Fic: A Gift Once Given, Part 1/3; R/J, NC-17 (Aka: And Four!! or, if you like, Merry Xmas)
Now that I've sent you off to read someone else's story...
Title: A Gift Once Given
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Ryan/Jon
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ryan is sixteen, Jon is seventeen. Discussions of past abuse/violence.
Length: ~18,500
Summary: Jon was Ryan's sweet sixteen gift.
AN: As per this conversation, this fic is for foxxcub. It did not turn out quite the way I would have hoped, but, ah...maybe there will be a coda? Anyway, I tried. Hope you're having a good holiday season, dear, you deserve it.
Jon was Ryan's sweet sixteen gift. Ryan had known it was coming, no matter how much he had tried to pretend otherwise. His father had been hinting a little too heavily about sixteen being, "...when you become a man, son."
Ryan grew up in Vegas, near to several of the most opulent slave-markets in the Northern Hemisphere. He'd seen body-slaves being sold time and time again while riding to pick up his father, heading to and from the social networking groups his father insisted upon, or even just going in to the city for a day's fun with Spencer. He had some idea--if not a great one--of what "becoming a man" meant. He just wasn't sure he was a man, at least not the kind his dad wanted him to be.
But there really wasn't anything to be done. The last time Ryan had tried arguing abolitionist politics with his father he'd been twelve and totally in love with Spencer--fucking hormones--and it had been the only time Ryan's father had ever hit him. He hadn't gone for the face, instead taking his fist to Ryan's stomach, and when Ryan was on the floor, he'd given him a lecture on hard, cold economics and bleeding-heart liberals and then he'd confined Ryan to the house for a month, watching to make sure Ryan didn't have any communication with the outside world whatsoever.
Ryan could have taken the punch. It had hurt, but Ryan was pretty strong. It was being kept from Spencer for that long that had weakened his defenses. After he was freed, he was certain never to say anything on the topic ever again, and careful, infinitely careful, to make sure that his father never figured out it was Spencer who had planted the idea.
As such, when August 30th rolled around, Ryan did his best to eat the cake his father had ordered and to try and act pleasantly surprised by the gift of a naked man folding himself into a perfect posture of obeisance. It took a while, but after what felt like several hours--Ryan was guessing it was maybe ten minutes--his father clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Well, then. Good evening."
Ryan nodded. "Thank you, again, father."
Ryan felt each of the fourteen strides to the doorway, the opening and closing click of the door in the base of his throat, near to where his pulse beat. He took a breath, "Um. I-- My name is Ryan."
The Slave--not even Jon, then, just The Slave--asked, "How may I please you, master?"
His voice was...not what Ryan would have expected of a pleasure slave. It spread fingers over Ryan's spine, though, just in asking the question. "Could you, uh. Could you maybe tell me your name?"
"I was written in the books as Jon, Master. But that can always be altered." He was still in the position, knees slightly spread, head down, arms behind his back, and it had to hurt, ache, at least, but he showed not a sign of moving.
"D'you...I mean, do you like Jon?"
A small tremor ran through Jon's frame. Ryan frowned. He came closer, stopping when Jon's breath--loud in the relative silence of the room--all but cut out. Ryan looked down and thought, oh. He can see my feet.
"Sorry, Master, I don't--"
Ryan curled to his knees and brought a finger to Jon's chin so that he could look at his face. His own breath caught at what he saw. It wasn't so much in the features or the cut of the face--body slaves were meant to be attractive--but in the eyes. In all his life, Ryan had ever seen one pair of eyes that could make him stop in the middle of a busy street. And Ryan had long come to realize that with Spencer, it was more about loving his friend than any physical attraction.
Jon's eyes, though, were, well, they were sad. Sad and afraid and still kind, and the warmest, deepest brown Ryan had ever witnessed, even in the vids of places far off-world, where forests still thrived. Ryan said, "Let's-- I'm Ryan. And I think Jon is a perfectly serviceable name, but if you want another one, then I shall surely get it for you."
"Oh," Jon said, blinking. And then, belatedly, "Master."
Ryan sighed and glanced back at the table. He asked, "Don't suppose you have any interest in helping me finish some of the birthday cake?"
Ryan knew he'd said something wrong almost the moment he asked if Jon wanted the cake, he just didn't have any clue of what. He bit his lip. "Um. Do you not like vanilla? I know most people like chocolate, but I like the frosting to be chocolate and it's a little too much if you--" Ryan blinked, more at himself than anything. He never talked this much.
"Jon?" he asked. He felt less of a man than he ever had.
"I... I wish to remain pleasing to you, Master. That is, if I am. Pleasing."
Ryan cut another piece of cake and set it on a plate, bringing his unfinished piece to the floor and sitting down in front of Jon, folding his legs in front of him. He said, "I guess. I mean, um, how would you not be pleasing?"
There was a sound Ryan couldn't identify. It sounded like an aborted laugh, but he was pretty sure he was just imagining that. Jon lifted his face again--it had dropped when Ryan had let go his chin--and Ryan smiled. Jon smiled back, not quite as sure, but that didn't change the way Ryan felt it in his stomach. Jon's smile touched his entire face. Softly, Jon said, "A pleasure slave is not to eat sweets, Master. They soften his body."
Ryan took in the way Jon's skin fit tight to his body. It was appealing, Ryan supposed, in its own way. He knew people liked looking at him, the way he was all angles despite never having gone hungry a day in his life. That sort of thing was in vogue, Ryan imagined. He didn't pay much attention. He'd always liked the softness of Spencer's face, the way he curved. Ryan could see the possibility in Jon, could see maybe even that that was how it should have been. Hunger--and that was what it was, not a lack of sweets, but true hunger--was less than appealing to Ryan.
He got the feeling that probably wasn't the best way to phrase it, not when Jon seemed so concerned about pleasing him. Ryan wondered what happened to slaves who displeased their masters. He wondered if maybe he shouldn't have avoided the whole situation once he'd know what his father had in mind, as though if he ignored it, it would go away. Instead he said, "If you're hungry, it'd...please me if you'd share with me. It's my birthday and, well. My best friend Spencer, my father didn't invite him, I think--" because he wanted me to fuck you and thought that might be inappropriate. "Um, well. So I haven't anyone to share it with, is the thing. And I-- It's too much for me. And eating birthday cake alone is lonely."
Slowly, Jon reached for the plate. He took a small bite, dainty, even. It didn't fit with what Ryan had imagined at all. He said, "You had etiquette lessons." Ryan had suffered through years of them, only Spencer at his side making it bearable.
"And dancing, music, literature, proper dress, and languages. I can be a companion to you in any situation, Master."
"Music?" Ryan asked. He knew there was something important about everything Jon had just told him, something he should know, but he was really more interested in talking about music.
"I play the guitar, some piano, and I took it upon myself to learn bass guitar, Master." Jon recited these facts as though they were just simple truths.
"That's fantastic!" Ryan grinned. "I'll have to introduce you to Spencer. He plays drums. We play together. I mean, nothing serious or anything, because, well, there's lessons and just, life, I suppose, but you should play with us. It would be great, having someone else to join."
