TW: Contains implicit past child sexual abuse, PTSD, nightmare, trauma, and emotional distress. Please read with caution. Your mental health is priority. The whole chapter is quite unraveling.

Harsh was pinned to the bed, unable to escape.

"Papa, please stop. It hurts!"

Papa's hands were heavy, holding him down. His chest felt crushed, ribs burning as he sobbed. His body was again tiny. 

"This is what people who love do," Papa assured falsely with an alarming smile.

"No! It hurts!" Harsh screamed, but the words barely sounded in the room as they were swallowed by a darkness consuming them. He tried to kick, to push, to crawl, but it was useless, his body paralyzed.

"No one will believe you."

He shook his head, his screams muffled as he thrashed, a hand crawling down his body, violating him in its wake. 

"No," he choked, sobbing. "Just stop it," he cried.

Nothing ever worked though. The man was always too powerful even with his one hand alone. He realized with horror his body would undergo the same agony, over and over. 

Fear, shame and pain, all slowed down his breathing as the pain intensified, freezing him. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. He was trapped with the monster again.

            Prithvi never meant for the argument to escalate when he confronted Jay to treat his wound. Somehow, it did.

The next moment, his baby brother was shoving bare necessities into his duffel bag, and stormed out of the palace, deciding a random trip to Malaysia.

Convincing Agni bhai proved futile when Jay excused it was for 'emotional recharge'. Their bhai took Jay's side, agreeing it was better he cooled off his steam first, and Yuvaan was joining this trip to keep the younger in check. It didn't help ease Prithvi's anxiety, but it alleviated the worst of it.

He decided to meet Harsh afterwards, not knowing if the boy had treated his split lip or not. He couldn't sleep without checking up on him, even though he was himself emotionally tired.

It wasn't the first time he had been called fake, Yuvaan yelled it enough. But it never stopped hurting any else. He accepted it was what it was, knowing love was his burden to bear, not of anyone else. Nobody hadn't asked him to love them. He was the one who had chosen them. To love. To care. The consequences were his to bear, the painful and ungrateful ones.

He had walked to Harsh's room, casting attentive glances in the hallway, security alert as it patrolled down the hallway. His knuckles raised to rap at the boy's door, when he heard a strangled sound. A whimper. 

His chest tightened. 

"Harsh?" He tried to twist the knob, and it gave way.

He entered and froze, his blood running cold. Harsh was curled up, fists clenched as he sobbed in his sleep. His legs were twitching, face scrunched in pure agony.

Prithvi rushed to his side, tapping his cheeks. "Harsh? Wake up, baby." He grabbed the boy's shoulder and gently shook him. "C'mon, it's just a nightmare. It's not real. Please wake up." 

A gasp tore the silence. Harsh woke with a startle, jerking back instinctively with wide, glassy eyes. He scrambled back, shoulders pressed to the headboard as his chest heaved violently.

Prithvi stepped back to give him space when the boy stared at him, hazed, frightened.

"Harsh, it's me! Prithvi, your brother."

The words snapped some sense into Harsh as his face flickered with recognition, the fog lifting from his eyes. His shoulders slumped. He shuddered, and rubbed his wrist, panting and trembling.

"What... do you want?" he muttered weakly.

Prithvi searched his damp face, heart sinking at how weak and tired he looked. "What was your nightmare about?"

"Does that concern you? No!" Harsh choked, glaring with hot, angry tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

"Harsh, it's not okay. You were paralyzed in your sleep."

Harsh froze. What else had he seen?

He couldn't process the shame of it. Of being weak.

"Is it about your... mother?" Prithvi asked carefully. His eyes flicked to the urn. Surely, it must be that only. 

He needed to know.

"Yeah," Harsh lied, eyes downcast. He closed them, swallowing. When his honey snapped open, they were calmer.

"I was missing her," he lied again, eyes averting for a split second from the man's concerned face to the door behind him. "But why does that concern you? How did you even get in my room?" He glared.

Prithvi frowned. "Through door?"

Harsh's eyes crinkled in confusion. "I had put on the safety latch." He glanced at the safety latch he clearly remembered putting on. 

"You hadn't. I raised my hand to knock but... you must have been mistaken. It happens with me all the time. The door wasn't locked. It was a good thing though. I heard you from the other side and..." he trailed off, unsure.

Did the boy really miss his mother that much?

