What Good Are Words? (I Could've Betrayed You)

by Nikks_purgatory

Summary:

And with the last drop of liqour from the bottle spills out, the glass hits the floor in tandem with his body. Theres a fleshy sound that follows, the kind of sound like meat being split open with a knife.

He didn't mean it. He never meant for it to happen.

Notes:

HIIIII guess who back. This (hopefully) will be updated weekly but I can’t make any promises. Also this will work like 752dbwc where it will be a longer fic. I already have most of it planned out but who knows I love to just add shit in when I feel like it… anyways read the tags and enjoy!

Chapter 1: Are You Man Enough?

 

“Don’t be such a baby.”

 

Zach Skeet’s words ring inside of Matt’s head like a ball, bouncing off the sides of his skull the same way that the throbbing of a headache would make him feel dizzy. “It’s not like anything’ll happen if you do. It’s just a drink.” Skeet continued, pushing the glass bottle closer to Matt across the table. Faint grey eyes looked at the bottle, then at Skeet. Matt’s lower lip quivered, as if he was afraid to speak up to the older boy. “But—“ Matt started, finding some courage to try and avoid downing the liquor. “But what? Seriously, Matt, you’re so childish. It’s just a drink. Don’t tell me you’re actually scared.” Skeet continued, scoffing as he leaned back in the chair.

 

The TV was still on in the living room, playing whatever channel the two had left it on earlier when Skeet first came over to celebrate. The cake was pulled from the fridge, which was half eaten by both of them. The candles were blown out and strewn on the table nearby. “But… isn’t it bad for us? Mom said that you have to be an adult to drink alcohol…” The younger mumbled quietly, Skeet’s gaze falling on him more intently than the boy had hoped. “So what? You’re a year older now, so you’re technically closer to being an adult than a baby. Just drink it.”

 

Matt’s gaze once again fell on the bottle. The glass was lime-green in colour, the cap was crudely opened and popped off by Skeet earlier in an attempt to remove it properly. The smell that wafted from the inside was weird. It was sour and bitter to Matt’s senses, making him crinkle his nose. He remembered hearing his mother speak about wine once, when he was younger. She had always said different scents came with different kinds, but all Matt could smell was the grossness and bitterness that came from the bottle. He hated it. He moved his head away from the bottle, hand slowly wrapping around the cooled glass neck to swish the liquid around inside of it. The tiny bubbles slowly fizzled to the top, making a soft hiss that only made the pangs of concern dig deeper in Matt’s stomach.

 

Matt turns his head, looking at Skeet. He looked at the bottle one last time before he let out a sigh. “Um…” A glance at the older boy. “Aren’t you gonna drink, too?” Matt spoke, looking at the pack of bottles that were unopened on the table near Skeet. Skeet stopped, brows knitting together like he was confused. “What?” Skeet sat upright, looking at Matt like he was stupid. “You said there was nothing to worry about… And, you’re older than me, so you’ve drank before, right?” It was pure innocence, the words spilling from between Matt’s teeth. Skeet, despite knowing this, felt something red-hot boiling inside of his veins. He did say there was nothing to worry about. Was Matt teasing him? Saying that he, Skeet, was the chicken? “‘Course I have, dumbass.” Skeet rolled his eyes, lying while swiping a bottle from the pack in a moment of desperation to look as cool as he thought he would if he did it. “You’re such a loser for thinking anything bad will happen. It’s just a drink.”

 

He shrugged the sleeve of his hoodie down over his palm, closing his hand around the top to try and pop the cap off. He knew better than to use his hand uncovered— years of fetching bottomless glasses and bottles for her father pre-opened had taught him that a bottle opener was best, but Skeet didn’t want to go snooping around the kitchen to see if the Rivera family owned one. They probably did, seeing as they owned literally everything else in the world… He thought bitterly, twisting and popping the cap off with some force. There was an audible sound that came after, followed by the soft wafting of trapped air releasing from the bottle. He knew Matt was watching his every move with a wide-eyed stare, eyes following the movement of his hands as thin fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle while the liquid sloshed inside.

 

Skeet took the first sip, the taste of something sour forcing its way down his throat felt like a violent and unwanted intrusion in his body. How can adults get addicted to this? It tastes so bad. He felt it warm his tongue and the back of his throat the longer it stuck, but it didn’t make it taste any better. If anything, it made it worse. “See?” He swallowed the last bits stuck to the sides of his mouth, the corner of his lips twitching at the awful taste. “Now drink yours. I brought it just for you.”

 

Matt felt his chest tighten at the words. Skeet did bring it all just for him. So, swallowing his fears like a warm glass of whiskey, Matt slowly brought the tip of the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back slightly. The taste nearly made him gag. It was sour and unpleasant, only becoming warm with the weird tingle down the back of his throat that he didn’t enjoy— not at all. He grimaced as he swallowed, setting the bottle down as he looked to Skeet with an unhappy gaze. “Skeet, it tastes weird. Can’t we just drink the juice in the fridge…?” The only response Matt got was Skeet groaning, as if his plea was nothing but an annoyance to the older boy.

 

“That’s just how it tastes. The more you drink, the better it gets.” Skeet wasn’t even sure if he was telling the truth, or if he was right at all. There had to be a reason why his dad loved to drink so many of these. Maybe it just tasted better the more you’ve drank. So, experimentally, he did the same as Matt. He took a longer sip, trying to get accustomed to the way it tasted on his tongue. He could feel Matt’s gaze laid on him, following his actions and taking another sip. He’s trying to one-up me. The disgusting echo of a voice in his head that festered like an ugly scar, opening and spewing black blood across his brain like an infection until it reaches into his veins under his skin, making him feel nothing but vile envy.

 

So, Skeet downed it. He tipped his head back quite far, feeling the wood of the chair lightly tap against the back of his head as the liquid rushed down over his tongue. One bottle wouldn’t get him drunk. It takes his dad at least five to get angry. There were only four bottles left. Two left for each of them. Didn’t people call this stuff liquid courage anyway? He had drunk half the bottle by the time he had realized it. It sat in his otherwise empty stomach, a part of him wishing he had eaten a little bit more cake.

 

Matt was struggling to down the amount Skeet did, the liquid probably having to be forced down his throat by a strong swallow. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to drink all that. Skeet himself didn’t feel too comfortable about drinking three bottles, but he had to prove it to Matt, obviously. He rarely could finish what was on his plate on a normal day if there was ever enough on his plate, so three bottles of beer… maybe he could prove something to himself, too.

 

And so it began. Skeet would occasionally eye Matt, refusing to fully meet his gaze, dismissively. Matt was still on his first when the younger boy heard Skeet crack open the second one. Neither of them had said a word to each other for the time they had been drinking, and Skeet intended to keep it that way. Matt, however, didn’t.

 

“After we… um, finish our drinks,” He began, much to the displeasure of Skeet. “Can we go play a game? Maybe Roblox? We can take turns on my computer.” He tried to smile, the look of hope in his eyes that Skeet would agree was wavering like a broken flag. Skeet glanced at him first, putting his bottle down before facing him. Whatever. “Sure. We can do that.” He answered, seeing the way that Matt’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree upon hearing. Skeet felt something churn inside of him like flesh stuck between two gears. He quickly turned his gaze away, taking another long sip. Matt slowly turned back to his own drink, doing the same to finish it. Once there were only a few drops left at the tip, Matt placed it on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Skeet turned only a little, placing his down to grab another for Matt.