The fork faltered in Jon's fingers, slipped to the plate with a quiet clang. Jon said, "Sorry, sorry, Master," and ducked his head again.
Ryan frowned. "That's all right. I mean--" Ryan wondered if perhaps Jon was tired or so hungry as to be shaky. He said, "Can I--" and took the plate from Jon. Jon gave it over easily, without even so much as looking in its direction. In fact, he seemed to be looking stridently away. Ryan cut a bite, slightly larger than those Jon had been taking, but not much more so. He didn't want to cause him to choke. He said, softly, "Jon."
"Master?"
Ryan winced. They would have to work on that. One step at a time. "Jon, look at me."
Jon brought his eyes up without hesitation at the order. Ryan said, "Open your mouth."
Again, there was no moment of waiting for Jon to do as told, he simply did. Ryan brought the fork to his mouth and placed it there, waiting for Jon to take the piece. He didn't. Ryan said, "Jon." Then, "Please."
Jon took the piece from the fork and Ryan swallowed, harder than he'd ever been in his life and more ashamed than he'd ever felt by a sexual reaction to anything. He cut another piece, and another, until the section of cake he'd given to Jon was gone, nothing but crumbs.
Jon kept his eyes on Ryan and said, "Thank you, Master."
Ryan said, "Can you-- I know. I know that's what I am, but I don't like it. Don't want it." Didn't want you. It was the truth, although he would never say it to Jon. "Just...just Ryan, please?"
"Of course, Ryan." Jon said "Ryan" like "Master," but he had done as asked and Ryan wouldn't even know how to begin asking for something more.
"Okay. All right," Ryan said, and didn't give into his desire to ask Jon, what now?
***
What happened, as it turned out, was that Jon took pity on Ryan. He ducked his head again and said softly, in a way that made Ryan's toes curl--and Ryan was relatively untutored in the ways of sex, but he knew enough to know it was on purpose--"Perhaps we might retire to your room, Ryan?"
Ryan wasn't sure that was really the best idea, but he also had a feeling that not going might just be delaying the inevitable. "O--okay. Yeah. Room."
He stood and was about to offer Jon a hand, but Jon simply went to his hands and knees, the line of his back coming directly into Ryan's sight, and Ryan's breath caught. It took a few seconds for him to assemble the words, "No, Jon. No, you can walk."
Jon flowed to his feet and said, "Thank you, Ryan."
Ryan thought it might have been a mistake, asking Jon to call him that. He didn't want to hear his name being used like a title after everything Jon said. He wanted...he wanted Jon to say his name, just say it. He bit his lip and said, "Ah. This way," then lead them through the house, to his room.
It was a nice room, Ryan's sanctuary when he wasn't at Spencer's place. His favorite parts were the desk, a great faux-wooden monster that Ryan could all but disappear into when he wanted to write. Wood was horrendously expensive, as it had to be imported from off-world, but the desk was a fairly good likeness of the pictures of what real mahogany had looked like, and Ryan loved the deep, rich tones of it. It wasn't boxy at all, either, rather it curved in interesting, organic ways.
It stood in one corner and in the other was his guitar, surrounded by pillows and floor chairs, a place for him to fold himself up and listen to nothing but the sound of his fingers on the strings. The wall across from both these areas was nothing but a floor-to-ceiling window. It could be blacked out at the press of a button, but Ryan rarely did. He liked being able to see the sky, and the window was one-way, so he didn't worry about people looking in at him.
His bed was in a loft above all of this, the stairs running over his music corner. Or rather, the loft was his bed, the mattress having been made to fit the space. It was huge, meant for sprawling in, for curling up in, for snuggling when the Earth's temperature modulators were on the fritz and the world was simply too cold to face.
Ryan brought Jon into the room and said, "This is, um, you're safe, here. You can touch anything you want, do anything. I mean, not my journaling pads. Just, that's private. But anything else. Oh, and the thermostat--" Ryan showed him where it was, touching it up a couple of degrees because he was uncomfortably aware that Jon was still naked.
He turned to Jon, only to have Jon sink back into his position of obeisance. Ryan said, "You don't have to do that. Really, it's not, I don't--" Ryan gave up, frustrated with himself, and just a little with Jon, if he was honest. He knew it wasn't fair, but Ryan hated feeling unsure and evidently that was all he was ever going to feel with Jon around. He could feel his shoulders notching nigh to his ears, but it was still a surprise when Jon spoke up.
"Maybe if we went to bed, I could give you a massage, Ryan?"
Ryan hesitated. The thought of Jon's hands on him was...enticing. And it was only a massage. Still, "All right, but you have to teach me."
Jon cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. Ryan wouldn't have even noticed, except that he was paying attention. Jon said, "Teach you, Ryan?" and Ryan could hear how he tried--unsuccessfully--too keep the note of curiosity out of the question.
"So that I can do it for you. That's how friends do things. They return the favor."
Jon took a breath, as though he were about to say something. Then he evidently thought better as he expelled it on, "As you wish, Ryan."
Ryan was pretty sure he'd lost that battle without even being aware he'd been fighting it. All the same he said, "Okay," and toed his shoes off, climbing the stairs to his bed. When he looked back, Jon was there, two steps behind, always, always.
***
Ryan was trying to pay attention, he really was, but Jon's hands just seemed to know how to find every spot on Ryan that needed to be pressed and pinched and held until he was crying out in pain, and then released to babbles of relief and amazement. And when he'd managed to untie every knot Ryan's muscles had managed to form in their sixteen years, then he used the heat he'd built in Ryan's skin to his advantage in truly calming Ryan. Between the stress of anticipation that Ryan had carried all day and the difficulty of negotiating anything with Jon, Ryan couldn't help it--he gave into exhaustion and fell into one of the deepest sleeps he had enjoyed in a long while.
***
Ryan awoke to the awareness of two things: the brightness level in the room indicating that it was nearly midday and the fact that Jon was asleep near his head, kneeling in obeisance. Ryan felt a little sick to his stomach at the sight. Quietly, he crawled from where Jon had clearly tucked him in, and made his way to Jon. His plan was simply to guide Jon a little bit away from the wall, to where he could ease him down on the bed and let him sleep. However, the moment Ryan's hands came to Jon's shoulder's Jon was awake. He tensed under Ryan's touch and said, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Master, I didn't mean to fall asleep."
Eloquently, Ryan asked, "What?"
"I was waiting, Master, I was awake, I didn't mean--"
"Jon," Ryan said softly. He squinted, glancing at the alarm clock built into the wall of the loft. He'd slept for nearly ten hours. "Jon, are you saying you stayed up that whole time?"
"A pleasure slave is to be available to his master at all--"
Ryan was honestly going to vomit if Jon kept talking. "Okay. Okay. Um. Let's get something clear. I know you're human. And I know that humans eat, sleep, breathe, piss, shit and have emotions. So from now on, we're both going to assume that you do all those things. And that you won't be...um, punished? For any of them."
Jon took a couple of deep breaths and said, "It is within your right, Master, to return a slave who has not performed his duties or been less than attentive."
