Leo is in agony.
He's hurt before, certainly. Hurt a lot from slaps and kicks and bites and nicks, but this is something else entirely. This is something akin to a spear, stabbing into his chest, wrenching through muscle and cracking bone and then ripping out again.
He can't breathe.
His lungs are filled with blood. He should be dead, shouldn't he? His heart isn't pumping, and yet he can still see, can still think, can still gasp like a fish out of water, drowning in his own blood as he curls onto his side and retches and kicks and squirms.
"Are you done being a hindrance yet, Glen?"
It's Oz's voice, but not quite. Lower, clearer, with something strung over it like taunt, sharp wires. Leo gasps for air, chokes on blood again, tastes it on his tongue, and glances up through a blurry gaze to see Oz smiling down at him.
But it isn't Oz.
He knows it isn't Oz.
The boy's hand reaches down, fisting into his hair and jerks him up from the ground with a strength that belies his slender form. Leo coughs and chokes, eyes glazing, blood splattering from the open, gaping wound on his chest as his shredded heart thinks of ways only a Baskerville's heart could think of to repair itself.
The smile that not-Oz gives him makes him want to die more than ever.
It isn't the pain. It isn't the fact that he so very, very much wants to die and be with Elliot, wherever he may be. It's the fact that not-Oz's smile is so very sweet, so very saccharine, so very promising of worse things and Leo is certain, so certainat this point that he just can't take any more.
"I know you're in there, Glen."
It's Jack. It isn't Oz.
Leo simply moans as he's thrown back to the ground, his face cracking against cobblestone. Jack-in-Oz's-body drops over him – knees on either side of his hips, balanced neatly over his lower back with a hand still fisted into his hair, twisting, yanking, ripping at it cruelly.
"I know you're in there. Come out. Come out."
If Glen is there, he's not listening, and Leo doesn't blame him. He sobs, wet and hard into the stone below as Jack's hands – and they are Jack's, not Oz's – are clawing at his hips, wrenching away fabric, hiking his body up, rough and uncaring of how much he is still bleeding with every pitiful pump of what remains of his heart.
"Shall we, for old time's sake?"
And he's on his back again, with an ungraceful shove and he lands in an equally inelegant heap, arching and lurching with the shock of pain that travels yet again through his system. He only manages some sort of incoherent, gurgling sob, blood welling up in the back of his throat once more.
More terrifying than being held down and taken like this is the fact that while it is Jack's smile, Jack's cruel hands, Oz's eyes are still there – brimming with hot tears and wide with fear for not only himself, but Leo. It's almost laughable in how scary it is; how horrific, that Jack is simply gone, simply uncaring at this point.
How deep does that grudge lie, anyway?
Saliva is a sort of useless lubrication when spat into Jack's hand, swiped over his cock – useless, useless, but the forward shove of his hips is nothing compared to the rest of the pain in his body and Leo falls limp into the ground, trembling; unable to even sob with how bitter, coopery blood taints his tongue, focusing far more on the heave of his breath that should be impossible, the breaking of his nails as they claw into the stone ground.
And Jack just laughs.
Laughs as he uses him, laughs as he breaks him that much more, and Leo finally does whimper when he comes, making him burn and squirm and ache as he spills himself inside of him. He's shoved aside like a rag doll when Jack is finished and so Leo doesn't bother moving, doesn't even try to breathe anymore and only listens to the cracking of bone and melding of rent flesh as his body tries so desperately to heal.
"The proud Baskerville name… should learn to be sacrifices themselves more often."
Leo, unfortunately, can't find it in himself to disagree.