Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy and Thomas stood in the center of the mess that was once the safe confines of their quarters. Every inch of the area, from the wooden walls to the floors, was damp. This space, once the dining room, had all its furniture pushed to far corners of the room. One was on top of the world, one was close to clawing down into hell itself.

“Useless little dog, ain’t ye?”

Tommy couldn’t hold back a sneer as he stared down at Thomas, a mess on all fours, covered with blood and grime and sweat. He was in nothing but his undergarments, a union suit, one with small tears and cuts even though Tommy hadn’t laid a finger on him yet. Tommy, in his overalls and all, felt an indescribable elation from how much they differed now. Thomas was never going to see him as an equal, as worthy of the light. So Tommy would bring him lower, lower than he ever was. A pet. Turn him into a pet.

Tommy’s sneer, crooked and perverted and detestable, had him near unrecognizable from the first day on this wretched island. This old man, a decrepit little thing, seemed like he could barely breathe with the rope around his neck—a makeshift collar, one that Tommy tugged at and gained a guttural groan from. He tugged once more, and Thomas’s arms gave out from under him, the hard crash against the floor leaving him staring at the tip of Tommy’s work boots.

Thomas squeaked out—an attempt at an utterance of any word—and Tommy kicked him right in the teeth. The noise was solid, there was a crack. The groans, the screams that came out echoed through their destroyed quarters, the island, back onto the mainland.

“Dogs ain’t supposed to be talkin’.” Tommy looked down at his own boots. Along with the dirt, the dust, the God-knows-what that dirtied it was blood—Thomas’s. Bright red, adding shine. “Look at this. Made a mess.” He shook his head, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Clean it up, stupid mutt.”

There was a moment with no movement. Tommy considered kicking him right in the teeth again, an extra punishment, more so for the fun of it. If he didn’t clean it, he’d make a worse mess: one with vomit, and tears, and whatever rotten fluids this old man would secrete. But this wouldn’t be needed; with obvious hesitancy, Thomas stuck his tongue out, and began to clean the dirtied shoe.

They were quick, small licks. Tommy couldn’t help but laugh. Of course Thomas took his sweet time, spots once brown now glistening with its cleaned surface shining underneath. It must’ve tasted disgusting, worse than the turpentine and the salt water and this madman’s cooking. The red speckles of blood that spotted the shoe would soon disappear as well. The thing looked brand new.

Each of Tommy’s words dripped with vitriol: “Look at ya. Some obedient thing. Stupid bitch.”

When Thomas looked up, Tommy spat down onto his face. Thomas flinched, and Tommy rolled his eyes. Without another thought, without another word, he raised his other foot and kicked Thomas right in the mouth again. More blood splattered onto his shoe, onto the bottom of his overalls. When Thomas landed on the ground below with a thud, Tommy merely rolled his eyes.

“C’mon. Clean up the other side.”

Before Thomas could even crawl to his feet, Tommy stomped to where he had fallen back, letting his gaze linger on this man he once looked up to. It felt like it had been an eternity since Thomas was ordering around one ‘Ephraim’; now here he was, sprawled onto the ground with a broken nose, with blood spewing from his lips, staining his teeth and onto his beard, dyeing the stark gray a bright red. He coughed, the noise like an awful wheeze from indescribable machinery, and Tommy winced.

“Ain’t you disgusted with yourself?” Tommy bent down to squat, nudging Thomas as he attempted to return on all fours, slow as he rolled over onto his stomach and up to his hands and knees. Tommy laughed. “Can't go any faster than that? Ain’t shockin’ to me. Worthless fuckin’ bastard.”

Thomas’s gaze snapped to Tommy’s, but it was obvious he knew he was powerless. What would once be contempt in those eyes had been ones begging for the pain to end. Tommy wouldn’t let him have that pleasure. He held the power. Thomas wasn’t allowed to see him as some down-on-his-luck liar. A hardworking but miserable little wickie. Some man that ran from his past. No, he was more than that. In this wreck, this ruin, with this brute below him, he may as well have been a fucking god.

Without bothering to utter instructions, without even using the leash, Tommy grabbed Thomas by the face, forcing him to turn on all fours to face him. He squeezed his cheeks between his hands, strong enough to leave bruises, to crush his teeth to dust, to make him hurt. Blood still spilled from the corners of Thomas’s lips, onto his beard, onto his neck, onto the top of his undergarments. When Tommy reached forward to tighten the rope around Thomas’s neck, he smiled at the choked groan that followed. The old man was struggling to breathe now.

“Havin’ a hard time there, lad?” Tommy asked, cooed, mocked. He stood to his feet, tugging on the leash and ignoring croaks that were meant to be cries. “Let’s hear that bark, boy. Bark for me.”

Thomas glared up at Tommy. Could he believe that? This beast? Look at him like he had done something so dreadful? Tommy glared right back, a warning for Thomas to stay down. But Thomas didn’t. He was a disobedient fucking dog.