"You can forget all about that. Ten hours is the most I've slept in years, so as far as I'm concerned you're perfectly attentive and, uh, performing. Performa-- Whatever. The point is, you're not just some pair of shoes to be returned."
Jon's breathing actually slowed at that, but none of the tension left his body. Ryan wasn't entirely sure Jon believed him, but there was nothing he could do about that just at the moment. Instead he said, "I want to show you what I learned."
"Ma-- Ryan?"
Ryan took it from that that Jon had calmed a little. "C'mere," he said, and pulled Jon further into the center of the bed, laying him down. Jon's gaze was hooded, his lashes all but blending in against the bruises that surrounded his eyes, but Ryan could tell that his movements were being tracked. He asked, "You had oil last night?"
"I was allowed to prepare, Ryan."
Ryan's mind stuttered over the implications of that. Instead he just asked, "Where'd you-- Oh." He spotted the bottle next to the book and journal he kept in the nook right below the built-in clock. He moved enough that he could reach it and then came back. He opened the bottle, poured a little into his hands and warmed it the way Jon had. He'd been paying attention that far. He nudged Jon onto his front and tried not to ogle like some kind of pervert. He pressed his hands into Jon's shoulder blades, muscular and, like the rest of him, just a bit too sharp. He wondered if maybe he should have gotten some breakfast first, but decided that Jon needed the sleep more. Ten hours, fuck. Who knew how many Jon had sat, fighting to keep himself awake.
Jon was warm beneath him, smooth and sturdy, and after a while, even as intensely as Ryan wanted, he also found himself lost in the process of trying to get Jon to loosen. Straightening his legs--Jon had bent them to the side in an effort to avoid the pain of releasing them from the kneel position--was a slow, agonizing process, Jon clearly deepening his breathing so as to bite back whimpers of pain, Ryan apologizing over and over, Jon saying, "Not at all, Ryan," his voice cracking with each half-inch of movement. After that, Ryan paid particular attention to Jon's legs, clear down to the feet, where Ryan found something that made him suck in his breath.
"Ryan?" Jon asked, sounding much more hazy than he had. "Does it displease you? I--I can have them covered."
Ryan noted the hesitation. He could ask about it later. For now, "I--" Hard question. "It displeases me that someone di--hurt you. Hurt you like that."
On the bottom of each of Jon's feet, there were three perfectly spaced scars, the product, Ryan could only imagine, of a knife, or perhaps a cane. In the two framed sections made by these horizontal lines were the four marks of the second largest slave-holding company in the Southwest: the coin, the rose bud, the mustang and the sword. They were all stylized depictions, specific to the enterprise: depictions of power and perfection. They had been branded into his foot, one by one.
"Marking a pleasure slave depletes his value. And the value of a runaway has already been reduced by the runaway's action, so a re-trainer is left with little choice but to mark the slave in the least visible of areas and hope that the damage either goes undiscovered or is not considered to be a detraction. You have my papers, so you are well able to know that your father paid a discounted price both for my record and the portion of damage, but if you feel that it was too much, you are welcome to file a complaint with the accounts department at Vaunt House."
Ryan closed his eyes and tried, tried so hard, just to breathe. It wasn't going to work, though. He scrambled onto his feet and down the stairs, falling down the last few and to his waste basket, where he threw up everything that was left in his system after his night of sleep. When he could, he stood and flushed the waste down the disposal shoot in the hall, on his way to the bathroom. He washed his mouth, brushed his teeth, then continued to the kitchen for some juice and some breakfast for both of them. His father would already be at work, Ryan knew, so there was no risk of running into him, having to explain. Ryan wasn't sure he could have without vomiting again.
He made them some eggs and toast--the one thing he could make--and then returned to his room. He set up the lap tables he had in the music corner and climbed into the bed loft, only to find Jon where he'd left him, but back in his default kneeling position. Ryan said, "Okay, we'll talk about this when we've eaten," and helped Jon out of the bed, down the stairs. He seated Jon in the cushiest floor chair and took an inflatable chair for himself. He went and found a robe for both of them, handing one to Jon. Jon looked at it uncertainly, but then took it, pulling himself into it quicker than Ryan would have credited being possible.
Ryan found himself breathing easier with them both sitting, at least somewhat clothed. He said, "Eat up," which, okay, he kind of knew was a command, and not fair, but Jon was practically waxen, and they both needed something to do.
Like the night before, Jon's eating was refined, too perfect. Ryan took his slowly as well, sipping at the juice more than anything. When the food had begun to settle and he was feeling a bit more himself he said, "There's nowhere for runaways to go."
To Ryan's surprise, Jon smiled. It was bitter, twisted, but it was a smile. He said, "Nobody knows that better than a runaway, Ryan."
Ryan bit his bottom lip. He said, "You don't trust me. There's no reason you should. That's...that's smart. But I'll tell you the truth from my perspective anyway. I don't like the idea of owning people. I never have. My best friend, his family has always kept slaves, but they've always been part of the family, near enough, and made wages under the table and there's other people who do those sorts of things, quiet like. It's not...it doesn't really change anything, I guess, except one kid's mind, maybe. But I don't, I would never have gotten myself a pleasure slave. My father and I, we see things differently."
Jon finished his eggs and set his plate down gently. "Then you would prefer to return me, Ryan?"
"To the people who did that to you?" Ryan looked at Jon's feet. They were facing down, but now that Ryan knew what was there, the knowledge could not be undone. "Like hell."
"I...I don't understand, Ryan."
"I can't return you, and there's nowhere for you to go, not even freed, there's just-- We'll have to figure out a way to make this look good, is all." Ryan tried to sound confident. He was pretty sure it was nowhere near that easy.
"Look good, Ryan?"
"I neither want nor need a pleasure slave. But I could use a friend in this house. Badly. I shall leave it up to you as to whether you are willing to work with me to make that possible. In the meantime, I'm asking you, please, to go get some sleep, as much as you need. I have lessons to finish and I'm pretty good at keeping myself company, so you don't need to worry about me. Just, sleep, please? You look exhausted."
Jon looked at him, silent for some moments. Finally, he said, "I-- All right. Ryan."
Ryan smiled tightly. "Thank you."
Jon blinked multiple times. "Ah, you're welcome."
***
Ryan made himself sit down to his lessons first. It wasn't that he couldn't skip a few, but Ryan wanted out of his father's house, and the most likely way to manage that was through his scholarship. The wealthy had long forsaken schools in a traditional sense, instead picking and choosing from open-source courseware of the finest institutions and hiring academics to model curricula based on their child's strengths. A child who showed particular promise in coursework, however, could still be expected to go to university, to achieve statesmanship or other distinguished careers. Ryan, for the most part, couldn't have cared less about his options, he just wanted to be wrapped up in the arms of the academe, where even his father's reach would be shortened.
He was distracted, though, and unlike normal, when he would lose himself in the thoughts of those before him, nodding in agreement or writing passionately in disagreement, Ryan hurried through his coursework, sending in the minimum of what would get him by. Then he called Spencer.
