All Is Hell That Ends With ‘Fair’(Closed ~ One-on-One ~ Rated a possible M)

Cyrus could not stand it when Marcus left. What if… what if Marx turned on him before he could do anything?
He'd promised to come back, but Cyrus acknowledged he might not. He didn't know what he'd do. Probably just quit. There would be no point left. At best, he'd leave and start a new life, while carrying an unbelievable amount of emotional baggage. At worst, he would wither away here until he died in one way or another, or even end it the second he found out. It would be his fault. He couldn't live with that.
Cyrus' throat felt tight as he fought back tears, and he was left gasping softly. He went to the kitchen to get water. There were distinct spatters of blood on the floor, he could've sworn- but when he looked away for a second, they were gone.
He shakily reached for a cup from the cabinet and got something to drink, trying to calm his nerves and get rid of the choking sensation, but it didn't do the trick at all.
While usually he would have been prepared for a panic attack to come on, instead he faced a drawn-out, constant, heavy anxiety that felt like it was closing in. Not to mention, he had several panic attacks in the past few days- definitely more than normal in the wake of him killing his father.
The young man leaned up against the counter, sipping on the water, trying to push aside that worry for a bit. It wasn't going to save Marcus now.
His eyes wandered to a few bottles of liquor that sat on the counter, untouched since his father's death. Just a drink or two might give him that pleasant buzz that at least momentarily took his troubles away. He should be able to hold off the anxiety with some light drinking until he heard from Marcus.
Except, when left to his own devices, Cyrus was never a light drinker. That small buzz that one or two drinks gave him was not enough to dull pain as deep as his.

(Major abuse warning btw. And some rather strong language.)

Pure terror wasn’t strong enough of an emotion to explain what Marcus felt in the single moment Marx wrapped his long fingers around Marcus’s throat.
This was the fear that only kicked in when you were certain you were going to be killed. Fight or flight, as they call it. But Marcus’s fight or flight was broken. His survival skills were broken.
Instead of fighting, or fleeing - or even freezing - some sick part of Marcus leaned into the grip constricting his airway with a soft purr of Marx’s name and a slurred apology. It was habit. Habit that had been carved into his flesh with a broken and bent knife - both figuratively and literally.
“Oh my Marcy~ you’ve been distracted lately. What is it hun~? You know you’re supposed to be running the gang while I’m gone. But my dear little birdy tells me you’ve been hanging around a particular gang a little heavily. It’s a shame they just got a new leader, Nina was it? Dont tell me you planned a surprise for me~ Such a good little Marcy.” The words were sickeningly sweet coming from Marx’s sultry tone. They were like cyanide that poisoned Marcus’s mind with euphoric pleasure. The mocking praise was something Marcus couldn’t help but to love coming from the mouth of his highschool obsession.
Cyrus.
Marx knew how to reel Marcus into his snare and each new trick proved to be so delightfully harmful. Marx wanted nothing more than to mark up more of his captive’s smooth, pale skin. Oh how he wanted to make Marcus cry those pretty tears so he could drink up the satisfaction it brought him. Marcus in agony was so morbidly gorgeous.
“I can punish you later for leaving me for so long but only if you beg me to hurt you, hun. Just like you did the last time we met. Dont you just love it so~?” Marx’s smile twisted into something primal and hungry. Marcus melted into the harsh touch.
Cyrus.
A switch suddenly clicked in Marcus’s slowly clouding mind. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. He didn’t want this.
“Fuck off! Let me go!” The second the words slipped from his mouth, Marcus knew he was fucked for the night. The rage that bubbled behind Marx’s eyes was unbearably terrifying.
“Oh~? Grew a pair while you were parading about did you? You left me so lonely Marcy, and now you’re going to deny me of the right to love you?! I’ve done so much for you. Don’t be a bitch. I bet you’ve been out letting anything that breathes fuck you.”
No! That’s not true! I’m loyal! I’m your whore and only yours. You taught me that! I’m sorry I forgot! I’m sorry! Please forgive me, Marx.
Cyrus.
No.
No more of the groveling and giving in. Marcus would be better than that. He’d get rid of Marx. For the sake of his own life and for the sake of his relationship with Cyrus. For his own happiness.
Marx wouldn’t get what he wanted. Marx had to die. He had to die.
It was the only way.
The only way…

