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The buttons of the game console in your hand filled the kitchen, echoing muted clack… clack… clack-clacks against tile floor and empty dining table chairs. The bone of your ankle was sure to bruise from how consistently you had been bouncing your leg, deliberately thudding the side of your foot against the heavy wooden legs of your chair. It didn’t hurt, but you had been sitting there playing games on your little handheld for the past two hours, and your ankle had been bounced against the chair on-and-off periodically since you sat down to play. There was no way it wasn’t going to leave at least a slight bruise against your skin, and you knew that.
A not-so-small part of you took vindication in the fact. Schlatt would not be pleased with the fact that you had managed to hurt yourself in the two hours since he had left to go host a stream, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care at all. Or more accurately, you did care about what he would think, but making sure he was pleased was amongst the least of your worries. In fact, you might even go so far as to say that his displeasure fueled your own pride, like a cat who had just managed to spill over all the cream in the pitcher. If you could make yourself a nuisance, then you would.
Within reason, of course. The dull ache in your fingers as you held the game system spoke for itself. You were just glad that today wasn’t one of your body’s bad days, and that you could actually still afford to play the game at all without debilitating pain in each movement. On those days, the blood in your veins felt like gunpowder burning to its fuse, sparking against nerves and swelling blood vessels under your skin until it felt as if everything were bound to pop. Pure existence was agonizing on its own, and there was little more you could do on those days but cradle your wounds and allow for Schlatt to soothe your aches as best he could. He always made sure to set aside work for you as much as you needed it. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t care for you? What kind of caretaker would he be if he left you to suffer—bored, miserable, and alone?
A bad one, he had said the first time you had lashed out at him. Your ankle had been held firmly in his grasp, and it had seemed almost delicate at the time when held in between his broad fingers. It was his job to make sure that you were taken care of, and he was going to do his job if it was the death of him. Even if it meant putting you in your place and reminding you of the consequences of your actions.
(He had not been afraid to remind you that there could always be another accident if you decided to try and kick him again. He didn’t want to hurt you, but if you wanted to throw tantrums and misbehave, then you might not like what happened because of it.)
You leaned your heel back away from the chair again as you continued bouncing your leg. Ghost pains worked their way through your ankle, lingering threats of what could be, and you briefly stopped clicking buttons to shift your other leg back underneath you. A hand drifted away from the tabletop to brush over sensitive skin, and if you let yourself imagine it, you could see yourself pulling a future of aches and pains away from it and back into the containment of a few crooked fingers.
A quiet, “Yahoo!” dragged your attention back to the game in front of you, and you allowed yourself to push such morbid thoughts to the back of your mind once more. There was no point in drifting over through such negativity right now, not when the only thing that could possibly come to fruition from it was soul-crushing helplessness and a festering bitterness that left in its wake scowling lips and teeth groaning under pressure. There was nothing you could do but sit there and distract yourself with your games until Schlatt got back. You couldn’t even go to the restroom without having to use the little baby’s first phone you had been given in place of your old one. The children’s locks on each door and the lack of pressure you were capable of using with your fingers now guaranteed that. Nothing happened in this house without his approval first and foremost. It was aggravating.
You were far from a baby—he had been quick to correct you of that accusation months ago—but you sure as hell weren’t the adult you knew you were either in his eyes. You were something in between, and if you had to guess based on the choice of media you were ‘allowed’ to consume, then you had a sneaking suspicion exactly what era of your life you were expected by Schlatt to be reliving.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaked slightly as Schlatt fiddled with the child guard on the other side of it, and a moment later it swung open to reveal a man you once had praised as perfect. His shoulders were slouched from post-stream lethargy, and hair was slightly rustled from whatever agitated bit he had used to finish the performance off with—not that you would know what it was until later when you’d have permission to watch the offline VOD. Unrestricted, unsupervised internet access was something that was strictly forbidden for you nowadays, and sometimes that meant that watching your abuser’s content was one of the better ways to make sure you didn’t die of boredom on the days where even holding your own utensils hurt too much to even bother trying.
That didn’t mean you had to be happy about it, especially when filming meant that you were left to be essentially locked in a room for several hours except in case of emergency. You refused to deign your boyfriend’s appearance with a response, and so your gaze was kept firmly trained on the little pixelated character running around the screen in front of you.
“You having fun over there?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him fill up a glass of water and throw it back, but even as the cup clinked carelessly back against the white countertop, you still didn’t open your mouth to give a response. This, you knew, would push his patience. There was always only ever so much grace you were allowed to behave poorly, but you couldn’t help but be stubborn in your frustration. You had steeped in your thoughts, and the taste that had come out of your time alone was bitter.
Slow, controlled steps. One. Two. Three. Four. It didn’t take very long for Schlatt to make his way over from the fridge to where you were seated, but you counted each beat of his feet against the linoleum flooring all the same regardless. Each step closer left you struggling not to sink into rising shoulders, burying your face into the screen of your game, but eventually there was no more time to flee into yourself as Schlatt paused right by your side. Down he sank until one knee was planted firmly on the floor.
Once upon a time, you had giggled to friends and daydreamed about seeing him in this position, words of romance offering you the deal of a lifetime. Now it filled you with dread.