Prithvi didn't know what kind of relationship the boy shared with his mother because one moment he was claiming she wasn't the best, and next, he was grieving her quietly in silence. But whatever it was, it was difficult to put up with loss.

Guilt sat heavy at the back of his throat. Why didn't he notice the signs sooner? The boy wasn't avoiding him.

He was grieving. 

He should have been more careful.

Harsh didn't like being subjected to pity, so he craned his neck to face Tina's urn instead. "I wanna go back," he murmured in a raspy voice. "I don't want to live with you all," he replied honestly. 

He didn't want to stay with these men.

He didn't know why... but he just didn't. 

He didn't deserve being treated the soft way they were treating him.

Prithvi swallowed the disappointment. He nodded in respect, but his chest deeply ached. "We're sorry, baby. But we have no choice though. I wish your mom were alive so you could live wherever you wanted. But... that's not the case."

A knot formed in his throat. His wishes never mattered in life. They didn't know it. They didn't need to.

Prithvi sighed shakily, looking away. He glanced back. "Your lip, why haven't you treated the wound yet?" He asked sharply, frustrated.

Before Harsh could reply, Prithvi went to the bathroom. A second later, after turning on the lights, he moved out with a first aid kit.

"Scooch over."

His fists clenched the sheet. It was too much. Why was the man not leaving him already? He had promised the worst, pretending to be a leech who would take their kindness for granted and leave them drained.

Then why wasn't the man angry yet? Worse, why wasn't he leaving?

"Why?"

"Why what?" The man asked unbothered, not looking up from opening the medical kit.

"Why are you helping me?"

Prithvi sighed. When he looked up, he almost froze at the fragile hope in the boy's beautiful honey eyes. 

"Because.... you're family." He turned back to the kit, holding out a cotton ball. "Scooch over. I have to disinfect the dried blood first."

Harsh didn't want to, but he slowly and reluctantly moved over to the edge of bed. When Prithvi's hand neared his lip, he almost flinched, afraid the man would take advantage of him. It was wrong to even think about him this way, but shaken from the nightmare, rather his memories, he couldn't help but calculate how long would it take for his mask to fall.

If he had one.

Prithvi frowned, before smirking. "It will sting just a little." His lips weaved into a lopsided smile.

Harsh frowned, but said nothing more. He wasn't afraid of the sting, but rather worse. His clasped his wrist with one hand, bracing himself for it.

The skin of his lower lip stung all of a sudden, pain radiating all over his face. He winced, leaning back.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch!"

He groaned and tugged on his hairs instead because he couldn't touch his lip.

Prithvi chuckled. "Does it hurt that much?"

"Shut up," he winced, and hissed, fanning his lip.

"My bad," Prithvi drawled. "Let me apply cream now. It will soothe the burn."

Harsh's head was firmly pulled forward by his nape, before a cooling cream was applied. Prithvi's eyes were narrowed at his wound, working diligently as he treated Harsh. His touch, his eyes, everything was gentle and warm.

He knew Prithvi and that man couldn't be same. Prithvi wasn't trying to be kind. He was kind. His actions had been proving it, so did his aura. Harsh always picked on a person's aura first, rarely wrong in his judgement since his mother and him had escaped that man.

He could tell Prithvi was genuine. Yet it hurt.

He allowed it, the aching in his chest while Prithvi worked. He hated himself for it, for letting this stranger affect him, but his being was aching for this... warmth. Like the warmth could literally melt him into a puddle and fill the hollow of his heart. He yearned it from the bottom of his heart, not knowing how to brush it off.

Once done at his lip, Prithvi glanced at his wrist, gently prying his fingers off it.

"Is it injured too?"

"No," he replied quietly, trying to reach for his wrist again but Prithvi grabbed it first, pulling it upward. 

"Why do you always scratch your wrist?" Their eyes met.

Because I'm dirty?

Harsh breathed through the tightness in his lungs. "Whatever." He tried to yank back his hand, but Prithvi didn't let him, his other hand rummaging the kit again.

"What are you doing?"

"It's red. You'll scab your wrist at this rate," the older male muttered, and gently applied another cream. 

If he was just warm till now, then he was lit on light. A tender sensation fluttered in his chest, at the kindness. He grounded his teeth from spewing some sentimental shit as his eyes teared up slightly.

What if he confessed how much he liked it...

That he wanted it again.

And again.

And again.

Could this have been his life had he lived here since the beginning?

