They'd known they'd hurt. How the hell could they act like they were enjoying this?
Aoba feels the corners of his eyes prickle with tears. "Virus."
"Yes, Aoba-san?" Virus replies. His precome's already spread slick across Trip's hand.
"Don't act like you enjoy this," Aoba says through clenched teeth. You don't deserve it. Neither of you do.
There's a pause, as if all three of them are holding their breath at once and the entire world is still. And then Virus is struggling against Trip's touch, so violently that he's tearing his shirt and scratching against his chest like a wild animal fighting for its life. Trip is shaking, and he gasps when Virus's nails claws over his bare skin, breaking it open and leaving strings of raised red scars in their wake.
"No," Virus gasps, spit running down his chin. "No!"
"Virus," Trip breathes. He's so pale that Aoba fears he might actually be sick, but he can't feel sympathy for him. "Virus, I'm sorry."
Trip lets go of Virus's cock, forces his legs apart and presses his slick fingers inside him. Virus winces, and Aoba watches on. He still feels like crying. One of the few things that had kept him sane while they were treating him this way had been the feeling that he was holding onto himself, staying who he was despite the ways they tried to break him.
Now he's no better than they are. The fact that he doesn't care anymore merely confirms that they've pushed him beyond help.
And so Aoba watches as Virus struggles and cries out, as Trip fucks him roughly against the bed that had been his entire world for the past year and a half, and lets the tears run down his face unchecked. It doesn't take Trip long to come, and he's thankful for it. Trip and Virus part quickly and quickly clean themselves off. Aoba can see the streaks of red and white down the inside of Virus's thigh as he uses the bed sheets to wipe himself.