Aftermath and worsening. All the warnings from the last chunk apply here, in addition to non consensual, uninformed drug taking, rape of a possible minor and physical abuse. As ever, trying to go light on the details of the actual awfulness.

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His mouth tastes like someone took a shit in it, his head has got to be visibly throbbing with the muggy leftovers of the night before. Freddy blinks wake slowly, then rushes to the finish line as his nerves light up with sensation he's sure he wasn't built to feel. Light too bright, body too hot, stomach rolling too quickly to keep up with. Oh shit.

Pushing aside the duvet, Freddy tries to scramble to his feet but finds himself stuck in the loose locked grip of Sport's arms. He shoves them away, whimpering in panic and get to his feet in time for a wave of nausea to have him shoving a fist in his mouth. He barely registers the bone deep ache clawing its way up his lower spine till he reaches the door, when it hits him like a freight train and he doesn't know if he can walk any more.

"Baby?" Sport's voice is way too loud, the fucking traffic in the street is way too loud. "You ok?"

The noise that makes it past Freddy's lips must say everything because three seconds later, Sport is on his feet, holding out a plastic bag as he gets the door.

"It's ok. It's all gonna be ok."

Despite all the odds, Freddy makes it to the bathroom before he really starts puking, stomach clenching hard enough to make his eyes water. Sport holds his hair back from his face, kissing along his neck and telling him to get it all out, that everything's going to be fine.

Freddy falls back from the toilet bowl, head pressed back against the side of the bath and the cool sting of the metal is just what he needs. He breathes deep and rushed, blindly reaching for the glass of water that he just knows is coming his way and not even bothering to rinse before he swallows it down.

It feels like it's going to come straight back up again, but he holds his breath and wills it to stay still.

"Poor thing." Sport mumbles, dropping down beside Freddy to stroke his hair. "You were pretty drunk last night, hey?"

Freddy nods, he doesn't want to know how loud his voice sounds in his ears. He wants desperately to be unconscious, not asleep so much as in a protracted coma of his own making.

"It's ok." Sport's voice is muffled by Freddy's hair. "I don't mind. You were so good to me last night, so fucking good. You remember?"

Fingers in places fingers weren't supposed to be, funny smelling oil, everything going bright and tight and explosive all at once. He doesn't fucking want to remember. Freddy nods his head anyway, because it's what Sport wants.

He can feel the smile forming against the shell of his ear. "So good, baby. So fucking good for me."

They're both naked, and it's not as weird as it should be. Maybe because Freddy feels about as far away from sexual as it's possible for him to get, maybe he's just gotten used to having Sport in his personal space, one way or another. They sit, Freddy saying nothing and Sport saying nothing at all, until the light slipping through the single, narrow window hung over the toilet starts to change.

Sport slings a hand round Freddy's waist, pulling him in closer. "It's early, real early. We can't have gotten to sleep much after nine last night. Plenty of day left to work with."

Freddy doesn't want a fucking day. The nausea appears to be creeping away from him now it doesn't have anything to latch on to but his head feels the worse for it. And his bones. Everything hurts. He could cry but the point feels somewhat moot under the circumstances.

"Got that party tonight." Sport reminds him. "Don't worry, you got all day to get right again. You want some coffee?"

Yeah. Fuck yeah. He's never wanted anything more. Freddy nods fractionally.

"Ok. I'll go make a pot. How about you run yourself a bath, it'll be good for you, help you feel better."

He's probably right. Sport helps Freddy to his feet and vanishes off to the kitchen. When he comes back, coffee in hand, they're both still naked and the steam rising off the bath is starting to clear Freddy's head.

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The day fumbles and trips it's way through to the end, so by the time Freddy looks up he can't believe that any time has passed at all. The bath that loosened up his joints feels like a lifetime ago, as does the haircut that one of Sport's friends gave him in the kitchen not long after. The roast beef sandwich he managed mid afternoon is still fresh in his mind though, and though his body is very sure he never wants to eat again, his tongue is desperate that he should reconsider that stance.

He's been slathered up with more grease and product than he knows what to do with, his shortened hair pushed back off his face and his nose thick with some cologne that he's not entirely sure he likes. Rather than the usual fair of tight fitting jeans and tshirts so bland they feel like they were torn out of a pad of the damn things, tonight Sport produces a suit and lays it out on the bed for him to put on.

Freddy frowns. "What's this?"

"Think of it as a little present." Sport smiles. "Besides, you wanna look good tonight, don't you?"

