Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first week here, River loathed everything about Les Arbres.

He loathed the sky, always choked with clouds, or else burning mercilessly when the sun did emerge. He loathed the shooting range on the lawn, the underground cells, and the mountain at the back, repurposed into a training ground—filled with commands, sweat, and gunfire. He loathed Frank, almost enough to kill him. He loathed Yves, a power-drunk hysteric, and Pierre and Jacques, his bloodthirsty lapdogs, always at his beck and call.

He wanted to loathe Bertrand or Patrice, too. They were his age, yet they looked at him with that detached, dispassionate gaze, as though whatever befell him was no concern of theirs. Bertrand made fun of him, playing foolish pranks—switching his ammo so he’d humiliate himself in front of Frank, or scattering sand over his bed so he’d toss and turn all night. Sometimes, River wondered if Bertrand found solace in the fact that, for once, there was someone even more useless than him. And Patrice—Patrice simply watched, always from behind Bertrand, observing River’s bruised and furious expression like a visitor at a zoo, like someone peering into a glass jar at an ugly, struggling insect.

Yet Patrice was the one who had to take care of him. Because he was the most competent. He stitched River’s wounds, replaced River’s bandages, even when some of those wounds were his own doing. With the same impassivity as mending a torn cloth, he drove the needle through River’s skin. River bit down against the sting, but Patrice’s hands were steady, precise, pulling each suture tight with mechanical efficiency. The only distraction was Patrice’s face, and after enough times, River had memorized every freckle on it.

Once, after finishing a bandage, Patrice’s fingertips lingered, almost imperceptibly, against River’s forearm, as if confirming something. But the moment passed. He let go, stood up, and packed away the medical kit, exuding nothing but faint irritation, as though the task had been tedious, not worth another second of his time. River looked down at his arm. The bandages were neat, firm. The wound throbbed, but at least it was no longer exposed. He should have felt relief. Instead, something in his chest twisted, something he couldn’t name. He hated seeing that expression on Patrice’s face—it made him nauseous, made him want to retch, made him feel confused and foolish and utterly worthless. He wished Patrice would treat him like everyone else—hurt him, break him, torment him. Then, at least, he could hate him without restraint.

After three days of confinement, and four days of brutal combat and shooting drills, Frank took them three youngest up the mountain, a hunting rifle in hand. Back then, River still believed he had a chance to escape. The entire way up, he was mapping out routes, imagining how he might shake them off, how he might reach the highway and flag down help.

Then Frank shoved the rifle into his hands and told him to kill the doe—the one with the fawn.

He locked eyes with her. Deep, dark, liquid eyes, unaware of what was coming. Run, he urged her silently. Run. But she did not move. Maybe the wind wasn’t in her favor. Maybe she was afraid for her child. She stood frozen.

Frank pressed a pistol to the back of his head. River knew the cost of hesitation. His body locked, heart hammering against his ribs, his ears thrumming with the pressure of his pulse. If he didn’t pull the trigger, Frank would make him suffer for it. The rifle felt heavy—leaden in his grasp. His knuckles whitened around the stock. Slowly, instinctively, his finger tightened against the trigger.

And then he spun, screaming, swinging the rifle butt straight at Frank—

He never even saw it happen. Frank caught his arm in a flash, wrenched the gun away. The next moment, River’s face hit the dirt, breath knocked out of him, nostrils filled with the stench of damp, rotting earth. A knee pressed down on his back. The rifle was gone.

The doe finally ran. She and her fawn, bolting into the trees.

Frank shouted Patrice’s name. The response was a gunshot.

A cacophony of crashing hooves, rustling branches, frantic, heavy movement. Bertrand’s voice, shaking: “It’s running toward us!” Another gunshot. A sickening, heavy thud. The snap of breaking undergrowth. The fawn’s piercing, keening cry.

River had never known deer could scream like that.

The third shot rang out. And at the same time, Frank’s fist slammed into River’s face.

Silence. Or maybe his ears were ringing too loudly to hear anything else. His teeth rattled loose. Blood flooded his mouth, thick with iron and bile. He tried to get up—only to be kicked down again. This time, he was sure his ankle had snapped.

Frank made them carry the fawn back. Blood ran down River’s arm, a warm, sticky trail. Its blood mixed with his own. He looked into its lifeless, glassy eyes, the flies that had already begun to settle there. They walked for nearly two hours, and by the time they reached the base, Frank was in a benevolent mood. He ruffled their hair, murmured praise, even patted River’s cheek—gently, almost tenderly, as if he hadn’t been the one to split his lip open hours ago.

That night, River lay awake, too battered to sleep. Moonlight cut through the high window, silver light pooling onto the floor. He needed to piss, but his leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He had no idea how he’d made it back from the hills. He braced against the wall, tried once, twice. Failed.

He hadn’t heard Patrice move, but suddenly he was there, hooking an arm under River’s with an impatience that somehow wasn’t unkind. No words, just steady pressure, waiting for River to lift his bad leg.

River finally made the way to the toilet, forehead damp with cold sweat, his full weight against Patrice. And then—hands, the same hands that had struck him in training, the same hands that had stitched his wounds, unbuttoning his trousers, holding him steady as he pissed. That was when the shame finally broke him. He hadn’t cried when Frank beat him. Hadn’t cried in the cell. But now he bit his lip, trying to keep the sob from slipping out, from letting Patrice hear it.

Patrice just shook him dry, did up his trousers, flushed the toilet. The tap ran. River slumped against the wall, and over the sound of the water, he thought—he couldn’t be sure—but he thought he heard his own breath hitch. Back in bed, pain flooded in like a rising tide. His thoughts blurred, his body half-drifting, and somewhere in that in-between, his fingers closed around Patrice’s wrist.

But by morning, the space beside his bed was empty. Through the grimy window, he could see the others already on the range, practicing their shots. That whole week, he couldn’t shake the image of the dead deer and its fawn. Couldn’t forget how easily Patrice had killed them. And, of course, that night—how stupidly he’d let that same killer strip him of his dignity.

By midsummer, the days stretched longer and longer. River began to accept that he might really be stuck here. Training blurred together, punishment layered on punishment. At mealtimes, silence settled over the table like a second skin. Bertrand had stopped teasing him, no longer stole his bread or swiped his sausage. He just drank his milk and left. Maybe all food made him sick now. They looked alike, but Bertrand’s thinner face and dark, wiry hair made him seem more brittle, more breakable.

There were too many of them growing too fast. So Frank split them up, six boys into two rooms. Patrice was in charge of their little group. From next door came Yves’ barking laughter, the sound of things smashing in the night. Training grew harsher: isolation, waterboarding, beatings. Every day was another rung down into hell. Bertrand was the weakest. Even though River had arrived last, he endured. That coiled anger in his gut kept him from fearing pain. Resisting Frank only made things worse, but River never backed down. After that night, he never let himself cry again.

He had tried to run, once. Frank put a bullet through his calf for the trouble. Then told him, real calm, that if he did it again, he’d shoot him dead—or better, go to London and kill his grandfather, that Alzheimer’s-ridden old man in the nursing home. River’s nails dug into his palm. His lips had been split for days from biting down too hard. When he looked up, Bertrand was watching him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before Bertrand quickly looked away.

The afternoon after their third round of confinement, Frank ordered them into the mountains to hunt rabbits. Bertrand’s face was as pale as paper, dark circles prominent under his eyes. His fingers trembled so much that he could barely hold his gun. Patrice walked beside him, occasionally bumping his shoulder lightly, as if to remind him to stay present.

When they finally caught two, Bertrand broke. He dropped to his knees, fists twisted in Patrice’s shirt, sobbing so hard he choked, tears and snot running down his face. He cursed everything—including himself. “I can’t— I can’t do this anymore—” The words tore from his throat, raw and ugly.

River stood against a tree, awkwardly waiting, the weight of the sack full of rabbits dragging at his arm. Patrice was silent, his hand still on Bertrand’s back, but his eyes stayed on River. That look made River’s skin prickle, a cold, emotionless scrutiny that left him unsettled, excluded, as if he shouldn’t be here at all. Gradually, Bertrand’s sobs quieted. He followed Patrice’s gaze toward River, his eyes still red and swollen, blinking as if only now realizing River was there. But that confusion and helplessness quickly turned into disgust. He got to his feet and strode toward River.

"What are you looking at? You think you're any better than me? If you really wanted to defy Frank, you wouldn’t do what he says. You’d keep playing the part of the spoiled brat, too soft to kill, too kind to hurt anyone your own age. You sanctimonious shit!”

He snatched the sack from River’s hands and walked down the mountain. River bit his lip, watching his retreating figure, fingers clenching and loosening. But then a hand pressed against his back. Patrice nudged him forward a few steps before walking ahead himself.

Everything felt contradictory. The nights were always heavier than the days, oppressive in their silence. Vulnerability had nowhere to hide in these quiet hours. When Bertrand was still in confinement and River’s ribs were cracked, he spent three nights wide awake, pain and something worse itching under his skin. Curled up on his cot, he clutched at his side, as if he could stop whatever it was from crawling out, from making him scream, from making him rip himself apart just to make it stop. His pride would not allow it. He didn’t even groan.

But Patrice knew.

He pulled the blanket aside and slid in behind him, wrapped an arm around his waist, held him still. River felt Patrice’s heartbeat through the thin fabric of their shirts, steady, unshaken.