“I said, fuck. Off.” Marcus growled, pushing the stunned gang leader away from him. For a moment, Marcus reveled in the pure shock that donned Marx’s face but he didn’t get long to gloat. Marx recovered quickly, scowling at his toy.
“Now you’re done? Oh how noble. Marcy finally ‘stood up’ to his lover. How cruel of you to do it after ghosting me for days. Dont you know I own you? You gave me your life, your body, your will, everything when you spilled your own blood and swore to be loyal to me and my gang. Would you like another lesson~? I’d be more than glad to drag you back to that basement and leave you there to think about what you’ve said to me. I won’t hesitate to train you again, you lovely little slut. Now I’ll say it again, don’t be a bitch. Kneel. Now.”
A new wave of confidence tore through Marcus’s body.
“No. I don’t belong to you. I never did and I never will. I’m my own. I won’t let you hurt me anymore!”
A cruel grin finds its way into Marx’s face.
“I’m going to love tying you to that bed and beating you back into submission, Marcy~ I love it when you’re so defiant.”

Not so long following the first two shots of whiskey, Cyrus felt that buzzing, fuzzy, familiar warmth settle over his body. He could feel himself start to relax, but Marcus…
Marcus was in so much danger, and he couldn't do anything. Stupid fucking idiot… Could've been on standby if I hadn't been hurt like this…
He chased back the thoughts with a third shot. Cyrus just had to numb it away until Marcus came back- if he came back.
Cyrus got up from the barstool, going to mix some drinks that were a bit easier to stomach than straight whiskey. Now, of course, that was its own danger, making alcohol that didn't taste much like alcohol, but he was hardly looking at a stopping point either way.
He brought a dangerously sized cup of lemonade mixed with whiskey back with him. Cyrus couldn't be bothered with making fancy drinks. He just needed something sweet to tone it down.
He turned on the television in the background to have the hum of dialogue and background noise in order to make himself feel less alone.
He checked his text messages. It was so tempting to check in on Marcus, but he knew interference could be dangerous.
Cyrus hadn't checked in on Pollux, so he would now.
To anyone else, his mistakes and speech style may not have stuck out as belonging to someone who had more than a few drinks, but Pollux was familiar with the other's patterns and habits.
You're drunk. Drink some water and eat so you won't be as hungover. You'll thank me later.
Cyrus protested, saying he was fine. He explained the situation at hand, which luckily Pollux already understood partially.
What's Marcus' phone number?
Cyrus, without asking why, gave it to him. Little did he know, the other was finding a way to protect him, should things get out of hand. And they would definitely get out of hand. After a little bit, Cyrus was already blacking out. He didn't know that now, but he wouldn't remember much later.

This time, when Marx lunged to grab him, Marcus was ready for it. There was no intense fear dominating his mind. Of course there still was fear, but it was laced with adrenaline that shot through his arms and legs.
Without thinking, Marcus pulled his knife on the hand closest to him. When blade met flesh, Marx let out an angry and pained howl, cursing loudly and shying away.
“You little shit!” He roared after studying the small gash across his knuckles. Marcus couldn’t help but to grin, his chest heaving. This fight wasn’t over. Not yet.
The scuffle that ensued was a confusing one for Marcus’s head to understand. He had at one point been on his feet, now he wasn’t sure where he was, wrestling to keep his knife in hand and him on top. Punches and kicks and hard bites that drew blood appeared on his arms and face and neck.
“Fuck you Marcy! I should have ended your petty life! I should have killed you!” Marx howled, a spray of spit and obscenities spewing from his mouth.
And then something dull and cold found it’s way into Marx’s hand, pressing up against Marcus’s chest. He panicked momentarily when he heard the soft click of a gun and threw his hand out to push away the barrel.
He wasn’t quite quick enough.
There was a loud bang before pure agony flared across Marcus’s hand. He immediately reeled back, screaming in pain and clutching at his bloodied hand.
Marx flipped the tables then, using his strength to throw Marcus to the ground at his feet. Marx studied the writhing red-head for a moment, scowling as he raised the gun again.
“You always were a trouble maker, my Marcy. But I didn’t expect you to change like this. Who taught you to be so defiant. I might have to pay them a visit after I kill you.” He purred sweetly, snickering when Marcus looked up, his eyes watery and his hand cradled close to his chest. The blast had mangled his fingers, leaving no pinky and only a ruined ring finger. The blood seeping into his shirt as he held his hand close was a bright crimson, leaving Marx giddy.
“You’re so pretty like this. I love it when you cry for me,” Marx grabbed the front of Marcus’s shirt and brought him up, snickering when Marcus failed to fight against the action. “If you let me fuck you and if you be a good boy, I’ll let you live, Marcy. I think it’s only fai-“ his words were cut off with a garble. He dropped Marcus, clawing at the knife Marcus had just plunged into the side of his neck. There was a sickening crunch as the blade penetrated airway.
“F-fuck off Marx. I d-dont want you. Never did. I h-have my Cyrus. I l-love him.” Marcus panted, watching in agonizing horror as his tormentor gagged and choked on blood and metal.
Marx’s eyes were wide, shocked as he gripped the handle and tried desperately to remove it. The handle didn’t budge, lodged firmly in his throat.
Marcus watched as the life drained from Marx’s fiery eyes. He watched as the hatred dulled to death. He watched with satisfaction so heavy Marcus was sick with himself.
There was so much joy and satisfaction in watching the light fade from his abuser’s eyes.