Who'd have thought this guy of all people would be so fussed about some house party. House proud but he barely lives here, and all his friends exist as passing mentions in conversations that he one sidedly tries to have with Freddy.

Freddy nods, unconvinced that he's telling anything close to the truth.

"That's a good boy. C'mon, lets get you dressed."

Twice in his life, Freddy has worn a suit. Once for his grandfather's funeral and once for a school dance. Both experiences had been thoroughly underwhelming, and he had hated the way the collar tugged against his windpipe.

Still, not like he has much choice. Freddy strips down dutifully, unable to concern himself with how little shame he has left. He moves to pull the suit on himself, but Sports all over him, slipping the tails of the shirt into the waistband of the pants and copping a pretty spectacular feel of his ass in the process, helping him tie his tie.

Looking in the full length mirror that Sport has tucked inside the door of his wardrobe, Freddy would be hard pressed to say he doesn't recognise himself but he doesn't much like what he sees either. everything is too trim, too neat. His mom always used to be on his case about accidental injury, the things he would knock off any given surface for not paying attention to what his overexcited hands were doing in the middle of conversation. The sleek black lines of the suit look poised to hold him in check, pinching his waist and tying down his legs.

Sport lets out a hushes gasp. "Baby boy, you look so good."

"Thanks." Freddy responds, on instinct.

"Look so good, in that suit I bought you. I knew you were gonna fill it out real nice but damn baby boy your ass." He creeps into the frame of the mirror, one hand aiming straight for said ass and the other wrapping tight around Freddy's middle. He nuzzles his nose against Freddy's neck, letting out a growl that echoes through the limited space between them.

Sport in a deep red tunic over the top of something midnight blue and weightless that could as easily be a skirt as trousers and carnival beads wrapped tight around his neck. Bordering on the feminine, with his long hair, except Freddy can feel the hard line of his cock pressing forward towards his ass. He'd duck out of the way, but he's already caught by the waist.

"C'mon." Sport spins him round, and their faces are close enough to kiss. "Lets get a drink in you before the guys arrive." He pulls out a silver flash from somewhere in the depths of his clothes and flicks the cap off.

Freddy shakes his head. "I'm alright."

"It ain't gonna hurt you."

"I'm fine, really. Still kinda coming down from last night."

"Well, you know what they say. Hair of the dog that bit you."

"I'm good."

The friendly smile that exists in various shades as a permanent fixture of Sport's face almost flashes its death mask. It returns along with a hand under Freddy's chin, holding his jaw steady.

"Freddy." Sport coos. "Freddy, Freddy, Freddy. Sweet little orange. I really think you oughta have a drink."

Though the tunic hides most of his arm, the lines of muscle vanishing into the hem are clear. Freddy looks down, and tries ever so slightly to shift himself. The hand around his jaw tightens and the shock hits him hard enough to wind.

This is not a fucking game.

"Freddy." Sport is unyielding, steel.

"You're hurting me!"

"I really think you should have a drink."

"Ok!" The hand falls away and Freddy reaches for the flash with a shaking hand. He takes a minuscule sip and it burns all the way down, only to have the bottom pushed up by Sport, leaving him spluttering, struggling not to spill any of it.

He takes a shuddering breath, hating how the alcohol stings his still sore stomach. The flask vanishes and Sport melts back into him, pulling him into a hug that Freddy is of no mind to return. "Sorry, baby. You know I don't wanna hurt you."

Fuck of all fuckers, Freddy actually kinda believes that. He's just gotta stop being stupid enough to think that Sport won't do something just because he doesn't want to.

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Cranked up loud enough to have the police on top of them in ten minutes flat if the neighbours gave half a shit, the base winding it's way through the speakers plays accompaniment to Freddy's heartbeat. It makes him shuffle and sway, it makes him want to dance. There are people surrounding him, who he was introduced to when they arrived but he doesn't remember any of their names. Save for the tall, older guy in a button down and waistcoat that Sport had pushed him towards with more enthusiasm than the rest. His name is Simon, or so he says, and he and Freddy are the most overdressed people here.

"You need another drink, darling." Someone hands Freddy a glass filled with bright pink liquid. It would look perfect in Sport's bedroom, but in the living room it clashes horribly with the walls. Freddy starts to laugh, can't stop himself, he has a job not dropping his drink. When he straightens up, the person who handed it to him is genderless and beautiful, swimming in a sea of seaquins that make him wish he knew how to swim.