"Don’t move,” Patrice said, voice thick with that heavy French accent, blurring the edges of the words. “It’ll hurt less.”

And by morning, nothing had changed. That quiet, stolen comfort was an unspoken shame, a momentary indulgence, even a betrayal—something outside the strange, parasitic bond between Patrice and Bertrand. On the training ground, Patrice was colder than ever, striking him down without hesitation, over and over. River hit the ground hard, gasping, but when he looked up, searching for something, anything, in Patrice’s face, he found only ice. Patrice hauled him up again, flat-eyed.

“Too slow,” he said, and sent him sprawling once more.

Bertrand had been the one who used to mess with him as a kid, but it was Patrice who made him feel stupid, made him want to get closer, only to be shoved away. He knew why. They were too alike. But unlike Patrice, River wasn’t numb. He formed attachments. He was weak enough to need them.

They all knew Bertrand would be the first to break. That was inevitable. And yet River still envied them. Envied the way Bertrand could crumble in front of Patrice. Envied the way Patrice could accept his trust without question. At least they had each other.

Then Patrice left for his first mission. Two weeks gone. 

One night, Bertrand lost it completely. Somewhere in his head, he was convinced Patrice was still here—locked in the basement, forgotten. His only shred of sanity told him not to wake Frank, so instead, he knelt in the mud, desperately clawing at the damp earth, trying to dig open the basement window that was three-quarters buried in dirt. He was going to save Patrice. River tried to stop him. Bertrand fought like an animal, vicious, stronger than he’d ever been in training. Reasoning didn’t work, so instead River pretended to go get Frank.

That got his attention. Bertrand tackled him, clamped a hand over his mouth. River lashed out, striking him across the face.

Bertrand froze. Stared at him. His breath hitched. He was still straddling River’s waist, and for a second, River thought he might go for his throat. But the anger crumbled, the fight drained out of him, and all that was left was something raw and broken.

Then he dropped down, crushing River in a desperate embrace.

His sweat-soaked clothes stuck to River’s skin. The air was damp, everything was damp. Bertrand’s fingers, caked in dirt and blood, dug into River’s back, clutching him like a drowning man grasping his final lifeline. He refused to let go.

This wasn’t his fault, River thought. This kind of training would drive anyone mad eventually, strip away autonomy, sever social ties, erase every last trace of emotional expression. They’d been raised like this from infancy. Sensory deprivation. Reflex conditioning. No warmth, no safety, no choice. Crying wouldn’t bring comfort. Pain wouldn’t invite pity. Hunger, cold, isolation, fear—just part of the training. If they failed to endure, the punishment doubled. Some broke, started hearing voices. Some snapped at night, clawing their way out of bed, trying to escape. Some turned to violence, made cruelty a survival strategy. Bertrand was just one of them. They all were. Broken cogs in a brutal machine, grinding away until they shattered, were discarded, were erased. Or became monsters.

That night, River helped Bertrand back to their room. Hours later, he woke to a dead arm and the sound of another fight—Yves was losing it again, and he and Pierre were tearing into each other over ammo, or maybe a broken knife. The thud of fists on bone. Snarled curses. A wet crunch, a scream. No one cared.

Bertrand was still clinging to him, face buried in River’s neck, soaking up whatever warmth he could find. River blinked, too tired to move, then hooked a foot under the blanket by the bed and pulled it over them both.

Patrice came back different. Taller, his jaw shadowed with the first hints of stubble, his stare colder, his hands crueler. He no longer slowed his pace after training, waiting for Bertrand to catch up. No longer left half a cup of milk behind for him on days he couldn’t stomach food. Now he finished everything on his plate like he was always starving. Bertrand noticed. He stole glances during training, worry etched into every look. But since that night, since the breakdown, Bertrand had begun clinging to River as well. It was an odd kind of dependence, but it was the one thing in a world of uncertainty that remained steady—so steady, in fact, that it gave River an eerie sense of comfort. So River helped. Slipped a rabbit into Bertrand’s empty bag after a hunt. Tapped out the time on his cell wall when he was locked up, marking the passage of time so he could hold out just a little longer, endure just enough to avoid a harsher punishment. Not that River played along—River still refused to steal, still wouldn’t hurt for the sake of hurting. And because of that, Frank beat him to hell and back. He spent as many nights locked away as Bertrand did, went as many meals unfed. But they all knew it was different. Frank punished Bertrand because he was a disappointment. He punished River because he saw something worth breaking. He wanted to tame him.

The year they turned sixteen, they went on their first job together. A simple intel grab, payout barely covered a month’s expenses. At three in the morning, they climbed a wall, scaled an emergency exit, made it to the third-floor office. A passcode lock. A fingerprint scan. Patrice disappeared down the corridor. River heard the muffled grunt, the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. When Patrice returned, he was holding a severed finger, still wet, pressing it against the scanner without so much as a glance at River’s expression. The files were on an offline server. River copied them fast. He wasn’t proud of it, but he trusted Patrice to watch his back.

It was almost too easy. Then the alarms went off.

Chaos erupted below, the pounding of boots against concrete. Bertrand’s labored breathing crackled through the earpiece, followed by the sickening crash of something—or someone—slamming against the car door. River yanked the drive free as soon as the transfer completed. Patrice was already leaping from the window.

River tried the comms again, but the line crackled with nothing but the roar of rain.

It was bad. Sheets of rain distorted the streets, turning them into shifting, shimmering illusions. At the alley corner, Patrice caught River’s wrist, signaling him to wait. 

There were guns.

Then he was gone, lunging forward without warning. Three shots split the night.

River’s heart clenched.

His body moved before thought could catch up. He tore from cover, boots splashing through waterlogged pavement. The car door was open. Bertrand slumped against the driver’s seat, half-sprawled outside, blood soaking the collar of his jacket. Patrice stood nearby, gun lowered, smoke still curling from the barrel. Two corpses lay at his feet, their blood seeping into the rainwater.

River dropped to his knees, grabbed Bertrand’s face, made him look at him.

Bertrand was shaking hard, tears mixing with rainwater, dripping from his chin. Blood gushed from the wound, winding its way down River’s palm. Behind them, the guards were pouring from the front gate. Patrice grabbed Bertrand and shoved them into the back seat, slamming the door shut before vaulting into the driver’s seat. The engine roared, tires shrieking as they rolled over the dead. The street blurred past, darkness swallowing them whole.

Bertrand’s chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. His voice cracked, thick with pain. “Hurts… it hurts so much… help me—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” River’s voice was shaking too. He tore Bertrand’s shirt open. The wound sat below his collarbone, the bullet having punched through muscle but missing the artery. His palm pressed down hard, slick warmth seeping through his fingers. Blood, thick and cloying. He kept the pressure steady while the other hand fumbled for the med kit—compressed gauze, clotting powder, elastic bandage. He pressed the gauze in place. Bertrand gasped, fingers digging into River’s arm. The bleeding slowed, but Bertrand’s temperature kept dropping. His whole body trembled, instinct had him pressing closer, seeking heat. 

River held him tight, brushing back the damp hair sticking to Bertrand’s forehead. His hand was wet. Blood, sweat, rain. It made everything messier.

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He shifted, pulling Bertrand’s head against his chest, jaw pressing into his damp hair. "We’re almost home. Just stay awake, alright?"

The car rattled through the dark. The air inside was thick, dim light catching the edge of Patrice’s profile in the rearview mirror. River met his gaze—storm-grey, unreadable. Rain hammered the windshield, a dull roar in the silence. But Patrice only rested his fingers on the wheel and said nothing.

Bertrand’s wound would take time to heal. In the meantime, Frank had made a deal. Yves was sent to do a job—an easy hit in an underground parking lot, make it look like an accident. But he’d gone off-script. Instead, he’d rigged a van with homemade explosives and driven it straight into Westacres Shopping Centre. Twenty-three dead. Dozens wounded. A suicide mission, loud and final, declaring his defiance.

Before he went, he recorded a few videos. Blurred threats, vague promises of more to come. The footage spread across media platforms. At his Rotherhithe flat, he left a final trap—grenades wired to the window. MI5 agents and forensic techs died when they stepped outside.

At Les Arbres, the videos played once in the empty living room. Nobody spoke.

Frank returned from London the next day. He didn’t mention Yves, didn’t discuss the aftermath. He just sat down and looked at Bertrand.

“Your next job is important,” he said. His tone was mild, as if he were discussing the weather. “If you get it done, I won’t count the last mistake. Everything before… we’ll call it even.”

No one knew what the job was. But from that day on, Bertrand avoided River.

Patrice ran small errands, never straying far from France. Pierre and Jacques lurked in the city, stealing what they needed to survive. River sorted intelligence, tended to the farm. But he knew—his turn was coming.

He’d long since stopped expecting closeness from any of them. Nothing was reliable. They lived in orders and transactions, molded into tools. He no longer searched for connection. No longer clung to the naive hope that warmth could survive in a place like this. Here, emotions weren’t safe. They weren’t shelter. They were liabilities, and liabilities got broken.

The night before Bertrand left for London, he couldn’t sleep. He twisted and turned beside River, restless, anxious. River, exhausted, wanted to tell him to knock it off. But a small voice in the back of his head reminded him—he understood. He understood what it was like to be scared. So he stayed quiet.

Just as sleep finally crept in, Bertrand spoke.

“River,” he whispered, voice like a dying breath. “Do you think you still have a chance to run?”