“Hey,” A warm hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough, and neither was his expression irritated when you paused to take a peek down at his face. You hadn’t pushed too far yet, then. That was good. Schlatt didn’t tolerate disrespect in his household. “C’mon, kiddo. Don’t start acting up now. I really don’t want to have to punish you the moment I come back from work.”
You really should stop now. You knew that. He knew you knew it too, based on the raised eyebrow and unimpressed expression he wore when your eyes finally openly darted to and from him for the first time since he had entered the room. If you were smart, you’d cave and acknowledge him like you were supposed to. It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t even much of a request at all. Just look him in the eyes. Answer the question. He’d let you go back to whatever you were doing in a little while. It wasn’t hard. Just do it.
You knew it was a poor choice when you stayed staring at the base of your thumbs instead of doing as you were told, but like the child you were supposed to be, petulance won over any strand of logic held in your broken grasp. Schlatt let out a heavy sigh, and the smart part of you that had warned against this winced in preparation of what might come.
The hand that was on your thigh remained planted firmly where it was, but his other reached up with zero hesitation to grip your console in one hand and forcibly pull it away. Not that that was saying much, considering you didn’t put up more than a performative, kneejerk level of resistance as it was taken from you. You had known what was coming the moment you started breaking rules. Punishment had been inevitable, and you can’t play games when being punished.
“Alright. No more games for today then. Clearly somebody needs to remember what socializing with other people is like, since you’ve somehow forgotten how to show basic respect when somebody is talking to you.”
(You soothed the part of yourself that cried because “this wasn’t fair!” by telling yourself you hadn’t really been paying much attention to your game anymore anyway. You didn’t care if he took away your game. It didn’t matter that you had been just about to finish a major section of the game. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.)
You tried not to feel bad for yourself when it was placed on the other side of the table across from you.
Still, you didn’t speak. You didn’t look at him. You just sat there, and you stared. You stared at the stain on the edge of the table. You stared at the glare of the light off the edge of your console’s back panels. You stared at the empty glass of water Schlatt had placed on the table just off to the side of both of you, and you wondered how you had somehow missed that detail when ignoring him earlier.
You stared at the hand just barely in your range of sight which gripped your face and tilted it back towards him. This time, you didn’t resist as you were forced to make eye contact, although it filled you with miserable anger to know that this was the man who had just taken away a toy that was yours. He had given it to you, sure, but it was still yours. Injustice.
Bad thoughts. These were bad thoughts. They got you nowhere and gave you nothing in return for them. You had learned that lesson the hard way, and instead chose to focus on the feeling of Schlatt’s calloused fingers against your skin. It was a welcome distraction. You didn’t need any encouragement to dig your grave deeper than it already was.
“Hey,” The hand on your leg again. It squeezed, light, but enough to drag your attention back to him. He didn’t look angry? “Don’t go getting lost in your thoughts over there again.” The hand on your face dropped to take hold of your own, and his thumb ran gently over your aching fingers. It felt nice, despite who it was coming from.
(You really wished you could say you didn’t still love him, but that would have made you a liar.)
You stared down at him, and after a moment, he seemed content enough with your response to continue speaking.
“Tell you what,” he said, “You’ve been pretty good for me recently. So why don’t we try this again and we can forget any of this even happened? You can have your games privileges back, I don’t have to punish you, and nobody has to suffer. A win for everyone involved. What do you say? Are you going to keep being rude and make me punish you?”
You puffed up your cheeks and exhaled. A frustrated response you were privileged enough to be allowed without repercussion as a young teenager, you supposed.
“No…” you mumbled. “I won’t be rude anymore.”
“You won’t be rude anymore, and?”
This was the worst part of the involuntary arrangement, you think. Everything else was bad, but you could stretch your logic to rationalize it as not meaning anything usually. The things you did as a teenager weren’t too far off from how you behaved when you would have had free time as an adult. The issue arose in Schlatt, because even if you could justify everything else, there was nothing to justify how immature and paternalistic he handled your interactions. He dictated what you could and couldn’t do. He treated you like a child who needed an adult’s guidance and discipline, and even if there were moments where things could feel completely normal, it would all be erased the moment he reminded you to call him your dad.
“I won’t be rude anymore, sir.”
Schlatt huffed, an exasperated but pleased enough little noise, and with a quirked lip and a brief press of his lips to your hand, he pushed himself back up and onto his feet. His hand still hadn’t left your own, and it was clear you were expected to stand up with him. The choice was made for you when he stepped back a foot and tugged you forward, and you had no choice but to stumble up with him and into his side. You hated how the arm that wrapped around your waist to stabilize you felt so natural.
“See?” he asked. “Was that so hard? You just have to speak when spoken to. I don’t ask a lot of you, sweetheart. I know you don’t spend a lot of time alone anymore, but wanting my attention isn’t an excuse to be a brat. You're old enough to use your words, alright?” He tugged you closer, and the hair on his face tickled you as he pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek before letting you go. “Now, why don't you tell Pops what you did while he was working like I asked?”
You knew the answer, but you couldn’t help but think to yourself: would there be any other outcome to this even if you tried?
No.
There wouldn’t be.
“Okay…”
Acceptance was the only result that mattered.