"I know you won't appreciate this," Prithvi's voice cut through, packing up the kit, "but you can talk about things if they're getting too heavy."

He blinked.

Prithvi sighed, his shoulders sagging. "I... noticed it late that you are grieving. That's careless on my part. I'm really sorry. But, you need support. Maybe you can talk to me, or... if you don't trust me, or any of us, you can talk to a therapist. I will arrange for the best one for you. You see Harsh, we..."

Harsh didn't know why he missed being called baby. It was weird and kinky in any other situation, but when Prithvi addressed him as a baby, it really felt like he were an actual baby for once.

Safe. And carefree. It was weirdly endearing.

"Harsh?" 

"Huh?" He blinked, nodding. "Yeah, I'm listening."

Prithvi watched him solemnly. "Losing bhaiya has taken a toll on all of us. When he left us, we broke. In some ways or another, we're still broken." His lips twitched. He brushed his palm over his mouth, before continuing, "I don't want the same happen to you too. You're a child. You've so much ahead to look forward to. Please talk about your pain instead of allowing it to slowly crush you."

Harsh felt tired. His eyes darted to his mother's urn again.

They didn't know he was broken beyond repair.

He watched his mother's ashes for a while, before the idea sparked. "I think it's time." He looked back at his brother softly. "I want to let her go."

Prithvi followed where his gaze had been, before nodding thoughtfully. "I will arrange for a priest—"

"Why?" Harsh groaned. "I can go and just randomly dump her."

"Harsh."

He flinched.

"She's your mother," Prithvi tried gently. 

"So? Not the best mother," Harsh muttered to himself, rolling his eyes. 

"She's also dead. Dead people deserve peace. Their lives are finally concluded, whether for the better, or worse."

He rolled his eyes again as he fumed. "Great! Preach, preach," he mocked in a childish voice.

Prithvi smirked, shaking his head. He got up, and put away the box.

Harsh's heart became heavy as Prithvi prepared to leave. He pushed his hopefulness to the back of his mind, and looked away, pretending to be bored. His heart clenched, staring at the blanket at his legs.

Prithvi didn't know what came over when his eyes landed on the boy's sweet, crestfallen face. He didn't resemble the hardened brat in that moment. He was just a... kid. 

Agni bhai was right. The boy couldn't harm them. 

His arm reached out, before his brain could comprehend his actions.

"Do you..." he cleared his throat, all of a sudden realizing the boy could leave them anytime.

He would be left with another gaping hole.

Harsh frowned, looking back. "What?"

"Do you want a hug?"

His mind went blank, the request odd. "Sorry?"

"A hug," Prithvi said more firmly. "It helps with mood. Do you want me to hug you?"

Harsh didn't know why but a sick thought came to his mind.

What if took advantage of his vulnerability?

His body tensed up, realizing the patterns were almost same. The hand that was meant to cherish him, could wander lower. 

His heart roared in his ears, body stiffening as his eyes stared at the arm, and back at the man.

What was the better way to quieten his mind?

"Yeah." 

The sick part of him conceded, embracing the inevitable. If it was going to happen, it was better he was done with it sooner.

His eyes welled when the arm wrapped around his upper back, heart clenching painfully, dreading the second it would go slither down. 

Instead, it stayed still.

A gasp almost tore out his chest when the hand went up, ruffling his hair.

"Sleep well, baby. If you get another nightmare, don't hesitate to reach out. Wake me, okay?"

He nodded hastily so the man could leave him. His eyes remained glued shut, neck hunched as the centre of his chest pulsated. He never knew relief could be so beautiful and liberating. So, so, beautiful. 

Prithvi left the room, closing the door quietly on his way out.

He cried, only a lone tear slipping from his left eye. He rubbed his heart which was hurting and pulsating with a light sensation. 

Relief. He gasped freely, shaking. Relief. Sweet, devastating relief.

He hated how much he had needed it. The proof. The test. His broken heart proved wrong.

He cried without tears. He hated himself for wanting someone, and he hated himself more when he wasn't proved wrong.

It was a toxic cycle, to be wanting to be hurt so that he could know what to brace for.

How could he deal with this light, breath stealing feeling threatening to consume his being?

It was a dangerous territory. He shook his head, shifting. No. He couldn't rely on anyone. Trust them. Not ever. Not even Prithvi.

Steel your heart, Harsh. Steel it.

