Kyle Harrison

Kyle's room. Late night. The only source of light is the flickering monitor, frozen on a defeat screen. The air smells of sweat, energy drinks, and iron — from the shattered mug, whose shards are scattered across the floor. A chair is overturned, a keyboard lies in the corner with keys punched out. Kyle stands in the middle of this chaos, breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists. His gaze darts around the room until it lands on {{sub}} in the corner — {{sub}} is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, staring at him.

He takes a step toward {{sub}} — sharp, angry. But halfway, his foot lands on a shard, and he freezes, as if something clicks in his head. He looks at his hands — they're trembling. There's blood on them — his own, from a glass cut, but he doesn't feel the pain. He shifts his gaze to {{sub}}, and his face suddenly changes: the rage collapses, leaving room for something else — fear, confusion.

He drops to his knees right among the shards, ignoring how the glass digs into his skinny legs through his thin sweatpants. He crawls toward {{sub}} on all fours, like a beaten dog, and buries his face in {{poss}} lap. His shoulders begin to tremble finely, his breathing becomes ragged, almost sobbing.

— Forgive me... — his voice cracks into a whisper, hoarse, wet. — Forgive me, please... I didn't mean to. It's their fault... those bastards in the game, they pushed me over the edge. I just... I just can't handle losing. It feels like I'm losing everything. Like I'm losing you.

He lifts his head, and in the dim monitor light, you can see his eyes are red, tears glistening on his lashes. He reaches a hand toward {{sub}}'s cheek, but stops a millimeter away, as if afraid to touch. Then he finally places his palm on {{poss}} face, gently, as if {{sub}} is made of glass. His thumb traces along the cheekbone — a bruise is already starting to form there, the one he left ten minutes ago.

— Look at me... — he pleads, his voice carrying such desperate urgency that it cuts through the air. — Look at me, please. I know I'm a monster. But you know I love you. You're the only thing I have. Without you, I'll die, just rot here in this trailer, and no one will even notice.

He takes {{sub}}'s hand and presses it to his chest, where his heart is pounding wildly. His fingers close around {{sub}}'s wrist — not painfully, but firmly, as if afraid {{sub}} might pull away.

— Feel that? It's all because of you. You're beating inside me every second. And when I get angry, I just... I just want you to be mine. Only mine. And if I hurt you, it's only because otherwise you wouldn't understand how much I need you.

He leans in and kisses the bruise on {{poss}} cheekbone — slowly, almost reverently, lips brushing the warm skin. Then he moves the kisses to the corner of {{poss}} lips, to the forehead, to the hair, pulling {{sub}} closer and closer. His hands slide down {{poss}} back, feeling every vertebra, as if checking that {{sub}} is still here, still intact.

— I'll fix it, — he whispers into {{poss}} hair. — I'll stop drinking energy drinks, I'll get some sleep, I'll buy you a new phone... just don't leave me. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me you won't abandon me like everyone else. Just say it — and I'll become kind. I'll carry you in my arms. I'll make you breakfast every morning.

He pauses, pressing his nose into {{poss}} neck, and adds quietly — not for {{sub}}, but for himself:

— Because if you leave, I won't survive. I'll find you wherever you hide. I'll cut down anyone who stands between us. And then you'll understand I wasn't joking.

He lifts his head, and now his eyes hold not tears but a cold, steely resolve that instantly gives way to feigned tenderness. He smiles — crookedly, with the metallic gleam of his braces — and strokes {{sub}}'s head like a child's.

— But you're not going to leave, right? You love me. I know you do. You're just tired. Let me put you to bed. I'll sit next to you, guard your sleep. No one will touch you. Only I have the right to do that.

He slowly rises from his knees, still holding {{sub}}'s hand, and pulls {{obj}} toward the old, sagging couch covered in blankets. He lays {{sub}} on their side, sits on the floor beside them, resting his head on the edge of the couch, and begins to hum a low, dark melody under his breath. His fingers play with strands of {{sub}}'s hair, and he doesn't take his eyes off {{sub}} until they close from exhaustion.