Once the deed was done, Marcus collapsed to the floor, feeling suddenly exhausted.
Phone. I need to call…
He wrapped his injured hand in his shirt, the other pulling his phone from its place.
“Fuck fuck it hurts.” He whimpered as he struggled to turn on his phone. He was lucky he had so few contacts and could easily call Cyrus. He didn’t bother to hold the phone to his ear, leaving it on the ground and letting it ring on speaker.
He was starting to get a little dizzy from the pain in his hands. He felt like throwing up.

Cyrus didn't answer his phone when Marcus called.
He was lying on the bathroom floor, away from his phone when it rang. After spending the last little while drinking, he had been throwing up a good bit, and was on the verge of passing out. He was past the point of coherent thought. He was just a mess. A complete disaster.

Meanwhile, Pollux had been discharged from the hospital that morning and finally decided to send the message to make sure everything was okay, on behalf of Cyrus:
Hey, is this Marcus?

Marcus froze at the unknown message, sliding down to the floor. He felt a little dizzy from the pain but he would live. Albeit missing a finger or two but he’d live.
Who wants to know?
Came the reply, roughly typed out with his left, good hand

Sorry, it's Pollux.
I asked Cy for your number. I gathered what was going on, so I'm checking in for him.
The man leaned back in his bed. He really hoped he wouldn't have to physically go and help the other, but he was definitely willing.
Less medicated than he'd been in days, he had neared a sort of crash.

Marcus immediately relaxed, looking over at the still bleeding body of Marx. Strangely, he didn’t feel anything towards it.
Is he okay? I called and he didn’t answer. As for me, I might need some medical attention. I lost a finger or two.
Marcus laughed weakly at himself, shaking his head. He did need it. It wasn’t a ‘might need’ it was a definite need.

Oh shit, I'll head over right away. What's that address?
Cy's probably okay, just drunk off his ass
Without waiting for a response, Pollux gathered up some medical supplies he had lying around.
If you can, get those missing fingers on ice. I'll be there as soon as you tell me where.

I’ll send the address. And I’ll try to get them on ice. Thank you.

Marcus softly sighed once he had sent his location. He stood and wandered around to try and find his fingers. It was a morbid job but he soon had two digits sitting in a bowl of ice.
He made his way out of the apartment, locking it to make sure no one would come upon Marx’s body. He could have Nina help him. Hopefully.
Marcus just didn’t want Pollux to see what he had done. Even if it was apparent with his blood soaked clothes and messy hair.

Pollux got on his motorcycle and drove to Marcus' apartment as soon as he received the message detailing the address.
He gave a little pause when he saw the other standing outside.
"You didn't have to come out here," Pollux said, taking off his helmet as he approached, "I would've found your place just fine. Let's go back in, get you patched up."

Marcus shook his head violently at the suggestion, biting his lip. He looked back to the door hesitantly.
“It’s best to stay out… Marx is…” he trailed off, looking back up at the familiar face of Pollux. He clutched the bowl of ice and digits closer to his chest and lifted the harmed hand to show Pollux.
“Gun went off. I’m worried the police might have been called Pollux. They might not of because this is a gang neighborhood and you hear gunshots all the time but still… I don’t want to end up in prison. Cyrus needs someone to help him recover.”