 

He was slow, this time. Reaching for the bottle with slightly hued cheeks. He grabbed it, dragging it across the table to himself to open it for the younger boy. He struggled, his sleeved hand twisting the cap with less accuracy than before. Once it was off after a good minute or so of trying, he slid it over to Matt, who mumbled out a polite ‘thank you’ before taking a small sip. Skeet didn’t reply.

 

Time began to blur for Skeet. He could see out of the corner of his eye the window that had been left open with the curtains pulled to the side. There was a slight fog on the glass, the winter weather gently brushing up against it like a calling. Snow had fallen earlier in the day, leaving Skeet with rosy cheeks and his hoodie zipped up as high as it could go when he first arrived at Matt’s place. Despite never being properly dressed for the season, Skeet liked the winter. Something about the cold brushing up against him felt nice. It felt welcoming in a way. Comforting even. He had barely realized that he had finished his second, and Matt was halfway through his. His head felt a little light, words building on his tongue.

 

He reached for his third, head slowly bobbing as he grabbed the neck of the bottle and pulled it out onto the table. He tried to open it with haste, but failed the first two times. Matt blinked a few times, looking at Skeet’s hands on the bottle. “Want me to—“ “Shut up.” Skeet shot back with a sharp tongue, palm pressing into the hardened edges of the cap to rip it off haphazardly. He let out a huff, looking at the final bottle in the cardboard holder, taking it out, and handing it to Matt without warning. He then lazily pushed the cardboard off the table, taking a sip of his third beer. He kept eyeing Matt, who was taking small sips with long strides of silence between each one. He was taking too long. Skeet didn’t have all day.

 

He weighed the options as best he could in his head. They swirled together like liquid, becoming sloshy and blurry in his mind. What was he going to do again? His head turned slowly, eyes lidded as he looked at Matt. Juzt do it. Don’t be a babyz. The more spotty his vision became, Skeet stood up. Matt looked up at Skeet, swallowing nervously. “Um… Skeet?” He sounded nervous. Skeet didn’t reply. He just stood there, wobbling a little with his hand on the table. His expression was unreadable to the younger boy, making Matt feel even more unsure. “Skeet..? What are you… doing…” His words slurred a little, pausing to try and remind himself of the English terms he wanted to use. Skeet slowly raised his knee, placing it on the empty space on Matt’s chair. “Skeet, I’m serious… what’re you

 

It happened all too fast for Matt to register what was going on for the first few seconds. Skeet was on top of him, hands slowly traveling up to wrap around Matt’s neck in a moment of drunken stupor. He wasn’t squeezing very tightly, as evidenced by the way his hands kept flexing around the warm skin of the younger boy. It had felt quite strange. Skeet had such cold hands, yet his cheeks were painted a rosy hue like he had been outside moments ago. They’d been inside Matt’s house for hours now.

 

Ah, Matt kicked his legs, hands flailing to grab onto something. He’s drunk. He’s drunkand he’s going tokill me. Matt felt tears prick the corner of his eyes, his heart thumping out of his chest with wild fear. “Zach, Zach!” He cried out, kicking his legs and grabbing at the older boy’s wrists frantically. “Stop..” Skeet slurred, pushing him into the ground harder. “Stop fuckin’ calling me that, dumbass…” He squeezed his hands around Matt’s neck harder, pushing him into the kitchen floor. Matt let out a shrill yell, begging for Skeet to stop. He kicked his legs, panic forcing adrenaline to surge through his body like blood through his veins. He grabbed at Skeet’s hoodie, grabbing the drawstrings as he pulled on them to force Skeet closer to the ground.

 

The action caught Skeet off guard, making him pull back and giving Matt a moment of freedom to scramble to his knees with tears in his eyes and a dizziness in his stance. He doesn’t waste any more time, slowly getting onto his feet. “Z- Skeet! What are you doing?!” Matt sobs, wiping away tears from his eyes as he sniffled. Skeet stared at him with glazed eyes, unable to muster up a response. “Say something, you’re scaring me!” Matt cried again, shaking his head as he took a few steps back when Skeet came closer. The older boy stumbled forward, eyes glassy, breath sour with beer. The push sent them both crashing to the floor. Matt felt a tooth dig into his lip, the subtle and metallic taste filling his mouth.

 

Matt shoved him back and away from him, getting desperate. Skeet hit the carpet, rolling with a groan before pushing himself up again, weaker than before. Then both of them were on their feet, swaying, shouting words neither could remember. A shove, a swing, a flailing punch that landed wrong. It was like watching two puppies bite at each other. Neither of them knew what to do, but they both knew that they had to do something.

 

In the flashing moments where his vision was clear enough to see, Matt’s hand found a bottle on the table. It was still dripping with excess liquor, but the neck was firm in his grip and the wide end was facing out.  He raised it, not thinking about anything but defense. Skeet’s eyes widened when he saw the bottle, seeing Matt raise it like a memory. His arms came up like instinct, blocking his face as he turned away with a flinch. Matt blinked, the action catching him off guard as the bottle slipped from his hand, falling to the floor with a loud shatter that made both of the boys wince.

 

The moment that Skeet realized Matt was no longer holding the bottle, his body moved before his mind did. He drove forward, ramming Matt against the wall with a thud that shook the picture frames hanging along the space. His hands flew to Matt’s neck, squeezing as hard as he possibly could. Saliva dribbled down the open side of Matt’s mouth, kicking and uselessly trying to hit Skeet to get him off. He had landed a pretty sizable hit on Skeet earlier, the blood still dripping fresh from his nose, while a reddening mark on his cheek would eventually bloom into a deep purple bruise.  “Can’t you jus’…” His words came out like they weren’t really his. They were broken, half-slurred, half-sobbing. “Can’t you just give up?” Skeet mumbled through gritted teeth. Their breaths rasped in sync. Skeet’s eyes cleared just enough for guilt to flicker through.

 

Matt could see the way that his vision was spotting and the way that Skeet’s hands were faltering, so he didn’t have much time. Adrenaline still rushed through his body like lightning, making him unable to think clearly. He could only think about how he was going to live. Quickly, without thinking, his hand flew to Skeet’s head, fingers tightly gripping into a fistful of hair. The action caught Skeet off guard, trying to shove him away.

 

They stumbled sideways, both boys still gripping tightly to each other as Matt eventually leaned himself on Skeet, sending them both into the table with Skeet hitting it first. Glass scattered, caught in the kitchen’s light, and there was the disgusting sound of something breaking that wasn’t furniture, followed by the soft squelch of glass into skin.

 

Matt had stayed on the floor, unable to muster the strength to get on his feet. His whole body ached, and he felt sick in his stomach. The feeling of puke trying to escape his mouth was coming, almost making Matt want to force it out just to get it over with. He sniffled, choked sobs leaving his mouth as he tried not to cry any more than he already had.

 

His hands burned, and his head hurt so badly he wanted to die. The room was moving like a kaleidoscope, making Matt feel dizzier. He couldn’t remember if he hit the table, the wall, or Skeet before landing on the ground. Skeet. Matt felt his heart rate quicken, scrambling to his knees as he pushed himself up against the cupboards that were against the wall. He searched the scene for Skeet, finally seeing him lying on the floor with his back to Matt across the kitchen. Glass surrounded him, yet Skeet made no effort to get up. He just laid there, motionless.

 

He didn’t want to get close; he didn’t know what would happen. A couple of minutes went by of soft sobs and hiccups coming from Matt, waiting for Skeet to get up, or even move. Nothing.