Brendon picked up. "Hey, Ry."
Brendon had been with Spencer's family as long as Ryan could remember, really. They had bought him as a music tutor to the children: Brendon had shown brilliance in the earliest vetting of the slaves and they had trained him up to have value despite his size. Brendon was only about four months older than Spencer, and if Ryan was remembered correctly, he had been bought at the age of nine, but he had already been able to play entire Concertos on the piano, and Ryan had never heard a piece that Brendon couldn't play on any instrument he chose, so long as he was given a while to figure it out.
Spencer's family had required that Brendon teach the other children, but had been very strict that they were not to give Brendon any trouble and had also encouraged Brendon--financially and emotionally--to continue his own music studies. If Spencer was Ryan's best friend in the entire world, Brendon came in a close second. Ryan thought that a goodly portion of his unease with the practice of sexual slavery came from the fact that he was uncomfortably aware of how beautiful Brendon had grown up to be, how easily that could have been his fate.
"Bren," Ryan said.
There were a couple of beats before Brendon said, "Spencer's in lessons, but I can--"
"No, no, I-- My father got me a boy. Man."
Brendon drew in a breath. "A slave."
Ryan made a noise. "They branded his feet. He ran away--"
"He ran away?"
There was reason for Brendon's surprise. Ryan hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said there was nowhere to go. There wasn't an area of Earth where slavery wasn't practiced in some form anymore, and getting off-planet took papers, documents. Ryan imagined it happened, occasionally, but he couldn't imagine how. Even the rare freed slaves--there were people who actively bucked the culture and manumitted theirs--were seen as no better than slaves. They couldn't be assaulted in the streets openly the way a true slave could, but if they were beaten in an alley and a hundred people saw, they would all look the other way. Ryan said, "I imagine he had reason."
"Christ," Brendon said softly. And yeah, that about summed it up. The desperation a person would have to feel to willingly leave a place knowing that the punishments for being caught were at best enormously painful and degrading was beyond Ryan's ability to envision.
"Brendon. If it--" Ryan couldn't say it, couldn't say "if it were you." "I don't know what to do."
"I--I saw a slave who was in re-training once." Brendon's voice wavered, and Ryan thought about how bad it must have been, how bad if Brendon still had that memory from before the Smith's. Brendon continued, "All slaves are taught that we are subsumed by, submissive to our masters' wills. But runaways, they...they're trained that they don't exist outside of their masters. In cruel and repetitive ways. It's honestly surprising when they don't go insane. A lot do."
"I still don't know what to do," Ryan admitted.
"Ryan, I was trained as a skilled slave. It's different. And even if it hadn't been, the Smiths--"
"I know. I know. But there must have been something, I mean, you were still trained."
"But I was young enough that most of it hadn't taken, yet, and a steady application of kindness and understanding was enough to draw me out. I don't think it's going to be that simple in this case. I'm sorry. I wish...I wish I had something better for you. And for him."
Ryan curled up as tightly as he could. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. Tell Spencer I called?"
"I'll tell Spencer about all of it, if you want."
"Thanks."
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"You're... This is a really good thing you're trying to do. Most people wouldn't bother."
"I'm not sure the comparison makes me good, but all right."
"Just try and fucking trust yourself for once."
Ryan smiled a little. "You sound like Spencer."
"Was that a compliment?"
Ryan actually laughed. "Later, Brendon."
"You know you can call if you need to."
Ryan did.
***
Ryan had dinner with his father that night. When his father asked, "Where's your new toy?" Ryan said, blankly, "I wore him out."
It was the first time he'd seen his father look particularly approving in his remembered history.
***
Jon slept for nearly twenty-four hours. He woke at intervals to use the facilities and to try and determine if Ryan had changed his mind, but Ryan just kept sending him back to bed until the time he looked like he was actually ready to be out of it. Ryan wasn't wholly sure, but the lack of bruising around his eyes and the more relaxed set of his frame were the best hints Ryan was probably going to get, so he took them.
Ryan made more eggs and toast, pilfered a couple of apples and brewed some coffee. Jon looked at the coffee steadily for a few moments, like it might disappear. Ryan said, "I can make more, if you want. Just start with that."
When he took his first sip, Ryan got an idea of what true happiness might have looked like on Jon at one time. It was muted, barely there, really, but Ryan was paying attention, and it was there. When Jon put down the cup and opened his eyes, Ryan said, "Hi."
Cautiously, Jon responded, "Hello."
"I'm Ryan. Ryan Ross. I turned sixteen two days ago. My mother left my father when I was two to...I think to planet hop. I'm not sure. I don't hear from her much. My father has pretty different ideas about who I should be than I do. I like books and music and silly, frivolous things, according to him. I get top marks in everything I do and I want a scholarship. I want to go off-planet, but only if Spencer will go with me. Spencer's my best friend, and he's into music too. We've been friends since I was six. The Smiths bought Brendon when he was nine, and I think if Spence and I go anywhere that Brendon will certainly have to come with, because we'd miss him too much. Maybe we could find a place where he wouldn't have to pretend to be a slave. He's super talented. He can play six instruments, all by ear, and he has a great voice and it's stupid that all he can do is teach the Smith kids and sometimes hold concerts when the Smiths pretend to 'show him off'.
"That's me. I'm not very interesting. I haven't had much of a chance to be, I don't think. But I'm pretty sure I could be." Ryan made himself keep looking at Jon. "You don't have to tell me anything. Maybe you don't have anything to tell except things that hurt. I don't know. Brendon said--" Ryan squared his shoulders. "Brendon said it was a surprise you were still sane, when I told him you'd runaway. And I guess I thought, I mean, I don't know anything about that. My dad hit me once, but not like, not like your feet, but that time, I thought of other things so that I wouldn't cry, you know? And I thought maybe you had other things inside you that kept you away from the worst of it."
Jon was sipping his coffee, watching Ryan like he might pounce as soon as Jon proved unawares. But there was also curiosity in his stance. Ryan would take that. "You don't have to tell me. But I hope...I guess I hope you'll want to, eventually."
Jon was quiet for a long time before he asked, "May I ask a question, Ryan?"
"Anytime. You needn't have permission. If I don't want to answer, I won't, and you have that same right with me."
"Brendon. Is he Spencer's--"
"No," Ryan shook his head. "No, just friends. Brendon was his teacher. Still is. The Smiths don't have pleasure slaves."
"And you would take him with you just...to be a friend?"
"You come up with a better reason for taking someone with you far away, let me know," Ryan said.
Jon set his empty coffee cup on the stand between them and eyed Ryan peripherally. Finally he asked, "What's it like, reading?"
It wasn't against the law for slaves to read, it was just rare that anyone bothered to teach them. Ryan wouldn't have cared if it had been against the law. He asked, "Would you like to find out?"
Jon swallowed and dug neatly manicured nails into the skin of his flesh. After a long, long moment he said, "Yes, please. Yes, Ryan."
And somehow, despite the fact that his name still sounded like a title, Ryan thought it was starting to sound less like "master" and more like something he simply didn't have the context to understand, something...something Jon was thinking about keeping for himself.
