Follow The Rules

The Dream

Dinner that night was just as awkward usual, except it was worse because Oliver's mother was trying to act like everything was so much better than it was, which just wasn't normal. She talked continuously about her day at work, and attempted to get his father to reciprocate the eagerness, however, he remained silent, keeping his eyes on the bowl of pasta that the chefs had prepared earlier.

"How about you, honey?" His mother said, turning her attention to her silent son. He let out a small frustrated sigh at the realisation that it was now his turn to be prodded with questions in an attempt to open up. Luckily the table was big enough that his mother didn't hear. "How was school?"

"Fine." He lied plainly, pushing the pasta around the bowl aimlessly. He hadn't touched it, and he was confused why a meal that usually smelt so good, now made him nauseous.

"Good." She said, taking a sip from her wine. "That's good." The table settled into the uncomfortable silence that he was used to for a moment and his hopes rose at the thought that would be the extent of his questioning.

"Did-," His mother paused and cleared her throat before continuing. "Did anyone notice..." She gestured to her own eye, indicating that she was referring to the bruise around his own eye. He looked down at his food to hid the eye roll he couldn't contain before replying.

"What do you think?" He spat quietly. Was she actually being serious? Did she really believe that a guy as popular as himself with a bruise that had pretty much reached it's peak in horridness could go unnoticed? f*****g hell.

With his bitter reply, his father abruptly pushed his seat out from underneath him and Oliver couldn't help but jump from the sudden movement and hope that no one noticed since his mothers attention was now on his father.

"I've got a lot of work to catch up on." He muttered softly before simply turning and leaving the dining room. Oliver could see his bowl of pasta was only half eaten. It was half a bowl better than his own.

The room fell into silence again, his mother sipping at her wine and Oliver folding the pasta in on itself absently.

"What did you tell them?" His mother's voice cut through the silence and it took Oliver a while to remember what his mother was referring to.

"Mugging." He shrugged, placing his fork in the bowl and leaning back in his seat to look at the woman sitting nervously in front of him. "That's what happened, wasn't it? Why would I tell them anything else?" He said with a sarcastic smile before pushing his own chair and followed his fathers lead, heading back to his room.

As he rummaged through his bag, convincing himself that he would definitely get some work done this evening, he came across something that he was surprised he hadn't given any thought to since he'd been back.

He held the small phone in his hand and attempted to turn it on, with very little luck. It had probably run out of battery even before he had regained consciousness that first time he woke on Friday evening. His pone was a piece of s**t and he'd had it so long that it's battery life was blown. Even during the week, when he rarely used his phone because of school, it wouldn't survive until the end of the night without being charged at about five pm. He had to get a new phone. Having a phone with a battery life of less than ten hours just wouldn't do. He needed something that would last, that he could use in case of emergencies.

Even if Oliver had thought to try his phone while with B and George, and had the ability to get to it, it would have been no use to him dead. He needed a new phone in case it happened again.

Wait, could it happen again?

Would it be B? Or George? What if it was George? What if George hadn't had enough of him? What if he wanted more? What if it all happened again?

Oliver hurriedly walked to his bedside table and plugged the phone into the charger, trying to push the thoughts out of his head. They wouldn't come back. They got their money and George got what he really wanted, so they were done with him. They had to be.

Once the screen shone brightly again, the phone burst to light, vibrating constantly as unread text after text popped up on his phone.

Most were from John and the rest of the guys, but a couple surprised him. He had several missed calls from his mother and even a few texts. His mother never texted. She didn't really get the whole concept. Whenever she was forced to it took ten times longer than it should have because she'd hold the phone in one hand and touched the letters with the index finger of her other hand. It was always easier for her to just call.

There were four in total from his mother that read:

Honey where are you?

He would have been surprised by the message if it weren't sent three hours after the time he usual time he should have been home. It took her three hours to be worried about his whereabouts.

Have you gone to Johns for dinner because you are supposed to let someone know so that the staff know how much to cook

Of course that was the reason she was worried. Food wastage. Not that he could have been dead in a ditch, but because he had wasted food by not coming home when he should have.

Oliver answer my calls this isn't funny

If only she knew his side.

Oliver if you can read this know that everythings okay. You'll be home soon. I love you

I love you. His mother never sent that. His mother never even really said that. She must've been worried. It was probably comforting for her to know that if he'd died, the last text he received from his mother was one of worry and love, whether or not her son saw it was irrelevant. If he had died, the cops would have seen it and believed that she was a model mother, full of worry, when even now, that he was home safe after being stuck in a life threatening situation, beaten and f*****g r***d, she still hadn't said the words to him.