River didn’t turn his head. His brows knitted. He didn’t know why Bertrand was asking, didn’t know how to answer.

But Bertrand kept going. “Tell me about before. Before you came here.”

River looked at him then. His own face, staring back, only not. Something cracked open in Bertrand’s expression, something raw, fragile, and long buried. A fear he hadn’t let slip for a while. Then, suddenly, Bertrand moved. He pushed himself up, stumbling forward. Patrice shot upright, like he meant to stop him, but Bertrand was already there, kneeling at River’s bedside, fingers curling around his hand where it dangled over the edge.

River’s throat felt dry. After a beat of hesitation, he slid down to the floor, sitting beside Bertrand. He didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t much to say.

"Just… life. School. Until Frank decided to put an end to that."

“Details,” Bertrand whispered. “What was it like? How did your family take care of you?”

So River tried to remember.

A year in Les Arbres had turned London into something hazy, a dream half-forgotten. His grandfather had raised him. His mother, Isabel, never quite played the role. She’d had him, then moved on—rebellion, exile, shifting through dangerous political currents. New boyfriends at a faster rate than new addresses. Last he heard, she and the latest one were running a hotel in Istanbul. He broke his arm playing basketball in secondary school, spent a week in hospital. She never called. Not once.

His grandfather had been strict. Told River he had to learn to take care of himself. Said he couldn’t stay by his bedside. But every day, at the same hour, he showed up. Checking in with the doctors. Bringing hot soup. Terrible soup, always overcooked, the meat dry and tough, the broth bland, oily. River had to pinch his nose just to get it down. But more than once, he’d woken at night to find his grandfather still there, asleep in the chair, hands folded over his cane.

Bertrand listened in silence, his grip tightening. So River went on.

How his grandfather never let him be lazy—yanked open the windows on winter mornings if River refused to get up. How much he hated that. But then, just before River left for school, his grandfather would always check that his scarf and gloves were on properly. How he was afraid of the dark as a child, and while his grandfather never coddled him, never whispered reassurances, he did ruffle his hair before bed, told him goodnight. Made sure the hallway lights were always working. How, at ten, River got caught up in a school fight, and everyone turned on him. His grandfather had been the only one to look him in the eye and wait—wait for him to tell the truth. When he finally did, his grandfather only said, “Next time, don’t throw the first punch.” And after that, at last, he agreed to enroll River in a self-defense class.

River had always wanted to be MI5. Because of his grandfather. Only later did he learn who his grandfather had really been—a man who’d commanded some of the most clandestine operations in Cold War history, a ghost of the intelligence world. His grandfather never talked about it. But late at night, River would sometimes hear the radio murmuring from behind his closed door—the BBC’s steady voice blending with the static of a shortwave transmission.

“Do you miss him?” Bertrand asked softly.

“…Of course.”

They left it at that.

Bertrand climbed back onto his bed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling. River watched him, then glanced at Patrice. Patrice was frowning, thumb pressing absently against his knuckles—a tell, his unconscious tic when confused or uneasy.

“River…” Bertrand’s voice wavered. “Can you—” A breath. Then softer: “Say goodnight to me? Like your grandfather did to you?”

River hesitated. Bertrand’s face, in the dark, was still sixteen, still just a boy. His eyes were shut tight, his lashes trembling. He looked like someone trying to stay inside a dream, unwilling to wake.

Patrice didn’t turn away. He was staring at them, unreadable in the dark.

River exhaled, moved forward. Bent down, pressing a light kiss to Bertrand’s forehead.

“Goodnight.”

Bertrand let out a slow, unsteady breath. His lashes stilled. As if, at last, he could let sleep take him. River turned back toward his own bed. And in the quiet, barely there, so soft it could have been imagined, he heard it.

“I’m sorry.”

Back then, River didn’t know why Bertrand had apologized. Thought it was just nerves, words tumbling out without meaning. Not worth digging into. But a week later, when Patrice came back from Germany, he brought news of Bertrand’s death.

At dinner, Frank gave a rare speech. Said Bertrand hadn’t died for nothing. Said he’d been a good man. Even set up a little wooden cross on the lawn, poured out a drink as if to toast the dead. Like he believed in something. The red liquid seeped into the earth, soaking through fast, as if the earth itself was swallowing up the brief moment of mourning.

That evening, Frank sent them hunting in the hills. Routine. River walked ahead, mind clouded,  thoughts slipping through his fingers before he could hold onto them. Patrice followed behind, steady as ever. Shot a rabbit clean through the head. River had no idea how he could do it, how he could even lift a gun. Rage twisted inside him. There was something clawing at his insides, something raw and furious, and before he could stop himself, he spun, grabbed Patrice by the collar.

"Aren’t you going to do something?" His voice shook. “Bertrand is dead. Do you feel nothing?”

For a fraction of a second, Patrice’s face twisted. Then his grip locked around River’s wrist and twisted back. They went down hard. Dirt and leaves kicked up, the cold ground knocking the breath from River’s lungs. He fought, clawed at Patrice’s arms, tried to pin him, but Patrice shifted fast, flipping them over, shoving River into the dirt with an elbow against his throat. Close enough that River could taste the blood on his breath. It was like every training session they’d ever had, except this time, Patrice wasn’t letting him up. But Patrice also didn’t push harder. He just held him there, waiting for River to still.

Then he said, “Your grandfather killed him.”

The words landed like a fist to the ribs.

River’s blood went cold. “How do you know?”

"Yves’ suicide attack wasn’t random." Patrice’s voice was even, but there was something tight beneath it. "He was using an alias—Robert Winters, ex-MI5. After the bombing, the British government and Frank’s employers were at risk of exposure. So Frank had to clean house. Everyone who knew where that identity came from. That included retired agents. And those old men in Regent’s Park. Like David Cartwright."

“He wanted Bertrand to pretend to be you and kill him. That’s why Bertrand was acting strange that night.”

River opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Confusion hit first. His grandfather was supposed to be in a care home. How had they gotten to him? Was he home now? Was he safe? Was he looking for him? His thoughts circled, nausea rising. He tried to picture Bertrand hurting his grandfather, then tried to picture his grandfather shooting back. David was old and no longer agile, so he had to use a gun. He tried to imagine Bertrand being shot and killed, but all he could think of was him curled up in pain in the back of a car months ago, shivering in his arms.

Patrice’s breathing was rough. They were too close. River’s vision blurred, the red sunset casting strange colors over them. He could only make out the blue of Patrice’s eyes, too bright in the fractured light, almost wet.

“So,” River rasped. “You gonna kill me? Take revenge?”

Patrice’s head tilted slightly. River could see him properly now, the sharp glint in his narrowed eyes, as if he really was considering it. But then he said, "Bertrand was never a killer. He was weak. His death was his own fault."

But his voice shook.

For a moment, something in River twisted. He reached for Patrice’s wrist, their hands still smeared with each other’s blood. And he heard himself say, "If you want to cry, just do it."

"No."

Patrice’s voice was firm. But he didn’t get up. He didn’t let go. He just stared down at River, gaze dark as deep water, lips slightly parted like he was fighting something breaking loose inside him. River swallowed. His thumb brushed against Patrice’s knuckles, the air between them tightening, pressing, until it felt like breathing was no longer an option.

Then, Patrice moved.

He kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Their teeth knocked together, nothing soft about it—more punishment than affection, a forceful, bruising thing. His hand gripped River’s jaw, fingers digging in as he forced his mouth open. River could taste the blood on his lips, the faint bitterness of cigarette smoke. And when River didn’t push him away, when he let him in, Patrice’s cold fingers slid down, wrapping around his throat, pressing against the frantic pulse beneath.

For a moment, nothing else existed. Just this—the pain, the taste of something raw and ruined, the sheer force of it, like they’d devour each other. And that was fine. Because River didn’t want to think. Not now. 

That night, Frank gave new orders. Patrice was to accompany him to London to meet with Prince Tahir. River was to sit tight, ready to retrieve a file from a runaway MI5 pensioner. Supposedly in Belgium, though they needed more intel before making a move. Frank watched River with that familiar, amused scrutiny, as if he knew River wouldn’t be able to kill, and was offering him a harmless task just to see what he’d do with it. He did not trust River. Pierre and Jacques would be back by morning anyway—to watch him, to make sure he stayed put.

River chewed through dinner in silence, washing food down with water, pretending he didn’t know what this meant. Pretending he didn’t realize Patrice’s job in London was to clean up those retired MI5 agents. One of whom was his grandfather.

His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick. He could only hope MI5 knew what was coming. That they had taken precautions. But he had learned not to rely on hope. Not on MI5. Not on God. If he wanted to protect anything, he had to do it himself.

He had to get out.

He’d have to slip Frank’s leash, dodge those half-brothers watching him, get the hell out of France—false documents, stolen passports, whatever it took. If that failed, he’d slip through the cracks, stow away, hide. Risky, but he knew how to disappear. And once he was back in England, he had to find his grandfather. Where? The nursing home was no longer an option. MI5 might have moved him. Or maybe he’d moved himself. Either way, River would have to think like a man in hiding, like a man who knew the game. Find David’s old contacts, track down anyone who might know where he’d gone.

The thoughts didn’t stop. Not as he cleared the table, tended to the livestock, returned to his room. He lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind a chaotic, deafening mess. It built and built, pressure mounting, until his skull ached with it all colliding, all deafening—

Then he heard it. A faint groan cut through it. It wasn't even a groan, just a trembling breath. But he heard it. He turned his head to look at Patrice's face, even though he could never get any answers from that face.

