Leo eating ice cream👀🫶

Leo sits in the center of his bed, his legs folded under him, flipping through the pages of his spiral-bound notebook. 

Its contents, Leo thinks, are his most valuable possession. Every rule, every half-rule, all the suggestions that he remembers Luke telling him fill the first pages. When it was clear that Luke was becoming more careful about creating rules, it became a place to write the things that he did that he thought made Luke happy, and the things he did that upset him. 

Every night, Leo looks through it to try to find patterns. To try to figure out whatever missing pieces he can. Luke knows that this notebook exists, but Leo isn’t sure if he’s looked through it yet. 

He flips to the first blank page and writes a ‘one.’

If you do well, I’ll sneak you a treat, Handler Young says. 

Luke seemed happy that I suggested eggs for breakfast. He writes a ‘two.’

The lights went out an hour ago, but he did well, and his handler told him not to fall asleep.

Luke smiled when I won the game. He writes a ‘three.’

He hears the lock click and his eyes snap open. Had he fallen asleep? He feels the handler’s weight on the mattress before his eyes have adjusted to the dark. He doesn’t know what he’ll be told to do, but he’ll do it. He doesn’t want a fucking treat, he just wants to sleep. How long has it been since he’s slept?

Leo continues writing his list, this small, ridiculous, silly thing that he cherishes. He knows it’s childish, and he knows it could get him in trouble, but it gives him some false sense of control over something he knows he has so little control over. And so he cherishes it.

“Easy,” Handler Young says, his hand sliding under Leo’s shirt. Leo controls his breathing, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t do anything other than let out a breathy gasp and close his eyes. It’ll be over, and the handler will let him sleep. 

When he finishes with him, he whispers, “You did so good today.” 

Leo swallows. It’s dark enough that the handler can’t see his face, but still, he’s careful to keep it neutral. “You did so good today,” the handler repeats, kissing him once on his forehead before standing. He sets something on the table beside Leo’s bed. 

The unspoken command is to accept it, even as the handler exits his room without another word. After the lock clicks, Leo picks up the item. 

It’s some kind of cookie, he thinks, but he can’t see it. He nibbles on it, letting the taste sit on his tongue, covering the lingering aftertaste that feels like it never quite goes away. 

Leo doesn’t cry that night as he eats the cookie. Instead, he focuses on what went right, commits the day to memory, promises himself he’ll do well again tomorrow.

With a deep breath, Leo closes the notebook. He stands and makes his way to the hall, where the lights are all out. He knows Luke is asleep, and so he’s particularly careful in his movements. It feels sneaky, even with Luke’s explicit permission.

The house is pitch black, but he easily maneuvers down the stairs, across the living room, into the little kitchenette. He opens the freezer and finds the pint of ice cream that Luke bought him two weeks ago. It hasn’t been touched since the last time he came down here, honoring some perverse reward system that he’s set up with himself. 

His heart races. 

He did well today. Luke bought this for him. Luke wants him to eat it. Luke told him it was okay. Luke meant it, and will not punish him for doing the thing that he has asked him to do.

He unscrews the cap and the ice cream is just as he left it three days ago, a perfect cylinder missing two spoonfuls. He digs out a third. 

Leo doesn’t really like sweets. He’s never been one to seek out chocolates or candies or cookies or pies or pastries. He isn’t sure what it is about this ice cream in this freezer in this man’s house that makes his heart race, but it does. Luke bought this for him, he picked it out for him, after Leo made some off-hand comment about his favorite ice cream as a child. It means something, he thinks. He takes a breath.

The flavor hits his tongue and he closes his eyes, letting it melt in his mouth. It doesn’t last nearly long enough, gone within a matter of seconds, but it’s okay. He’ll have more good days, and Luke will not tire of him. He smiles, as the last of the flavor dissipates.

He closes the container and puts it back in the freezer, he washes his spoon and puts it back in the drawer, and he quietly makes his way back to his bedroom, where he opens his notebook once more.

It was a good day, he writes. I’m going to be okay.