Jonathan attended a good school, that much his parents could afford-- where they taught him to speak properly, eliminate the country lilt he'd developed and behave himself like a gentleman.

He had friends there. Older boys, who liked making the younger ones run about doing chores for them. Liked making jests about his lagging slur of an accent and his untidy hair, always-polished shoes and the prim military stance his father had beaten him into keeping.

One in particular seemed to like him. The feeling wasn't mutual.

He had a habit, when speaking, of throwing an arm around his shoulders-- petting the place on Jonathan's shoulders where his spine jutted, the fragile bones pressed out at the nape. It was much too familiar, and not the only place he enjoyed putting his hands when he thought no one was looking.

Who would say wicked things-- terrible things-- when they were both supposed to be asleep. And only sometimes would he wake to realise he'd been dreaming, with fever-sweat on his forehead and the press in his throat nothing but the choke of shame, and nothing to hear but the rasp of his own breathing. Or sometimes he'd hear other noises from the shadows, scattered scornful laughter or hastily departing feet--

He would like dearly to pretend that that isn't what this reminds him of.

His hair is too long, filthy-- it hasn't been cut for months now, as he has no scissors, and his razor lies at the bottom of his bags, forgotten. Blood flecks his lips-- he can imagine his breathing coming harder, and soon it does, short shallow breaths like his lungs are full of water. If this is what drowning feels like, he has no reason to recommend it-- his sight swims, whether with dizziness or the sudden sharp appearance of tears he could not say.

His very mouth feels clotted, thick with iron. It's as if he can feel his heart slowing, and he can imagine it-- just as well as if he were laid out like one of Seward's corpses, fragile flesh worn out from screaming and fragile bloody organs spread out for all to see like something dead. Cold hands rest under his shirt, deceptively strong for all that they are light-- another body curled around him with the ease of a too-familiar lover, the weight holding him down like so many stones with just a touch. The Count's fingernails trail like needles against the soft skin of his belly, and he tries to scream. No words will come.

His own fingers are worn to bleeding from scratching at the roof of the box, finding no purchase. If this is what dying is like-- what Lucy felt, tangled in grave clothes in her lead-lined prison-- For a moment, senses reeling, breath shallow, he wonders if he'll suffocate at last here. Save that he scarcely need breath.