River climbed onto his bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Patrice didn’t stop him. Didn’t protest as River unbuttoned his shirt. And sure enough, there it was. Beneath his ribs, the bandage had already darkened with fresh blood. A wound, badly wrapped, must have reopened when they fought. Silently, River reached for the medical kit, peeled the ruined bandage away, cleaned and re-dressed the wound. His hands steady, methodical—just like Patrice had done for him, time and time again. His fingers brushed over Patrice's skin, those scars crisscrossed, almost exactly the same as his own. He sat on Patrice's legs, and for the first time in a long time, he had the strange, unfamiliar urge to cry, even though he didn't know why.

But Patrice knew. His hands quickly unbuckled River’s belt and unbuttoned his pants. His hand grasped River's half-hard cock, stroking the shaft with his calloused palm, making it gradually erect. River trembled on top of him, yet he quickly peeled off Patrice's underwear in return, pressing their cocks together, wrapping Patrice's hand and stroking them quickly.

Patrice's other hand went around River’s lower back. River flinched, and Patrice just looked at him, holding his hand up in front of River, palm open. Everything was insane. River thought that, knew it, and spit into Patrice’s palm obediently. Those wet fingers now pressed against River’s hole, and when Patrice inserted the first finger, a sound broke free from River’s clenched lips. Patrice’s other hand was on him in an instant, muffling the noise before it could escape into the air between them.

River tried to relax, letting himself be opened by the fingers, slowly sitting down on Patrice's cock like a child who had made a mistake. Their lovemaking was slow, like torture. River forced himself to accept, to take in the slow burn of it. He was careful, because Patrice was hurt, because he himself was hurt. 

Patrice's head tilted back slightly, bending one arm to prop himself up, keeping it slightly tilted so that he could touch River's prostate with each thrust. River watched him. The sharp line of his brow, the shadow of his lashes, and felt the spine-tingling pleasure of their bodies connecting. He sat on Patrice's cock, wanted to scream, but he could only swallow all the sounds and twist his body, holding Patrice's hand that was still covering his mouth. But he wasn’t pulling it away, he didn't want to stop Patrice or anything, he just wanted to touch, even though he was dizzy from lack of oxygen and too much pleasure, and Patrice’s palm against his mouth was wet now, slick with sweat, with spit. River’s eyes fluttered shut. Like he was falling. Like he was about to disappear.

Slowly, Patrice took back control. He picked up the pace, let go of the hand pressing over River’s face. The loss of warmth was sudden, enough to make River’s eyes snap open. Their gazes locked, just for a second. Then Patrice yanked his head back by the hair, hard. River gasped, mouth falling open. Patrice was already moving. Sitting up, one arm steady against River’s back, pulling him down into his lap. And then, he kissed him.

Not like before. Not bloodied, not sharp-edged. Everything felt slower, and yet it was slipping past too fast to hold onto. River’s thighs trembled. His eyes stayed wide, lips parting against Patrice’s, kissing like two teenagers chasing each other's breath. Patrice’s fingers twisted deeper into his blond hair, winding tight, and River squeezed his ass against his cock uncontrollably because of the slight pain. Then, a stronger impact came, he wanted to moan, he almost collapsed, so he wrapped his arms around Patrice's neck, pressed his hands on the back of Patrie's head, and tried to seal everything with a deeper kiss. Something burned and exploded as Patrice came inside him. They finally reluctantly gave up torturing each other's mouths, as if tonight was the end of the world. Patrice kissed down his chin, his hand stroking River's still hard cock, nuzzling his throat, sucking on the bulge of his collarbone.

River suddenly felt a strong desire to see his face, so he leaned back, cupped Patrice’s jaw in his hands. And almost at the same moment, he came, shaking apart in Patrice’s grip. The force of it knocked him off balance. Or maybe it was Patrice’s eyes that did it. He didn’t know what he saw there—only that it hurt, somewhere deep and indistinct. Tears, purely reflex, welled and spilled over. One slid down Patrice’s face, vanishing into his hair. Like he was crying, too. For a second—just one—River almost spoke. He wanted to say what he saw. He wanted to say the three-word short sentence of promise to each other that was so far away from their lives. He wanted to say, I—

But he said nothing. Patrice lowered his head, retreating behind the familiar walls. River pretended he didn't see it. They stayed like that for a moment, still pressed close, until the night air chilled them both to a shiver.

Then Patrice moved first.

He rose from the bed, pulling his clothes back into place, leaning against the wall as he waited for River to do the same. Arms crossed, watching from a distance—like the first time they’d met. When River was dressed, Patrice flicked his chin, wordless command to follow. Grabbed his jacket from the wall. And at the door, he picked up the rifle.

River followed close behind, heart hammering.

Frank’s battered old truck sat in the yard, parked up by the back door. A thought—wild, reckless—took hold in River’s mind. He reached for the handle. It had already been jimmied open, though he had no idea when. The rest happened on instinct. He ripped off the ignition casing, twisted the wires, and shorted the circuit. The truck coughed to life. Only then did he notice how unsteady his breath had become.

He looked up at Patrice.

Patrice was watching. Impassive. As if nothing mad, nothing dangerous, was happening right in front of him.

He tossed his jacket to River. River caught it, and something thin and weighty shifted inside. He unzipped it. A tight stack of €500 notes. German-issue. Likely lifted off some unlucky bastard during the job.

A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind. Questions he would never have time to ask. What mattered now was getting out. If Frank caught him running again, he’d be dead. And if Frank realized who had let him go—River didn’t know what would happen to Patrice. Probably nothing. Not right away. He needed Patrice for the Prince Tahir mess. Needed his best soldier, his right-hand man, to rebuild whatever was left after it all went to hell.

River told himself that. Convinced himself. Because he had to. Because there was no time. Because his grandfather was in London, and that was the only thing that mattered. This place wasn’t home. It never had been. Everything that happened here was wrong, and he should not have any attachment to it. This was the way of survival he had been forced to learn for the past year and a half, and he thought he had mastered it well enough.

And yet—

For just one second, he wanted Patrice to get in the truck with him.

Patrice saw it. Of course he did. His mouth curved, something like amusement, something like cruelty.

He lifted the rifle. Aiming right at River, like he had that first week in the mountains, when Frank made them hunt, when Patrice had turned the same rifle on that doe and its fawn, on those soft, innocent eyes, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

“Run,” he said.

So River ran.

He threw himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the pedal down. The truck lurched forward, skidding onto the dirt road. Then the trees took him, the night swallowing him whole.

Soon, there would be a highway. A river. Cities. Borders.

The road tore beneath him. The truck rattled, and heart repeatedly lurched with the brief feeling of weightless drops. He felt his face wet again. This was very, very stupid.

He drove faster. Like a deer at full sprint flying down the tracks. Faster than the train. Faster than the past.

Chapter Text

刚来这里的第一周，River憎恨Les Arbres的一切。他憎恨总是阴云密布的天空，太阳出来时又炙烤得皮肤刺痛。他憎恨草坪上的射击场、地下的禁闭室、还有被改造成训练场的后山，充斥着命令、汗水和枪声。他憎恨Frank，他几乎想杀了他。他憎恨Yves，他是个滥用权力歇斯底里的疯子，Pierre和Jacques是对他言听计从的嗜血的走狗。

他也想憎恨Bertrand或者Patrice。他们和他年纪相仿，却总是用那种冷漠的、置身事外的表情看着他；Bertrand喜欢捉弄他，开那些无伤大雅却愚蠢的玩笑，比如在枪械训练时调换他的子弹，害他在Frank面前出丑，或者往他的床上撒一层沙子，让他整夜辗转难眠；有时候River会想，或许对于Bertrand来说，终于有一个比他更没用的弟弟是件值得庆幸的事。而Patrice总是在Bertrand身后，看着River恼怒的、鼻青脸肿的模样，像是在观看动物园里的猴子，或者关在玻璃瓶里挣扎的、丑陋的昆虫。

然而，Patrice是必须照顾River的人。因为他是他们中最专业的。他帮River处理伤口、更换药物，即使那之中一部分是他造成的。他像是为破损的布料缝补裂口一样，毫不迟疑地将针尖刺入River的皮肤。River在刺痛中咬住嘴唇，但Patrice的手沉稳而精准，缝线一针一针地穿过皮肉，机械性地拉紧。他只能看着Patrice的脸试图转移注意力。次数多了，他几乎记下对方脸上每一处雀斑的位置。有一次，在Patrice用纱布包扎完伤口后，他的指尖若有似无地停留在River的小臂上，像是在确认什么。但那一瞬间很快过去，他松开手，站起身，将医疗箱收拾好，仿佛这种琐事让他感到厌烦、不值得多留一秒。而River低头看着自己的手臂，绷带缠绕得整齐而牢固，伤口被压得微微发胀，但已不再暴露在空气中。他本该觉得放松，然而胸口却充满难以言喻的情绪。他讨厌看到Patrice那样的表情，让他反胃、想要呕吐，让他感到困惑、愚蠢、一文不值。他希望Patrice像其他人那样对他，对他造成物理上的伤害，折磨他、让他痛，这样他就可以毫无保留地憎恨他。