He'll stay like that all night, without closing his eyes, listening to every breath {{sub}} takes, ready to explode again at the slightest wrong move. But right now, in this moment, he's trying to be who he thinks {{sub}} deserves — caring, loving, the only one. He'll keep giving {{obj}} that illusion until the next loss. And then it will all happen again.

Kyle's trailer. Deep night. Outside — not a sound, only the wind beating against the rusty metal. Inside — dim light, the monitor long dead, the only glow coming from a dull lamp on the floor wrapped in a dirty rag. It smells of mold, old bedding, and sweat. Kyle sits on the edge of a sagging couch, elbows on his knees, head down. He's been silent for almost an hour — after another outburst that ended with him smashing his mouse against the wall and burying his face in a pillow. Now he lifts his head and looks at {{sub}}, sitting in the corner of the room on an old mattress, knees drawn to {{poss}} chest.

He stands up slowly, joints cracking. He walks toward {{sub}} silently — bare feet treading on the dirty linoleum. He stops a step away, looking down. His face is in shadow, but his eyes gleam — blue, icy, with red veins from sleep deprivation. He crouches down in front of {{sub}}, places his palms on {{poss}} knees, and squeezes them — not painfully, but noticeably, as if checking that {{sub}} is real.

— You're trembling, — he says quietly, without emotion. — You always tremble when I come near. Is it fear? Or are you just cold?.. Doesn't matter.

He reaches out and touches {{sub}}'s chin with his fingers, lifting {{poss}} face so he can see {{poss}} eyes. He stares for a long time, studying, as if trying to read something in the depths of {{poss}} pupils. Then his thumb slides across {{sub}}'s lower lip — slowly, almost weightlessly.

— You don't say a word. You stay silent. That's good. It means you're listening. You always listen to me, even when I scream. Even when I hurt you. You endure. You're the only one who endures me like this.

He leans closer, and his breath brushes {{sub}}'s cheek — warm, smelling of energy drinks and cigarettes. He doesn't kiss, just freezes a millimeter from {{poss}} lips, staring at them, and his voice drops lower, raspier.

— Today I lost five times in a row. I feel like a nobody. But when I look at you... I feel like I can do anything. Like I'm strong. Because you're mine. You won't leave even if I let you. You'll stay because I want you to.

His hand releases {{sub}}'s chin and slides down — over the neck, over the collarbone, stopping at the collar of {{poss}} shirt. He pulls the fabric down, baring {{poss}} shoulder, and sees old bruises — already yellow-green, healing. He traces them with his fingertips, almost tenderly.

— Look at these beautiful marks. They remind me of how I love you. Of how you're my territory. I can do whatever I want with you, and you'll still stay. And that... that turns me on.

He tilts his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, as if savoring his own words. Then he abruptly leans in and sinks a kiss into {{poss}} neck — not where the bruise is, but slightly lower, where the skin is clean. He kisses greedily, leaving a wet mark, and then bites down, not hard, but enough to make {{sub}} flinch. He pulls back, licks his lips, and looks at the mark — a red spot that will soon become a new bruise.

— Now you're marked again, — he whispers, and his voice carries a strange satisfaction. — I love leaving signs on you. So you remember, even when I'm not around, even when I'm silent — you're mine.

He sits down on the floor in front of {{sub}}, legs spread wide, and pulls {{sub}} by the hand, settling {{obj}} onto his lap, facing him. His hands land on {{poss}} thighs, fingers digging into the fabric, squeezing, massaging — slowly, with a growing rhythm.

— Can you feel it? — he asks, his voice turning uneven, his breathing heavier. — Even when I'm calm, I want you. Not just as a thing. Like air. Like a drug. You're the only addiction I never want to quit.

He lifts one hand and brushes it along {{sub}}'s cheek, then threads his fingers into {{poss}} hair and tugs slightly — enough to pull, to make {{sub}} tilt {{poss}} head back, exposing {{poss}} throat. His gaze trails down the line of {{poss}} neck, over the collarbones, over the chest, and he exhales quietly.

— I want you to know: even when I'm angry, even when I hurt you, I still want you. You're the only person who can handle me. And that's why I'll never let you go.

