The cinched belt, even though it's not tight, is enough to keep him excited and alert. He's not going to move, and the thought doesn't even cross his mind.

This is what it comes down to. He's a worthless junkie, Liam has made sure that's embedded into his brain. He shifts, nervous, and finds himself licking his lips apprehensively as Liam and his narrow hips move to the closet. He's never really been up here, or if he was he was so out of it he can't remember. That isn't exactly unheard of.

Straps and he swears he sees a whip or something there, and the only time he takes his eyes off of the closet is to look, worried, at the cage. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything here.

He almost--almost--wishes he was in the basement.

His gaze snaps back when the other speaks, and the confusion on his face is evident.

"Is that a straightjacket?"