocused, and it’s like he freezes in time. The shape of his eyes change, narrow. Darken. His stance shifts. Taller, more menacing than before. And then he snaps alive, fully functioning, a look of confusion and infuriation flashing across his face.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
Blackouts in time. Memory lapses.
“God!” Max screams in frustration, trying to pull apart his wrists in search of the pain that will keep him from going out of his mind. He feels the old wounds reopen and they sting like a wasp’s kiss, but it’s what he needs. Control. He pulls and pulls and fights against the electrical cord until the pain becomes unbearable and he slumps, gasping for breath.
Anger. It makes Chase Mathers change.
“Hey,” Max wheezes, gaining Mathers’ attention. “You’ve got... what is it? Multiple Personality. Right? I’ve met someone with it before. Anger is your trigger?”
“Mind your own fuckin' business.” Mathers sneers.
Mathers lurches forward and bends Max over the bathtub, one hand closed over Max’s windpipe. “Let’s try something fun,” he says. And just like that, he releases Max and straightens, walks out of the room and returns not a minute later with a cellular phone that is waved teasingly in front of Max’s flushed face.
“My phone,” the bassist breathes.
::
Ronnie sits down in front of the window, picks up the telephone, and stares me down with a bored expression. Everything about him is no-nonsense - even his hair. I’ve seen it short before, but it never fails to throw me off.
“What’s going on.” It isn’t even said as a question. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounded as if he was trying to feign indifference.
I think he still cares about Max somewhere deep, deep down there. You know, maybe.
“What were you told?” I counter. I don’t hold anything against Ronnie, but if he wants to be a shithead, I can be a shithead right back. It’s immature and it does nothing to help Max, but.
Ronnie sighs impatiently. “Just tell me why you aren’t at Warped right now, living out your wildest dreams through my band.”
I scoff at him. “Tell me what you know about Max’s step father and I’ll give you all the information I have.”
Ronnie doesn’t reply.
“You must know something,” I press. “I find it hard to believe that you’ve never crashed at his house, never noticed anything, never been confided in. Come on, Radke. I know something went on there.”
Silence. Then, “Which step dad?”
“Er,” I think. “Most recent one.”
“It was just your average abusive relationship,” he spits suddenly. “Fuckin’ Green had bruises all the time. Stupid kid.”
I frown. “Why did he stay, then?”
“Only because he wanted to make sure his mom would be okay. Then he did leave. We were homeless for months, not that you would understand.”
“No, I don’t. So why didn’t you report this guy? Just decided to take the easy way out and turn a blind eye? Didn’t care?”
I’m getting angrier by the second. I had already expected abuse, but I couldn’t believe that Ronnie - Max’s best friend at the time - had done nothing about it.
“Hey, fuck you,” he fires back, pointing a furious finger at my face, and I’m almost glad that there’s a barrier between us. “I was all for reporting it, but I promised him I wouldn’t tell a soul. He didn’t want the douchebag to get arrested cos his mom loved him so much. Max and I usually had too much cocaine in the system to realize just how bad it was getting, anyway.”
Great friend you were, I mock internally.
I run a hand down my face, attempting to take it all in. It’s hard not to feel hurt that Max never confided in me. Really hard.
“Why did his step dad beat him?” I ask eventually.
“How would I know?”
I give up on Ronnie shortly after this point. I know what I need to know now, as unfortunate as it is. I quickly recount all the facts on Max’s disappearance to Ronnie, eager to leave. When I finish, I thank him and hang up the telephone. He lets me go without saying a word in response. My empathy goes out to him; I’m sure he feels just as helpless as me, if not more.
I’m just shoving my key into the ignition of my car when my mobile rings. Cursing, I lift my hips so that I can fish it out of my pocket, and then flip it open. I stare at the screen, feeling my breathing become shallow. The caller id reads MAX GREEN.
I’m so memorized that I nearly forget to press the talk button.
“Hello?” I answer warily. I don’t trust this.
“Just the asshat I wanted to speak to. I have someone here who very desperately wants to talk to you.”
“Who are you?” I growl into the receiver.
“You may have heard of me. My name is Chase Mathers.”
Pairing: Max/Craig, side dish of Max/Ronnie
Rating: R - beware of the noncon.
POV: First & third
Disclaimer: Fake. Title belongs to The Used.