Part Two
Part Three
Title: A Gift Once Given
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Ryan/Jon
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ryan is sixteen, Jon is seventeen. Discussions of past abuse/violence.
Length: ~18,500
Summary: Jon was Ryan's sweet sixteen gift.
AN: As per this conversation, this fic is for foxxcub. It did not turn out quite the way I would have hoped, but, ah...maybe there will be a coda? Anyway, I tried. Hope you're having a good holiday season, dear, you deserve it.
Jon was Ryan's sweet sixteen gift. Ryan had known it was coming, no matter how much he had tried to pretend otherwise. His father had been hinting a little too heavily about sixteen being, "...when you become a man, son."
Ryan grew up in Vegas, near to several of the most opulent slave-markets in the Northern Hemisphere. He'd seen body-slaves being sold time and time again while riding to pick up his father, heading to and from the social networking groups his father insisted upon, or even just going in to the city for a day's fun with Spencer. He had some idea--if not a great one--of what "becoming a man" meant. He just wasn't sure he was a man, at least not the kind his dad wanted him to be.
But there really wasn't anything to be done. The last time Ryan had tried arguing abolitionist politics with his father he'd been twelve and totally in love with Spencer--fucking hormones--and it had been the only time Ryan's father had ever hit him. He hadn't gone for the face, instead taking his fist to Ryan's stomach, and when Ryan was on the floor, he'd given him a lecture on hard, cold economics and bleeding-heart liberals and then he'd confined Ryan to the house for a month, watching to make sure Ryan didn't have any communication with the outside world whatsoever.
Ryan could have taken the punch. It had hurt, but Ryan was pretty strong. It was being kept from Spencer for that long that had weakened his defenses. After he was freed, he was certain never to say anything on the topic ever again, and careful, infinitely careful, to make sure that his father never figured out it was Spencer who had planted the idea.
As such, when August 30th rolled around, Ryan did his best to eat the cake his father had ordered and to try and act pleasantly surprised by the gift of a naked man folding himself into a perfect posture of obeisance. It took a while, but after what felt like several hours--Ryan was guessing it was maybe ten minutes--his father clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Well, then. Good evening."
Ryan nodded. "Thank you, again, father."
Ryan felt each of the fourteen strides to the doorway, the opening and closing click of the door in the base of his throat, near to where his pulse beat. He took a breath, "Um. I-- My name is Ryan."
The Slave--not even Jon, then, just The Slave--asked, "How may I please you, master?"
His voice was...not what Ryan would have expected of a pleasure slave. It spread fingers over Ryan's spine, though, just in asking the question. "Could you, uh. Could you maybe tell me your name?"
"I was written in the books as Jon, Master. But that can always be altered." He was still in the position, knees slightly spread, head down, arms behind his back, and it had to hurt, ache, at least, but he showed not a sign of moving.
"D'you...I mean, do you like Jon?"
A small tremor ran through Jon's frame. Ryan frowned. He came closer, stopping when Jon's breath--loud in the relative silence of the room--all but cut out. Ryan looked down and thought, oh. He can see my feet.
"Sorry, Master, I don't--"
Ryan curled to his knees and brought a finger to Jon's chin so that he could look at his face. His own breath caught at what he saw. It wasn't so much in the features or the cut of the face--body slaves were meant to be attractive--but in the eyes. In all his life, Ryan had ever seen one pair of eyes that could make him stop in the middle of a busy street. And Ryan had long come to realize that with Spencer, it was more about loving his friend than any physical attraction.
Jon's eyes, though, were, well, they were sad. Sad and afraid and still kind, and the warmest, deepest brown Ryan had ever witnessed, even in the vids of places far off-world, where forests still thrived. Ryan said, "Let's-- I'm Ryan. And I think Jon is a perfectly serviceable name, but if you want another one, then I shall surely get it for you."
"Oh," Jon said, blinking. And then, belatedly, "Master."
Ryan sighed and glanced back at the table. He asked, "Don't suppose you have any interest in helping me finish some of the birthday cake?"
Ryan knew he'd said something wrong almost the moment he asked if Jon wanted the cake, he just didn't have any clue of what. He bit his lip. "Um. Do you not like vanilla? I know most people like chocolate, but I like the frosting to be chocolate and it's a little too much if you--" Ryan blinked, more at himself than anything. He never talked this much.
"Jon?" he asked. He felt less of a man than he ever had.
"I... I wish to remain pleasing to you, Master. That is, if I am. Pleasing."
Ryan cut another piece of cake and set it on a plate, bringing his unfinished piece to the floor and sitting down in front of Jon, folding his legs in front of him. He said, "I guess. I mean, um, how would you not be pleasing?"
There was a sound Ryan couldn't identify. It sounded like an aborted laugh, but he was pretty sure he was just imagining that. Jon lifted his face again--it had dropped when Ryan had let go his chin--and Ryan smiled. Jon smiled back, not quite as sure, but that didn't change the way Ryan felt it in his stomach. Jon's smile touched his entire face. Softly, Jon said, "A pleasure slave is not to eat sweets, Master. They soften his body."
Ryan took in the way Jon's skin fit tight to his body. It was appealing, Ryan supposed, in its own way. He knew people liked looking at him, the way he was all angles despite never having gone hungry a day in his life. That sort of thing was in vogue, Ryan imagined. He didn't pay much attention. He'd always liked the softness of Spencer's face, the way he curved. Ryan could see the possibility in Jon, could see maybe even that that was how it should have been. Hunger--and that was what it was, not a lack of sweets, but true hunger--was less than appealing to Ryan.
He got the feeling that probably wasn't the best way to phrase it, not when Jon seemed so concerned about pleasing him. Ryan wondered what happened to slaves who displeased their masters. He wondered if maybe he shouldn't have avoided the whole situation once he'd know what his father had in mind, as though if he ignored it, it would go away. Instead he said, "If you're hungry, it'd...please me if you'd share with me. It's my birthday and, well. My best friend Spencer, my father didn't invite him, I think--" because he wanted me to fuck you and thought that might be inappropriate. "Um, well. So I haven't anyone to share it with, is the thing. And I-- It's too much for me. And eating birthday cake alone is lonely."
Slowly, Jon reached for the plate. He took a small bite, dainty, even. It didn't fit with what Ryan had imagined at all. He said, "You had etiquette lessons." Ryan had suffered through years of them, only Spencer at his side making it bearable.
"And dancing, music, literature, proper dress, and languages. I can be a companion to you in any situation, Master."
"Music?" Ryan asked. He knew there was something important about everything Jon had just told him, something he should know, but he was really more interested in talking about music.
"I play the guitar, some piano, and I took it upon myself to learn bass guitar, Master." Jon recited these facts as though they were just simple truths.
"That's fantastic!" Ryan grinned. "I'll have to introduce you to Spencer. He plays drums. We play together. I mean, nothing serious or anything, because, well, there's lessons and just, life, I suppose, but you should play with us. It would be great, having someone else to join."
