The careful cut of a blade through flesh is nothing, it is relative; the purposeful carving and the fading streaks against his cheek are slow and merciless and deliberate but it is relative; and the inevitable pitch and slam of his head against the floor's blinding solidity elicits the pain of impact and the angry clang of metal over concrete and the welling brightness of variegated discoloration scattering his vision briefly before he may grasp those diverging pieces and claw them back into something cohesive.
His head twitches minimally, dragging on the concrete, his hair a broken fan where it has not begun to stick to skin of his neck and his face by the flow of crimson.
He knows what Fring intends to do to him before he does. He telegraphed the intention. It was obvious. Because he knew. Because he had prepared for this. Because it was -
He cannot prevent the wrenching, broken cry ripped free of him so he makes no effort to silence it or abbreviate it, the wet, hoarse noise that he does not prolong and will not prolong for anyone's benefit, that subsides in ragged breathing, uneven and pained.
He had prepared for this.
It is exquisite.
It is unendurable.
But he had prepared for this.
The snap of bone, the fracturing of that delicate structure under stress, that -
- stretched over some cold and indistinct surface in silent agony as they edge skin back, insert something in the space between his ribs because he is aware of it because he is exposed and they pry and begin to shift those grating things apart with all the resistance and limitless hurt that is moving things that were not meant to be moved and he would be screaming right now, he would except there is still the breathing apparatus and also he is paralyzed and also they are watching him, eyes bright and malicious and curious and possibly deriving enjoyment out of breaking this tiny fragile thing that has refused to yield beneath the bladed intent of their collective minds, and he would take this, he would prefer this a thousand times to what he knows they will do to him when this is over and what they have been doing to him and he hates their design and he hates what they are and he hates -
And still his uninjured wrist drives itself into the metal, relentlessly tearing open the abraded skin until both wrists are raw and peeled and slippery, because Fring cannot touch him.
His head shifts on the concrete again, rolling back to look at the man standing over him, the man who increases pressure and wrenches from him another gasping, aching sound before moving away, and he dismisses any and all of the philosophical bullshit - it does not concern him, these unfounded assertions and baseless conclusions to Rush's nature when Rush's nature is absolute and untouched. The wheezing, erratic quality of his breathing and the unimaginable ache flaring at those separate points of him have made vocalization difficult, but he had prepared for this.
Instead he quirks his head and pulls it slightly to one side, as much as one is able to at the collapsed, awkward angle into which he has been forced, expression lifting in a pained half-smile as it hardens into something darkly and unmistakably amused. He smirks, blazing and derisive and destructive, and hurls at Fring with an unremitting edge, with a pointed, directed stare, as much spite as can possibly be conveyed in those calculated facial twitches. Because he is still here. Because he had prepared for this. Because Fring has, quite simply, no idea what Rush has historically made himself capable of, what results from attempting to open a ruthless and uncompromising nerve.
tw: more flashbacks, medical squick, some mild self-harm
He had known this was coming.
The careful cut of a blade through flesh is nothing, it is relative; the purposeful carving and the fading streaks against his cheek are slow and merciless and deliberate but it is relative; and the inevitable pitch and slam of his head against the floor's blinding solidity elicits the pain of impact and the angry clang of metal over concrete and the welling brightness of variegated discoloration scattering his vision briefly before he may grasp those diverging pieces and claw them back into something cohesive.
His head twitches minimally, dragging on the concrete, his hair a broken fan where it has not begun to stick to skin of his neck and his face by the flow of crimson.
He knows what Fring intends to do to him before he does. He telegraphed the intention. It was obvious. Because he knew. Because he had prepared for this. Because it was -
He cannot prevent the wrenching, broken cry ripped free of him so he makes no effort to silence it or abbreviate it, the wet, hoarse noise that he does not prolong and will not prolong for anyone's benefit, that subsides in ragged breathing, uneven and pained.
He had prepared for this.
It is exquisite.
It is unendurable.
But he had prepared for this.
The snap of bone, the fracturing of that delicate structure under stress, that -
- stretched over some cold and indistinct surface in silent agony as they edge skin back, insert something in the space between his ribs because he is aware of it because he is exposed and they pry and begin to shift those grating things apart with all the resistance and limitless hurt that is moving things that were not meant to be moved and he would be screaming right now, he would except there is still the breathing apparatus and also he is paralyzed and also they are watching him, eyes bright and malicious and curious and possibly deriving enjoyment out of breaking this tiny fragile thing that has refused to yield beneath the bladed intent of their collective minds, and he would take this, he would prefer this a thousand times to what he knows they will do to him when this is over and what they have been doing to him and he hates their design and he hates what they are and he hates -
And still his uninjured wrist drives itself into the metal, relentlessly tearing open the abraded skin until both wrists are raw and peeled and slippery, because Fring cannot touch him.
His head shifts on the concrete again, rolling back to look at the man standing over him, the man who increases pressure and wrenches from him another gasping, aching sound before moving away, and he dismisses any and all of the philosophical bullshit - it does not concern him, these unfounded assertions and baseless conclusions to Rush's nature when Rush's nature is absolute and untouched. The wheezing, erratic quality of his breathing and the unimaginable ache flaring at those separate points of him have made vocalization difficult, but he had prepared for this.
Instead he quirks his head and pulls it slightly to one side, as much as one is able to at the collapsed, awkward angle into which he has been forced, expression lifting in a pained half-smile as it hardens into something darkly and unmistakably amused. He smirks, blazing and derisive and destructive, and hurls at Fring with an unremitting edge, with a pointed, directed stare, as much spite as can possibly be conveyed in those calculated facial twitches. Because he is still here. Because he had prepared for this. Because Fring has, quite simply, no idea what Rush has historically made himself capable of, what results from attempting to open a ruthless and uncompromising nerve.