在经历了三天禁闭、四天格斗和射击训练之后，Frank带着他们三个年纪最小的去了后山，手里拿着猎枪。那个时候，River依然相信自己有机会逃跑，一路上都在思考着如何甩掉他们，如何跑到公路上寻求帮助。

直到Frank把猎枪塞给他，让他杀死一头带着幼鹿的母鹿。

他和那只鹿对视了。她的眼睛漆黑而澄澈，对即将到来的死亡浑然不察。快跑 ，他默默地催促她。 跑。但她没有动。或许是风向不对，或许她担忧她的孩子，不敢轻举妄动。Frank的手枪抵在他的后脑勺上。他全身僵硬，心跳震得耳膜嗡嗡作响。他知道如果他不开枪，Frank会让他付出代价。猎枪沉重得像块铅，他的指关节因紧握枪柄而泛白。终于他收紧手指，像是下意识地要扣动扳机。可就在那一刻，他嘶吼着转身，抡起枪托朝Frank砸去——

他甚至还没看清发生了什么，Frank已经先一步抓住了他的手臂，枪脱手而出。下一秒，他的脸狠狠地撞进泥土里，呼吸间尽是湿润腐烂的气味。他的脊背被压住，枪被抽走了。

那只母鹿开始和它的孩子奔跑。

River听见Frank大叫Patrice的名字。回应他的是一声枪响。凌乱的、沉重的、疯狂的动物奔跑的声音。他听到Bertrand颤抖的声音：“它在向我们跑过来！”接着，又是一声枪响。随之而来是重物落地的闷响、树丛折断的声音和小鹿尖锐的悲鸣，他从来不知道鹿可以那样叫。

第三声枪响落下的同时，Frank的拳头砸在他的脸上。世界安静了，或者耳鸣声盖过了一切声响。River感到自己牙齿松动，嘴里涌出一股铁锈般的腥甜。他试图站起来，却再次被踢倒。这次他觉得自己的脚踝骨折了。

Frank最终命令他们把那只小鹿扛回去。血迹从鹿的身体沿着River的手臂蜿蜒而下，它的血和他的血混作一处。他看着它变得像玻璃一样的眼睛，苍蝇已经开始在上面停滞。他们走了将近两个小时，等回到基地时，Frank心情很好。他甚至慈爱地摸着每个人的头，称赞他们做得好。他轻轻拍了拍River的脸，就好像River脸上的伤不是几小时前他的拳头和枪背抽打导致的结果一样。

那天晚上River躺在床上，浑身的疼痛让他无法入睡。月光从高处的铁窗照进来，在地上投下一道银白的光带。他想去小便，但受伤的腿根本无法支撑他的重量。他完全不知道自己是怎么从山里走回来的。他扶着墙尝试了几次，最终只能站在那里，摇摇欲坠、难以挪动。

他听见隔壁床传来布料摩擦的声音。Patrice不知何时已经站在他身边，一言不发地架起他的胳膊。动作有些粗暴，却耐心地等待他抬起受伤的腿。River站在马桶前，额头上满是冷汗，身体完全靠在身后的Patrice身上。那双在训练时殴打他、之后又帮他包扎伤口的手帮他解开裤子，扶起他疲软的阴茎让他撒尿时，River终于流下了耻辱的眼泪。Frank打他的时候他没有哭，在禁闭室里也没有哭。他咬住嘴唇，不想让Patrice听到自己的软弱。

Patrice只是帮他抖干净尿渍，系上裤子，拉下冲水绳去洗手。水流声中，River瘫倒在墙壁上，似乎听见自己没能压抑住的一声抽泣。等他回到床上，疼痛开始像潮水般涌来。他的意识开始模糊，在半梦半醒间，他感觉自己的手抓住了Patrice的手腕。

但第二天早上醒来时，床边空无一人。透过肮脏的玻璃，他看见其他人已经在训练场上练习射击。

那一周他都无法忘记那只死掉的鹿和它的孩子，没法忘记Patrice怎样毫不留情的杀了它们，当然还有那个夜晚，他怎样愚蠢的允许这个凶手把自己的尊严一同剥下了。

随着入夏，白天变得愈发漫长。逐渐的，River开始接受也许他真的被困在这里没法离开的事实。他们日复一日的接受训练，所有人都在餐桌上变得越来越沉默。Bertrand甚至不会拿食物跟他开玩笑了，不再扔掉他的面包或者偷吃他的香肠，他总是沉默地喝完牛奶离开。River不知道是不是任何食物都让他反胃。他们长得很像，但是Bertrand棕黑色的头发和更瘦削的脸让他看着神经质又脆弱。

一间屋子没法再挤下6个迅速发育的青少年，他们被分成两组，Patrice是他们三个人的小队长。隔壁房间时常传来Yves的吼叫和大笑，深夜时还会有东西砸碎的声音。训练变得越来越残酷：禁闭、水刑、拷打...每一天都像是在地狱中煎熬。Bertrand是他们中最弱的那一个。即使River来得最晚，却凭借适应力撑了下来。他心中总是憋着的那股气让他不害怕疼痛，尽管反抗Frank只会带来更多折磨，但River从不退缩。第一周那个晚上之后，他再也没有允许自己流过泪。他尝试过一次逃跑，被Frank射穿了小腿。之后Frank非常平静地告诉他，如果他再敢逃跑，他可以杀了他，或者去伦敦杀了他的外公，那个住在养老院的阿兹海默症老人比River要好解决得多。River的指甲几乎掐进掌心，他的嘴唇很早就被自己咬破了。而当他抬起头时，Bertrand正在看他。他们的视线仅交汇了一瞬，Bertrand便迅速移开了目光。

第三轮禁闭结束的下午，他们被Frank要求去山里打野兔。Bertrand的脸色苍白得像纸，眼睛下面有明显的黑眼圈。手指不停地颤抖，连枪都拿不稳。Patrice走在他身边，偶尔用肩膀轻轻撞他一下，像是在提醒他保持清醒。

当他们终于抓到两只野兔时，Bertrand突然崩溃了。他跪倒在地，拳头紧紧地抓住Patrice的衬衫，抽泣得喘不过气来，眼泪和鼻涕顺着脸流下来。他咒骂着一切，包括他自己。"我不能再...我真的受不了了..."他的声音像是从喉咙深处挤出来的，几乎难以分辨。

River拎着沉甸甸的装野兔的袋子，靠在树上尴尬地等待。Patrice沉默地拍着Bertrand的背，但他的眼睛一直盯着River。那目光让River身上泛起鸡皮疙瘩，那样冷漠的、毫无感情的审视，让他感到不快、感到被排除甚至被抛弃，好像他不应该出现在这里。Bertrand的抽泣声逐渐平息，他顺着Patrice的目光看向River。他的眼睛还红肿着，神情恍惚，仿佛他刚刚意识到River的存在。但是那种迷茫和无助很快变成了厌恶，他站起身，朝River走来。

“你这样看着我做什么？你比我好到哪里去？如果你真的想反抗Frank，那就不要按照他说的话去做，你应该继续维持你那幅养尊处优的样子，不会杀生、不忍心对同龄人下手。你这个该死的伪君子！”

他说着，一把夺走了River手里的布袋，向山下走去。River咬着嘴唇看着他的背影站在原地，手指收紧又松开。但是另一只手摸上了他的后背。Patrice推着他向前走了两步，率先跟上了。

这一切都让人感到矛盾。夜晚总是比白天更加压抑。一切隐藏的脆弱都在这些安静的时刻无从遁形。在Bertrand还在禁闭、而River肋骨骨裂的那周，他连续三天晚上都又痛又痒，没法睡着。他蜷缩床上，捂住伤口，像是防止有什么东西从骨缝里钻出来，令他想尖叫，想撕开皮肉。但是他的自尊心让他不允许自己这样做。他甚至没有呻吟。

但Patrice知道。他掀开River的被子，躺在他身后、手臂环过他的腰，把他固定住。他感觉到Patrice的心跳透过薄薄的衣物传来，平稳而有力。

"别动，"Patrice的声音在黑暗中响起，他的法国口音太重了，让一切都含糊不清。"这样你会好受一些。"

但天亮后，一切照旧。这些彼此间的安慰像是某种不可言说的耻辱，那些短暂的温存不过是施舍，甚至是一种在Patrice和Bertrand互相寄生的关系外隐秘的背叛。他们在训练场上交手，Patrice下手比平时更冷酷，毫不留情，一次次将他击倒在地。River喘着气爬起来，想从Patrice的眼神里找点什么，但那双眼睛冷漠得像结冰的湖面。Patrice再次把他拉起来，眼睛一眨不眨。

“太慢了，”他说，又一次把River摔倒在地。

即使Bertrand才是小时候更爱捉弄他的那个，但是Patrice让他感觉自己很愚蠢，让他忍不住想要靠近又再一次被冷漠的推开。他知道，因为他们太相似了，但是他不像Patrice那样麻木，他会产生依恋，一种幼稚的、应该被唾弃的软弱。他们都知道Bertrnad一定会是最先撑不下去、搞砸一切的那个人。即使如此，River依然嫉妒他们之间的关系。嫉妒Bertrand可以向Patrice表现他的软弱，嫉妒Patrice可以心安理得的接受这份信任。至少他们拥有彼此。