The fork faltered in Jon's fingers, slipped to the plate with a quiet clang. Jon said, "Sorry, sorry, Master," and ducked his head again.
Ryan frowned. "That's all right. I mean--" Ryan wondered if perhaps Jon was tired or so hungry as to be shaky. He said, "Can I--" and took the plate from Jon. Jon gave it over easily, without even so much as looking in its direction. In fact, he seemed to be looking stridently away. Ryan cut a bite, slightly larger than those Jon had been taking, but not much more so. He didn't want to cause him to choke. He said, softly, "Jon."
"Master?"
Ryan winced. They would have to work on that. One step at a time. "Jon, look at me."
Jon brought his eyes up without hesitation at the order. Ryan said, "Open your mouth."
Again, there was no moment of waiting for Jon to do as told, he simply did. Ryan brought the fork to his mouth and placed it there, waiting for Jon to take the piece. He didn't. Ryan said, "Jon." Then, "Please."
Jon took the piece from the fork and Ryan swallowed, harder than he'd ever been in his life and more ashamed than he'd ever felt by a sexual reaction to anything. He cut another piece, and another, until the section of cake he'd given to Jon was gone, nothing but crumbs.
Jon kept his eyes on Ryan and said, "Thank you, Master."
Ryan said, "Can you-- I know. I know that's what I am, but I don't like it. Don't want it." Didn't want you. It was the truth, although he would never say it to Jon. "Just...just Ryan, please?"
"Of course, Ryan." Jon said "Ryan" like "Master," but he had done as asked and Ryan wouldn't even know how to begin asking for something more.
"Okay. All right," Ryan said, and didn't give into his desire to ask Jon, what now?
***
What happened, as it turned out, was that Jon took pity on Ryan. He ducked his head again and said softly, in a way that made Ryan's toes curl--and Ryan was relatively untutored in the ways of sex, but he knew enough to know it was on purpose--"Perhaps we might retire to your room, Ryan?"
Ryan wasn't sure that was really the best idea, but he also had a feeling that not going might just be delaying the inevitable. "O--okay. Yeah. Room."
He stood and was about to offer Jon a hand, but Jon simply went to his hands and knees, the line of his back coming directly into Ryan's sight, and Ryan's breath caught. It took a few seconds for him to assemble the words, "No, Jon. No, you can walk."
Jon flowed to his feet and said, "Thank you, Ryan."
Ryan thought it might have been a mistake, asking Jon to call him that. He didn't want to hear his name being used like a title after everything Jon said. He wanted...he wanted Jon to say his name, just say it. He bit his lip and said, "Ah. This way," then lead them through the house, to his room.
It was a nice room, Ryan's sanctuary when he wasn't at Spencer's place. His favorite parts were the desk, a great faux-wooden monster that Ryan could all but disappear into when he wanted to write. Wood was horrendously expensive, as it had to be imported from off-world, but the desk was a fairly good likeness of the pictures of what real mahogany had looked like, and Ryan loved the deep, rich tones of it. It wasn't boxy at all, either, rather it curved in interesting, organic ways.
It stood in one corner and in the other was his guitar, surrounded by pillows and floor chairs, a place for him to fold himself up and listen to nothing but the sound of his fingers on the strings. The wall across from both these areas was nothing but a floor-to-ceiling window. It could be blacked out at the press of a button, but Ryan rarely did. He liked being able to see the sky, and the window was one-way, so he didn't worry about people looking in at him.
His bed was in a loft above all of this, the stairs running over his music corner. Or rather, the loft was his bed, the mattress having been made to fit the space. It was huge, meant for sprawling in, for curling up in, for snuggling when the Earth's temperature modulators were on the fritz and the world was simply too cold to face.
Ryan brought Jon into the room and said, "This is, um, you're safe, here. You can touch anything you want, do anything. I mean, not my journaling pads. Just, that's private. But anything else. Oh, and the thermostat--" Ryan showed him where it was, touching it up a couple of degrees because he was uncomfortably aware that Jon was still naked.
He turned to Jon, only to have Jon sink back into his position of obeisance. Ryan said, "You don't have to do that. Really, it's not, I don't--" Ryan gave up, frustrated with himself, and just a little with Jon, if he was honest. He knew it wasn't fair, but Ryan hated feeling unsure and evidently that was all he was ever going to feel with Jon around. He could feel his shoulders notching nigh to his ears, but it was still a surprise when Jon spoke up.
"Maybe if we went to bed, I could give you a massage, Ryan?"
Ryan hesitated. The thought of Jon's hands on him was...enticing. And it was only a massage. Still, "All right, but you have to teach me."
Jon cocked his head ever so slightly to one side. Ryan wouldn't have even noticed, except that he was paying attention. Jon said, "Teach you, Ryan?" and Ryan could hear how he tried--unsuccessfully--too keep the note of curiosity out of the question.
"So that I can do it for you. That's how friends do things. They return the favor."
Jon took a breath, as though he were about to say something. Then he evidently thought better as he expelled it on, "As you wish, Ryan."
Ryan was pretty sure he'd lost that battle without even being aware he'd been fighting it. All the same he said, "Okay," and toed his shoes off, climbing the stairs to his bed. When he looked back, Jon was there, two steps behind, always, always.
***
Ryan was trying to pay attention, he really was, but Jon's hands just seemed to know how to find every spot on Ryan that needed to be pressed and pinched and held until he was crying out in pain, and then released to babbles of relief and amazement. And when he'd managed to untie every knot Ryan's muscles had managed to form in their sixteen years, then he used the heat he'd built in Ryan's skin to his advantage in truly calming Ryan. Between the stress of anticipation that Ryan had carried all day and the difficulty of negotiating anything with Jon, Ryan couldn't help it--he gave into exhaustion and fell into one of the deepest sleeps he had enjoyed in a long while.
***
Ryan awoke to the awareness of two things: the brightness level in the room indicating that it was nearly midday and the fact that Jon was asleep near his head, kneeling in obeisance. Ryan felt a little sick to his stomach at the sight. Quietly, he crawled from where Jon had clearly tucked him in, and made his way to Jon. His plan was simply to guide Jon a little bit away from the wall, to where he could ease him down on the bed and let him sleep. However, the moment Ryan's hands came to Jon's shoulder's Jon was awake. He tensed under Ryan's touch and said, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Master, I didn't mean to fall asleep."
Eloquently, Ryan asked, "What?"
"I was waiting, Master, I was awake, I didn't mean--"
"Jon," Ryan said softly. He squinted, glancing at the alarm clock built into the wall of the loft. He'd slept for nearly ten hours. "Jon, are you saying you stayed up that whole time?"
"A pleasure slave is to be available to his master at all--"
Ryan was honestly going to vomit if Jon kept talking. "Okay. Okay. Um. Let's get something clear. I know you're human. And I know that humans eat, sleep, breathe, piss, shit and have emotions. So from now on, we're both going to assume that you do all those things. And that you won't be...um, punished? For any of them."
Jon took a couple of deep breaths and said, "It is within your right, Master, to return a slave who has not performed his duties or been less than attentive."
