Young Writers Society

Pratik ripped the notebook out of his hands when Ash held it out to him, then held it down by his side. Maybe once he calmed down the compliments would mean something. Now, he was just angry.

Pratik kept Ash fixed in a glare for a long moment, then his eyes flicked down as much of the hall as he could see at the awkward angle, waiting until he couldn't hear the footsteps anymore. Then they snapped back to Ash. "I swear to god, if you tell anyone--" He didn't even know how he wanted to finish that threat. "This isn't meant for -- no one knows -- I just..." He beat his empty fist on his thigh. Finally, "Whatever. Go ahead and mock me. But you better fucking not tell anyone about what you saw."

"You're very bold," Gaius noted. "Ordering a man about in his own home. I don't quite understand this desperation to hide your skill, but a man's privacy is a man's privacy. I'm not one to judge." He jingled the key ring expectantly. "Are we done here or would you like to threaten me some more?"

He wanted to do a whole hell of a lot more than threaten him.

"Oh, yeah, the poet mercenary. I bet that'd go over real fucking well." Pratik spat, throwing the notebook across the room. It bounced off his tin of coffee and landed open on top of one of his tunics on the bed. "Have whole hordes of people lining up to hire the crybaby."

His poetry was packed with imagery and metaphors and similes, but it was still clear what he meant. He poured all his emotions onto the page, and now someone was tromping about in them.

"You'd be surprised." Gaius glanced at the notebook. "I was especially fond of your last few. They captured war quite well, I thought." He took hold of the door handle, intending to close it.

Pratik rubbed his face. Of course, he'd fucking gotten through all of them. As if the early ones of processing life without family weren't humiliating enough, now he'd gotten to the recent ones. He couldn't even remember what he'd said in the one he'd written at Veryl's estate, but he knew it was clearly about that mission. Something about being boxed in on all sides or... what had he even said? Did it even matter at this point?

And was... Ash... actually being genuine? Not just mocking him? Pratik didn't understand. He knew whatever respect Ash might have had for him before was gone now. Pratik glanced over at the notebook too, forcing himself to calm down now that he had it back in his possession. "Guess I've got lots to write about tonight."

(Time for me to sleep. G'night!)

"It seems you do." Gaius dipped his head. "Sleep well, and please don't lie to my son again." He shut the door and locked it once again.

(night!)

Pratik pressed his palms against his eyes for several long moments, listening to the key in the lock, and then the tap of Ash's cane receding. He took several deep breaths, the rage subsiding now but the agitation was still as strong as ever. At least he was calmer now.

You're a very good writer.

I'd put it in my library.

I was especially fond of your last few.

Pratik snorted.

What was he even supposed to do with those comments? He wasn't a good writer. And he hadn't planned on anyone, ever, seeing any of his poetry. Ever... Ever. It was probably his own stupid fault for not burning the poems after he wrote them -- or for noticing right away that they'd stolen his notebook.

Pratik liked re-reading the poems sometimes since he found he had the same recurring emotions and sometimes simply reading old work was enough of a release instead of having to write a new one every single time. Apparently, that'd come back to bite him this time.

He felt so violated.

There wasn't much Ash could do that would phase Pratik at this point. He'd already had most everything done to him that could be done -- beatings, torture, spending months in a dank dungeon without so much as a glimpse of sunlight -- the whole nine yards.

He even thought it was rather funny to agree when people hurtled insults at him. He'd call himself a deplorable. Hell, he'd call himself much worse than that. The insults meant nothing. He could set his emotions far enough away from him that he could strangle a man to death without flinching -- a few rude words wouldn't keep him up at night.

But this was different.

His poetry was where he let his guard down and allowed his heart to say whatever it needed to get out. Raw, unfiltered emotions. His hopes, his fears, his regrets -- anything and everything that weighed heavy on him could be turned into a few lines. His notebook was the closest thing he had to a confidante. The only thing in the world who knew how he truly felt.

And now, Ash did too.

What was he supposed to do with that? What could he do about it? Even if he managed to threaten Ash into silence, it wouldn't make him forget what he'd read. There was nothing aside from Ash's death that would undo the damage that had already been done.

Ash's compliments actually sounded somewhat genuine... but he supposed they'd see about that. He just needed to remember that he didn't care what Ash thought of him... even though Ash now had the ammo to hit where it would hurt the absolute worst if he so chose.