Prelude | One | Two | Three | Four
Just when Max begins to think he’s going temporarily blind (he knows it’s possible - it happened to Adolph Hitler), his head swims and a wave of nausea assaults him, all accompanied by the sudden view of his surroundings. He twists to the side, his shoulder trapped painfully underneath his weight, and vomits over the side of the bed, coughing harshly once he’s done.
“Jesus Christ,” Chase Mathers echoes, his tone tilting until it sounds more annoyed than it was previously; that is, until his eyes catch sight of the knots he’s personally bound around Max’s wrists and ankles, the skin around them cut and caked with dry blood. “... You’re bleeding,” he states solemnly.
“Bucket of piss!” He’s exhausted and his throat hurts, but Max still manages to scream the words, letting all of his venom and hate seep like black sludge through the proverbial floorboards. He feels disgusting - has no doubt that his insides are ugly, seething and guzzling and bubbling like hot mud, sticky with the drug. He hates that he craves the prick of his skin, the burning injection.
Oh, God.
“Cocky little...” Chase growls, reaching down to grasp Max’s forearm. He yards him into a sitting position, helping Max swivel so that his legs hang off the bed just a few inches away from his own pile of sick. Max groans with the movement, his body stiff, but doesn’t protest as his captor squats in front of him and begins to pick at the binding around his ankles. It’s electrical wire, Max realizes as he watches. And it’s stained red.
He takes a moment to observe the room he’s been kept in for the last four days. It’s stupidly normal, especially since Max was expecting something more along the lines of ‘creaky old cabin in the woods,’ or ‘haunted mansion.’ It’s just your everyday, low-income house. Bachelor pad. Whatever.
There are no windows, though, and no unnecessary decor. No framed pictures. It’s highly impersonal. The only thing that’s out of place is the table lined with disposable needles, among other things. His current position doesn’t offer a proper view.
After a couple of seconds of useless probing, Chase’s fingers still and he stands, hands planted on his knees to push himself up.
“I can’t untie them,” he states, and grabs Max’s arm again. He pulls Max to his feet and helps him balance, his grip rougher than need be.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Max mutters, pulling away as much as he can without falling over. He’s as good as a human pogo stick.
He hops alongside the other man to keep himself from being dragged, and allows his boxers to be slipped off and himself to be lowered onto the toilet that’s just a few paces down the hall. He doesn’t wait for Chase to leave before letting his bladder go - Max can’t believe he hasn’t pissed himself yet. Maybe he has, but was just too drugged up to notice. All he knows is that this feels fuckin’ good.
“Answers, now. Why’re you in my house, tied up and half naked?”
Chase’s demand snaps Max out of his reverie. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. He’s aware that the guy is dangerous... albeit misleading, what with his blonde hair and bright eyes. Max doesn’t know what the kid is playing at. Beside the fact Chase is playing dumb to the point of overkill, something has changed. Max just can’t place his finger on it.
He is too busy willing his veins to shut up to notice that Mathers is acting like an entirely different person.
“Let me go, you schizo asshole,” he spits, greasy hair falling into his face.
Because Max is definitely not the type of person to stop fighting.
Chase (or is it Mathers?) moves quickly. An open palm clips Max in the corner of the eye, causing him to blink back involuntary tears. It’s the closest he’s actually come to crying throughout this whole ordeal.
“I always knew I was justified in hating you. You and your immature little band,” Chase is saying, and suddenly Max doesn’t feel so brave, sitting prone and idle on the shitter. “Everywhere you went, you brought your arrogance. Thought you were something big, didn’t you? You and Mabbitt. Now look at the position you’ve landed yourself in. Not so high and mighty now, are you?”
“They’ll find you!” Max retaliates with just as much bite, if not more. “You’re going down, fuckass. Coward. If I wasn’t tied up I’d go ripshit on you.”
This time around, when Chase hits him, Max looses his seating and hurdles to the ground, crashing against the porcelain wall of the bathtub. Fearing that he may throw up again, he waits until his mind and stomach settle before tilting his head up and glaring.
Chase slows.
“You’re doing this for fucking nothing. You say you want your revenge on Craig, but Craig loves his fans. There’s no way he would’ve been a dick to you if you hadn’t been being a dick first, okay?” He’s trying to break through, trying to reason, but his voice won’t go any louder. It cracks. “He has a girlfriend, dude. And a daughter. Don’t do this.”