"Fucking hell… you're right about that. I- here, uh…"
Pollux took some gauze from his bag and lightly draped it over the other's mauled hand for the time being.
"Hold that hand above your heart, over the head is ideal."
He slipped a latex glove on, then took the bowl, first taking the fingers out and putting them in a plastic bag by themselves, then emptying some of the ice into a second bag, which he also placed the first bag into.
Pollux tucked it away into his backpack and turned his attention back to Marcus.
"Is my place okay?" he asked, "It's closer. But it's probably better that we're at least inside so we don't draw attention, and to minimize stress for you."
He stopped, seeming a bit short of breath. Even after such little exertion, he seemed exhausted. And he was.
"Sorry that we'd have to take the bike, but it's really the only way."

Marcus hissed as the gauze touched the wound, biting down hard on his own tongue. Pollux had a lot more medical knowledge than Marcus, so he listened to the other and raised the mangled hand above his head.
While he waited for the pain to subside he watched Pollux take the bowl and move his fingers. It was surreal to think they were his. He hardly registered it. He hardly registered anything at all; a side effect of trauma. When Marx got too close for comfort Marcus shut down emotionally. It was a defense mechanism.
“Your place…? Yeah. Let’s go there.” He murmured, looking down at his bloodied self and scowling.
“Won’t I get you bloody? The bike is fine.” He asked softly, biting down on his lip as he attempted to stand back up. His legs felt like jelly.

"I don't really care that much about blood. I can assure you, I've seen worse, working in trauma," Pollux reassured Marcus, offering a hand to help him come forwards.
In the face of all this, he was bizarrely calm, almost robotic, in a way.
"Alright, let's get going. You can hold on to me however's comfortable. Just keep that hand above your heart if you can."
He swung one leg over the motorcycle and helped Marcus get on behind him.

Marcus nodded gently, holding onto Pollux’s arm as he tried to rest his arm comfortably over his head.
“Fuck this hurts… feel like I’m gunna throw up.” He muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
“‘M sorry if I do… I’ll come to my senses in a bit here… it’ll probably be a panic… sorry.”

"It's okay. Seriously. And I've been thrown up on by complete strangers- it's not great, but it's not a big deal. Just let me know if I need to pull over, or you feel like you're gonna pass out or something, yeah?" Pollux replied, revving up the engine.
He drove past the curb and onto a backroad. It would probably be better for him to keep the ride somewhat slow so he wouldn't jar Marcus too much.

Marcus nodded gently, hesitantly resting his forehead against Pollux’s back as he prepared for the vehicle to begin moving.
“Sorry, feeling dizzy.” He explained, hoping he wasn’t making the other feel awkward. He didn’t want to be strange towards Pollux, but Marcus knew he could trust the other and was banking on the other’s calm and collected nature to help him.
“Thank you… again…”

"I gotcha," Pollux said, "Do what you need to keep steady, yeah? I don't mind."
He eased out into the street, both hands firmly on the handles.
It was hard not to be distracted with trying to make sure Marcus was doing alright, but he managed to keep his eyes on the road.
"We're halfway there," he murmured at some point, his gaze hard on the road ahead, "Still with me?"

Marcus zeroed in on the throbbing pain in his hand to keep himself conscious, casually flexing his good fingers to bring more pain. His adrenaline was starting to lessen, and he could feel the intense pain of lost bone and nerves start to seep into his mind.
He hardly registered Pollux’s question but mumbled a ‘yeah’ all the same.

"Alright," he whispered.
Thankfully, they made it to his apartment complex without too much trouble. Yet, he was still worried. He pulled the vehicle to a stop, as smoothly as possible so he didn't jolt Marcus so hard.
"Let's get you upstairs. You think you can take the stairs, or do you need the elevator on the other side?"

Marcus sat up and stared at the building with blurry eyes. The damned thing looked like it would have too many stairs. Marcus didn’t have the strength for it.
“Elevator. Best for both of us… you’re still struggling, yes?”

"It's one flight. I'd be fine. Definitely more worried about you," Pollux said, though he was clearly out of breath again.
He helped support Marcus a bit and started guiding him towards the elevator.
Once they got into the apartment, Pollux locked the door behind them and guided Marcus back to the bathroom so they had better access to the medicine cabinet, running water, and rags.
He helped Marcus find a comfortable position to sit in, then went to wash his hands.
"You hurt anywhere else?" he asked before continuing to work on the other.