And yet, he couldn't help the light lingering in his chest.

This love was the one the world talked about. Right?

He was eight when he understood what his so called beloved 'papa' called love, wasn't the same kind the world talked about.

It started one random evening. He had sneaked into their tenant neighbour's fence, and befriended their son, Aman. Growing up, his childhood had many restrictions, mostly imposed by his papa. He wasn't allowed to meet other children or leave the house any time, only allowed to gaze at the beautiful ocean shoreline in the horizon from the living room window. Their papa had bought it for them with the beautiful view. His mother never cared about his wishful dreams, too high to even look after herself.

His papa had left them for a few days and Harsh seized the opportunity to explore his neighbourhood. His first act of rebellion was the first daring move of his life when he waved his hand over to his new friend, showing his toothy grin to the boy next door. 

Their friendship developed from there, and once in a while, Harsh would sneak out, meeting his new friend who would wait for him patiently after returning from school.

They were watching a movie in Aman's house that day, weeks after their first meeting. That day Aman was left in his older brother's charge who left the house randomly to meet his own friends. Both Harsh and Aman collectively decided to watch an action movie until an implicit sex scene came.

Somehow, their conversation veered, and Harsh ended up confessing too much and too little at the same time.

"That's gross, Harsh! Nobody does that. That only happens between lovers," His friend educated, face scrunching. 

Harsh had only stared. Not understanding why was it a taboo between him and his papa. His papa had said it happened between people who loved each other. His papa loved him.

So, why was it wrong?

"People who love you do that."

"No, idiot. It only happens between a boyfriend and a girlfriend. My mom and dad love me, but they don't touch me that way. It's only between a boy and a girl. You didn't know that?" His friend asked, confused.

Harsh stared, mind reeling. He looked away as the sinking feeling intensified. "Nobody does that?"

"No."

When Aman's parents came home, they had scolded their eldest a lot for leaving the kids unsuperitended. But Harsh was only noticing the way the adults were treating their children.

How Aman was treated.

Then he realized, it really didn't happen to anyone else other than him.

          Later that evening, when his papa came home and rubbed his shoulder in that slow, weird way, he inched back. Not out of fear. But betrayal. His mother was lying on the couch again, still, arm dangling as she murmured to herself like she always did since his papa entered their lives. He gave her something. That made her so blissful and yet at the same time, distant. He looked away from her, feeling that something was very wrong about his life. 

Something, very, very wrong.

"Papa?" He whispered. 

The man hummed without looking up from opening the gifts he had brought for him. "Yeah?"

"Aman said..." His voice faltered. "He said mamas and papas don't... they don't make love to their kids."

The silence that followed was sharp. He gulped, his heart pounding in his chest.

His step father chuckled. But it lacked his usual warmth. "My, my... now that neighbour's brat is teaching you things?"

He took a step back. "I just- I wanted to ask—"

"Ask?" His father's tone was sharp when he turned. "Ask why you always believe others before me? You think that boy knows more about love than your own papa?"

His throat burned as tears swelled in his eyes. "But you lied to me, papa! You said people who love each other make love. But Aman said that's for grown-ups. Not for parents and kids. His parents don't do that to him. Nobody does that!" He sobbed.

The man watched him with cold mirth. "And... what do you think? Screaming it will make anyone believe you?"

Harsh shook, rubbing his eyes. He didn't know why he was wailing but everything hurt. His chest wanted to tear itself open. He was told lies.

"Everyone lies," the man continued. "You, your mama. That Aman. Everyone lies, doll. Tell me, have you never lied to me? You were making new friends there, while I," he pointed at himself with his good hand, "have kept you alive, protected you. I feed you, clothe you, shelter you. Look at her," he pointed at his dazed mother. "She never wakes up to check on you. I do. I care for you but you... you betray me? You call me a liar?"

"I didn't betray you papa. I love you," he shook his head, crying. "Please don't be mad."

"I am very hurt, doll," the man feigned tears. "You broke my heart. After everything I am doing for you, you're calling me a liar. She is always lying, but you don't see that. You see my lies."

"Sorry, papa!" He tried to hug the man who pulled away. 

"Why are you lying, doll? Do you know how much I am afraid for you? People will mock you."

Harsh blinked the tears, confused. "Why?"

"Because silly doll, you're lying."