Chase stops.
His hazel gaze becomes unfocused, and it’s like he freezes in time. The shape of his eyes change, narrow. Darken. His stance shifts. Taller, more menacing than before. And then he snaps alive, fully functioning, a look of confusion and infuriation flashing across his face.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
Blackouts in time. Memory lapses.
“God!” Max screams in frustration, trying to pull apart his wrists in search of the pain that will keep him from going out of his mind. He feels the old wounds reopen and they sting like a wasp’s kiss, but it’s what he needs. Control. He pulls and pulls and fights against the electrical cord until the pain becomes unbearable and he slumps, gasping for breath.
Anger. It makes Chase Mathers change.
“Hey,” Max wheezes, gaining Mathers’ attention. “You’ve got... what is it? Multiple Personality. Right? I’ve met someone with it before. Anger is your trigger?”
“Mind your own fuckin' business.” Mathers sneers.
Mathers lurches forward and bends Max over the bathtub, one hand closed over Max’s windpipe. “Let’s try something fun,” he says. And just like that, he releases Max and straightens, walks out of the room and returns not a minute later with a cellular phone that is waved teasingly in front of Max’s flushed face.
“My phone,” the bassist breathes.
::
Ronnie sits down in front of the window, picks up the telephone, and stares me down with a bored expression. Everything about him is no-nonsense - even his hair. I’ve seen it short before, but it never fails to throw me off.
“What’s going on.” It isn’t even said as a question. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounded as if he was trying to feign indifference.
I think he still cares about Max somewhere deep, deep down there. You know, maybe.
“What were you told?” I counter. I don’t hold anything against Ronnie, but if he wants to be a shithead, I can be a shithead right back. It’s immature and it does nothing to help Max, but.
Ronnie sighs impatiently. “Just tell me why you aren’t at Warped right now, living out your wildest dreams through my band.”
I scoff at him. “Tell me what you know about Max’s step father and I’ll give you all the information I have.”
Ronnie doesn’t reply.
“You must know something,” I press. “I find it hard to believe that you’ve never crashed at his house, never noticed anything, never been confided in. Come on, Radke. I know something went on there.”
Silence. Then, “Which step dad?”
“Er,” I think. “Most recent one.”
“It was just your average abusive relationship,” he spits suddenly. “Fuckin’ Green had bruises all the time. Stupid kid.”
I frown. “Why did he stay, then?”
“Only because he wanted to make sure his mom would be okay. Then he did leave. We were homeless for months, not that you would understand.”
“No, I don’t. So why didn’t you report this guy? Just decided to take the easy way out and turn a blind eye? Didn’t care?”
I’m getting angrier by the second. I had already expected abuse, but I couldn’t believe that Ronnie - Max’s best friend at the time - had done nothing about it.
“Hey, fuck you,” he fires back, pointing a furious finger at my face, and I’m almost glad that there’s a barrier between us. “I was all for reporting it, but I promised him I wouldn’t tell a soul. He didn’t want the douchebag to get arrested cos his mom loved him so much. Max and I usually had too much cocaine in the system to realize just how bad it was getting, anyway.”
Great friend you were, I mock internally.
I run a hand down my face, attempting to take it all in. It’s hard not to feel hurt that Max never confided in me. Really hard.
“Why did his step dad beat him?” I ask eventually.
“How would I know?”
I give up on Ronnie shortly after this point. I know what I need to know now, as unfortunate as it is. I quickly recount all the facts on Max’s disappearance to Ronnie, eager to leave. When I finish, I thank him and hang up the telephone. He lets me go without saying a word in response. My empathy goes out to him; I’m sure he feels just as helpless as me, if not more.
I’m just shoving my key into the ignition of my car when my mobile rings. Cursing, I lift my hips so that I can fish it out of my pocket, and then flip it open. I stare at the screen, feeling my breathing become shallow. The caller id reads MAX GREEN.
I’m so memorized that I nearly forget to press the talk button.
“Hello?” I answer warily. I don’t trust this.
“Just the asshat I wanted to speak to. I have someone here who very desperately wants to talk to you.”
“Who are you?” I growl into the receiver.
“You may have heard of me. My name is Chase Mathers.”