Pratik sighed deeply and started across the room, picking up his notebook and smoothing down the pages. He sighed again. There were probably close to fifty poems in this book -- he'd started it years ago and had apparently been stupid enough to keep them all in one place like this.

He leafed through the notebook himself. Poems about his lack of parents; of his first kill; of running for his life. He'd even been stupid enough to write poems about the heaviest of the places he'd been over the past few years. There seemed to be little of value left to hide from Ash at this point. Anything he could have possibly wanted to know about Pratik's upbringing and movement was laid out in a neat little chronological anthology.

And the worst part is that Pratik couldn't even blame him. If the positions were reversed, Pratik would absolutely steal and read the notebook. First, to look for messages like they probably assumed his notebook contained. Then, to learn more about the man he'd taken it from. But he didn't like that it was being done to him.

He sighed and sat next to the desk. At this point, he didn't want to use the notebook anymore -- he'd rather burn it so that the same mistake couldn't happen again. But, the cat was already out of the bag now. He flipped to the first empty page behind all of his other poems and began:

Gaius stood at the door for a moment, then limped away. That had been an interesting exchange.

He'd realized what he had stumbled upon almost the moment he had opened the notebook. Reading a few confirmed his suspicions and he'd been tempted to simply close the book, but there was something about the honesty of these poems that drew him in. In them was a pain so very complex but something Gaius could feel deep in him as he read.

He had tried to write poetry once or twice in his youth, but the words never came out right. They had spilled onto the page, angry and resentful and too harsh to exist, so Gaius had bottled them back up and ignored any other poetic stirrings in his rotten soul.

As skillful as Pratik's writing was, there was also a practical use for Gaius to have read the poems. He'd been pleased to find that this boy wasn't quite a hardened mercenary; there was someone behind that façade who grieved for his kills and remembered his childhood, however traumatic it had been. Gaius looked forward to teasing out that hidden person, getting to know him. He preferred honesty in his employees, naturally, though he rarely reciprocated. It was best to know who you were working with and if this fellow wasn't quite as "deplorable" as Sera seemed to think his was then godspeed to him. Gaius was far more interested in a less deplorable, vulnerable person than some emotionless hired knife.

Pratik ended up changing those first few lines almost entirely, but the message was the same. How to cripple a mercenary: read some poetry. It was so pathetic. He was pathetic. And there was no way he was going to be able to play it off if Ash asked about it. He’d already given far too strong of a reaction for Ash to possibly believe Pratik had written them purely for practice.

His poetry laid out his emotions loud and clear, and he was sure his rage had confirmed any doubt about that. He probably should have tried to calm down. Maybe if he’d been coldly detached he could pretend that it was a purchased anthology. It’d still be embarrassing to admit he read poetry, but it’d save some face over having to claim them all. Oh well. Too late for that now.

He wrapped his arms around his abdomen protectively. Back to feeling vulnerable, while having absolutely no one in the world who cared enough to console him. To wrap him in a hug and run their fingers through his hair and tell him he was worth love. Even though he knew he wasn’t. And so he sat hugging himself, and running his fingers through his own hair, and trying to reassure himself that Ash didn’t plan on firing him now that he knew that the mercenary he hired was weak.

(Unless you have anything you'd like to add shall we skip? Gaius is gonna try and sleep)

(Works for me!)

(To morning, then? Or would you like to skip back to the other POV or somewhere else?)

(I think morning would be good? I’m interested to see how this plays out. But I’d also be good to skip back to the other place if you prefer!)

(Sure, let's go to morning then!)

Gaius woke early the next morning nestled under the covers of his bed. Sara lay beside him, still asleep. She'd tried to speak to him when she came up to bed the previous night, but he had pretended he was already sleeping; he had nothing he wanted to say to her at that moment that wouldn't hurt her.
He slid out silently and got dressed, watching her all the while. Her sun-weathered face was twisted slightly, brows knitted together in discomfort. A nightmare, perhaps. Gaius limped over to her and pressed a small kiss to her brow, and the lines in her forehead smoothed slightly. He nodded to himself, then left the room.

Pratik eventually crawled into bed but he didn’t sleep for a long while. Instead he hugged one of the pillows close to his chest and forced himself to breathe deeply while trying desperately not to think of his humiliation.

He woke early the next morning and pulled himself together then waited for someone to come let him out of his cage.