 

“S- Skeet?” He hiccuped, uncovering his reddened eyes, tears staining soft brown cheeks. Dark curls stuck to his face from the wetness, making it hard to see until he messily brushed them away from his view. Seconds went by, and Matteo was met with no answer. “Zach…?” He tried again. Blood trickled from his nose between the shards of glass that lay on the floor under his head, making a reflection of red and green that shimmered in Matteo’s blurry vision. Saliva mixed with blood leaked from the corner of his open mouth, fingers lying relaxed on the kitchen floor.

 

Matteo stumbled to his knees, feeling the glass begin to pierce through the fabric on his legs. “Zach, get up, please.” He shook Zach’s shoulder, hearing the glass crunch beneath both of them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, get up, please, Zach!” Frantic and exhausted, Matteo kept shaking him as tears fell and dripped onto the tiny glass shards beneath him. He could hear the sound of excess air being squeezed from Zach’s lungs, as if he was unable to get in any oxygen through his nose. “No, please, I’m sorry, Zach, I’m sorry, please get up, I’m sorry!” He sobbed, fingers curling into the old, thin hoodie that Zach always wore. He could feel his skin underneath, still warm and waiting.

 

The younger boy felt his stomach twist into knots and violent, sharp edges as his gaze slowly fell on Zach’s face. Blood slowly trickled from his nose, face pressed to the ground like he had no energy to get up and fight back. Small, translucent tears fell from the corners of his eyes as they traveled down the ridges of his face and onto the ground. His eyes were fixated on Matteo, unmoving and unblinking.

 

Matteo felt his heart sink into his stomach, as if it hadn’t been sinking the whole time.

 

Matteo Rivera, what haveyou done?

Chapter 2: A Fresh Change Of Clothes.

Summary:

I could feel the bone under ragged fleece

How long has it been this way?

Notes:

yoooo sorry for late posting I had some issues and had to sit my ass down and write this in a short period of time. also this got postponed by a few more hours due to the fucking. skeet diary are we deadass. Dude I'm gonna go crazy. anyway enjoy

Matteo felt like he was staring at a fish out of water. Zach’s eyes were glassy and wide, tears still falling despite looking lifeless, like he was completely gone from his body. There was an occasional wheeze, a fight for air that left him, which both calmed and disturbed Matteo deeply. Zach wasn’t dead. Matte, however, wouldn’t exactly call him alive either, though.

 

Zach was on the ground, bleeding from the face, and Matteo assumed somewhere else, judging by the blood that slowly trickled from under his now-stained hoodie. The floor was completely covered in glass and liquor, but Matteo could see where Zach’s tears met the wood. He couldn’t hear a sound being uttered from the older boy, just the soft shake of a body covered in black. There was the occasional clink of some sharp glass, the crunch of it being broken under his weight. Matteo stared for a couple of seconds longer, his throat still stinging and his head far too light. His footsteps wobbled, chest heaving with choked sobs and sniffles. Zach was on his kitchen floor, dying. He was dying after what Matteo couldn’t even comprehend to be an attack on himself.

 

He was young; younger than Zach, but even he knew what had happened wasn’t just some silly little play fight. He didn’t know what to do. What could he even do? He felt woozy and unwell, sick in the stomach like he was going to keel over and puke. Glass crunched beneath his feet, a painful reminder that he wasn’t getting out of this any less wounded than Zach. So, Matteo begins. Zach couldn’t hurt him like this. And surely, he didn’t mean it. He drank too much. That had to be it. He must’ve been as scared as Matteo.

 

He shuffles across the floor, feet sweeping away the glass shards and nearly slipping on the liquor as he makes his way to Zach. He could see the way his fingers twitched, the unconscious action looking more like fear to Matteo. Was Zach scared of him? Was that why he attacked him? Matteo didn’t see a reason why Zach could ever find him scary; he was nice, he always did his best to be kind and polite, and he would do backflips (if he ever learned how to do them) just to make him smile. Was it the alcohol? Did it make Zach scared?

 

He felt his leg give out, causing Matteo to struggle for a moment to keep his balance before he slowly sank to his knees in front of Zach. The glass crunched under his legs, Matteo bracing himself for any sharp pains but only feeling the dullness of something there rather than a piercing feeling. Thank you, pants, he thought to himself before his focus left his mind to Zach. He had already assessed him from further away multiple times, but up close was a whole different thing.

 

Zach’s eyes flickered to Matteo. Wide like saucers, the only part of him that moved with any urgency. It was like the rest of his body had shut down on him. Matteo was hesitant. His hand slowly reached out, aching still, and touched the side of Zach’s wet cheek before brushing a stray black lock from his face. It was quiet. Not even the glass dared to make a noise between them.

 

Matteo did not know of Zach’s thoughts, how the action made his pains worse. Not by anything Matteo himself was doing, his fingers were gentle and soft. He didn’t dare press down on any wounds, but perhaps that’s what made Zach hurt the most.

 

He didn’t deserve to be treated so well after that. Even in the hazy fog of his beer-drunken mind, Zach could make out the blurry blobs of Matteo’s face. His fingers became clearer when they got closer to his face. If Zach had the energy or the motivation, he’d have shied away from such caring fingers. He felt himself wishing he was worthy to move closer, to let Matteo’s thumb brush the tears away.

 

But no. Zach felt bitterness thorn through his heart and into his mind, letting the blood leak from the capillaries and the veins, filling his lungs with a metallic kind of sting that made it all so terribly worse. Matteo was too good. Zach was just the worst. He could tell Matteo was struggling, even in his silence. He was struggling to keep his eyes open correctly. His vision must’ve been worse than Zach’s— He was significantly smaller than the older boy, so he assumed that the alcohol had a worse effect on him.

 

And you ztill lozt to that fuckingz baby.

 

Zach felt the pin-sharp pain spiking in his head, digging its fingers deep into the crevices of his skull as he tried to think, but all that came out was blood trickling down and onto the ground. Maybe if Matteo was slow enough, Zach could bleed out here. He could let all his little sins leave his body in a thick trail of red starting from his wrists to his neck. The glass was sharp enough. He wasn’t a doctor; he’s never been to one, but he wasn’t an idiot. Blue lines that were barely visible on thin skin snapped in two like a rope, and all his problems and worries could disappear. There was a comforting feeling that came from the idea; it was almost powerful enough to lull him into a false sense of security where he lay.

 

He almost missed the feeling of tiny hands grabbing at his hoodie, along with the sight of legs shaking like a newborn fawn as Matteo tried to drag Zach across the floor by the back of his hoodie. At first, Zach couldn’t even register the feeling. It was weak, akin to a feeble attempt he’s known many times before. But the difference was that Matteo didn’t give up, even when he had to stop to catch his breath or sit down because of the dizziness. He tripped a few times, falling back onto the floor with a thud and a whimper. A part of Zach knew he should try to get up, to not let Matteo think he’s out cold or even dead, but the part of him that festered in the back of his brain seeped into his thoughts like liquor down the throat.

 

It would be a little nice to see how it feels to be dead, he thought. His eyes slowly drifted, unfocused and blurry, leaving nothing truly visible to Zach. He could see the deep blue of Matteo’s shirt, hands still fisted into the back of his hoodie to drag him out of the kitchen. Matteo was saying something, between hiccups and sobs. Zach didn’t know what he was saying, catching faint words of a language he didn’t speak. He could barely hear with one ear to the ground and the other ringing, but Matteo had whimpered out a ‘Mopasati’ between sobs.

