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He makes it as far as the border between the highroad and the eastern port before Father catches him. Father cages him in, grip unforgiving against his wrists, holding him against a nearby tree, heedless of Asbel's struggling. He’s still growing, might turn out to be as tall as his father someday, but it’s not enough to push his father away from him and free himself.
“Stop it, let go!” Asbel shouts, the bark digging uncomfortably into his back through his clothes. “You can’t control me anymore.”
“Yes, I can,” Father says, a gloved hand closing around Asbel's throat, threatening him into silence. "You're my son. I know what's best for you."
"No, you don't," Asbel forces out, his voice a weak gasp at the tightening around his neck.
Father's eyes are hard, terrifying, angry in a way that Asbel has scarcely seen before. The words register in his mind like a haze, nearly drowned out by the pounding of blood in his ears as he struggles to breathe.
"Then make a scene all you like," Father says. "You won't make it out of Lhant. I've informed the militia and the ports. They'll send you right back to me. You may as well come home."
The hand loosens, and Asbel gives a full-body shiver at the thought. The ground wavers under his feet, and he grips the tree behind him with a hand to steady himself. Father allows him the chance to test that theory, stepping back with a coldly patient look in his eye. Asbel knows, practically since birth, the people of Lhant are loyal to his father, they'd never defy his word. Even if he ran, even if he managed to lose his father, the sailors would forbid his boarding, and the militiamen would haul him back to his father anyway, like a runaway stock gotten loose.
"Well, Asbel?"
Asbel swallows.
Father seizes him by the arm and takes him back home.
No one gives them any particular stares as they return to town, besides the usual pleasantries. His father has released his hold on him, assured he won't run, and Asbel smiles as he always does when speaking to the townspeople. They return to the manor, and as they cross the threshold and Father dismisses Frederic, Asbel begins to shiver slightly. Father must notice, for he places a hand on his shoulder and guides him up the stairs. The shivering doesn't stop.
Then the door to father's room finally closes, and Asbel sits himself on the bed, breathing a little too hard. Father touches his face gently. His expression would appear neutral to most, but Asbel knows he's worried.
"Would you like to rest?"
"No," Asbel says, taking another long breath. He lets it go. "Just give me a minute, please."
He lets Father undress him down his shirt and trousers. His heart races a little too fast.
"I'm okay," Asbel says preemptively, before Father can suggest they stop. "I'm ready."
He rises to his feet. The floorboards are slightly cool against his bared feet. Father regards him, a fond look on his face that makes Asbel's heartbeat ease just a little bit, and he looks away for the embarrassment of it all. He's much too old to be craving this sort of validation, he admonishes himself, but when Father lifts his chin with a gloved hand, he can't help but lean in.
Father closes his eyes and breathes in, and Asbel braces himself.
"Take off your clothes."
"What?"
His father's eyes are cold, looking down at him. The force of the strike had knocked Asbel down onto the bed, and he props himself up on an elbow, turning back to glare at his father.
"Take off your clothes," Father repeats. "Or I will do it for you."
Asbel clenches his jaw. Of course, he knew simply agreeing to return home would not spare him any punishment from Father, but Father never had the time or patience for any punishment that involved more effort than striking Asbel where he stood, or making him do work for the maids or townspeople. He shivers.
Father grabs at his leg, and Asbel jerks back.
"Fine," he says quickly, "Fine, I'll do it."
His face is aflame, more than the mere warmth of the welt on his face, left by his father's gloved hand. Taking off his shirt is easy, at least, but taking off his trousers makes his hands shake. He can't look his father in the eye. If he had, he might have noticed how his gaze lingers.
"You're not done," Father says.
"Seriously?" Asbel throws out, anything to distract himself from the shame creeping over his body.
"Do it, or I will do it for you, Asbel."
Asbel bites his lip and pulls off his underwear. He shudders, and can't look at his father at all.
The pain isn't what he's worried about at all. His father has beaten him before, struck him across the face or rapped his hands with a ruler, bruised him with a tight grip dragging him home. It's always to be expected.
This is new.