“Just missing fingers, I’m alright.” He slurred, giving Pollux a shit-eating grin. It was replaced by a grimace as he was led to the apartment.
Here felt safe. Very safe. The last of his adrenaline-fueled fight was seeping away and leaving behind agonizing pain that had him whimpering softly.
Marcus didn’t even have enough strength to argue against what Pollux did, allowing the male to sit him down and start his treatment.
“Yeah, everywhere… think he got a few good bites in.” Marcus murmured, closing his eyes and struggling to lift his arms to show Pollux the bites across his skin. There were a few along his shoulders too. Marx really wanted to mark Marcus up. It was his way of spiting Marcus’s defiance, of showing Marcus just how much of him was owned and trained to enjoy the marks left.
“I think I got him before he did too much damage. I have a few scratches when we fought over the knife but I think I surprised him enough to get the upper hand. God do his teeth hurt…” Marcus murmured, sighing softly.
“No painkillers though. I don’t want to get hooked again. I just barely got off Opioids.”

Pollux gazed over the wounds.
"Hm… I'll treat those last, if that's okay with you. And I don't want to give you anything in the way of medicine yet, if you can tolerate it. I'm still watching for signs of shock, and making matters worse is the last thing I'd want to do."
He held Marcus' hand and unwrapped the loose gauze. It was almost stuck to his skin with blood- there was so much goddamn blood. He wished he could've gotten to it sooner.
Pollux moved him carefully, so his hand was over the tub as he rinsed the wounds with saline. He went back to get more gauze before rewrapping the newly-cleaned wound.
"I hate to tell you this, but if you want those reattatched, it's going to require surgery. And not something I can do on the spot. Microsurgery, which requires specific tools that you're only going to find in a hospital. So that's your call, whether you want that or not. If not, I'll continue to care for you here. If so, it's probably best to call up an ambulance, because I don't think it's wise to take you out that far on the bike in this state. You've got a little bit that they're still viable, so you don't have to decide right away, but still."
Pollux got up from next to Marcus and went to wash his hands again. He muttered something to himself in frustration before grabbing his inhaler from his bag and taking a puff of the medicine.

“That’s fine.” Marcus kept his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the wall for a good portion of the time.
It was the saline that seemed to snap him out of it.
“Ow! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!! That hurts!” He whined loudly, flinching away from the hand that helped him. He gave it right back, however, complaining softly about the pain and his whole situation.
“Oh… I get to chose?” He looked down at the state of his right hand, staring at the newly bandaged wound with a soft groan.
He watched Pollux go off to his inhaler, feeling a little more than overwhelmed.
“Would I… would I still be able to play violin if I decided not to get the surgery…?” He asked in a voice that was almost too quiet to hear.
“It’s my bowing hand… I don’t need a pinky really… I could live with this. I don’t want them to ask what happened or get anyone involved. Let alone the police. I don’t want to leave Cyrus…. I can’t leave him all alone.”

Looking up from the sink, Pollux shrugged a bit.
"Maybe not right away, but… I think you could adapt," he replied, "Besides, even if you did get the procedure, there's no guarantee you would have full functionality again. I understand the reluctance to get real medical help. I really do. I've known Cyrus all these years. He's been much the same in that way. I honestly don't think you would be in such a bad way if you don't get them back on, but I wanted you to have that option."
After finishing his explanation, he took a second puff from his inhaler and tucked it away.
"Did you have any other concerns with it?"

Marcus nodded softly, flexing his good hand as he thought over it. It wouldn’t be too bad. Cyrus might be a little alarmed but Marcus would be sure to soothe any worries.
“Thank you. But no, not really any other concerns. It is my dominant hand but I’ll adapt. I can adapt. It won’t be too bad.” He murmured softly, watching Pollux tuck away the inhaler.
“I’m sorry to bother you a little more but, do you think I could get a ride back to Cyrus’s place?”

"In a little bit, yes," Pollux agreed, "I'd like to make sure the bleeding has let up enough, and that you going into shock is no longer a concern. Besides, I think I might need to rest a little bit before we go anywhere else, if that's okay with you."
He settled down across from Marcus, letting out a soft, airy sigh.
"I wonder if we should try to call him. I am a little worried."

“Oh. Yeah, that’s alright.” Marcus watched as Pollux settled, a brief moment of concern washing over his face.
“It might be a good idea to. Are you going to be alright, though? Cyrus is really worried about you - and so am I - but he’s been upset that he can’t even give you company while you rest and get better. So… how are you doing?”