 

When Matteo had finally dragged Zach just beyond the threshold of the kitchen, he fell to his knees on the hardwood floor. There was a long trail of wiped blood across the floor that made it look like a crime scene behind Zach. He hadn’t moved yet, still locking his gaze on Matteo like it would be some sort of sin to look anywhere else.

 

Matteo stared back through teary eyes, wiping away the stinging sensation in an attempt to see more clearly. It was futile, in the end, seeing as the tears just kept falling. Neither of them had spoken a word to each other. What could even be said? Matteo felt the warmth of blood drip down from his fingers and palms, once soft hands now ragged with glass stuck deep into the flesh like glittering diamonds embedded in fancy rings. It was painful. It didn’t hurt like how needles did, or scraping your knee. There was something that made the pain worse, that made it stick to his mind like hot tar. Was it the lead-up to the pain? Or was it the knowledge that it could’ve been avoided?

 

No, it never could’ve been avoided. Not when Matteo looked so excited to see Zach. Looking at him with eyes Zach had never seen before. Eyes that were filled with no tricks, no ill intent, nothing to hide from his best friend. His only friend. Zach wanted to puke. Zach was going to puke.

 

Perhaps it was overdue that the older boy felt the sickness in his stomach begin to travel up, reflex causing his hands to fly over his mouth in hopes of keeping it down. His stomach lurched, his vision spinning as he went pale like a ghost. The taste of alcohol burned in his throat, mixing with the sickeningly sweet taste of half-digested cake being rejected by his body. It spilled out through the small cracks between his fingers, making Matteo quickly step back, hearing Zach let out a wet gasp before choking, more puke spilling from his mouth and onto the floor.

 

Matteo looked away, but the stench of cheap liquor and something sour began to fill the room, making both boys shudder. Zach coughed, heaving out the last bits from his stomach while the disgusting sourness stayed permanently on his tongue and between his teeth. The silence that followed was only broken by the sound of wet shuffling, a fabric sleeve wiping off the residue that was caught around Zach’s mouth. Matteo slowly began to turn back, only for Zach to finally speak. “Stop—“ Zach grunted hoarsely. “Turn back around.”

 

Matteo listened, quickly turning his head back to stare at some random wall in his view. He teetered a couple of times, trying to keep his balance as he stood there and waited for Zach. He couldn’t see what the other was doing, only that he couldn’t hear the slow shift and crunch of glass on the floor, mixing with pained grunts and the slick sound of what he only assumed to be blood being wiped from Zach’s skin.

 

Matteo could see Zach’s shadow on the wall, standing upright behind him. Anxiety bubbled deep in his gut, the twisting feeling of fear slowly forming with each passing moment that Zach stayed silent. He watched as Zach lifted his arm to wipe his face, hearing soft sniffles coming from him. It was clear he was trying to hide the noise from Matteo as much as he could, but it barely worked in the dead silence.

 

“Can I..—“ “Where’s the first aid kit?” Matteo blinked, head turning slightly. Skeet stood there, waiting for Matt’s answer. “Um… the bathroom, I think,” Matt answered, pointing up the stairs. Skeet slowly began to walk, steps uneven and wobbly but stable enough to move. “D’you know how to use the first aid?” He asked, walking past Matt before he leaned on the wall to catch himself on the first step of the staircase. Matt stopped. He’s gotten hurt before, but the most he’s ever had to use is a Band-Aid. “No. Not really.” Matt shook his head, looking down at the floor. He could hear Skeet audibly sigh from the stairs. “C’mon. You’re gonna have to shower before I can pick the glass out of you.” Skeet’s tone was flat. His voice was hoarse, so Matt chalked it up to having a sore throat. He nodded slowly, walking over to where Skeet was before following him up the stairs.

 

They both moved slowly, holding onto the wall and the railing. Skeet let Matt up first, eyes trailing his feet to see if they were on each step fully. The wood felt sleek and slippery under him, making the older watch his balance a little more carefully. Some blood stuck to the railing, much to the annoyance of Skeet. They were going to have to clean it all up. Well, Skeet planned to clean it up.

 

He’s never babysat before- nobody would trust Zach Martinez to watch their kid. He didn’t know how you’d put a baby, much less a fifteen-year-old, to sleep. Clarity hit him like a truck, despite the growing feeling in his stomach telling him to try again. Matt was too trusting. Half an hour ago, he had his hands wrapped around his throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him like he was nothing more than a balloon to pop. How come he’s so willing to let Skeet walk behind him, out of sight? Wasn’t he scared? Shouldn’t he be scared?

 

Zach has been hurt before. Skeet would never let his dad stand behind him. Never let there be a moment of rest. He’s too cautious. Careful to a fault when he knows he’s walking a line. But Matt?  Willing to let his attacker treat his wounds? Letting him stay in his house? Not calling the police? And even listening to him so diligently? Survival instincts of a baby seal.

 

Once they made it up the stairs, Skeet looked at the doors that lined the hallway. “Go grab a change of clothes and go to the bathroom. You’ll have to wash the blood n’ stuff off before I can bandage you up.” He said, watching Matt turn the hall towards the room at the end. Before Skeet could start looking for the bathroom, Matt stopped. “What about you?” He asked, turning to look back at Skeet.— or, more specifically, look at his injuries. “What about me?” He scoffed, crossing his arms against the railing. “You’re also hurt.”

 

Skeet stopped. He looked at Matt, then at his bloody clothes. “I don’t need your parents losing their shit when they see their son with a giant gash in his hand. They’re gonna ask questions and I don’t need that right now.” Skeet said, pointing at Matt’s hands. “But—“ “Just go get your shit and go to the bathroom.” Matt knew better than to continue his protests, only nodding shortly before turning back to walk to his room for a fresh change of clothes.

 

Skeet turned the other way, opening the door to the bathroom. He turned the knob, stepping inside. He still felt sick, the sourness of the puke still sitting heavy in his throat. He’d try and get the rest out of his body, but he didn’t feel like sticking his fingers down his throat and dry heaving over a toilet bowl. His eyes caught the mirror sitting on the wall above the sink, anticipation building up in the back of his mind as he slowly walked over to see himself. Blood was smeared over most of his face, and glass shards lodged into his cheek where it bled the most. He was bleeding from somewhere on his head, but thankfully, his nose stopped bleeding.

 

“Um, Zach?” Skeet’s head perked up, looking down the hall at Matt, who was standing in his doorway. “What now?” He barked back, narrowing his eyes at the younger. “Do you want something clean to wear? I have some of my dad’s old shirts… they’ll fit you!” Trying to sound chipper, Matt held up a large black shirt that looked old and worn. His head peeked out from behind, looking at Skeet.

 

Skeet looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, eyeing his clothes. His hoodie was completely covered in blood and alcohol; there was no way he could keep wearing it and not get asked questions. Even the shirt underneath was a little soaked at the collar. He took a few seconds longer to look at himself. Did it make him look weaker, or stronger? The contrast of blood against skin, yet he was still standing. His eyes soon flickered back to Matt. Hopefully, Matt knew how to use his own washing machine.

 

He thought about it for a moment. His hands, bloody and cold, played with the strings on his hoodie. Skeet was stubborn. He never took his hoodie off, even in the sweltering heat of the summer months. His chest felt tight, as if parting with it was like leaving himself bare to see for Matt. He sighed, biting the inside of his cheek.