He threw the phone away from him, in a fit of rage, not even caring that it detached from the charger and died again moments later, watching the screen fade into blackness. He hadn't even bothered to look at his friends messages. He was too angry at his mother.

He sighed after sitting there for a moment. He couldn't be mad. She was probably going through a lot as well. He couldn't imagine the fear she – hopefully – felt at the thought of losing a child. Her only child. She was coping, and he just had to give her time. She was trying with him at least. It was more than he could say for his father. He couldn't deny that he noticed his father had avoided saying a single word to him. Sure he had spoken in his presence and about him, but not to him directly, except for that single question he had asked when B had pulled him from the car. The man couldn't even stand to be in the same room as him at dinner. He had visibly reacted and run away when Oliver answered his mothers question.

His father didn't even know what had happened and he acted like he was too disgusting to be around. What would he do if he knew? Probably disown him. Send him back to B and George without a second thought. He'd deserve it anyway.

Oliver blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears he felt approaching and curled up under the covers after shedding his uniform on the bedroom floor. Sure, usually his father didn't have much time for him, and conversations were rare. But they'd talk at the dinner table, even if the conversations felt fake and rehearsed. His father would at least acknowledge his existence. The only time he acted like this was when he did something really bad. He had got a detention in the seventh grade when he and John had skipped class to try cigarettes in the far corner of the school's football field. Neither of them had liked something and both erupted into fits of coughs, vowing to never touch a stick again, but when a teacher found them, she had seen the half smoked cigarettes and concluded that they had been smoking rebelliously. He took the detention slip home and sheepishly handed it to his father who looked at it. His father went really quiet as he stared at the notice. He didn't look at his son as he stated his disappointment.

"You would waste my money like this?" He asked quietly and Oliver didn't respond. His father had dismissed him to his room and that was the end of it until his mother came up and gave him the proper telling off he had originally expected from his father. This was almost worse, the sheer disappointment in his voice. The fact he couldn't even look at him. He was a disgrace.

Now he was receiving the same treatment. But why? What had he done? His dad didn't know what had happened, so what was he mad at? Did his father think that Oliver had just let it happen, that he hadn't fought back? But surely the bruises – or the single bruise that his parents knew about – was evidence that he had fought back. Or maybe his father knew he had, but was disappointed because he had still failed. He'd still been kidn*pped. Surely, if anything, the anger should be the other way around. It was because of his father that he had been kidn*pped in the first place. But then again, it was his father that had to pay the money. It was his father that had lost what he had worked for. Maybe that's why he was mad. Once again, Oliver had wasted his money.

"You like that?"

Oliver opened his mouth to protest against the absurd comment but was cut off when a wave of pleasure pulsed through his body. No. This wasn't right. He didn't want this. He couldn't like it. It wasn't right. Another wave of pleasure as a rumbling came from the depths of the warm wet mouth that surrounded him. He was laughing. The man was taking pleasure from this. From him. From his confusion. He tried to pull his wrists away from each other that were now cuffed around the pole above his head. Pain shot through his wrists and brought him back to his senses for moment before the man did something with his tongue. He couldn't hold back the moan that escaped his lips and he felt the man smile around him and increase his speed, taking him almost completely into his mouth.

It was all too much. Oliver had had girlfriends in the past, but this was the first time anyone had touched him done there like that except his own hand which was nothing in comparison. It didn't take long for Oliver to spill over the edge with a loud, frustrated cry.

His brain was working on over time, battling between feelings of pleasure, anger, ecstasy, confusion and frustration. Why had his body reacted like that? How could this stranger, someone he loathed deep down into his bones, make him feel that good?

Oliver didn't have the time to completely process everything before the man pulled away. Holy f**k, he swallowed?

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" The voice was deep, gravelly and full of lust. Oliver involuntarily shuddered.

"P-please." Oliver begged, regaining some of his fight that had been replaced by feelings of pure, confusing pleasure. "Stop."

The low laugh rumbled through the air before a hand grabbed him ankle, pulling his body away from the pole until his cuffs wouldn't let him so that he was lying on his back, his arms above his head and he screamed in agony as the muscles twanged from the unfamiliar movement but was silenced when he felt the man straddle his chest.

"Now that wouldn't be very fair, would it?"

"W-what do you m-mean?"

"Well," The voice said lowly playfully as knuckles ran along his cheekbone. "Now you've got to repay the favour."

Oliver woke, once again in a panting, sweating, shaking heap, tangled up in the bed sheets.

No wonder his father hated him.