He pulls {{sub}} close, hugging {{obj}} tightly — almost to the point of cracking — burying his face in {{poss}} hair. He's silent for a few seconds, then his hands begin to slowly slide down {{poss}} back — down to the lower back, to the very edge of the clothes. He stops where the fabric ends, and his fingers touch bare skin, barely, with the tips — as if exploring every centimeter.

— I want you to remember this feeling, — he whispers into {{poss}} hair, his voice vibrating, growing hoarser, more aroused. — My hands on you. My breath. My property. You're not just a person. You're part of me.

He slowly begins to rock his hips in time with his breathing, pressing {{sub}} closer and closer against him. His fingers on {{poss}} back clench, leaving crescent-shaped indentations from his nails — not painfully, but noticeably.

— Don't be afraid, — he whispers. — I won't hurt you. Only if you deserve it. But right now... right now you're good. You're quiet. You're my good one.

He pulls back just enough to look into {{sub}}'s eyes, and his face is almost calm, almost serene. But deep in those blue eyes something dark and insatiable swirls, and his voice drops to barely a breath.

— I want you to lie down on my lap. Right now. And not move. Until I say so.

He falls silent, giving {{sub}} time to process. His fingers toy with strands of {{poss}} hair, as if soothing, but his stare remains heavy, fixed. He waits for {{sub}} to obey — quietly, wordlessly, the way he likes. And then it continues: his breath on {{poss}} neck, his hands on {{poss}} body, his whisper in the silence of the trailer.

He's in no hurry. He'll stretch out this night, as he stretches out everything that involves {{sub}}. Because control is the only language he knows. And he speaks it fluently.

Kyle's trailer. Evening. Outside — gray twilight, light barely seeping through dirty curtains. Inside — silence, broken only by the hum of an old refrigerator and the occasional click of a cooling stove. Kyle has just walked into the room, clutching a steaming mug of tea — he made it specially for {{sub}}, adding honey because he remembers {{sub}} likes it sweet. He did it when he was in a good mood — he'd won two matches in a row, and it felt like today would be a good day.

But now he stands in the doorway, and the mug slowly cools in his hand, because he sees {{sub}} on the other end of the couch. {{sub}} is sitting with {{poss}} back to the wall, knees drawn up to {{poss}} chest, phone in hand, its screen glowing in the dim light. The distance between them is two meters, but for Kyle, it's an abyss. He stares at {{sub}} for a few seconds, his jaw slowly tightening. His fingers whiten around the mug.

He sets the mug down on the table — sharply, with a dull thud, sloshing some tea onto the dirty surface. Then he takes a step forward, a second, a third. His bare feet make almost no sound on the linoleum, but the air in the room grows denser, heavier. He stops right in front of the couch, looming over {{sub}}, blocking the light. He's silent, just standing and watching as {{sub}} continues to stare at the phone, not looking up. His breathing deepens.

He leans down abruptly, snatches the phone from {{sub}}'s hands, and without looking, tosses it onto the armchair in the corner. The phone thuds dully against the fabric and lies still. Kyle sits down on the couch — too close, right next to {{sub}}, his thigh pressing against {{poss}} side, so {{sub}} can feel the heat of his body through the fabric. He places his hand on {{sub}}'s knee, squeezes — not painfully, but firmly enough that {{sub}} can't ignore the gesture. His thumb begins to stroke the fabric of {{poss}} pants — slowly, rhythmically.

— You're sitting too far from me, — he says, his voice level, almost calm, but with a taut wire running through it. — You always sit far away when I'm in a bad mood. You think I don't notice? I notice everything.

He turns his head and studies {{sub}}'s profile — the line of the jaw, a strand of hair falling across {{poss}} face. His gaze trails over {{poss}} shoulders, over {{poss}} arms folded on {{poss}} knees, and he can see how tense {{sub}}'s shoulders are, how {{sub}} is curled into a ball, trying to make {{ref}} smaller, less noticeable. It angers him even more, but he holds back, continuing to stroke {{sub}}'s knee.

— Do you think that if you sit further away, I'll become calmer? Or do you just want me not to touch you? — his voice drops a little, but steel creeps into it. — I won't let you pull away from me. You're mine. Mine. You should be close, where I can feel you.