 

He couldn’t just walk around naked while his clothes were being washed. “Fine.” He looked at Matt, who seemed happy that Skeet agreed. Skeet just grimaced. While waiting for Matt, Skeet began to rummage through the bathroom. He searched for the first aid kit along with anything that had a bowl-like shape. He needed to put the glass shards in something, after all. He opened up the cupboards below the sink, sorting through the useless items until he felt the plastic handle of a case-like box in the far back. There were a few plastic cups he could use for the glass, too. Pulling the items out, Skeet began to open the first aid kit to check what was inside.

 

Everything inside looked like it was in good condition. He had to squint a few times to try and read the labels with his blurry vision, occasionally leaning on the cupboard doors. He pulled out the rubbing alcohol, setting it aside on the counter. He sorted through the rest of the kit to find the bandages, hoping for even a little bit to be there. His hopes soon drained when he realized there wasn’t any. He knew the importance of patching u, but he was more worried about the possible consequences of Matt’s parents finding him with infected wounds if they’re left to fester. He swallowed, looking around. He couldn’t run to the store. Not like this. And with what money?

 

He pulled at his hoodie, sighing deeply. He felt the tightness around his chest, the taut stretch from under his shirt. A lightbulb went off in his head, his eyes looking up from his dismay. First came the idea, then came the backing down. That was gross, firstly. Used bandages carried germs and stuff. That would basically be like poisoning Matt through his blood. But what other choice do I have? He could stuff the inside with tissues, using the bandages like straps to keep the tissues in place. But I need these. Matt needed something too. Skeet stopped, eyes darting down the hall to see if Matt was coming. He could catch a glimpse of the younger boy still padding around his room, getting a fresh pair of clothes.

 

I have time.

 

Skeet closed the bathroom door, locking it from the inside before he began to wrestle his hoodie off. He could hear Matt coming down the hall, eyes darting from his hoodie and shirt on the bathroom tiles to the door. “Zach?” Matt’s voice was muffled through the door. “Yeah, yeah, gimme’ a sec.” He replied hastily, hands moving quickly to get the bandages as he felt the tightness begin to subside for the first time in days. His hands hurt from the glass and the rubbing of the old bandages against raw skin, but he didn’t have the time to deal with that.

 

Quickly, with the bandages now removed, Skeet’s hands grabbed at his shirt to throw it back on before grabbing his hoodie and shrugging it over his head. He sucked in a breath, rolling his shoulder before slipping the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands to pad them when opening the door with the knob. He let his posture slouch, stepping aside for Matt to walk in with his hands full of clothes for him and Skeet. “You can wash yourself, right?” Skeet asked, only half-serious. Matt rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance hidden in his action. “I’m fifteen!” Skeet couldn’t help but snicker, walking out of the bathroom. “Yeah. In a few days. Take a cold shower. It helps with the dizziness.” He added, sitting outside the bathroom. “Once you’re done, I’ll help you with the bandages.”

 

He couldn’t tell why he was acting like everything was normal. It wasn’t. None of it was normal. They were both bruised and bloody, and there was a mess of puke, glass, liquor, and blood downstairs. Was it the alcohol? Probably. Skeet let himself breathe against the wall, head falling. Skeet looked up at Matt through the crack in the door, a thin arm slipping through the crack to tap on his shoulder. Matt turned around, barely visible through the small space.

 

“Um. Matteo.” He began. “Thanks for helping me back there.”

 

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

 

“I’m sorry.”

Notes:

theworst is yet to c ome

Chapter 3: I Can Never Stay Clean.

Summary:

you can’t hide it forever. You’ll have to wash your skin eventually.

Notes:

Haha, hoping to get this chapter out on the 6th so that I can give a special gift to you guys on the 15th. :) also, sorry for so many breaks between chapters! I really wish I could’ve gotten these out earlier but here we are. Also tw this chapter for sh near the end.

Skeet sat outside of the bathroom while he heard the water running. A part of him felt gross for trying to envision what was going on inside the bathroom. Mainly the blood, if he was going to be honest. Had Matt ever seen that much blood before? He’s tried to goad him into watching horror movies, but Matt always denied each time, even if Skeet pushed. He let his head rest against the wall, the numbing pain of the cuts and bruises mixed with the sickly feeling sitting in his empty stomach made him even more nauseous than he wanted to be. What the hell was he doing? Why was he even there? He should’ve never gone, should’ve just stayed home and told Matt he was feeling sick.

 

Well, at least now it wasn’t really a lie. He was feeling sick. He felt gross and disgusting and vile and he deserved to d— Um, Z- Skeet?” A voice, tiny spitting water from his mouth, Matt spoke. Skeet looked up, eyes wide. He swallowed, wiping his face only to shudder from touching an ache. “What.” He tried his best to sound annoyed, or at least monotone, but it came out more unhappy than he wanted it to. “I’m done with the shower… can you, um, help me with the glass? My hands burn a little…” He sheepishly asked, watching as skeet began to stand up from the floor. Matt pushed the door open fully, letting the steam leave the bathroom. “Turn the fan on.” Skeet instructed, walking past him and putting the toilet seat lid down before sitting on top. He looked over at Matt, who was still damp and a little soaking. His hair, usually a soft head of bouncy little curls, was nearly flat against his forehead and face, dripping small water droplets wherever he went. His clothes were stuck to his skin, clearly not drying off properly enough.

 

“Do you know where all your cuts are?” He asked, slouching a little forward as he began to pick away at the kit. He looked at the bandages he had placed in there. His expression soured a little, making him turn his head back to Matt. “I think so! It’s mainly my arms and my hands… I have a few on my face but I’ll just say I fell down on the sidewalk.” He replied, slowly rolling his sleeves up for Skeet to take a look at them. “Sit down on the side of the tub. This is gonna hurt a little, so don’t cry if you can help it.” Skeet already knew that even if he told Matt not to cry, he’d still do it. He wasn’t 15 yet anyways. He was still practically a baby compared to Skeet -who was only a year and some change older than Matt.-

 

“Okay…” Matt nodded meekly, sitting down on the edge of the tub as he held both arms out for Skeet to look at. Skeet swallowed a little, looking at the affected areas. He took the tweezers in one hand, and Matt’s hand with his other. “You ready?” He asked one final time, as if trying to compensate for his behavior. Matt nodded, chewing at his lower lip.

 

Skeet sighed, digging the tweezers in between the skin and the glass bits. Matt winced, biting his lip a little harder at the contact. “Stay still.” Skeet mumbled, closing the tweezers around one glass bit in the palm of Matt’s hand. The sting, to Matt, was sharp and biting, almost like a nip of cold. “You’re not exactly gentle…” Matt retorted, shuffling his feet on the wet bathroom floor. “Yeah, well,” Skeet rolled his eyes, picking at another glass shard. “You’re not exactly easy to patch up.” Matt went quiet after that. The only sounds that filled the empty space were the sounds of flesh being dug into, metal tweezers picking at glass, followed by the soft clink of those glass shards and bits into a plastic cup. Once the glass bits were removed, they’d start to bleed.

 

Skeet looked up for a moment, eyeing Matt. He could see the way tears welled up under dark lashes, shoulders shaking and feet padding at the floor like he was trying not to throw a tantrum. “Are you feeling sick?” He asked, seeing Matt lift his head. “A little. The drinks tasted bad. Can I have juice after this?” He asked, as if he was asking a parent. “I’m not your mom.” Skeet said, picking out another glass shard. It took him a second to register his own words, letting his shoulders sag. “I’ll get you a glass once this is dealt with. You can have that while I clean up downstairs.”