"You can forget all about that. Ten hours is the most I've slept in years, so as far as I'm concerned you're perfectly attentive and, uh, performing. Performa-- Whatever. The point is, you're not just some pair of shoes to be returned."
Jon's breathing actually slowed at that, but none of the tension left his body. Ryan wasn't entirely sure Jon believed him, but there was nothing he could do about that just at the moment. Instead he said, "I want to show you what I learned."
"Ma-- Ryan?"
Ryan took it from that that Jon had calmed a little. "C'mere," he said, and pulled Jon further into the center of the bed, laying him down. Jon's gaze was hooded, his lashes all but blending in against the bruises that surrounded his eyes, but Ryan could tell that his movements were being tracked. He asked, "You had oil last night?"
"I was allowed to prepare, Ryan."
Ryan's mind stuttered over the implications of that. Instead he just asked, "Where'd you-- Oh." He spotted the bottle next to the book and journal he kept in the nook right below the built-in clock. He moved enough that he could reach it and then came back. He opened the bottle, poured a little into his hands and warmed it the way Jon had. He'd been paying attention that far. He nudged Jon onto his front and tried not to ogle like some kind of pervert. He pressed his hands into Jon's shoulder blades, muscular and, like the rest of him, just a bit too sharp. He wondered if maybe he should have gotten some breakfast first, but decided that Jon needed the sleep more. Ten hours, fuck. Who knew how many Jon had sat, fighting to keep himself awake.
Jon was warm beneath him, smooth and sturdy, and after a while, even as intensely as Ryan wanted, he also found himself lost in the process of trying to get Jon to loosen. Straightening his legs--Jon had bent them to the side in an effort to avoid the pain of releasing them from the kneel position--was a slow, agonizing process, Jon clearly deepening his breathing so as to bite back whimpers of pain, Ryan apologizing over and over, Jon saying, "Not at all, Ryan," his voice cracking with each half-inch of movement. After that, Ryan paid particular attention to Jon's legs, clear down to the feet, where Ryan found something that made him suck in his breath.
"Ryan?" Jon asked, sounding much more hazy than he had. "Does it displease you? I--I can have them covered."
Ryan noted the hesitation. He could ask about it later. For now, "I--" Hard question. "It displeases me that someone di--hurt you. Hurt you like that."
On the bottom of each of Jon's feet, there were three perfectly spaced scars, the product, Ryan could only imagine, of a knife, or perhaps a cane. In the two framed sections made by these horizontal lines were the four marks of the second largest slave-holding company in the Southwest: the coin, the rose bud, the mustang and the sword. They were all stylized depictions, specific to the enterprise: depictions of power and perfection. They had been branded into his foot, one by one.
"Marking a pleasure slave depletes his value. And the value of a runaway has already been reduced by the runaway's action, so a re-trainer is left with little choice but to mark the slave in the least visible of areas and hope that the damage either goes undiscovered or is not considered to be a detraction. You have my papers, so you are well able to know that your father paid a discounted price both for my record and the portion of damage, but if you feel that it was too much, you are welcome to file a complaint with the accounts department at Vaunt House."
Ryan closed his eyes and tried, tried so hard, just to breathe. It wasn't going to work, though. He scrambled onto his feet and down the stairs, falling down the last few and to his waste basket, where he threw up everything that was left in his system after his night of sleep. When he could, he stood and flushed the waste down the disposal shoot in the hall, on his way to the bathroom. He washed his mouth, brushed his teeth, then continued to the kitchen for some juice and some breakfast for both of them. His father would already be at work, Ryan knew, so there was no risk of running into him, having to explain. Ryan wasn't sure he could have without vomiting again.
He made them some eggs and toast--the one thing he could make--and then returned to his room. He set up the lap tables he had in the music corner and climbed into the bed loft, only to find Jon where he'd left him, but back in his default kneeling position. Ryan said, "Okay, we'll talk about this when we've eaten," and helped Jon out of the bed, down the stairs. He seated Jon in the cushiest floor chair and took an inflatable chair for himself. He went and found a robe for both of them, handing one to Jon. Jon looked at it uncertainly, but then took it, pulling himself into it quicker than Ryan would have credited being possible.
Ryan found himself breathing easier with them both sitting, at least somewhat clothed. He said, "Eat up," which, okay, he kind of knew was a command, and not fair, but Jon was practically waxen, and they both needed something to do.
Like the night before, Jon's eating was refined, too perfect. Ryan took his slowly as well, sipping at the juice more than anything. When the food had begun to settle and he was feeling a bit more himself he said, "There's nowhere for runaways to go."
To Ryan's surprise, Jon smiled. It was bitter, twisted, but it was a smile. He said, "Nobody knows that better than a runaway, Ryan."
Ryan bit his bottom lip. He said, "You don't trust me. There's no reason you should. That's...that's smart. But I'll tell you the truth from my perspective anyway. I don't like the idea of owning people. I never have. My best friend, his family has always kept slaves, but they've always been part of the family, near enough, and made wages under the table and there's other people who do those sorts of things, quiet like. It's not...it doesn't really change anything, I guess, except one kid's mind, maybe. But I don't, I would never have gotten myself a pleasure slave. My father and I, we see things differently."
Jon finished his eggs and set his plate down gently. "Then you would prefer to return me, Ryan?"
"To the people who did that to you?" Ryan looked at Jon's feet. They were facing down, but now that Ryan knew what was there, the knowledge could not be undone. "Like hell."
"I...I don't understand, Ryan."
"I can't return you, and there's nowhere for you to go, not even freed, there's just-- We'll have to figure out a way to make this look good, is all." Ryan tried to sound confident. He was pretty sure it was nowhere near that easy.
"Look good, Ryan?"
"I neither want nor need a pleasure slave. But I could use a friend in this house. Badly. I shall leave it up to you as to whether you are willing to work with me to make that possible. In the meantime, I'm asking you, please, to go get some sleep, as much as you need. I have lessons to finish and I'm pretty good at keeping myself company, so you don't need to worry about me. Just, sleep, please? You look exhausted."
Jon looked at him, silent for some moments. Finally, he said, "I-- All right. Ryan."
Ryan smiled tightly. "Thank you."
Jon blinked multiple times. "Ah, you're welcome."
***
Ryan made himself sit down to his lessons first. It wasn't that he couldn't skip a few, but Ryan wanted out of his father's house, and the most likely way to manage that was through his scholarship. The wealthy had long forsaken schools in a traditional sense, instead picking and choosing from open-source courseware of the finest institutions and hiring academics to model curricula based on their child's strengths. A child who showed particular promise in coursework, however, could still be expected to go to university, to achieve statesmanship or other distinguished careers. Ryan, for the most part, couldn't have cared less about his options, he just wanted to be wrapped up in the arms of the academe, where even his father's reach would be shortened.
He was distracted, though, and unlike normal, when he would lose himself in the thoughts of those before him, nodding in agreement or writing passionately in disagreement, Ryan hurried through his coursework, sending in the minimum of what would get him by. Then he called Spencer.
Brendon picked up. "Hey, Ry."
