Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.

Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.

It's two-thirty a.m when Evan Lawson stumbles through the door of the guest house shared with his older brother, and attempts to navigate around the kitchen's awkward layout. Although he never particularly enjoyed the man's company, Evan is thanking Boris now more than ever for the temporary home. As much as he loves Hank, his brother, sharing a hotel room for as long as they've been in the Hamptons would have gotten steadily irritating, and now, given the night's predicaments, embarrassing, shameful, frightening, and just too many questions asked and conversations all around.

Evan stubs his toe on the kitchen's island bar with a resounding thwack! He makes a move to grip his pained nub, but upon reaching down, clenches his bottom lip between his teeth, trying his best to muffle the hissing, groan-like sound that was threatening to escape his vocal chords. It fucking hurt, but no, he did not want his older brother hearing him. Two stories or fifty – it didn't matter; if Evan even gave so much as a hint he was in distress, Hank would come running with fists swinging. And he didn't want that.

Evan thought it was ironic, really, trying to use any sort of rambled thought to distract him from the aches resounding through his body. Not even but, what, a half hour ago, and he was screaming for anyone – someone – Hank, please! – to come help him. But nothing in life ever really worked out the way Evan wanted it to, so why start speculating on it now?

He has got to think, and speculate, and analyze, and interpret this whole cluster-fuck of a situation at some point. Surely, he must. Evan knows; he has (reluctantly) seen the LifeTime movies, endured the health education classes during high school. It's bound to happen at some point, right? It all goes the same, he thinks. She gets hurt. She might deny it, or she might not. Either way, it ends up eating at her from the inside out, until, at some point, she's having night terrors, and freaking out at the most random of moments, and taking three times her normal shower rate, because – fuck – they just can't quite seem to make water hot enough! And it just keeps progressing! Instead of that happy, perky, bright girl her peers knew, there is now some sort of deformed, cracked-shell of an imposter taking prisoner of her body, making her quiet, skittish, withdrawn, frightened ...victimized.

That's what's supposed to happen, right?

Someone, at some point, for some reason, questions said victim and her behavior, and then she'll spill her guts out and confide in that caring person. Soon, though, it's not just that one person – oh no. Now everyone she holds close to her heart must know, because it's their job to make her feel safe again. There's usually some more tears. Perhaps some therapy or a court trial where the victim confronts her attacker. And then the story ends; she may or not be "okay," or maybe she's adjusting just fine. Regardless, she'll move on once the credits and appropriate recognitions are rolled on the screen.

If that's the case – if that's really how it goes – then why doesn't Evan feel like any of that? That's not supposed to happen, right?

Based on LifeTime's movies and a few Law & Order episodes, Evan isn't doing any of this right. Shouldn't he be muffling screams? Isn't there supposed to be some recurring scene of the attack playing behind his eye-lids whenever he blinks? Is he, just maybe, broken? Perhaps something's not right with him. Then again, LifeTime never really cared to show males as the victims, and the sex educator – the scruffy, macho man that he was – didn't feel the need to prepare the students for this.

Does an instruction manual exist on such things? Because, if so, Evan must have fucked up somewhere at the beginning, and that means taking everything apart to rebuild. Rebuild what, though?

Evan doesn't need to cry. He doesn't feel the itch to run to the shower. True, the alcohol and sweat and general stickiness that has gathered on his body makes him want to bathe... in the morning, but not right away. When he closes his eyes, he swears he can see his pulse thumping lights behind his lids – not the occurrence. And, no, Jesus fuck – no! He doesn't want to confide in his brother or anyone else, for that matter.

Definitely not, he decides, bracing himself for the first step of the staircase. Evan grabs the banister, abused knuckles screaming while flexing his left leg muscles, and – Ahhh, balls, that fucking hurts- begins his trek. Why did they – no, scratch that. Why did Boris have stairs? Wasn't he, like, loaded!

It seems like hours before he reaches the floor, huffing and wobbling and gripping onto the walls for all the support they've got. It seems even longer, though, to make it to the bathroom. He carefully – quietly – shuts the door once he's entered, flipping on the lights with a practiced and familiar swipe of the hand. Evan winces at the brutal light, shutting his eyes and allowing his body to fall forward, until his hands grip the edges of the sink's counter, and he leans almost all of his light weight on them.

He knows he's drunk. Numerous shots and way too many beers, a viscous attack, an awkward cab ride home, and he's still wasted. Evan's not sure if it's his own accidentally spilled drinks that he's smelling, or his. Not all that positive if it's the sweat and alcohol that's making his clothes cling to certain areas of his body, of it it's his-

Evan opens his eyes wide, allowing the burst of light to burn some sense into his brain through his retinas. He's woozy. His head feels like it's filled with static. He doesn't need to be thinking about what happened, because it'll only cause more questions. Besides, Evan doesn't think it's that big of a deal...

until he notices the red, and just now coloring bruises and splotches set suspiciously into his skin.