 

“But— aren’t you gonna shower?” Matt asked, eyebrows knit together with confusion. Skeet was silent. “M’gonna continue.” Was all he said. It was silent from then on. Matt’s breath hitched every time, but he didn’t pull away. There was something in the way that Skeet’s brow furrowed that made his gaze flicker to the older boy a lot. Care and frustration twisted and knotted together on his face, the silent kind of alarm bells that rang behind his ears. He didn’t want to look at his hands or his arms- Matt never liked the sight of blood and gore.

 

“How’s the pain?” He heard Zach ask, looking at him. “I don’t like it.” Matteo answered truthfully, fingers flexing like he was trying to make sure they still worked. “I’ve almost got the last few out. The rubbing alcohol will hurt more than this, so… Be ready for that.” Matteo nodded when Zach finished speaking, looking at the bottle sitting on the counter. /After this, he never wanted to see any alcohol ever again./ He watched as Zach reached to the counter with still bloodied hands, taking the bottle and popping the cap off before he reached down for the towel Matteo used to dry himself. He took a corner, pressing the fabric to the bottle’s opening and turning the bottle upside down to let the liquid seep into the towel.

 

“Try not to cry.” Was all Zach said before he pressed the cool towel down onto Matteo’s hand. At first, it didn’t feel like anything. Just cold liquid on a towel. It only took a second or not even for the sting to inflict on Matteo. He hissed, hands curling up before Zach held his hand still with a firm grip on his wrist. Matteo let out a verbal ow, making Zach sigh. “Told you it was bad.” He held the towel down, watching Matteo shudder. “I didn’t think it was gonna be /that/ painful…” The younger meekly spoke, shaking his head. “Do you want me to stop?” Zach asked, almost rhetorically. “No.” Matteo answered against his will. “Keep going.”

 

Zach did as he was told. He continued to wipe down Matteo’s arms and hands, the sting being unbearable for the younger. Tears that had been welling up in his eyes began to fall like little pearls on his flushed cheeks, dripping down his chin. He was silent, however. Only sniffling a little whenever Zach dragged the towel over the cuts, before he finally stopped and dropped the towel to the floor. He looked around for a moment, before pulling over a box of tissues.

 

“What’re those for?” Matteo asked, using the back of his hands to wipe his eyes. “The bandages are… um, dirty.” Zach admitted. “So I’m gonna put these on your cuts under the bandages so that it’ll be… less gross.” Matteo nodded, keeping his arms and hands out for Zach to treat. The older boy began to place the tissues on his hands and on his arms, patting them down before he began to unroll the bandages. “Don’t take these off. At least until we can get new ones.” Zach warned, slowly wrapping the bandages around Matteo’s first arm, before he tied a small knot to keep them in place and moved onto his other arm.

 

“What about you? Don’t you need bandages too?” Matteo could see the way Zach’s face shifted. He looked bothered, irked almost. Matteo didn’t say anything else after that. He waited for Zach to finish tying up the bandages, seeing the other’s hands slip from his arms once he was done. “How do they feel?” Zach asked, eyes flickering up to Matteo. “A little tight… but okay.” Matteo answered, moving his wrists a little. A couple beats of silence passed through them, leaving the both of them staring at anything but each other.

 

“Thank you.” Matteo spoke. Zach didn’t look at him. “Just don’t get any stains on those. And throw them out if they get itchy.” He said, turning away from Matteo and heading to the door. “Your cuts—“ Matteo blurted out, watching Zach freeze in the doorway. “I’m going to take care of it at home. I’m gonna go clean up downstairs. Where does your parents keep the cleaning supplies?” He asked, refusing to turn his head to look at Matteo.

 

Matteo swallowed, looking at the back of Zach’s head. “The closet under the stairs. I’ll- I’ll show it to you.” He said, head lifting like he was trying to include himself in Zach’s plans. “I don’t want you going downstairs. Just go to your room and do whatever.” Zach said, turning the corner as he began to stumble his way down the stairs. Matteo tried to follow, peeking from outside of the bathroom. “Are yo-“ “Don’t.” Zach cut him off. “I’m going to clean up and go.” Matteo felt his stomach drop. Zach stood at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing. “I can’t stay. My dad will—“ He stopped for a moment, hand leaving the railing. “He’s gonna wonder where I am.”

 

“You didn’t tell him you were coming over?” Matteo questioned. Zach swallowed. “No.”

 

It was silent for a few moments. “Can I at least help with the sweeping?” Matteo asked, more like a plea. “I’m serious, Matt. Let me do it. Alone.“ Zach shot back, turning his head a few inches to glare at the younger. “But— Skeet, we both made the mess, so isn’t it-“

 

“You didn’t do shit until I fucking arrived, Matt!” Zach turned around, fists balled up as he yelled at Matteo. “You didn’t drink until I made you do it, you didn’t fight back until I started choking you out on the floor!” His voice broke, the small hitch in his tone becoming clear as his throat began to close up and his nose stung with the prickle of tears. “None of this would’ve happened if I wasn’t here. If I wasn’t here, you’d—“ Zach stopped, looking at Matteo. The younger boy had retreated to hiding in the bathroom, only half of his head peeking out. His eyes were wide like saucers, hidden only by damp black hair.

 

Zach swallowed. Matteo didn’t move. His eyes were looking over every detail of Zach, from his chest to his hands to his face. Zach felt a pang of anxiety stab him through the gut. “Skeet, why do y-“ “Matt! Shut up!” Zach yelled, turning around and practically rushing down the stairs. Matteo stood there, slowly coming out from the doorway. Skeet’s shirt looked weird…

 

Downstairs, Zach had already found his way into the broom closet. He tried to ignore the putrid stench of vomit and liquor, bringing the shirt’s hem over his nose like a makeshift gas mask that barely did anything to hide the smell. He grabbed the broom and the mop, pulling out a bucket he’d fill later. He dragged the mop and broom over, looking at the mess.

 

It was vile, to say the least. He started with the broom, beginning to sweep up the glass. He moved slowly. His head still throbbed and ached, his hands were unsteady and trembling with pain as he gripped the broom. He couldn’t stand the sight of any of it. The chairs were on the ground, pools of liquor and glass shards everywhere. He tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach, the twists and thorns that made him feel sick inside.

 

He swept it all into a pile, feeling the broom get stuck on something on the floor. He sighed, leaning down to try and rub it away with his hand. When he did, all he could see was his own face in the reflective tile. Tired, bleeding and hollow. His eyes stung at the sight, refusing to look at himself. Refusing to look at his slender neck, at his thin shoulders, the way that he could see the curve—

 

He pulled away from the tile, feeling his heart racing. Fuck. No. He breathed in, shaking his head. His body shook, the feeling of lightheadedness overcoming him. He placed the broom on the side of the wall, sinking to his knees on the floor beside the mess he hadn’t cleaned up. The smell of puke and alcohol was thick, making his stomach twist and turn inside. He pressed his hands together, the feeling of pain slowly forming out of numbness. He felt the pain in beats that shit through his hands to his head, hearing the crunch of glass and rip of flesh.

 

For a moment, Zach felt good. Weary and exhausted, his eyes closed so he could focus on the feeling. It was so good. For a few moments, he felt light like a feather. He chased the feeling, pressing harder and harder, feeling the warm trickle down his arms like sweet butterfly kisses planted on his scarred skin. Zach couldn’t smell anything but copper, hear anything but the squelch, taste anything but the saliva on his tongue. He clasped his hands together like a prayer, about to push even further before he heard the stairs creak, making his hands fly apart and leave the blood tricking down his palms. He wobbled to his feet, grabbing the broom as he saw Matteo slowly peer down.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Zach asked, pointing the broom at him. Matteo paused, bouncing on his heels. “I heard you crying, so I came down to see if you’re… okay.”