"I'm not lying." Harsh shook his head, pulling away. "They said—"

"They're laughing at you," the man continued, pitying. "They are laughing at the boy who is making up stories. No one is going to believe you, doll. They think you want attention. They will know you like it when I touch you. Then they will shame you. Do you want that? People shaming you, mocking you everywhere you go?"

Harsh choked, all of a sudden terrified. What if everyone shamed him?

The man grabbed his chin, lifting it up as he frowned down on Harsh. "Oh dear, what have you done..."

"Sorry, papa. Please, help me! I don't want them t hate me," He choked grasping at his papa's shirt. "I promise I'll do everything you say. Please save me, papa."

"I will, of course I will. But next time, think twice before running your mouth. Nobody will believe you. Not even your own mother." The man'a thumb grazed over his lips.

He glanced at his mother.

She wouldn't?

The man followed his gaze.

"She won't. Trust me, she won't," the man claimed. "You can scream, and she won't move. You can tell her the sky fell, and she will laugh in her dreams. That's how much you've tired her, doll. No one will believe you, except me."

Tears stung his eyes. He didn't dare move.

"Now wait for me on the bed. You've made me sad enough for one day. Don't you want to please me again?"

The request made Harsh's stomach twist. He hated himself for nodding, but he would do everything to please his papa so he doesn't get fed up of him too.

He went to the room and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting obediently even though his stomach churned, nausea gnawing at his throat as terror, guilt and shame kept him rooted. Maybe he had misunderstood everything. His papa wouldn't hurt him. He always took care of him. He brought him toys, he treated him gently. Clearly, Harsh had misunderstood everything.

His papa entered the room, flashing a dark, creepy smile. He sat down beside him, hands crawling up his chubby thighs. "I love you, doll. You make me so happy."

"I'm sorry, papa," he said guiltily, even though his stomach sickened the more the hand fondled with him.

The man chuckled. "I forgive you. But don't repeat it."

He nodded, hating himself for every second of it. The pain rose a notch with each passing second, and he imagined a better, safe place, maybe a sunny, warm lake or an ocean where he could splash and play forever.

           Now years later, Harsh knew how stupid he was for being used for three years straight. His mother's boyfriend ruined him beyond him repair. He was filthy and broken in every way.

Who agrees to sex just at the age of six only?

He chuckled, self depreciating, lying on the bed on his back. He stared up at the ceiling with a numb mind. He was wired without a brain since birth.

Couldn't he just understand that if his mother didn't have sex with him, then no one else should either?

His eyes were dry and aching.

He was dumb.

His thumbnail grazed his wrist. He grimaced at the cool, wet ointment.

His eyes flickered to Tina's urn again.

He knew better than to hope from his royal family. He would be kicked out one day. That was his fate. It was inevitable. The same had happened with Tina after her mother tried to bring back her and the world found out about her whorish ways.

Tina was an illegitimate princess. Harsh's grandfather had impregnated princess of Raigarh, whose brothers killed the man just at the age of nineteen. They wanted to end the fetus too, but a complicated pregnancy made Tina survive in her mother's womb. The night when she took birth, her mother entrusted her with her childless maid before her brothers could get her. However, the maid's heart soured last moment, and she gave away Tina to her aunt, her dead father's older sister- the then Mistress of Nawab of Hyderabad. Tina grew up learning the family art, and at the age of eleven, she was sold to a prince by her aunt and by The Nawab as a token of friendship, an untouched, trained, virgin beauty.

By the time she turned twenty one, living on her own, accumulating a.... fanbase, her mother had convinced her own brothers for a change of heart. They finally tracked her down in Mumbai, and brought her back. However, another mishap occurred in just three days when one of the uncles' friend eagerly shared how much of a good and popular fuck she was. That triggered the men again, and they kicked her out, forever exiling her from Raigarh.

The world was a small place, like a snake swallowing its own tail.

He knew how this story would end.

Someday, someone from his past would appear, one of those men or women he had sold pieces of himself to, and the nasty things he had done would be exposed to his brothers. They would look at him differently. Disgusted. Enraged. Then he would be kicked out too.

He wrung his hands in his lap, hands trembling. He didn't care what they thought of him. He simply didn't, he told himself with a racing heart, mouth drying. He didn't need them. But the mere thought that even Prithvi wouldn't accept him, shook him. He couldn't fathom those gentle eyes brimming with disgust.

He knew he was doomed since the start.

Fuck.

He wouldn't get attach. He promised himself.