TW: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Title: ~So Winter Is Cruel~

Littlewood shoves cold fingers in his mouth and Toby whimpers, squirms, tries to get away. It's like this every winter. Littlewood freezes and so does his heart and all the warmth goes out of his eyes and he goes cruel, all sharp edges and mocking words, and Toby is too scared to leave. He loves him, he supposes. Toby loves him in the summer, when he's soft and warm and smiley, and he loves him in the spring, when he's full of energy, and he loves him in the fall, when Littlewood is sleepy and snuggly and constantly crawling under his blankets and shirts in some hibernation instinct. When it's warm, Littlewood grows sunflowers, but all he's growing now are icicles.

Littlewood shows his teeth, all one thousand tiny points, and grips Toby's hair a little harder, shoving his head down into the cold dirt. He's straddling Toby and his body is light enough that Toby could throw him off, maybe, but he's too scared-- too stupid scared, it's something Littlewood makes fun of him for, in winter, how weak and cowardly he is-- he can't do anything but try and wiggle pathetically.

No, no, no, Toby thinks, tears welling up in his eyes, but Littlewood's fingers are already reaching their way past his tongue and down his throat. He doesn't know why Littlewood does this. It's not the first time he has but every time is unpleasant and shocking and shameful, intimately shameful, like watching a transgression. He has time to think one final, pitiful no before his throat is constricting around the invading fingers and, and--

Littlewood pulls his face away and pulls Toby up and watches with passive, dark eyes as Toby vomits onto the ground in front of him. It takes him long, painful moments to empty his stomach, crying as he does so, arms pitifully crossed around himself. He's done after a bit, mercifully, and he's still weeping, muffled sobs and weak whimpers and sniffles and Littlewood laughs and rubs his back, and for a second Toby thinks he's going to shove his face down into his own mess, but he doesn't.

"Silly Toby," Littlewood says, and brings his freezing hand up to card through Toby's hair soothingly. "You made a mess."

Toby wants to pull away, wants to shriek and yell at him, but all he can manage are hiccups and little sobs. His mouth tastes like vomit and he hates Littlewood, for a second, loathes him, wants him to die, but then he thinks about the spring, and how Littlewood will apologize and hold him, and he can't.

"Sorry," he says, instead, voice shaking, and he doesn't know what he's apologizing for. "Sorry." He can't seem to stop crying. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Littlewood says, and pulls him close, wrapping his skinny arms around him. He's wearing a T-shirt in the cold, Toby notices dimly. His skin gleams with frost. Being held by him is like climbing into a freezer. "Humans are disgusting," he says, in the same cheerful singsong as the rest of his words.

Toby gives a scared whimper and-- he can't help it-- presses his face into Littlewood's chest. Littlewood's fingers tighten in his hair, become painful, and Toby can feel the slow, nonchalant beat of whatever in his body is serving as his heart. "Don't kill me, please," he pleads, tears bubbling up again, "Littlewood, please, I'll do anything--"

"I won't," Littlewood sighs, cutting him off, "because I love you. And you're mine."

He ducks his face down, kisses Toby on the forehead, and his lips are so cold they feel like a brand. And so winter goes.