He used to swim all the time. At the local pool, on the beach when they headed out there over the summer. There was a lake at the place they lived when he was very small, but he was never allowed to go in for fear of gators and giant catfish. His dad used to say that his mom worried too much.

Freddy downs his drink all in one go, the alcohol brushes up against something else, strong enough to brush off any worries he has about how awful he's going to feel in the morning.

"Heya, baby." Sport's voice is muggy and insubstantial under the roar of the music. Freddy groans and turns away from him, trying to get back into the heat of it all before he's dragged out into the corridor for a proper chat. He doesn't want to talk, he's not sure he can remember how.

I don't. I fucking don't. He never will, but here he is.

Simon hovers at the edge of Freddy's vision, trying very hard not to look straight at him and being real fucking obvious about it. Sport leans in, whispering something in Freddy's ear that doesn't make a lick of sense but sounds comforting. He arches up into him and thinks maybe that they could go to bed again, the muscle memory of something wonderful coming back to him that his sober self would never admit was real.

But when he leans in to kiss Sport, Sport pulls away, setting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back with a gentle laugh. "Steady there, Orange. You must have me confused with someone else."

Freddy frowns. "No. I-"

"Here, drink some water." Sport holds up a fresh glass, complete with shimmering clear liquid inside. Freddy doesn't hesitate to neck in, sure that he's going to need to take a leak soon.

The water tastes kind of funny. Smacking his lips, he hands the glass back to Sport and tries to sink into the groove again, but the easy warmth of the alcohol and whatever the fuck else he took has started to bleed out, replaced instead by a creeping dread that doesn't feel like it's coming from him at all.

"Easy, easy." Sport murmurs, getting an arm around Freddy as his vision starts to turn black. "I got you."

"What the fuck?" Freddy slurs, reaching up to get an arm around Sport's neck. It barely feels enough to keep him steady.

"Easy, easy. I got you."

Rooms change, along with colours and lights. Freddy is aware that he's not in the living room anymore but beyond that, it's anyone's guess. He breathes, tenses, moves against the thing moving over him. It doesn't smell like Sport and it doesn't sound like Sport. It doesn't whisper sweet nothings, but it calls him a whore like it wants him to be one and when he tries to scream not a single sound makes it out of his mouth.

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Once he's moved past the shock of waking up alone, and the horror of the ache in his legs and his spine, and the shame of the bruises at his hips, and the fucking mystery ride fucking confusion of the bite marks all over his upper body, and the desperate need to puke his guts up, Freddy finds Sport reading a book, toked up on the couch with nowhere to be.

"What the fuck?"

"Morning, sunshine." Sport smiles. "Or should I say, afternoon."

Freddy barely hears him, stood in the doorway, shivering in his kimono and a pair of y-fronts. "What the fuck?"

"You want some coffee?" Sport rubs out the flame and sets the spliff against the ash tray for him to come back to. He's been cleaning, not so much as a dirty glass in sight. He looks bright and refreshed and Freddy can't remember if he were drinking the night before.

Yes, he wants some fucking coffee. No, he doesn't want any fucking coffee. Freddy watches, appalled as Sport moves past him without so much as a twitch in his smile, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"What the fuck happened last night?"

Sport pauses, shrugs. There's none of his usual spiel about how Freddy is a precious flower in need of protection. This is just some shit that happened. "All sorts, it was a party."

"What did you put in my drink?" Freddy's voice wavers on a knife edge between boundless rage and tears.

Rolling his eyes, Sport walks back too him, just long enough to tip a finger under Freddy's chin that is swiftly thrown away. "Freddy, baby. You're being paranoid. You had a little too much to drink and you and Simon decided to have a good time together. It's no big deal."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"The fuck does what mean?" The corners of Sport's mouth twist down, his patience being tested. "Y'know, I don't much appreciate the kind of language you're using with me today."

"I want to know." Freddy says from between gritted teeth. "What I did last night."

"You danced, you had a good time, you got laid. It's all good. C'mon, coffee." Sport turns on his heel and Freddy has no choice but to follow like the dog he is if he wants answers.

"I don't fucking know Simon. I don't- I would never-"

"Never say never, Freddy."

"I would never!" Freddy bellows, loud enough to feel real.

Sport pauses, hand just off the kettle set to boil. He turns around slowly, face fiercely blank. When he's not smiling, when he lets his brow settle and his mouth fall into that easy droop, there's nothing particularly warm or welcoming about his face at all.

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. "That's how you talk to me? In my own home? After everything I've done for you? How's that fucking hand, Freddy? How's the roof over your head?"