some experimenting (One on One) (Open)

Ilya's barely there smile tapered off into a confused frown and he began to inch away from Vaughn slowly. His ramblings paired with the way he seemed to be staring right past Ilya combined in his head to make an unstable individual. As Ilya knew, instability was dangerous. No matter how golden the thing the man was offering seemed, it was dangerous. "I'm sorry, but I think you're mistaken. Damian and I don't have any problem." He paused, licking his lips. "But if we did I wouldn't be able to talk about it. Not right now."

Ilya stopped moving at the word 'abuse', heart thundering to a stop. If Damian knew he had been with someone who even hinted at knowing the real nature of their relationship- if he even suspected… Ilya trembled, sparing a cautious glance for Vaughn. Not liking the way his fingers twitched, just like Damian's did before he clenched them into fists. "I don't. I just know I'm going to leave this conversation now." He rose to his feet gracefully.

Ilya flinched as Vaughn bolted in front of him, stumbling backward as the man raised his hands. The slight movement set him off and he collapsed back onto the bench, arms braced in front of him to prevent the blow sure to fall at any second. It was clear Vaugn's reassurance had done nothing. His legs curled up underneath him as he fell inwards, making himself as small and innocuous as possible. "I'm sorry!" His voice was soft, this time with fear. "I'm sorry, I won't move! I'll stay!"

Ilya's breaths were coming out shallow and fast as he sat, waiting for something to come. For some sort of pain to burst its way across his body until Damian got tired of hitting him. When the blows neglected to come, he peeked from behind his arms, surprised by Vaughn's respectful distance. The gentle tenor of his voice. He unspooled a bit, still huddled in a tight ball on the bench but less tense. "Help me? How?" His voice was spiteful. Mocking. He toned it down and continued. "Damian has too many friends. There's nothing for me to do."

Ilya flinched away as Vaughn's fingers twitched again, still hopped up on adrenaline from the previous scare. "Friends," he echoed back to Vaughn, voice still measured and carefully moderated. "Friends in high places who do what Damian wants. So it's impossible to help, no matter how good you are at your job." He shrugged, already at peace with the idea that he would most likely die with Damian. Possibly because of Damian. He'd had 2 years to settle into the idea, so much so that it seemed more of a comforting eventuality than a horrible fate. Some day, he would escape. It just might have to be in a body bag instead of on his own two feet.

Ilya pressed into the back of the bench, as far away from Vaughn as he could get without standing. Despite his assurances, Ilya didn't trust someone so obviously unhinged to keep his temper or his fists in check. It was only a matter of time before Vaughn took a swing at Ilya just like everyone else had. As he rambled on, Ilya began to feel uneasy but it wasn't until his last sentence that cold dread began to creep down Ilya's spine. It wasn't… He couldn't be… Could he? "You're him. The- the one who killed that man! Bailey Wright."

Ilya's lips snapped closed at the plea and he nodded, trying to show that he would do as Vaughn asked. That there was no need to stab him the way he'd stabbed Bailey. He ran over all of Vaughn's previous mumblings in his head, piecing things together. "Do you want to… to kill Damian?" he breathed, hope dancing through the words before he could stop them.

All of Ilya's burgeoning hope died in an instant, crushed by the thought that he would have to participate in the murder. Damian had him trembling on his kindest days; there was nothing that would keep him from breaking down if they really pushed Damian to the edge. "I can't!" His tone was too sharp to address a murderer, so Ilya softened it, made it manageable and quiet. "He'll kill me. Without breaking a sweat."

That calmed Ilya some, but there was still panic bubbling through his veins and sparkling in his eyes. Damian would catch on- he always did- because Ilya couldn't lie. Ilya and his stupid eyes would spill his guilt and then instead of being free he'd be on his way to the ER for the nth time this year. "He'll know. I can't… god, I can't hide anything from him. He'll ask and then he'll break my neck."

Ilya nodded, latching onto the words the way a child clings to its mother. Vaughn had done this before. Vaughn knew what to do. Vaughn had provided him a convenient excuse to escape Damian's wrath. His breathing evened out and he sagged on the bench, looking every inch like a puppet with its strings cut. "I just need his schedule and a map of our house? And then you'll take care of everything?"

Ilya tensed at the mention of contact, remembering the last time he'd tried to call a friend from his phone. The concussion had been painful and hard to deal with. He didn't want to suffer through another one. "I don't have a number that's safe. He reads my texts. Checks all my contacts." There had to be something, though! Damian was thorough, sure, but he was human. He slipped up. "Can you use my email? He doesn't look at that anymore."

Ilya watched Vaughn move, wary despite his decision to trust the man. Vigilance had been beaten into him for as long as he could remember; one nice conversation wasn't going to undo that. "I'm here every day except Sunday and Monday from 2 to 6. I'm home for the rest of the time." He paused, weighing words carefully before he added, "If I'm not there I'm at the hospital."

Ilya nodded, eyes downcast and movements subdued. He didn't like the hospital with its impersonal hands and sharp, unfamiliar sounds, but he was a frequent visitor. So frequent that Damian had begun to take him to a newer one, farther away, to keep the doctors from getting suspicious. "I'm there once or twice a month. I should be there more but Damian says I'm too expensive."

Ilya flinched at the twitch, unwinding as soon as Vaughn's hands were safely hidden away. He took in the exposed skin with interest- and more than a bit of jealousy, his own wrists were dark purple from being held in place- noting the tattoo. Adeline. A sister maybe, or a girlfriend. Someone important. "Can you define bad? I'm always a little banged up."

Ilya did a quick rundown of his body, trying to remember where all the bruises were. Most days his whole body ached from one thing or another and it all tended to smear together until Ilya felt like one big bruise. "My ribs might be bruised. And… I've got handprints here and here." He gestured to his wrists and hips, hands fluttering and light, never really settling on his skin. "And a bitemark." He rubbed a hand over the middle of his shoulder. "It stopped bleeding though."