With the way Father sits down next to him and throws Asbel over his lap in a smooth motion, Asbel would have thought his father had done this before. Would have, were it not for the sharp sting his bared backside. He yelps.
"Count." Father says.
"What?"
Another strike to the other cheek. Asbel bites down on his tongue to remain quiet. Already he can feel the flush of something other than embarrassment over his skin. He feels warm, in a way he knows he absolutely should not when bent over his father's lap.
"I said," Father hits him again. "Count."
Asbel feels tears well in his eyes. His tongue stings from his teeth, but he knows, if he opens his mouth, he'll start to cry, or worse. His entire body feels alight, there's no way Father can't feel him growing hard against his lap.
A stronger smack. Asbel forces himself not to bite through his tongue and clenches his jaw, knuckles turning white against the bedsheets.
"One," he manages, hoping it's loud enough for his father to hear. He buries his face into the sheets as best he can. It doesn’t offer much comfort.
His body jolts at the next strike, and he lets out a sob with the count that he hopes doesn't sound like something else. His breathing catches when Father places a hand on his rear, the touch of his gloves cool against his warmed skin, and massages the struck area briefly. He flinches when the hand leaves, before Father brings his hand down again.
"Th-Three," he chokes out into the damp sheets, stained with his tears. He squirms, shivers at the feeling of his cock trapped against his father's thigh.
Father pauses. For a moment, the only sounds as of his son crying softly, his naked body trembling across his father's lap.
"Control yourself, Asbel. I am your father."
Asbel breathes in shakily, humiliation seeping into his bones.
"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"
But when his father strikes him again, he can't help the sound that escapes his mouth. He smothers it with his palms. Father rubs his palm soothingly against the raised skin, then hits him again. Asbel cries out into his own hands. He's stopped counting. Even if he did, the sharp touches are making the world a little hazy now, and he closes his eyes, losing count. It still hurts, but it's a pleasant pain now, like the ache of a long day's training, or from running drills.
Asbel bites down on his fingers when he comes, an obscenely embarrassing noise spilling from his mouth. He shudders through the aftershocks, losing sense of the world around him, and it's not until he catches his breath and the silence of the room settles in that he realises what he's just done.
Father's breathing is so loud. Asbel shakes, acutely aware of where his father's clothes are soiled with Asbel's come. His head spins. He thinks he might make his fingers bleed.
He moves to squirm off his father's lap, but Father places a hand on the back of his neck and he goes still. The man lets out a slow breath.
"Who was it?"
The question is enough to startle Asbel out of his tears. He sniffles, releases his fingers and digs them into the dampened sheets. He thinks his father is rubbing a thumb over the curve of his neck, but maybe that's only his imagination.
"What?"
"Who's touched you like this before?"
Asbel raises his head, but Father pushes his neck back down. The boy's forehead rests against the bed.
"No one," Asbel says.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Asbel suddenly feels very small. He shivers. He aches, and he knows it'll be a pain to sit down later, but maybe... maybe Father won't try this again, if he knows what reaction it'll get out of his son. Asbel doesn't care, the sheer shame of his father witnessing him like this is enough to make him feel terrified of any other punishments. He's never going to be able to get over this humiliation. Maybe he should run away just so he doesn't have to live with his father's disgust.
"I'm sorry," he offers. "I'm such a screw-up."
Father is quiet for a moment. Then:
"Ow!" Asbel hisses. He hadn't been expecting that one.
"You haven't finished counting," Father says. "You were at three."
Maybe it's the shock of it, or the tone of Father's voice, but Asbel forgets himself for a moment.
"It's four," he doesn't mumble, "That was the fourth."
He waits for Father to hit him again, but the man lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. Asbel feels his body go a little bit lighter. It's so rare to hear Father laugh.
And like that, the mood shifts. Asbel breathes a little easier, as Father lays him on his stomach on the bed and quickly changes the clothes that Asbel had ruined. He tries not to moan as Father rubs a healing gel over his heated skin, the touch of his ungloved hand soothing beyond words. Father simply sighs at him for it.
"What am I going to do with you?" Father asks, as Asbel feels himself growing hard again.
"I could think of a few ideas."
Father swats at his untouched thigh. Asbel smiles into the pillow.