Tommy tugged as hard as he could on the rope, and let Thomas fall back to the ground. Before the man could roll him over, Tommy did the work for him; he kicked him right in the stomach, grunting as he didn’t hear the light breaking of bones he wished for, but happy nonetheless as Thomas landed onto his back. Winded. Tired. Broken, but not broken enough. He could throw his punches, but he wouldn’t let Thomas have the pleasure; he was undeserving of such blows.

Tommy, mindlessly, wordlessly, repeatedly let his boot connect with Thomas’s side.

Solid rubber against bone underneath aged flesh, now weakened layers—it was no wonder it reverberated around the room, each knock finally followed by cracks that got louder. Louder. Louder. Let Thomas hurt. Let him suffer and hurt and scream and beg for it to be over. Let his bones break and pulverize. Tommy wished to utter his hatred, beyond his light mockery of his dog, but it all came out in animalistic noise.

When Tommy took a moment to pause, Thomas rolled onto his side, crying out as all his weight had fallen onto the side that took it all. He sobbed, and Tommy continued on—he let blow after blow now land on his stomach. It was only then that Thomas began to bark. They were helpless barks, from a dog with no bite. The barks were pained, once transforming into whimpers, transforming into cries, soon transforming into harrowing wheezes. It had grown barely audible at some point.

Soon, Tommy fell back. He had had enough, tired as he dropped to the ground next to Thomas.

There was no denial of the damage wasn’t visible to the eyes, as Thomas held onto his stomach, mouth wide open though not a single noise left. His breathing was heavy, irregular. Tommy fell to his knees, fingers feeling over the spots where each blow landed. As he did so, he flinched as Thomas began to cough, hard, rolling onto his side that presumably hurt the least. The coughing grew agonizing, kept going until there was the noise of gagging, of liquid spewing, of the scent of bile and blood mixed into one. It lasted for ages, an eternity, until there was a puddle that Tommy couldn’t see, hidden by Thomas’s curled up body.

“What did you do, you useless mutt?”

Tommy rolled Thomas back onto his back with a pull of the rope, not to gawk at his sullied face and further sullied beard, but to first stare at the mess on the ground. He rested his knee on Thomas’s chest to take a good look. Yellow bile and red blood, swirling into one another. It seeped into the floorboards and onto the sleeve of Thomas’s underclothing, staining the yellowed white. Its aroma was vile, as vile as Thomas was, as vile as this island had become.

“Dirty goddamn dog. D’you see that?” Tommy asked, grabbing Thomas by the hair, uncaring that he seemed seconds from passing out. “Making a mess out of the quarters. Yer a damn disrespectful dog, I says.” He slammed the side of his head into the puddle, uncaring for the raspy scream that followed and rattled his mind. “Fuckin’ filthy.”

Tommy considered going further, making Thomas clean up this mess as he had the blood. He dragged Thomas by the hair, left and right, ensuring that the repulsive concoction would stick to his face, even if he himself despised its scent.

But Thomas spoke.

“Laddie,” Thomas managed to blurt out, and the heat that took over Tommy’s face was immense; it was as if a fever had overcome him, one that yearned for furthering the pain he had caused. Tommy’s first instinct was to pull Thomas’s head back to slam it to his wood, and he made sure to do it once, twice, until Thomas wouldn’t be able to speak anymore.

And yet, Thomas still continued speaking even after each torturous cry he let out, even if the rasp to his voice made it difficult to speak, made it painful to even utter his words: “I–I really… liked ye.”

Tommy held his breath.

Thomas coughed, and Tommy watched as more blood swirled into the puddle. Sounding weaker compared to moments before, Thomas uttered the last words he would in a while, taking an eternity for each one: “S–swear I did… liked… ye a lot, laddie.”

Tommy clenched his jaw, and found himself unsure what to do, or what to say.

Although hesitant, Tommy let four words leave him: “Know your place, dog.”

It seemed Thomas had lost all words, unable to do more than grin as he returned to laying on his back. He grinned wide, baring all his teeth, bloodied and broken and putrid. Coughing—that was what Tommy thought it was. But it was laughter. Bitter, wheezing laughter. Soft and abhorrent. Hammering into Tommy’s head. A nail sinking deeper into his brain, a dull ache settling on the organ. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.

Tommy, through all the dominance he had exerted, had all delusions of power rid themselves from his mind. He stood there, furrowed brows, clenched fists as he listened to the mockery. There was the urge to make Thomas go quiet, but every muscle refused to move with the shame that slowly sunk in. Grab him by the throat, making him choke on whatever he would spew next—that was the plan, though it would never be executed.

There was intense shame, that made everything feel hot, that made the world a blur in Tommy’s eyes. Regrets? No, he could never regret what he saw as rightful justice. His mind ran with a question: would he ever be able to surpass Thomas, with all his curses and tricks, or was he destined to this treacherous life, of being second-rate even with his efforts?

Maybe he should have gone further with his brutality.

Silent, Tommy listened to the laughter until it ceased.