Whump drabble: gasoline
Llewyn is wakened by the heavy splash of cold liquid falling over his torso.
He jolts up: gasping, confused, and shocked into wakefulness, and the taste of it in his mouth alerts him before even the smell of it does.
This is gasoline.
"Ben?" he gasps, his mouth falling open as wet hair sags into his face. His delicate hands grip the too-thin, too-soggy mattress beneath him, and small spurts of gas bubble up from where his fingers dig in. Everything is soaked.
The stench has already given him a headache.
"You slept too long," Ben says dismissively, as if that explains anything, and then he dumps the rest of the contents on the boy.
Llewyn shoots his hands up defensively, but there's so much of the stuff that it doesn't do much. When the plastic canister is empty and Ben throws it to the floor with a hollow thunk, Llewyn is spitting and sputtering and trying to find something to wipe his eyes with. His grey t-shirt is now black with the slick, oily substance. The cut across his cheek is stinging anew.
He looks up at Ben, jutting his chin out. "What is this?" He spits, blinking his eyes clean.
"It's gasoline," Ben monotonizes. He looks down on him boredly. "You put it in your car to make it go."
"I know what it is," Llewyn hisses, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. The rude, pungeant awakening has made him tense; has weakened his control over his own back-talk. Were his sinuses not currently clogged with gas, he might be a little more careful with his tone. "I meant why is it on me? Did you forget what a fuel tank looks like?"
"I'd watch your mouth," Ben says quietly, and he's fussing with something on the inside of his jacket. From his pocket, he produces a small box of matches.
Llewyn falls silent. Even his breath stops, caught in his chest.
"What did I do?" He whispers, after a moment passes where it is clear that Ben isn't going to move. He is starting to feel light-headed. "Tell me what I did."
Ben shrugs. Turns the matchbox over and over in his palm. "Maybe you can tell me."
Shaking his head, Llewyn keeps his eyes trained on that box; those nimble fingers flipping it over. "I can't," he breathes. "I don't know what... I thought I was doing fine."
"Will you be doing fine after I send you up in flames?"
Ben asks it so casually that for a second, Llewyn forgets to react. "Please," he says hurriedly after the small delay. "I don't know what I did wrong! You don't have to--"
"Hold this for me, will you?"
Ben lights a match.
And he holds it out toward his captive.
Llewyn pushes himself back against the wall, eyeing the small flame with fear-widened eyes. He sucks his tummy in, as if holding no air in his lungs will make him invisible. Allow him to escape. He is acutely aware of every sticky drop of gasoline on him: dripping from his hair onto his neck, drying in the dips between his fingers, making his shirt cling wetly to his shoulders.
"Take it, Llew."
He shakes his head.
"If you won't take it from me, I'll just have to throw it and hope you don't have butter fingers."
Llewyn swallows. He is out of options. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and takes the bottom of the match in the very tips of his fingers. He stares at it, holds it an arm's length away from him, the orange light blurred by the tears welling in his eyes. The match has been burning for a few seconds, and the flame is already halfway down. Llewyn stares at it, then Ben, then back at it.
"Let me blow it out," he manages to squeak out.
"Not yet, angel. I want to see how far it can go."
"Please," Llewyn moans, voice strangled, as he looks at Ben with terrified, tear-filled eyes. He can feel the heat on his fingertips.
Ben says nothing, and Llewyn imagines catching fire, his whole body bursting into flame. Nobody would find his blackened remains down here.
Unable to stand it any longer, he blows the match out.
Ben's fist connects with his jaw before the smoldering match can even hit the floor. Llewyn's head hits the wall with a smack and he groans, but Ben grabs him by the face before he can move.
"You will not disobey me, Llewyn."
"Why are you doing this?" The boy quivers.
The smirk on Ben's face is a death sentence.
"Yesterday, you told me you wished you could die. Now, I already knew you were a liar..." Ben says, removing another slender match from its box. "But I need you to know it, too."
He lights the match.
"Take it."
Llewyn can only do as he's told.