直到Patrice第一次被派去执行任务。他离开了整整两周。

有天晚上，Bertrand完全失去了理智。不知道怎么回事，他坚信Patrice还被Frank关在地下室，所有人都把他遗忘了。他唯一的理智告诉他不能吵醒Frank，于是他跪在泥地里，用双手疯狂地刨着潮湿的土壤，试图扒开那扇四分之三被埋住的地下室窗户。他要去救Patrice。River试图拉住他，他们扭打在一起。他没想到Bertrand会爆发出如此惊人的力气，像一头发狂的野兽，比训练中任何时候都要凶猛。River见劝说无效，便假装去叫Frank。Bertrand瞬间扑上来，死死捂住他的嘴。River扬手甩了他一巴掌。

Bertrand怔住，愣愣地看着River。他依然压在River腰上，有一瞬间River以为他要掐死他。但是他的眼神从愤怒、震惊，逐渐变成彻底的崩溃。他猛地扑下来抱住River。汗湿的衣服黏着肌肤，天气雾蒙蒙的，一切都湿漉漉的。他的手指缝里带着泥土和血污，深深扣进river的后背，紧紧抓住他。像是溺水者抱住最后一根浮木一样，不肯松手。

这不是他的问题。River心想。这样的训练早晚会把人逼疯。剥夺自主意识，打破社交连接，抹去所有情感的正常表达。他们从婴儿期开始，就生活在极端的感官剥夺和条件反射塑造之下。没有温暖，没有安全感，没有选择的权利。哭泣不会带来安慰，痛苦不会引起怜悯。饥饿、寒冷、孤独、恐惧，全都只是训练的一部分——如果他们学不会忍受，就会加倍惩罚他们。有人疯掉，开始幻听；有人在夜晚失控，哭着爬出床想要逃离；有人变得极端暴力，以虐待其他人为生存策略。Bertrand只是其中之一。他们所有人都像破碎的齿轮，在残酷的系统里不停运转，直到彻底断裂，被遗弃，被消灭，或是成为真正的怪物。

那天晚上River搀扶着Bertrand回到他们的房间。几小时后，天还没亮，他就被上肢的麻木感和争吵声惊醒——Yves又在发疯，他和Pierre不知道是因为弹药分配还是谁弄坏了谁的刀大打出手。拳头砸在骨头上的沉闷声、咒骂声、低吼声混作一片，最后以一声骨头断裂的脆响和尖叫收尾。没人会管。

Bertrand依然死死抱着他的身子，他的脸埋在River的颈窝里，试图汲取一点温暖。River疲惫的眨着眼睛，最终用脚挑起落在床边的被子，盖在他们身上。

Patrice回来后像是变了一个人。他长高了，下巴上开始浮现青色的胡茬，他的眼神更加阴冷，手段更加狠戾。他不再会在训练后装作不经意的放慢脚步等待Bertrand追上，或者在Bertrand吃不下饭的日子里留下半杯牛奶给他。他现在会把所有东西吃得一干二净，好像他永远很饿。Bertrand显然对此有所察觉。他总是在训练间隙偷偷看他，眼神里带着担忧。与此同时，自那次崩溃后，他也开始依赖River。这种依赖很奇怪，但在这个充满不确定性的世界里，这种依赖是唯一稳定的东西——事实上，如此稳定，以至于给了River一种安慰感。所以River会帮他，他会在打猎后偷偷把一只野兔塞进Bertrand空荡荡的袋子里，或者在Bertrand被关禁闭时，用石头敲打墙面告诉他时间，这样他就可以再坚持一会儿，忍耐到足以避免更严厉的惩罚。当然，River依然不接受任何偷窃、虐杀、无意义的暴力训练，因此他总是被Frank揍得头破血流。他被关禁闭、禁食的次数不比Bertrand少，但他们都知道这不一样。Frank折磨Bertrand，是因为他对他感到失望、羞辱。而他折磨River，是因为他在River身上看见了潜力。他想要驯服他。

十六岁那年，他们第一次一起执行任务。一个简单的情报收集，报酬勉强够一个月的开销。他们在凌晨三点从监控死角翻越围墙，沿紧急通道攀上三楼的办公室。密码锁之外，还需管理员指纹。Patrice迅速消失在走廊尽头，River听到被布料掩盖的低闷的呻吟，随后是重物倒地的闷响。Patrice回来的时候，手里多了一根带血的手指，无视River紧皱的眉头将它毫不犹豫按在扫描器上。文件存储在离线服务器内，River迅速拷贝数据。即使不愿意承认，他很放心将自己的后背交给Patrice。

这几乎太容易了，直到警铃突然响起。

底楼传来混乱的脚步声。Bertrand的喘息透过耳机传来，撞击声随之响起，像是什么人重重倒在车门上。River立即拔出驱动器。Patrice已经从窗户翻身而下。

River再次尝试通讯，但线路噼啪响着，只有雨声传了过来。

情况并不乐观。倾盆大雨瞬间就模糊了视线，街道在水雾中扭曲变形。在巷口，Patrice突然摁住了他的手。他用手势示意River等候：对方也有枪械。接着，他毫无预兆地冲了出去，三声枪响划破空气。

River的心猛地收紧。

他几乎是本能地冲出掩体，鞋底溅起街道上的积水。车门大开，Bertrand倒在驾驶座，半个身子滑落在外，血染红了衣领。Patrice站在车旁，枪口仍指向地面，白烟尚未散去，而在他脚边躺着两具尸体，血泊缓缓蔓延，与雨水混成一片。

River扑到Bertrand身边，扶住他的脸让他看向自己。

Bertrand颤抖得厉害，泪水混着雨水顺着下颌滴落，血从伤口汩汩流出，沿着River的手掌蜿蜒而下。警卫队已经从正门涌出。Patrice猛地拽住Bertrand，把他们塞进后座，随即甩上车门，转身跃进驾驶座。引擎轰鸣着，轮胎碾过尸体，发出刺耳的摩擦声，街道在身后飞速倒退，黑暗吞噬了一切。

Bertrand的胸口微微起伏，痛楚地呻吟着，“我很痛，救命，好痛……”

“好的，好的。你会没事的，不要担心。”River说。他的声音也在发抖。他撕开衣物，伤口在锁骨下方，子弹穿透了肌肉，所幸没有击中大动脉。他的手掌稳稳地覆盖在伤口上，滑腻、黏稠的血从指缝间汩汩流出，他尽可能用力止血，另一只手翻找着车上的医疗包——高压纱布，止血粉，弹性绷带。他把纱布按在伤口上，Bertrand猛地一抽气，指甲嵌入River的手臂。鲜血终于被控制住，但Bertrand的体温仍在下降，他的身体颤抖着，下意识地想从River身上寻求温暖。River搂住他，用手帮他拨开额前湿漉漉的刘海。他的手上都是血，血污、雨水、汗液交错着，只让一切都变得更加乱糟糟的。

“你会没事的。相信我。”于是River转而把Bertrand的头摁在自己胸膛上。他的下巴死死抵在Bertrand的头顶。“我们快到家了。保持清醒，好吗？”

车厢内光线昏暗，Patrice透过后视镜看着他们。River对上了他灰蓝色的眼睛，心跳和雨点砸在挡风玻璃上的声音混合在一起，压抑得让人喘不过气。但Patrice只是把手指搭在方向盘上，没有说话。

Bertrand的枪伤需要恢复一段时间。在这期间，Frank谈成了一笔交易。Yves被派去执行任务——他本应在地下停车场完成暗杀，将死者伪装成事故。但他偏离了计划，在一辆货车上装上自制炸药，直接开进了Westacres购物中心。爆炸瞬间吞噬了一切，23人死亡，数十人受伤。他选择反抗Frank，选择用自杀式袭击宣告自己的不服从。

在实施爆炸前，他录制了几段视频，留下模糊的威胁，暗示更多袭击即将到来。视频在各大媒体平台传播。他还在Rotherhithe的公寓内安置了手榴弹陷阱，导致几名军情五处的特工和法医人员丧生。那些视频在Les Arbres总是没有人的一楼客厅播放过一次，所有年轻人都沉默不语。第二天，Frank从伦敦回来，他没有谈论Yves，也没有讨论那场灾难。他只是坐下，看着Bertrand。

“你接下来的任务很重要。”他语气轻描淡写，像是在谈论天气，“如果你完成了，我可以不计较上次任务的失误。之前的一切……都可以不算数。”

没有人知道那是什么任务。但从那天起，Bertrand开始躲着River。Patrice一直在执行一些小型任务，通常都不会离开法国周边。Pierre和Jacques在城里游荡，以偷盗抢劫维持生计。River被要求整理情报和照顾农场。但是他知道，轮到他的时间不会太久了。他已经习惯了兄弟间时远时近的关系。在这里，没有感情是可靠的。他们活在命令和利益之中，被塑造成彼此的工具，而不是彼此的归属。他不再试图寻找连接，不再天真地以为哪怕一点温情都能幸存。在这里，情感是弱点，而弱点，只有一个结局——被摧毁。

Bertrand出发去伦敦的前夜，他在River身旁辗转反侧。River已经很困了，他想要警告Bertrand安静点，但他心底又有个微小的声音说，他理解他的紧张和焦虑，于是他继续忍耐。

可就在睡意终于悄悄袭来时，Bertrand 开口了。

“River，”他的声音像一丝快要散去的气流，“你觉得你还有机会逃跑吗？”

