Chapter Text
This is what it inevitably comes to, Percival thinks. He hurts all over with every breath he takes, is hungry, cold and naked without even his captor for company. He sinks deep into the darkness of his thoughts.
Maybe this is his just deserts, that after years and years of hiding himself, resisting and rebelling against what society told him to be, he is brought down by an alpha like nature has always dictated. Something crumbles inside him at the thought, part despair and part resignation, mourning over how all he has done is ultimately for naught. And to his horror, his eyes that have been dry for what seems like weeks sting with tears of anger and sorrow. Still, he does not let them fall just as he has never let them during the times Grindelwald inflicted curse upon curse out of sadistic glee.
Oh, the day Grindelwald had walked into this prison with his very own face and body had almost been the last straw. It had shaken him to the core to see his form brought out with the natural air and posture of an alpha, something he can never be no matter how hard he tries. Even the times of his younger days filled with moments of humiliation as a result of his biology had not compared to the moment Grindelwald had flaunted how much better Percival Graves is as an alpha. Percival had never felt such hatred towards another and himself.
While he did command respect with his authority and expertise as the Director of Magical Security, nobody will ever know the time and effort, the will he had put in to not only be better, but simply equal. But the dark wizard had completely undermined his work and reduced the value of his being through nothing but a damn potion and shallow acting. As if a well-poised flick of a hand and furrowed brows in sternness are all there is to him.
Although he means not to feel hurt—because who can be blamed falling for the trickery of a masterful wizard?—it still rankles that he remains chained and undiscovered.
Percival has long ago lost track of time, and that in itself is alarming. Or rather, he knows it’s supposed to be alarming but lacks the sense of urgency. And when did he lie down on the floor? He remembers sitting upright, determined to be ready for the next visit and never be caught vulnerable—any more vulnerable than this, that is. His left side is numb from the chill of the concrete floor, so it has been a considerable while.
A bitten-back cry of frustration leaves his cracked lips bleeding, and it’s then that he notices his captor has not returned to give him water for some time. Even for no other business than to slide a bowl of water into his cell, Grindelwald had come at least once a day. Is he finally being left alone?
The sting in his eyes return again. He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not.
Percival Graves will die here alone, life completely taken over ironically by the man he had sought to put in jail. Perhaps it’s an indication of his own success that someone being an alpha with his face invokes no suspicion whatsoever.
It’s all that he has ever wanted: to be the alpha the Graves’ name deserves.
And yet...
Though he had trained vigorously and suppressed every part of himself that could be viewed as weak to others, he has desired every once in a while the family he will not have. Being the oldest child of the head of the main family leaves little room for dreams and whimsical needs, unfortunately. Furthermore, encountering alpha after alpha of distasteful disposition, nothing at all like his refined father who always respects his omega mother, has put a permanent damper on the idea of a mate.
And yet, knowing he is dying without an opportunity to give those desires a chance cuts too deep. It twists his mind, heart and soul with a pain beyond the physical. The agony of an omega straining under the pressure of denial.
His body decides to betray him in this moment, a lick of heat starting deep within his belly. Despite not having had one since his presentation, Percival recognises the beginnings of a heat. It’s with dread he realises he has not taken any suppressants since his capture.
This is what it inevitably comes to, to end just as it began. What a rotten, shameful mess he has become.
The tears are harder to hold back now, what with him losing control of his body. Though he has never been one for praying, he prays desperately now to be struck down before Grindelwald sees him like this. If not that at least to die of dehydration from this heat. He cannot possibly ask for dignity in his final moment at this point, only mercy.
Like a wildfire, the heat spreads. It becomes unbearable too soon, sweat dripping and slick pooling. He pants and gulps for air since he has no energy to manoeuver himself into a less stressful position. His skin feels too stretched over his muscles and it aggravates the wounds that have not healed properly in the absence of torture. Percival whines for relief, a pitiful thing of a sound from a torn-up throat, then immediately curses himself though there is no one else to witness his depravity.
When the door opens unexpectedly, he is nearly out of his mind. Only stubbornness and sheer will allows him to be aware of what is happening amidst the overtaking of instinct.
What Percival smells is alpha and it’s not Grindelwald. What he hears is a soothing voice.
What finally breaks him is the cold hand that cups his cheek, his last resistance crumbling as his omega seeks comfort.
The tears come fast and hard. He can’t see who it is and he still can’t move. Nonetheless he begs, further shattering himself.
“Please,” he sobs. “Please...”
The voice hushes him, and the hand moves from his face to stroke his head softly. His hair is disgusting, Percival thinks hysterically, but he starts to relax. He cries and cries and this alpha breathes with him through it.
The hand and voice stay until darkness claims him.