 

Zach paused. “Just the stench. Now go back up, I’m not done yet.” He quickly recovered, shaking his head. “But your hands are bleeding again! You can’t clean up like that.” Matteo said, leaning over the railing. Zach grit his teeth together. “Go upstairs, Matt!” He yelled. “It’s my house! I’ll go where I want!” Matteo shot back, trying to yell like Zach did, but he wasn’t as loud. Zach growled, fists balling up. “Fine! Just— sit anywhere but the kitchen! See if I care!”

 

“Fine!” Matteo huffed, walking himself down the stairs and sitting at the bottom step with a little pout on his lips. The two had gone quiet, both of them stewing in their own frustration as they did their own things. Matteo was sitting on the step while Zach cleaned the kitchen. Every so often Matteo would look over, seeing how Zach was doing. He looked frustrated— but not about Matteo. The way he could see the bloody handprints on the broom, the lines of dried blood on his arms… Matteo frowned.

 

So, he turned. He turned back to the stairs and scampered up, racing all the way up until he reached the top and towards his bedroom. He hadn’t told Zach earlier that he had some bandaids in his room— thinking them to be too small for either of them to use on all their cuts. But maybe, for Zach, they’d be enough for a few of them. Matteo beamed at the idea. Zach had gone through all that trouble to get bandages for him, so it was only right that Matteo do the same.

 

His steps were like thunder down the stairs, not caring to try and stay quiet this time. “Skeet!” He called, hand sliding down the railing. “What is it now?” He groaned, putting the broom down to see what Matteo wanted.

 

“I have bandaids!” The younger said, nearly slipping on the floor before catching himself on the railing. “Why didn’t you bring that shit out when we needed them?” Zach groaned, continuing to sweep up the contents on the floor into one pile in the middle. He’d still have to mop up all the puke, which he wasn’t looking forward to. Thankfully only he puked, meaning it was all just in some spot and it wasn’t that much. Honestly, he could probably clean it with a few paper towels if he wanted to skip having to clean the mop after as well.

 

“Well, I didn’t think that they’d be useful at the time…” Matteo admitted, looking at Zach. “God, you’re so stupid.” He scoffed, putting the broom aside before walking over to Matteo. The bandaids Matteo were holding were in a small plastic bag, all of them were either blue or some other fun color. Of course they were. Matteo probably would cry if he had to wear something like a boring, normal bandaid. “You can use them, if you want.. I’ll even help pull out the glass from your hands.” The younger added, looking at Zach. “I don’t need you to do that. I just need you to stay out of my way. I already told you I’ll take care of myself when I go home.”

 

“But it’s cold out, and you don’t have your hoodie… it’s all gross and stuff.” Zach felt a sense of annoyance wash over him again. “Matteo.” He said, picking up the broom. “I don’t care about that right now. I have to get home before the streetlights go on. My dad will beat the shit out of me if I don’t.” Zach tried to keep his voice still, like he was angry. But facing the truth made it crack. He knew what would await him if he didn’t do something. He had to clean up, and he had to go home. He couldn’t even get angry at Matteo. He didn’t know. He didn’t know why Zach refused to stand upright even if his spine felt like it was gonna snap, or why his hands were bloody even after it should’ve all dried up. He didn’t deserve to know. He shouldn’t have to know.

 

Matteo stared at Zach. “Well, if you have to go home… how late can you stay..?” He asked, this time a little quieter. Zach’s eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. It was two. He did the math in his head for a moment. November meant the streetlights came on earlier. That usually meant around five. If he wanted to be extra careful, he’d have to be home around half an hour earlier than that, which gave him about two hours max to stay.

 

“Two hours.”

 

“If I help you clean up, will there be time for you to shower and put the bandaids on?”

 

Zach stopped. God, Matteo was such a spoiled brat. He couldn’t even take no for an answer. He let out a sigh of defeat, waving Matteo away. “Go grab the mop and start working. I don’t wanna hear a single complaint or else I’ll put your ass in a trash can and roll you down the street.” He said, beginning to sweep everything back into the pile and pull the chairs back up. Matteo felt a wave of relief wash over him, picking up the mop and pulling the bucket towards the counter where the sink was to fill it with water.

 

“Do you think you’d also have time for-“ “Don’t push your luck. I’m running on borrowed time.”

Notes:

I wonder why the next chapter will release on the 15 th

Chapter 4: Needing.

Summary:

Going home is never easy.

Notes:

HI WELL I was meaning to get this out on the 15th but there were some irl complications and such that came up and other responsibilities that I had to take care of before I could work on this fully. Thankfully it’s done! I do apologize for the long wait however as I really did want to get it out on the 15th in celebration of Matt’s birthday. But whatever… it’s whatever. Please enjoy!!

The floor was mostly clean by the time that Skeet felt his knees begin to buckle. They’d been cleaning for what felt like hours despite it being maybe a little over thirty minutes. Matt had already sat down on the chair nearby, clearly just as exhausted as the older boy. Skeet slowly walked over to the wall, sliding down and letting the coolness feel refreshing on his back. His arms hurt, more than usual. His back was also a pain, but that wasn’t new. 

His eyes flickered over the space between them, looking at the now glass-less floor to the pile they’d swept up. He was going to have to figure out how to carry that to the garbage. He swallowed, looking at his hands. They were still bloody and raw, stinging into his flesh. He sucked in a breath, turning his attention in hopes of forgetting about the feeling. “Tired?” Skeet murmured, watching Matt’s head lift from the table. He nodded with a quiet mhm, letting his head fall back down to the table and his arms. Must be the alcohol. 

 

Skeet couldn’t lie, he was also beginning to feel tired. His eyes turned to the window, squinting as he looked outside. It was snowing, coating the grounds in a thin layer of white. Skeet swallowed. It was going to be a cold walk home. Especially without his hoodie. There was no way he could go home with it— it was covered in blood and glass was stuck between the already ruined threads. 

 

“It’s getting late.” Skeet started, slowly rising back to his feet as he watched Matt lift his head again. “It’s only four, though…?” Matt tilted his head, almost like he was whining about it. “I can’t stay long, and you’re gonna be unsupervised. I don’t want you running around the house like this.” Skeet said, averting his gaze as he spoke. There was no need for him to worry about Matt. He was gonna be fine if he left him. 

 

But Zach couldn’t just do that to him. Not to Matteo. “Come on, I’ll pour you some juice if you go.” He bargained, arms crossed as he looked at the glass pile. Matteo looked like he was about to decline the offer, but not before looking at Zach. For a moment, Zach couldn’t tell if Matteo was going to listen or not. He looked confused, as if trying to read Zach’s expression. 

 

Tiredness was the clearest, to be fair. Tiredness followed by the hollow look that became prominent in Zach’s gaze. Matteo frowned, eyes drifting lower to look at his hands. Zach quickly stuffed both hands into his pockets, shooting Matteo a look. The younger boy looked away, turning his gaze to his hands as he shifted in his seat. “I don’t really want juice, though.” Matteo murmured, shifting his head to the side. Zach growled in his throat, eyes narrowing. Matteo stiffened a little. “If you don’t want it, go up to your room. I’m gonna throw the glass out and take the trash to the road with me when I leave.” 