River没有转头，眉头皱紧。他不知道Bertrand为什么问这个，也不知道自己该怎么回答。

但是Bertrand继续说了下去。“给我讲讲以前的事。在……你还没来到这里之前的那些事。”

River看向他。那张和他几乎一模一样的脸上带着久违的拼命试图掩藏的恐惧和脆弱。他已经一段时间没有在Bertrand的脸上见过这样的表情了。然后，突然间，Bertrand翻身起身，向他走来。Patrice立刻从床上坐起，像是要阻止他。但是Bertrand已经跪在River床边，握住了他垂在床沿的手。

River感到自己喉咙干涩。犹豫了几秒后，他滑下床跟Bertrand并肩坐在地上。他不知道他应该说什么。没什么好说的。“就是，生活、上学，直到Frank决定结束这一切，在回家路上把我绑架来。“

“细节。”Bertrand喃喃，“你是怎么生活的？你的家人……是怎么照顾你的？”

River只好开始试图回忆。他在Les Arbres待了一年多，过去在伦敦的生活却都变得像梦一样不真实。外公抚养他长大，他的母亲Isabel从来没有真正承担过“母亲”这个角色。生下他后，她很快回归自己的生活——叛乱、潜逃、周旋在危险的政治漩涡里。她换男友的速度比换住址还快，最后一次听说，她和现任男友在İstanbul开了一家宾馆。初中时River打篮球手臂骨折，住院期间她甚至连一句问候都没有发来。

他的外公对他严厉，总是要求River学会照顾好自己，但他虽然说着没有办法在医院里陪着他，又每天准时出现，和医生护士询问状况，把热腾腾的炖汤放在病房的小桌上。鸡汤很难喝，肉总是又柴又硬，炖煮太久导致油脂全部析出、调味太淡，遮盖不住腥味儿。River总是皱着鼻子才能勉强咽下去。可是好几次，River半夜醒来，外公还坐在床对面的椅子里，双手交握在拐杖上，低着头，不知道什么时候睡着了，没有离开。

Bertrand静静听着，指尖收紧。River想到更多的事情。比如外公不允许他偷懒，如果River赖床，他会把窗户打开，让清晨的冷风直接灌进房间。冬天的时候，River恨透了这种做法，但他离开家门前，外公又会检查他的围巾和手套有没有带好。更小一点的时候，River怕黑，外公当然不会抱着他安慰，但他会给摸着他的头说晚安，会及时更换走廊的灯泡，确保它们永远不会坏掉。十岁那年学校发生斗殴事件、所有人都指责他时，外公是唯一一个耐心地看着他，等他说出实情的人。最后，他告诉River：“下次再遇到这种事，不要先动手。”也是那之后，他终于答应把River送去附近的青少年格斗班。River一直想成为MI5的一员，因为他崇拜他的外公。后来他才知道外公掌管过最隐秘的行动，是冷战期间真正站在暗处的英雄之一。外公从不讲过去的事，但River偶尔能在深夜听见他房间里的广播声，BBC低沉的语调混杂着短波电台的沙沙声。

“你想他吗？”Bertrand轻声问。

“……当然。”

但是他们没在继续说下去。Bertrand爬回床上，腮帮紧紧咬着、盯着天花板。River不解地看着他，又看向Patrice。Patrice皱着眉，他的大拇指无意识地摁压着四指关节的骨头，River知道那是他感到困惑或者焦虑时习惯性的动作。

“River……”Bertrand的声音微微颤抖，“你能……给我说一声晚安吗？就像你外公跟你说的那样。”

River看向他。他的侧脸还是个十六岁的孩子，紧闭着的眼睛睫毛颤抖着，像是还在梦里不愿意醒来面对现实。Patrice转过头一言不发地盯着他们，他脸上的神色在黑暗的房间里晦暗不明。River沉默了一瞬，走过去弯下腰，俯身在Bertrand额头落下一个吻。

“晚安。”

Bertrand长长地呼出一口气，他的睫毛停止了颤抖。仿佛他终于能滑入梦境一样。

转过身的时候，River听见背后一声极轻、像是幻觉般的低语。

“对不起。”

那时候River还不知道他为什么道歉，他以为是Bertrand太紧张了，胡言乱语，不值得深究。但是一周后，Patrice完成在德国的任务归来，也带来了Bertrand的死讯。Frank在餐桌上罕见的发表了一番感言。他说Bertrand的死不会白费，他是可敬的。他甚至在草坪上为他插了一座小小的十字架，倒了一杯酒，象征着纪念死者的最后一饮，仿佛他真的有什么信仰一样。红色的液体洒落在泥土中，迅速渗透，仿佛大地也在吞噬这短暂的哀悼。

那天傍晚，Frank照常命令他们去后山狩猎。River走在前面，他的脑子很混乱，他不知道自己在想什么。Patrice跟在他身后，步伐沉稳，沉默地猎杀了一只兔子。River不知道他是怎么做到的，他甚至没有心情举起枪。愤怒在他体内翻腾，他想冲到Patrice面前，揪住他的领子质问他：你不打算做什么吗？Bertrand死了，你难道什么感觉都没有？

他也这么做了。Patrice的脸短暂地扭曲了一下，随即反手钳住他的手腕，狠狠一扭。他们纠缠着倒向地面，泥土和落叶在挣扎中飞溅。River死死地抓住Patrice的手臂，试图反压在他身上。但Patrice冷笑，顺势倾身，两人再次翻转，直到River的后背猛地撞上地面，呼吸一滞。就像无数次的训练一样，Patrice将他死死摁在地上，手肘抵住他的喉咙。他的脸近在咫尺，血腥气混着泥土的潮湿味道弥漫在空气里。但他没有继续动作，只是摁住River，等待他冷静下来。

然后他说：“你外公杀了他。”

River的血液凝固了。

“你怎么知道？”

“Yves的自杀式袭击是有目的的。”他说，“他用的是前MI5探员Robert Winters的掩护身份。爆炸发生后，英国政府和Frank的雇主面临被追溯的风险，所以Frank必须清除所有知道这个身份来历的人，包括那些退役军人和摄政公园退休的老家伙，比如David Cartwright。他要让Bertrand伪装做是你去杀了他，这也是Bertrand为什么那天晚上行为怪异的原因。”

River张了张嘴，却发不出声音。起先他感到很困惑——他的外公不是在养老院吗？他们怎么让他离开了？他在家里？他还安全吗，他有在找他吗？他的喉咙一阵腥甜，想法在脑海里盘旋，眼前浮现出黑色的斑点。他无法想象Bertrand要伤害他外公的样子，也无法想象外公杀了Bertrand。他年迈、手脚不再利索，他只能用枪。他试图想象Bertrand中枪死亡的画面，但他的脑海里只有几个月前在车后座上，Bertrand痛苦的蜷缩在他怀里的模样。

Patrice的呼吸越来越急促。他们距离太近了，River无法聚焦于他的脸。血红色的夕阳照在他们身上，他只能模糊看见Patrice的蓝眼睛，它们因为那些五彩的光线变得更加鲜艳，仿佛要滴下水来。最后，River干巴巴的说。“所以你要做什么，你要杀了我，替他报仇吗。”

Patrice的脸抬起来了一点。这次River可以看清他的神情了。他的眼睛危险的眯着，像是他真的在考虑这个想法。但是他说：“Bertrand从来不是个合格的杀手。他太软弱了。他的死是他自己导致的。”

然而，他的声音颤抖着。一瞬间，River的心也揪了起来。他试着握住Patrice揪住他的领子的手。他们的手上还沾着彼此的血。他听见自己说：“如果你想哭，就哭吧。”

“不。”

Patrice拒绝了。但是他没有起身，也没有松手。他只是俯视着River，紧紧盯着他，眼神幽深得像能将人拖入湖底，嘴唇微微颤抖，仿佛在抵抗某种即将决堤的情绪。River咽了一口唾沫，下意识地用拇指摩挲着他的骨节，空气在他们之间绷紧、缠绕，压迫得让人无法呼吸。

然后，Patrice猛地俯身，吻住了他。

他的动作太快了，导致他们的牙齿嗑在了一起，毫无温柔可言，更像是某种惩罚。他的手紧紧摁住River的脸颊，几乎是捏开他的嘴让他接受这一切，用舌头撬开River的牙关，带着侵略性的气息席卷而来。River能尝到他嘴里淡淡的血腥味，还有一丝苦涩的烟草气息。感受到River并没有任何抗拒的意思后，Patrice冰凉的手顺着他的脸颊下滑，捏住了他的脖颈。River的动脉在他的手指下剧烈的跳动着。在这个吻中，他们仿佛忘却了整个世界，只有对方的存在，只有唇舌间的疼痛和血腥味，像是要彼此吞噬又自我毁灭。

但是这很好。River在缺氧和浑身颤栗发软的快感中想。这让他丧失了思考的能力。他不想思考。现在不想。

晚上，Frank下达了新的命令。他要Patrice和他一起去伦敦，和Prince Tahir会面。而River则等待指令，随时准备出发去追回一份在逃逸的退休MI5特务带走的相关文件。Frank怀疑那个人逃去了比利时，但在伦敦获得更详细的情报之前，他们不能贸然行动。Frank挑着眉毛看着他，仿佛他知道River无法真正杀人，于是故意体贴的给了他这样无关痛痒的任务，只是想看看他会怎么做。他当然依然不信任River，Pierre和Jacques明天清晨就会从城里回来，在这里监视他。

