[Content warning: This thread will contain murder, power abuse, reference to prostitution, possible reference to child prostitution, and a lot of other cringe-moments]
 
Was that second drink really necessary? Maybe not. The third certainly wasn’t. But there was still time before his train left and a lot had just happened, and his anxiety about leaving was playing up. He needed some emotional fortification. Simon sat in the corner of the pub. His bag was on the bench beside him. After leaving home, he had gone to say goodbye to a few people and had then ended up here to wait until it was coming to four. Now at last, he could relax. He should focus on the fact that he was leaving this dump. That he would never be mistreated again. That he was going to make a wonderful new life for himself. Of all the opportunities and new experiences that awaited him in York. That he would spend more time with Zech. And they could build up a new life.
 
Well, and who should walk in right this during this reflection but Christopher Hurley?

[CW: Dehumanization, racism, slavery, normalization of pedophilia, etc.]

There were a few boys like Simon, though Simon was certainly the oldest of them. They were easier on the eyes without all the masculine angles, the force of will, and the difficulty of properly breaking.

He was a dog man for a while, but he was beginning to flirt with the idea of breaking horses instead ... and Simon was his first stallion.

Occasionally he would find a boy - a boy who had not considered other boys in such a way, preferably - drowning his sorrows in the way of his filthy parents. Pliable. Reluctant, but just smart enough to give in for a shilling or two.

And he would own them, like his family owned the plantation slaves in South America. Not on paper - but in mind, in deed, in body. He would pick boys with no chance of escaping their fate.

His eyes hit the red hair first, and then widened in fury at the bag. He smoothed his suit out, strode over, and picked it up like he owned it.

With a sneer down at Simon, he opened it up and spilled the contents wordlessly on the floor. Where on earth did one of his little Whitby sluts think he was going!?

Simon had told himself that if he would encounter Mr. Hurley before leaving, he would stand up for himself. He would tell the talking boar that he could go fuck himself. That Simon wasn't his. That his life was his own now, and that Mr. Hurley would never see him again. Even in his mind, he had to tell Mr. Hurley that all the time, whenever he thought of him. Hurley hadn't just taken his body. He had taken his mind. But no more, Simon had told himself.

And yet, as he laid eyes on the man approaching, fear slipped back in. He stood up quickly. With dread, he realized that his bag lay beside him in full view, as evidence that he was leaving without permission. And indeed, Mr. Hurley looked at it with a look that made Simon shrink. His muscles tensed and his breathing became difficult as he watched Hurley open the bag and toss the contents on the floor.

"Stop it." Was all he managed to bring out.

Hurley let out an indignant, short laugh, though his gaze was broiling with rage.

"And who are you," he said, kicking aside fallen luggage and wiping a foot off on it, "to tell me what to do? Some sodomite sucking cock at the docks!"

As if he were removed from the equation - above it all. As if the ant unable to outrun the magnifying glass were more culpable than the very giant holding it.

Simon winced at the stinging words and turned red. He looked around, hoping that no one had heard it - and that no one was seeing what was going on, as if he should be ashamed of himself.

One of his shirts on the floor had a stain on it, where Mr. Hurley had wiped the dirt of the street off on it. He wanted to pick it up, but dared not stoop down with an angry Hurley so close.

"I'm not, anymore. I'm leavin' Whitby." He wanted to sound determined, but he couldn't help the light tremor in his voice.

[CW: Chris? Additionally a physically abusive misogynist? Shock and awe.]

Again, he let out that condescending, cold laugh.

"Oh, not any more, right? Like all the other cock suckers," the word seemed to echo through the bar, though they were hardly the only ones talking, "who told himself he was juuuust sucking cock and moaning like a woman on his back for the money."

He laughed, as though it were the most absurd thing he had ever heard ... and he had certainly heard it before. Quite sincerely.

And damned if he let another kid's life become normal while he still had the chance to properly ruin it like they deserved.

He grabbed Simon by the collar.

"You owe me, Simon," he said flatly, as though stating water was wet.

He yanked him forward with a sneer.

"Where the Hell do you think you are going?"

Simon shot red as Hurley almost shouted that word. But he was unable to speak. When the man grabbed his by the collar, he winced, because the skin on his back was still sore and the sudden movement hurt. But he hardly resisted.

Hurley was right. His power over Simon was based on more than money alone. There was that irrational fear of the unpredictable man, sometimes merciful, sometimes cruel, and apparently all-powerful. Simon hated him, and yet he was afraid to anger Hurley. He hated him, and yet whenever a boy had brought a message, he had come to him like some obedient dog. And even now, when the man was mocking him and threatening him, Simon hardly resisted. A mere change of tone in Hurley's voice was enough to force Simon back into submission. The current display of rage made him feel paralyzed.

The owner of the pub approached the men, ready to break up a fight and kick them out for vulgarity, but when he saw Hurley, well-dressed and moneyed, he walked away. How he would regret it.

"I am going to York and not coming back..." Simon said, wishing he would sound more convincing, even to himself.

"You?" Chris scoffed with a derisive smile. "York?" Yet the shortness of his retorts were like bullets versus stab wounds. "The only way you would end up in York is a prison cell!"

He shoved Simon's shoulders with a crinkle of his nose.

"The hell do you think is in York for you?" he cajoled, snide as ever - as if he had already won by merely asking.

Simon grimaced as Hurley gave him a shove, but he didn't fight back. Whether it was father or Hurley, Simon never fought back. He would argue, he would provoke, he would insult. But he never fought back. It was an impossibility. He always submitted to it in the end. They had won from the beginning. But no more. Simon wouldn't submit any longer. His life was his own. He had left home, and now he was leaving Hurley.

And yet there was a flicker of doubt, as Hurley mocked the idea. All this time, Simon had told himself that in York there would be a place for him at last. In York he would be free and happy and he could be himself. But Hurley had the power to make him doubt everything he held true, and for a moment, he believed that he could never be happy in York. He was destined for misery and humiliation.

No. In less than an hour, he would be on the train and he would be free and Hurley would hold no power over him anymore. He took a deep breath and risked looking Hurley straight in the eye - something he dreaded, even now. "I'll thank you to step off my things, and leave me alone." There was a tremor in his voice, and yet it was more steady now. Hurley no longer owned him.

Some people nearby had moved to other tables. Some were watching from a safe distance. But no one intervened. Simon, in his poor fisherman clothes and a half-healed black eye looked like an obvious thug. Hurley was evidently a gentleman. Surely, the gentleman had something to settle with him. Perhaps the thug had stolen something, or owned him money. It wasn't their business. Some fishermen recognized Simon. They watched closely in case Hurley would harm him, but they knew that Simon was difficult and had probably gotten himself into this situation, and they preferred not to get involved.

"Thank me later, whore," Chris snidely said, grinding his heel into a butt of bread. "York," he demanded once more. "What is in York?"

Who did he need to bribe to ruin Simon's life straight off the train?