Evan catches the flick of something on the reflection in the mirror, and his eyes go wide. He thinks he's going to throw up – can already feel the acidic, alcohol-based bile burning at the back of his throat.

Are those...? Yes. Yes, in fact, they are, Evan concludes. There are two sets of teeth marks on his body, already beginning to clot and attempt to heal themselves. One is located at the juncture of his neck and collarbone, right in the hollow where his neck dips into his shoulder. And it's disgusting – a fucking mess. All red and pink and some twisted sort of purple meets blue and, oh, the coagulated brown.

He anchors his body weight onto one arm – his left - tentatively stretches long, thin, scraped and bleeding fingers and touches the bite. Evan whimpers. For some reason, this particular wound doesn't feel like the dog bite he got when he was eleven. It hurts so, so much more. His teeth dig that much further into his abused, bottom lip, and looks downward.

Evan can feel it, more than see it. His shirt is a little torn and bunched at just the right angle, giving him a small glimpse of the horror show that lay underneath. He moves slowly and cautiously, tugging the hem of his jeans down by so much, and lifting his shirt just a bit, and, yes. That confirms it all.

There is another bite mark on his left side of his hip. Directly over the protruding bone and just an inch or so away from his actual side. It looks so much worse than the neck does. More vicious, maybe? As if there was a growl emitted when the teeth were relinquished. The bite is set purposely, though, between two finger indentations. The rest, Evan's assuming, are located more towards his back.

They're almost sort of interesting. How they're placed, and seemingly, with how much care went into placing them. Evan feels like some fucked up Salvador Dali painting.

A shiver that feels more like little rats crawls up his spine.

Just from that one peak of skin – those few inches underneath his shirt – Evan already knows how bad his body is marked. Bruises will go away, eventually. The aches and pains will gradually fade. But those bites – those fucking land marks – will scar, because he certainly isn't going to a hospital to get stitches for them. That would require explanations.

Evan's not dumb – he's just an accountant. So he reaches over the mouth wash and hand soap and tooth brush holder, trying desperately to grab the mini first aid kit that Hank insisted on having in almost every room. It's a ridiculously hard task to accomplish. He's drunk – seeing doubles and blurred edges – and trying so, so hard to just focus on one target without knocking anything over.

Evan doesn't know how he manages it, but eventually, the tips of his fingers hit the desired target – the first aid kit – and he grabs it, slowly lifting it up and over the bathroom sink's contents. It's a small victory, but that doesn't stop the small sigh that escapes Evan's throat. And it's sort of sick, really, how elated and accomplished he feels at that very moment. Evan sighs again, this one more so from the pathetic feeling he gets after the elation and accomplishment.

He shuffles backwards until his body meets the cream colored wall, first aid kit still in hand, and begins to slide down to the floor. Slowly, gingerly – my god! - carefully, Evan maneuvers his body until he meets the cold, floral patterned tiles.

It seems to take forever and two days for Evan to finish cleaning the bites. It is only when Evan finishes using the entire bottle of rubbing alcohol on the irritated skin, generously globs Neosporin onto and around the affected areas, covers it all up with two giant, square bandages, and towels up any signs of his medical treatment, that he allows himself to pause and just breathe. His head falls to rest against the wall supporting him with a dulled thunk.

Evan doesn't want to deal with this anymore. It's only been a couple of hours, and he's already fucking sick of it. I just want to sleep, he chants in his head, until it becomes a mantra that guides his body to comply with his brain.

He uses his back to push himself off the floor on up the wall, until he is standing, the wrappers of the band-aids and empty bottle of the cleansing alcohol shoved deep into his pockets. There is a brief moment of indecision where Evan debates with himself on whether or not to take the first-aid kit with him, that is quickly subsided. It takes him a significantly shorter amount of time to set the medical box back onto the counter, then it did when taking it off.

Evan's movements are jerk-like and twitchy; his body has endured all that it was capable of for the day, and probably tomorrow, too.

Just as he pulls his arm away from the sink, Evan's fingers accidentally graze the tooth brush holder. It falls and rolls into the sink with obscenely loud clink's and ding's. He groans.

No, he thinks, absolutely fucking not. Evan's done. He's finished with this. They're simply tooth brushes. Hank will probably think that his younger, most likely intoxicated brother stumbled into the holder while in the bathroom.

Evan turns his gaze away from the sink – away from the bathroom entirely – and turns off the light before exiting the room. He sighs, forcing the muscles in his legs to contract and take him to his room, where a bed is laying, open and inviting.

There's absolutely no light in the upper floor's hallways, forcing Evan to walk along them with nothing but familiarity and his toes for protection and warning. He's thankful for the dark, really. It allows him to breathe – to settle his already fried nerves. The once apprehensive shadows now seem to shield and hide Evan, whether it be from himself, or others. Most importantly, though, Evan thanks the lack of light for blocking any sort of visuals, especially when he hears his brother's door click open, shared with a tentative call of his name.