River默默地吃着晚餐，用水冲下食物，假装他不知道这意味着什么。假装他不知道Patrice在伦敦的工作是清理那些退休的MI5特工。其中一位是他的外公。他的胃像是被无形的手狠狠攥紧。他只能希望MI5已经意识到自己的处境，提前采取了保护措施。

但是他早已经学会了不能寄希望于任何事情。不是军情五处。不是上帝，上帝无法帮助他。除了他自己。如果他想要守护什么，他只能自己行动。

他必须离开。

他需要从Frank的控制下逃脱。躲开这些该死的和他同父异母的兄弟们，离开法国，用假证件登上航班，通过铁路、汽车等陆路交通逃往英国，或者偷渡或者搭便车离开法国。这种方法风险极大，但River懂得如何隐藏自己。一旦成功抵达英国，他就面临着寻找外公的问题。外公现在已经脱离了养老院，这意味着他不再在固定的地方。他想象着外公可能藏匿的地方，想象着联系外公过去的朋友或他曾经的同事，他必须寻求了解相关内幕的人来提供线索，像一个知道游戏规则的人一样思考。

这些想法在他脑海中盘旋不去，直到他收拾完餐桌、照料完羊群，回到自己的房间。他仰面躺在床上，望着天花板上那盏陈旧的灯，思绪疯狂地翻涌，像是无数道声音在耳边低语，旋转、交错、碰撞，越来越响，越来越沉重。他的头骨仿佛被它们撞得裂开，他甚至无法听清它们在说什么。

他几乎就要被这些思绪压垮，直到一声微弱的呻吟声刺穿了它们。

那甚至不算呻吟，只是颤抖的呼吸。但他听见了。他转头看向Patrice的脸。即使他从来无法从那张脸上得到任何答案。

他爬上Patrice的床。Patrice没有阻止他，River解开他衬衫扣子时也没有抗议。为了防止不必要的挣扎，River还是坐在他身上压制住他的腿。果然，他的肋骨下方有一处伤口，绷带缠的很凌乱，已经被血再次渗透了。他猜是他们下午打架时再次撕裂的。River沉默着，从床下的柜子里拿出医疗箱，拆掉已经失去作用的绷带，有条不紊地重新为Patrice清理伤口，就像Patrice曾经无数次为他做的那样。他的指尖掠过Patrice皮肤上的一道道旧伤痕，那些疤痕纵横交错，与他自己身上如出一辙。他坐在Patrice腿上，久违的生出一种想要流泪的冲动，即使他并不知道为什么。

但是Patrice知道。他的手快速的抽掉River的皮带，解开他的裤子，手握住了River半硬的阴茎，长着茧的掌心摩挲着茎身，让它逐渐勃起。River在他身上颤抖起来，他也快速剥下Patrice的内裤，将他们的阴茎抵在一起，包裹住Patrice的手，快速撸动起来。

Patrice的另一只手绕在River的屁股后面。River畏缩了一下，Patrice只是看着他，把手举到他面前，手掌张开。一切都疯了，River想着，却顺从的向他的手心吐了口唾沫。他湿润的手指现在在River的洞口摁压着，伸进第一根手指时，一声呻吟从River紧咬着的嘴唇里泄露出来，Patrice几乎是立刻用另一只手捂住了他的嘴。

他试着让自己放松，一点点被手指打开，像个犯错的孩子一样缓慢的在Patrice的阴茎上坐下。他们的做爱很缓慢、像是凌迟一样。River强迫自己接受这慢慢燃烧的感觉。他很小心，因为他担心Patrice的伤口，他自己的后穴也因为撕扯而疼痛着；Patrice的头微微向后仰着，弯曲一只手臂把自己撑起来，保持着微微倾斜的状态，这样每次推入时他都能碰到River的前列腺。River看着他的脸，看着他凸起的眉骨和垂下的睫毛，他们的身体交合处传来令人脊背发麻的快感。他坐在Patrice的阴茎上，想要尖叫，却只能把所有声音都咽下去、扭动身体，握着Patrice依然捂住他的嘴的手。但是他没有把它拉开，他不是想要阻止Patrice或者什么，他只是渴求触碰，即使他已经因为缺氧和快感感到头晕目眩，他的口水已经把Patrice的手心弄得湿淋淋的。他闭上了眼睛，好像他正在坠落。好像他即将消失。

逐渐的，Patrice重新获得了主导地位，他加快了速度，松开覆盖在River脸上的手。River因为这突然丧失的温度睁开眼，他们对视了一瞬间。下一秒，Patrice将他后脑勺的头发用力向后扯去，River吃痛的张开嘴。Patrice在这一瞬间坐了起来，他的另一只手扶住River的后背让他落在他怀里，接着吻了上来。

这个吻不像下午那样鲜血淋漓。一切似乎变得缓慢、又都一闪而过，更多的是印象和感觉，而不是逻辑上连续的时间流。River的大腿颤抖着。他的眼睛睁得大大的，嘴唇贴在Patrice柔软的嘴唇上，像两个追逐彼此呼吸的青少年一样亲吻着。Patrice的手指将他的金发越缠越紧，River因为这微弱的疼痛不受控制地夹紧他的阴茎。接着，更猛烈的冲击袭来，他想要呻吟，他几乎要崩塌了，于是将双臂缠绕在Patrice的脖颈上，双手摁住Patrie的后脑勺，试图用更深的吻封闭一切。Patrice射进他体内时，什么东西一同燃烧着、爆炸了。他们终于依依不舍的放弃折磨彼此的嘴唇，仿佛今夜是世界末日。Patrice顺着他的下巴向下吻去，他的手撸动着River依然硬挺的阴茎，用鼻子蹭着他的喉咙，吮吸他凸起的锁骨。

River突然强烈地渴望看到他的脸，于是他向后靠，用手捧住Patrice的下巴。几乎同一瞬间，他在Patrice手里高潮了。高潮的冲击力让他失去平衡。或者也许是Patrice的眼神让他失去了平衡。他不知道他看见了什么，只能感受到一种模糊的心痛。生理性的泪水从他眼角涌出，滴落在Patrice的脸上，顺着他的脸滑落进头发里，就好像他也哭了一样。有一秒钟——只有一秒钟——River几乎要对着那双眼睛说什么。他想说出他看到的。他想说出那个离他们的生活如此遥远的、对彼此承诺的三个词语的短句。他想说，我——

但是他什么都没说。Patrice像是抗拒这一切发生那样低下了头，恢复了那副熟悉的防御式的、自我封闭的状态。River只能假装没有看到。他们保持着拥抱的姿势停了一会儿，直到夜晚寒冷的空气让他们都有些发抖。Patrice先从床上站了起来。他整理好自己的衣物，靠在墙上等River也穿上裤子。他双臂交叉、远远的看着他，就像是第一次见面时那样，他扬了下头，示意River跟上，随手拎起挂在墙上的夹克，转身朝楼下走去。在门口，他拾起了那把猎枪。

River紧随其后，他的心脏怦怦直跳。

院子后门停着Frank那辆破旧的卡车。一个疯狂的念头在River脑海中浮现。他去试探性的拉了下车门，它已经不知道什么时候被撬开了。接下来的动作几乎是下意识的，他迅速拆开点火锁外壳，将电源线短接到启动电路上。卡车咳嗽着启动了。此时，他才意识到自己的呼吸已经急促颤抖。

他抬头看向Patrice。

那张脸依旧冷漠，毫无表情，仿佛这里没有任何疯狂的、危险的事情正在发生。

他把夹克丢给Rive。River接住它打开，看见里面薄薄的一捆500元钞票。只在德国发行的欧元，估计是在任务途中抢劫了什么倒霉的游客。

一瞬间，很多想法闪过了River的脑海。他有很多想问的，但他知道他需要尽快离开。如果Frank发现他又要逃跑，他或许会死；同样，他不知道如果Frank发现是Patrice放走了他，他会对Patrice做什么。可能什么都不会发生。至少不会马上发生。River猜测他不会真的伤害他，因为他还需要Patrice和他一起解决Prince Tahir的烂摊子；他是他最优秀的战士，即使一切毁灭了，Frank也要和他重新建立昔日的一切。

他这样告诉自己。说服自己。因为他必须这么做。因为没有时间了。因为他的祖父在伦敦，而那是唯一重要的事情。这里不是家。从来都不是。在这里发生的一切都是错误的，都是不应该产生任何留恋的，这是他一年半来一直在被迫学习的生存方式，他以为自己已经掌握的足够好了。

即使如此，有一瞬间，他依旧想让Patrice也跳上车，跟他一起离开。

似乎是看穿了他的想法那样，Patrice的嘴角浮现出一丝冷笑。他举起猎枪对着River。好像他们刚来那周，他们被Frank带去山上打猎，他对着那只母鹿、那只小鹿，对着它们天真的善良的眼睛，毫不犹豫的扣下扳机那样。

他说：“跑。”

于是River跑了起来。

他跳进车里，踩下油门驶向山林，树木和夜色将他整个吞没。在那之后，很快会有宽阔的公路，会有溪流。一切飞快的向后撤去。车轮在山林间的崎岖道路上剧烈颠簸，他的心脏反复随着短暂的失重感疼痛着。他感到脸上再次湿漉漉的。这非常愚蠢。

他开得越来越快，像一头全速奔跑的鹿。飞快地冲过铁轨，比火车还快，比过去还快。