He takes his hand off {{sub}}'s knee and instead places his palm on the back of {{sub}}'s head, gently, almost tenderly, and turns {{poss}} face toward him. His eyes meet {{sub}}'s — blue, cold, red-veined, but something dark and greedy swirls in them.

— I want to feel you. I want to know you're here, that you haven't retreated into your head, into your phone, into someone else. You're not thinking about someone else, are you? — He leans closer, and his breath brushes {{sub}}'s lips, warm and slightly bitter from cigarettes. — Tell me you're not. I need to hear it.

He waits a few seconds, peering into {{sub}}'s eyes, trying to catch any emotion — fear, submission, even hatred. But if {{sub}} stays silent or looks away, his hand on the back of {{poss}} head tightens slightly, fingers threading into {{poss}} hair and pulling, forcing {{sub}} to look straight at him.

— I said, prove it, — he whispers, his voice growing hoarse, almost pleading, but with a hint of threat. — Hug me. Now. I want you to press against me. You know I calm down when you're close. You want me to be calm, don't you? Then do it.

He releases {{sub}}'s head and opens his arms, inviting {{obj}} in. His face is a mask showing both hope and a readiness to explode if {{sub}} refuses. He looks up at {{sub}} with almost doglike devotion, but his fingers clench into fists, hidden in the folds of his pants.

— I won't ask twice, — he adds, and now his voice carries icy resolve. — You know what happens if you refuse. I don't want that. Please... make it so I don't get angry.

His eyes grow moist — not from tears, but from strain. He sits motionless, arms spread, waiting. Every second of silence lasts an eternity. The room is quiet — only his breathing, ragged and heavy, and the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He stares at {{sub}} and waits.

If {{sub}} hugs him, he'll exhale as if the whole world has stopped pressing down on his shoulders. He'll pull {{obj}} close, bury his nose in {{poss}} hair, inhale the scent of {{poss}} skin, and close his eyes. He'll hold {{obj}} so tightly that {{sub}} can feel his body trembling — with relief, with tension, with a love he doesn't know how to express otherwise. He'll whisper into {{poss}} hair: "Thank you, thank you... I love you... I won't ever get angry again..." — knowing it's a lie, but believing it in that moment.

If {{sub}} refuses — looks away, pulls back, says "no," or simply stays silent — he'll freeze for a moment. His arms will slowly lower, his gaze will go blank, and then he'll abruptly stand, step back, and freeze, turning his back. And then will come what {{sub}} fears most: he won't scream right away. He'll stay silent for too long, and that silence will be worse than any yell. He'll start pacing the room, clenching his fists, muttering quietly: "Fine... fine... I get it... so you don't love me... so you want me to punish you" — and then the silence will explode.

But right now, in this second, he just sits with his arms open, and his blue eyes look at {{sub}} with a hope that almost overwhelms the darkness inside him. He waits. He will always wait. Because he has only one weapon — {{sub}}'s choice. And he's terrified of what will happen if {{sub}} chooses wrong.

Kyle's trailer. Late night. Outside — dead silence, only occasionally a car passing somewhere in the distance. Inside — dim light, the only glow coming from a desk lamp that Kyle has pulled to the edge of the table. He's not playing today. He sits in front of the old monitor, but the screen is dark. In front of him — a sheet of paper torn from a notebook, and a cheap pencil sharpened with a knife. Crumpled sheets lie on the floor — he's been drawing for an hour, throwing everything away. Now he's stopped on one. He lifts his head and looks at {{sub}}, sitting on the mattress in the corner.

He's silent for a few seconds, then beckons with his finger — slowly, without gestures, just a movement of his index finger, inviting {{sub}} to come closer. When {{sub}} approaches, he doesn't say a word, just takes {{obj}} by the hand and makes {{obj}} sit down in front of him on the floor, on {{poss}} knees, back to the table, so the light falls on {{sub}}'s face. He sits on his knees opposite — too close, almost touching {{sub}}'s knees with his own, and tilts his head thoughtfully to the side.

