Explosions of white and red crash through his vision with each hit. The hand at his throat cuts off his air, crushing cartilage, sealing his airway, but it hardly matters. The knee in his chest crushes his silent heart, ribs cracking, the sternum separating with a sickening crunch. His head lolls and returns with every punch, the flesh of his lips torn and bleeding, the meat of his cheek turning to bloody pulp, marring his marble white skin.

In his head, he feels each blow, catalogs each injury, the images tangling with the memories of last night, of tasting his skin and the sweet heaven of his blood. If Javert can't take what he needs from his heart and his mind, let him take it from his body. He will give whatever is required of him.

He can only mouth the words now, one hand clinging to the man's sleeve.

Stay.



Be.



Still.