((Warnings: Um... abuse is horrible. And some swearing and terribly clumsy attempts to be open minded, but mostly the abuse.))


Anthony Blair had really hoped no one would find his brothers. And he had said so, often and explicitly, and mostly gotten away with it. There had been a few lectures about loving thy neighbor and doing what's best for people even if they're bad and obnoxious, but that was really it.

It almost worked. Blake had been gone nearly eight months. Six of those were before Michael disappeared and they actually started looking, but eight months was still pretty good for a sixteen year old to disappear with no warning.

Almost wasn't good enough, though. Anthony realized something bad was going on when his parents called in the middle of a shopping trip that was supposed to have lasted two more hours and told him to get ready to leave as soon as they could get home. Maria was not pleased to be abruptly shooed away because "I have no idea why, but my parents said so," ("You're twenty, not twelve! Who cares what they say?") and Anthony didn't have enough time to appease her, get her to leave, get ready to go and figure out where they might be going before his parents got back. He barely managed the first three. Once he was in the car, the simplest way to figure out where they were going was to ask. "It doesn't matter. Just behave."

Well. That wasn't ominous at all. Anthony stayed quiet.

Where they were going turned out to be some sort of boarding school, or... something. Orphanage. A mutant orphanage, from what some of the kids on the grounds looked like. Anthony was hit by enough dread then; what were they doing, adopting mutants to cleanse now? He wasn't sure he could stop that--he had no idea how adoption worked, if he'd have a chance to talk to the kid or the people running it and warn them without being caught....

They weren't adopting. They were picking Blake up. Shit. Anthony couldn't interfere with that, even if he'd been able to do much more than drift through the entire situation in a horrified daze. He'd hoped Blake would, the kid had had the sense to run before and it wasn't like things could get any worse for him than going home, but instead he just stared at the floor and agreed with everything their parents said. Idiot!

Their parents had to give the orphanage--or whatever it was--their address, among other information, and Blake's name since apparently he hadn't been using it. Anthony would have thought that was smart, if Blake hadn't been so stupid as to not say anything about what was going to happen as soon as they got home. Anthony hoped the orphanage would use the address to check on Blake, maybe tomorrow... their parents were annoyed by the entire process, though, so tomorrow might not be soon enough.

Blake wasn't any more talkative once they were out of the orphanage and back in the car; he just sat and stared at the back of their mother's seat the same way Anthony stared at the back of their father's. For several minutes, at least; eventually he got around to one barely audible question. "Where's... where's Michael?"

"Gone." Blake wilted at their mother's terse answer.

"Probably decorating some rich guy's bed for food, but I figured that was all you were doing so maybe not." Anthony couldn't tell if Blake got the message he was supposed to from Anthony's snipe and was still annoyed, but there was some relief along with the anger in his expression, at least. If he knew Michael wasn't dead, it probably didn't matter if he knew Anthony had intended to tell him that.

"Blake, hit Anthony for me." Their father's order was expected. Blake's obedient punch actually hurting was not. It only barely hurt, but still, it was Blake. What had he been doing while he was gone? Anthony was not used to thinking of orphanages as martial arts studios.

Their mother must have been watching, since neither of them said anything but she still went into the lecture. "We do not discriminate against anyone, Anthony! Not even a little bit, and we don't stereotype. Gay people are no more likely to be prostitutes than straight people... and prostitution isn't shameful! Some of those girls--and boys--are just victims, so don't be rude. Am I clear?"

"Yes, mother. I'm sorry." Anthony didn't particularly care. He probably could have thought of something better to say if he'd had time... but he hadn't, and he definitely couldn't let their parents know he was trying to be nice to Blake, so it had to be some sort of petty insult. It didn't matter what he came up with; no one gay heard him except Blake, and Blake was about to be dead anyway, and Michael was probably more important.

The rest of the ride was silent after that. Anthony tried catching Blake's eye a few times, but he was staring out the window, and apparently not paying attention to any reflections. He finally managed when their parents dropped him off in the apartment's garage--"no, you stay right where you are; Anthony, we'll see you in a few days...."--and Blake looked over. Anthony tried smiling at him, but just got a glare in return. Well, that was fair, he supposed; he was letting his brother die to save his own life, after all....

...He'd really rather not have thought of it in those terms, though. Anthony was able to get into the stairs and out of sight before he started crying, and into the apartment before he broke down.

He managed to get himself back together fairly soon, and call Maria. "Hey, it's Anthony--look, I can't talk about what's going on, but I need a distraction, can you come back over?"

Mr. Bleckard's house was huge, and in the middle of nowhere. (No one will bother us out here.)

The first probably had something to do with the fact that it was a house. Blake wasn't used to those. Well, there was the Mansion, but that was a Mansion; it had lots of people in it. Single families--or couples or, as Blake rather painfully found out, widowers--didn't live in places like that. Mr. Bleckard's house wasn't that large, but it still had three floors (effectively two, since the basement was cold and unfinished, but the space would have been there if Blake hadn't been taking it up, so normally it was three). And large floors; Blake saw two front rooms and a kitchen and a doorway that implied at least one more room on the way to the basement. Even the basement itself was nearly the size of Blake's parents'--of Mr. and Mrs. Blair's apartment. (You will address everyone respectfully and properly, as Mr. or Mrs., or Father. You don't have parents. Only humans have families; you gave them up. You've hurt them badly enough already, don't try to make it worse.)

The middle of nowhere, Blake thought, was probably less subjective. There were trees everywhere, even between the houses, and Blake hadn't seen anything other than houses (and of course wilderness) for at least twenty minutes before they got to the house. There were other houses in sight; less than the length of a block away, probably. Blake could get to them easily, if he wanted to, he didn't think the door was even locked, but he didn't, and they were far enough away they wouldn't hear anything and come looking, even if Blake messed up and screamed. He was pretty sure he hadn't yet, not that much at least. (It's your choice, mutant. You're too weak to find God yourself, obviously, that's how you got yourself into this mess, but we'll help you if you want. Or you can walk away right now, go back to wherever you were hiding, and try to forget what's coming for you. It's your decision. Just remember it's final; if you leave, we won't help you later, and if you ask for help now, I won't appreciate it if you decide to waste all our efforts and run later....)

The basement was made entirely from cement; cement walls, cement floors, cement pillars holding up the ceiling, which along with the small glass windows set high up on the walls was the only part not cement. Or metal; there was a furnace and water heater and a few other metal things on one corner. Blake hadn't gone near them; he didn't want to be burned, and he was pretty sure being cold this long counted as torture too, so he didn't want to mess it up going near anything that might be warm. He wasn't sure he could, anyway, at this point; moving tended to make him dizzy now, even if he didn't move his leg. (God know what you can't do; He'll forgive you that. But He also knows what you can do, and you won't earn forgiveness if you don't do all you can.)

Not that Blake knew exactly what point it was. He remembered enough changes to know it had been some days. At least two or three; he was pretty sure more. He didn't know how many, though, even if he should have been able to, with the windows. It didn't really matter; he knew he was miserable but not dying (well, not quickly yet), and it had been a while, and it would be a while more, and he probably couldn't leave now but he hadn't tried to so it counted. It had to count; Blake couldn't do any more.