"Hank?" Evan whispers back, afraid to use his voice any louder.

There's a pause, followed by the sound of bare feet shuffling across the carpet. "Did you just get back?" Hank asks, his voice all sleep, curious, and tired eyes. "Where are you? I don't want to run into you."

"I think I'm, like, three feet in front of you."

"When did you get back?"

"A couple of minutes ago."

"Are you drunk?"


"Like, sick drunk?"

"I just need to sleep."

"Can you make it to your room all right? Do you need help?"


"I don't want you stumbling and hurting yourself."

"I'm fine," Evan mumbles, turning his head and averting his gaze despite the dark. He's not fine. He's never been more not fine in his life.

Hank seems to mull this over in his brain, checking and rechecking his brother's affirmations. It's not that he's suspicious or over-protective, really, it's more like he knows Evan doesn't tell Hank when he's not feeling right. Hank silently snorts. Trust his brother to whine and moan about a paper cut or mosquito bite, but not anything even remotely serious.

"Go lay down, Ev. I'll get you some water."

Evan's just opening his mouth with a protest when Hank takes off down the stairs. The corners of his mouth lift into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. I admit, he thinks. Yes, Evan does actually enjoy his brother's protection and worrying attitude...sometimes.

On the small walk it takes to his bedroom, Evan wonders just what would happen if he included Hank on the details of the night. What would Hank do? Would he make him go to the hospital, or the police first? Evan's seen enough 'SVU' episodes to know that he would have to undergo and exam to gather evidence that he has more than enough of; it's all over his person, soaked into his clothes and inside him. And that has Evan worried to the point of tears. He doesn't know who did this – didn't see his attacker's face or any parts of his body – or what STD's they could possibly have. Yes, a trip to the hospital for a broad spectrum test needs to occur within the week.

It's not really all of that, Evan concedes to himself, peeling out of the sticky jeans before throwing them into a corner, mindful of it's pocket's contents.. What has him keeping his lips sealed is due less to the legal matter and motions, and more to do with the process of getting those matters and motions started. How could he possibly begin to tell Hank, his older brother, the one person he cares for and has had care for him his whole life, that he was assaulted? Shit, how could he tell anyone? Not that he would tell anyone other than Hank, but the Hamptons were known by everyone for their gossip. Evan bets that the word would spread in less than a week.

He's ashamed and embarrassed. Doesn't think he could handle the pitying stares and questions and behind-the-mouth-chit-chat from strangers, let alone the person he cares most for.

Evan sighs, scrubbing his face and tired eyes with shaking hands. Tomorrow. I will deal with all of this tomorrow. For now, right at this moment and probably for the next twelve hours or so, all Evan wants on his mind is how incredibly soft the bed is, and that's only when he briefly awakens to switch positions.

He sinks into the Egyptian cotton sheets with a satisfying groan, muffled by the plump pillow he presses into his neck and face. Evan stretches an arm awkwardly around his body, grabbing his thick comforter and wrapping it around his body until he is cocooned within it – something he hasn't done since he was a child.

Evan's asleep and dead to the world when Hank walks into his room, glass of ice water in one hand, an empty bucket in the other. In the dead silence of the house, Hank can hear his baby brother's breath as if it were near a microphone. It's rhythmic and relaxing, all deep breaths and sigh-like exhales, coaxing his own body into some sort of half-sleep.

Hank's glad Evan never gets hangovers on liquor - beer only, for some odd reason - and just a little jealous. By the way his brother sounded, Hank could tell that he was gone. He was lucky to have to never suffer the repercussions of a night at the club.

He walks toward the bed, mindful of catching his toes or shins on the frame, and sets the glass down on the night stand, and the bucket within his brother's arm's reach. Turning to check and make sure his brother hasn't vomited in his sleep, his hand touches fabric. With a frown tugging at his mouth, Hank reaches out a hand, sweeping it across the space Evan's upper body would be. His frown deepens when he is met with even more blanket. Dry, unsoiled blanket, but a blanket nonetheless.

Hank is worried. It's more the brother in him, and less the doctor. His tired eyes glance to the glowing green lights of Evan's alarm clock.

4:07 a.m.

Evan's fine for now, he tries to convince himself. His brother seems to be safe and content, surrounded in the world of dreamland and blankets. He probably will be for the majority of tomorrow, too. Besides, Hank has an appointment in the morning with newest member to join the Hamptons' community.

Yes, Hank will talk to Evan tomorrow about why he is sleeping as if he needs to be shielded from a threat.


So, how do you like it? Did you like it, or did you hate it? Feedback would be appreciated, because this is our first posted fic. :]

Anywho, this story will be a Hank/Evan slash, but it won't come up until later on in the story (not too much later, but later).

Update soon.

Candy, love, lawli-pops, and corpses,