Brendon had been with Spencer's family as long as Ryan could remember, really. They had bought him as a music tutor to the children: Brendon had shown brilliance in the earliest vetting of the slaves and they had trained him up to have value despite his size. Brendon was only about four months older than Spencer, and if Ryan was remembered correctly, he had been bought at the age of nine, but he had already been able to play entire Concertos on the piano, and Ryan had never heard a piece that Brendon couldn't play on any instrument he chose, so long as he was given a while to figure it out.
Spencer's family had required that Brendon teach the other children, but had been very strict that they were not to give Brendon any trouble and had also encouraged Brendon--financially and emotionally--to continue his own music studies. If Spencer was Ryan's best friend in the entire world, Brendon came in a close second. Ryan thought that a goodly portion of his unease with the practice of sexual slavery came from the fact that he was uncomfortably aware of how beautiful Brendon had grown up to be, how easily that could have been his fate.
"Bren," Ryan said.
There were a couple of beats before Brendon said, "Spencer's in lessons, but I can--"
"No, no, I-- My father got me a boy. Man."
Brendon drew in a breath. "A slave."
Ryan made a noise. "They branded his feet. He ran away--"
"He ran away?"
There was reason for Brendon's surprise. Ryan hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said there was nowhere to go. There wasn't an area of Earth where slavery wasn't practiced in some form anymore, and getting off-planet took papers, documents. Ryan imagined it happened, occasionally, but he couldn't imagine how. Even the rare freed slaves--there were people who actively bucked the culture and manumitted theirs--were seen as no better than slaves. They couldn't be assaulted in the streets openly the way a true slave could, but if they were beaten in an alley and a hundred people saw, they would all look the other way. Ryan said, "I imagine he had reason."
"Christ," Brendon said softly. And yeah, that about summed it up. The desperation a person would have to feel to willingly leave a place knowing that the punishments for being caught were at best enormously painful and degrading was beyond Ryan's ability to envision.
"Brendon. If it--" Ryan couldn't say it, couldn't say "if it were you." "I don't know what to do."
"I--I saw a slave who was in re-training once." Brendon's voice wavered, and Ryan thought about how bad it must have been, how bad if Brendon still had that memory from before the Smith's. Brendon continued, "All slaves are taught that we are subsumed by, submissive to our masters' wills. But runaways, they...they're trained that they don't exist outside of their masters. In cruel and repetitive ways. It's honestly surprising when they don't go insane. A lot do."
"I still don't know what to do," Ryan admitted.
"Ryan, I was trained as a skilled slave. It's different. And even if it hadn't been, the Smiths--"
"I know. I know. But there must have been something, I mean, you were still trained."
"But I was young enough that most of it hadn't taken, yet, and a steady application of kindness and understanding was enough to draw me out. I don't think it's going to be that simple in this case. I'm sorry. I wish...I wish I had something better for you. And for him."
Ryan curled up as tightly as he could. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. Tell Spencer I called?"
"I'll tell Spencer about all of it, if you want."
"Thanks."
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"You're... This is a really good thing you're trying to do. Most people wouldn't bother."
"I'm not sure the comparison makes me good, but all right."
"Just try and fucking trust yourself for once."
Ryan smiled a little. "You sound like Spencer."
"Was that a compliment?"
Ryan actually laughed. "Later, Brendon."
"You know you can call if you need to."
Ryan did.
***
Ryan had dinner with his father that night. When his father asked, "Where's your new toy?" Ryan said, blankly, "I wore him out."
It was the first time he'd seen his father look particularly approving in his remembered history.
***
Jon slept for nearly twenty-four hours. He woke at intervals to use the facilities and to try and determine if Ryan had changed his mind, but Ryan just kept sending him back to bed until the time he looked like he was actually ready to be out of it. Ryan wasn't wholly sure, but the lack of bruising around his eyes and the more relaxed set of his frame were the best hints Ryan was probably going to get, so he took them.
Ryan made more eggs and toast, pilfered a couple of apples and brewed some coffee. Jon looked at the coffee steadily for a few moments, like it might disappear. Ryan said, "I can make more, if you want. Just start with that."
When he took his first sip, Ryan got an idea of what true happiness might have looked like on Jon at one time. It was muted, barely there, really, but Ryan was paying attention, and it was there. When Jon put down the cup and opened his eyes, Ryan said, "Hi."
Cautiously, Jon responded, "Hello."
"I'm Ryan. Ryan Ross. I turned sixteen two days ago. My mother left my father when I was two to...I think to planet hop. I'm not sure. I don't hear from her much. My father has pretty different ideas about who I should be than I do. I like books and music and silly, frivolous things, according to him. I get top marks in everything I do and I want a scholarship. I want to go off-planet, but only if Spencer will go with me. Spencer's my best friend, and he's into music too. We've been friends since I was six. The Smiths bought Brendon when he was nine, and I think if Spence and I go anywhere that Brendon will certainly have to come with, because we'd miss him too much. Maybe we could find a place where he wouldn't have to pretend to be a slave. He's super talented. He can play six instruments, all by ear, and he has a great voice and it's stupid that all he can do is teach the Smith kids and sometimes hold concerts when the Smiths pretend to 'show him off'.
"That's me. I'm not very interesting. I haven't had much of a chance to be, I don't think. But I'm pretty sure I could be." Ryan made himself keep looking at Jon. "You don't have to tell me anything. Maybe you don't have anything to tell except things that hurt. I don't know. Brendon said--" Ryan squared his shoulders. "Brendon said it was a surprise you were still sane, when I told him you'd runaway. And I guess I thought, I mean, I don't know anything about that. My dad hit me once, but not like, not like your feet, but that time, I thought of other things so that I wouldn't cry, you know? And I thought maybe you had other things inside you that kept you away from the worst of it."
Jon was sipping his coffee, watching Ryan like he might pounce as soon as Jon proved unawares. But there was also curiosity in his stance. Ryan would take that. "You don't have to tell me. But I hope...I guess I hope you'll want to, eventually."
Jon was quiet for a long time before he asked, "May I ask a question, Ryan?"
"Anytime. You needn't have permission. If I don't want to answer, I won't, and you have that same right with me."
"Brendon. Is he Spencer's--"
"No," Ryan shook his head. "No, just friends. Brendon was his teacher. Still is. The Smiths don't have pleasure slaves."
"And you would take him with you just...to be a friend?"
"You come up with a better reason for taking someone with you far away, let me know," Ryan said.
Jon set his empty coffee cup on the stand between them and eyed Ryan peripherally. Finally he asked, "What's it like, reading?"
It wasn't against the law for slaves to read, it was just rare that anyone bothered to teach them. Ryan wouldn't have cared if it had been against the law. He asked, "Would you like to find out?"
Jon swallowed and dug neatly manicured nails into the skin of his flesh. After a long, long moment he said, "Yes, please. Yes, Ryan."
And somehow, despite the fact that his name still sounded like a title, Ryan thought it was starting to sound less like "master" and more like something he simply didn't have the context to understand, something...something Jon was thinking about keeping for himself.
Part Two
Part Three