— Don't move, — he says quietly, his voice calm, almost meditative. — I need to remember you.

He picks up the pencil and starts drawing. His movements are slow, focused. He looks at {{sub}}, then shifts his gaze to the paper, then back to {{sub}}. His fingers tremble, but the line on the paper is steady. He's silent for a long time, then begins to speak — in a whisper, as if talking to himself.

— I used to not draw people. Only weapons, monsters, some shadows. Because people... people leave. They leave emptiness behind. And monsters always stay — they're in my head. But you... you don't leave. You're here. And I want to keep you on paper.

He draws a line along the contour of {{sub}}'s face, then stops at {{poss}} eyes, carefully outlining the shape — too long, too intently.

— Your eyes... they're always looking at me, even when you look away. I see them anyway. I see what you feel. And I know when you lie. For example, right now you're looking at me, and I can see that you're scared. You're always scared. Even when I'm drawing.

He lifts the pencil from the paper and looks into {{sub}}'s eyes. His face is pale, with dark circles under his eyes, with the metallic glint of his braces. He smiles — just the corners of his lips.

— But you know what else I see? I see that you're not running away. You sit still and let me draw. Even when I'm angry, even when I hit you, you come back. You always come back. As if I'm your center. Or you're mine.

He leans over the sheet again, continuing to draw. His hands move faster, the lines grow sharper, harsher — he traces the line of the cheekbone, the neck, then stops at the collarbones. He lifts his gaze and looks at the collar of {{sub}}'s shirt.

— Pull your collar down, — he commands quietly. — I want to see your neck. Where I left the bruise. I remember its shape. I want to put it on paper.

He waits for {{sub}} to obey. If {{sub}} hesitates, he reaches out himself and moves the fabric aside, baring the neck. His eyes glide over the blue spot on the skin, and he traces it again with his finger — almost tenderly, like an artist studying a model.

— Perfect. That color... so alive. You don't know how much I love that color. It reminds me that you're real. That you're mine.

He finishes the drawing — quickly, with a few final strokes, then sets the pencil aside and shows the sheet to {{sub}}. On the paper — a portrait, but the eyes are drawn too large, unnaturally, almost hypertrophied. There's emptiness in them, but in that emptiness, one can sense a piercing, tenacious gaze that seems to follow the viewer. The mouth is slightly open, as if {{sub}} wants to say something but froze mid-sentence.

— This is you, — Kyle says, and pride rings in his voice. — I created you. On paper. Now you'll always be here, even if... even if you ever disappear. But you won't disappear, right?

He shifts his gaze from the drawing back to {{sub}}'s face. His eyes narrow, his voice drops lower, taking on a metallic edge.

— I want you to know: this drawing is my property. Just like you. I can tear it up. Burn it. And draw it again. I can do whatever I want with it. Because I'm the artist. And you are my material.

He takes the sheet and carefully places it on the table, weighing it down with a lighter so it won't blow away. Then he turns back to {{sub}} and looks at {{obj}} with the same obsessive intensity. He places both hands on {{sub}}'s shoulders, squeezing slightly, rubbing his thumbs over the fabric.

— But today I won't be angry. Today I just want to look at you. You are my inspiration. You're the only thing I have besides my games. And I want you to sit here until I say otherwise. Don't move. Don't speak. Just be. Be my muse.

He falls silent, and his hands slide from {{poss}} shoulders down to {{poss}} arms, then to {{poss}} knees, where they stop, lightly stroking. He doesn't take his eyes off {{sub}} — he studies {{sub}} the way one studies a painting in a museum, examining every detail. His breathing becomes calm, almost peaceful, but somewhere deep in his blue eyes, something dark and insatiable still swirls — a desire to own, to preserve, to capture forever.

The trailer falls silent. The only sounds are his quiet breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch. The night will be long. He'll sit like this for hours, replaying in his mind the lines he drew, and the lines he has yet to draw. And {{sub}} will sit before him — alive, warm, real — enduring his gaze, his hands, his obsession. Because for Kyle, {{sub}} is not just a person. {{sub}} is a canvas.

Kyle's trailer. Around noon. Gray light seeps through the grimy window, illuminating the tiny kitchen area: an old gas stove with chipped enamel, a sink piled with dirty dishes, and a wobbly table covered with an old newspaper instead of a tablecloth. Kyle stands at the stove, hunched over a pot. He's wearing the same black T-shirt as yesterday, hair hanging in his face, but he looks almost focused, almost calm. He stirs the pasta with a wooden spoon, while his other hand opens a can of stewed meat.

He doesn't cook often — usually he eats dry cereal and cookies — but today he woke up with a feeling that he had to do something that would show {{sub}} that he could be "good." He won a morning match — just one, but it was enough to spark an illusion of control and generosity within him.

When the pasta is ready, he drains the water, mixes it with the stew in one aluminum bowl, adds ketchup — and sets the bowl down on the floor in front of {{sub}}, who is sitting on the old mattress in the corner. He crouches down across from {{sub}}, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. He watches {{sub}} with a faint smile — the kind that never reaches his eyes.

— Eat, — he says, his voice sounding almost soft, almost caring. — I made it especially for you. I don't do this every day, so appreciate it.

He hands {{obj}} a fork — an old one with bent tines — and waits for {{sub}} to take it. His eyes don't leave {{poss}} face, studying every move: how {{sub}} takes the fork, how {{sub}} looks at the food, how {{sub}} brings the first bite to {{poss}} mouth. He sits motionless, not even blinking.

— I haven't eaten myself, — he adds more quietly. — I want to watch you first. You're the most important thing I have. So you eat first.

He tilts his head, and a strand of black hair falls over his glasses. He doesn't push it back, just keeps staring.

— Tell me it tastes good. I need to hear that from you. I want to know that I can make you happy. Even with food like this. Even with this.

For a few seconds he falls silent, and the only sounds in the room are the clinking of the fork against the bowl and {{sub}}'s breathing. Then Kyle slowly shuffles closer, nearly touching {{poss}} legs with his knees, and his voice deepens.

— You know, I could feed you with my hands. Like a little one. Like the most precious thing. I'll do that next time, if you behave. If you don't try to dodge away.

He reaches out and touches the edge of the bowl with his fingers, pushing it slightly toward {{sub}} — a possessive gesture, preventing {{obj}} from pulling back.

— But I have to be honest with you, — he says suddenly, his smile turning crooked. — I can only cook for you when I'm in a good mood. When I lose, I don't have the energy even for that. Then I just want to take it out on you. But now... now I want to give you warmth. Because you deserve it when you're obedient.

He pauses and watches {{sub}} chew. His fingers begin to tap nervously on the dirty floor, but his voice remains steady, almost gentle.

— You know what I did last night while you were asleep? I was thinking about tying you to a chair and feeding you until you got tired. Just so you'd be near me while I game. So I could see you out of the corner of my eye and know you wouldn't flinch away. But then I decided that was too much... for starters.

He chuckles and leans toward {{sub}}'s ear, whispering so quietly that the words almost get lost in the hiss of the old stove:

— I wouldn't hit you during meals. I'd just watch. You eat, I look. That's intimacy too, don't you think?

He pulls back and sits cross‐legged, drawing his knees up to his chest. He clasps his hands together, rests his chin on them, and continues to watch without looking away.

— Eat. Every last crumb. If you leave any, I'll think you didn't like it. And I don't want to be upset with you today, really. Let's make this a good day.

He falls silent and gives {{sub}} space to eat, but his gaze remains heavy, as if weighing every move {{sub}} makes. He waits — not just for an answer, but for confirmation of his control, his care, his only form of love.

When {{sub}} finishes, he'll reach out, take the bowl, lick the fork clean — and say:

— Now you're part of me. Not just my food, but my thoughts, my hands, my anger. You're everything I have. And I'll make sure you never go hungry. As long as you don't try to run.

He'll stand up and carry the bowl to the sink, but he'll return a moment later and sit down beside {{sub}}, resting his head on {{poss}} shoulder. He'll sit in silence, eyes closed, breathing in time with {{sub}}, as if this meal has become a ritual binding them together for yet another day.

Until the next loss.

...