 

Zach looked at Matteo, who nodded. “Alright, get moving.” He motioned to the stairs, watching Matteo slowly get up and walk across the kitchen floor. “Are you gonna come?” He asked, turning his head to look back at the older boy. “What?” Zach scoffed. “No. I have to go home. I’m already gonna get yelled at for coming home smelling like shit.” He added, watching the way that Matteo’s head lowered like a sad puppy. Zach bit at the inside of his cheek, swallowing a little. “I can’t stay. You know that.” He rephrased, meeting Matteo’s gaze. “S’not like I wanna go.” While it might’ve come off as a lie to Matteo, Zach meant it. 

 

Anywhere but that house.

 

“Whatever.” He quickly ignored the topic, the feelings bubbling inside of him like acid trying to spew from his mouth. “Go upstairs, I’ll clean up.” He said, pushing Matteo’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Are you gonna say goodbye before you go?” Matteo asked, slowly walking up the stairs before he stopped. Zach looked at Matteo, seeing the way his eyes softened upon looking at the older boy. Zach pursed his lips. “Yeah. I will. Just go now, dammit.” He watched as Matteo skittered off up the steps, disappearing out of Zach’s view. The moment that he was out of Zach’s vision, he let out a long sigh, letting his head fall back. He took a moment to breathe, mentally going over the stuff he needed to do before he left. 

 

Clean up the glass off the floor.

Find some sort of perfume or spray to cover the smell of vomit.

Take the trash out to the roadside.

Throw the bloody clothes into the wash.

Check on Matteo before you leave.

 

He let out a long sigh, looking down at his hands again. They were still stuck and stained with glass, and blood, but the pain had begun to numb. It made him feel a little better if being tired and losing any energy to feel the pain in his hands counted as a little better, Zach rolled his shoulder, looking to the sink.  Washing the blood off was the first thing he should do, really. Picking the glass out could come after so he could clean the blood off the broom handle. 

 

He had already scrubbed the blood off the tiles, throwing out the now-bloody cloths that Matteo’s parents were sure to not miss. Slowly, Zach walked towards the kitchen sink with his hands out. He curled his hand inward with his wrist, opting to paw at the handle of the sink to turn it on. He felt like a dog; pawing at the handle with a stubborn pain that thrummed deep in his veins. Eventually, after some attempts, Zach was able to turn the faucet on. The water was loud in his ears, a sound that was harmless yet the sheer volume was irritating enough for him to want it to be over with as soon as it could be. 

 

With shaky hands, Zach slowly brought them under the pulsing stream much to his painful dismay. It hurt. Badly. The pain of the water’s strong pulse against raw skin, pushing the glass in like little bumps on his hand. His breath came out shaky, fingers curling in on themselves as he began to pick out each shard and bit of glass stuck in his palm. He hadn’t even realized how bad it was until the adrenaline and anxiety wore off.

 

Long, uncut nails and thin, bony fingers began to dig under the glass, sending a disgusting stinging sensation through his wrist and up his arm. He grit his teeth together, sucking in a breath before trying to dig it out more. Blood was already beginning to well up in the newly formed crevice in his hand, the sight nearly making him puke again. He plucked the first shard between the pads of his fingers, pulling at the little shard. It resisted for the first tug, making Zach shudder and take a few deep breaths to stop himself from crying. He sniffled, wiping the few tears that did fall with his arm. 

 

He was so thankful Matteo didn’t see him. He was so thankful he wasn’t seeing Zach.

 

He tried the shard again, pulling harder. The pain was like flashes of hot white against his skin, biting teeth that dug deep and didn’t let go. He had begun to chew the hem of his shirt, letting it ride up into his teeth now that nobody was around. It was his only option. “Fucking fantastic.” He said with a shuddering tone between tight rows of teeth, finally pulling the shard out and tossing it to the counter. The spot where he had pulled it from began to bleed, filling the little lines in his hand with the warm blood. “Just what I needed.” He groaned. 

 

He looked at both of his hands, taking in that much-needed deep breath. His nails dug in over the sink, plucking out another. Then another, and another. Some he could easily roll out with a flick of his finger, while others he had to be tough with. He kept digging and digging until his vision blurred and he whimpered from the agony like a wounded dog. 

 

More than once did Zachstop, walking around the kitchen while he tried to stop himself from throwing up or bursting into tears, wishing there was someone he could rely on to pick the glass out of his shaking hands. It was ironic, in a way. There was someone a very eager boy up the staircase who would gladly pick the glass out of Zach’s skin, even after everything. But he was resting. And Zach was older. 

 

He didn’t cry, not fully at least. He had no energy to let out a bleeding wail, a cry for help. All he could do was let the tears fall, too exhausted to stop them. Zach kept going, despite the dribbles of blood that began to fall into the sink and splatter the metal bowl with dark red. Minutes passed in silence save for the sound of glass hitting the counter and Zach’s pained noises that he failed to keep in his throat. 

 

His fingers and hands were shaking violently by the time he had found himself peeling around the last shard dug into his flesh. It was tiny; barely noticeable by the naked eye. Zach had resorted to blindly feeling over his wet, bloody palm to feel the sting, locating where it was. He dug his nails in, pulling at the shard. He hissed sharply, body shaking as his teeth gnawed at the fabric he stuffed between them. The moment he heard the sticky pull, nothing but the throb was left. Shakily, he placed the bit of glass onto the counter, seeing the bloody mess. Another thing I’ll have to clean up. Great.

 

He rubbed his thumb gently over his palm, looking at the faucet before pawing at it again to turn it on. He’d let the sink only release a small stream of water, washing the blood of his raw palms with the thrum of pain running up his arms like thorny vines. He breathed in, then out. One chore done. A handful more to go. 

 

Zach didn’t have time to waste, so the moment he saw his hands were cleaned as good as they could be of blood, he turned the faucet off and patted his hands down on his shirt. They left wet marks on the sides of his chest, making him swallow with an uneasy pit in his stomach. A part of him wished he hadn’t given his bandages to Matteo, that he had kept them to himself to save the shame, but he didn’t. 

 

He gave them to Matteo because he needed them and Zach wasn’t about to let himself he any more disgusting than he already was. So Zach took in a deep breath, patted down his shirt, and slouched over before returning to the main part of the kitchen.

 

He picked up the broom off the floor, the sting in his hands nearly making him drop it on contact. He cursed under his breath before getting a sturdier grip on the broom, bringing it to the sink to put the handle under the water’s flow to rinse the bloody handprints off. He knew there were other steps to be taken when cleaning blood off an object, but Zach didn’t have the energy to care if he was doing it right or not. As long as it looked done, that’s what mattered to him. 

 

He watched as he scrubbed away the blood, leaving only the broom in view. Zach’s lips pursed, biting the inside of his cheek. His eyes drifted from the water to the glass that sat on the counter. He sighed, turning the water off and letting the broom clatter to the floor. He shuddered and froze when the broom hit the ground, flinching like it was prey’s instinct. It took him a moment, but Zach recovered quickly. It was just a broom, and he was the one who dropped it. 

 

He looked to the trash bag of glass on the floor, tagging the plastic towards him before rolling it open. He used the back of his hand to slowly shuffle the glass bits from his hand into the bag, watching the small bits slowly fall into the plastic bag before he closed it with a tight knot at the top.

 

He sighed, pulling it up and dragging the bag across the floor towards the door. He could feel the chill from the outside through the door, Zach already preparing for the windy cold that would soon hit him outside. Maybe it would do him some good; the feeling of being in the nipping frost. It would cool his skin, making him feel a little calmer. He opened the door slowly, the soft sting on the palm of his hand being cooled by the cold brass of the doorknob. The door swung open, hitting Zach with a cold burst of air against his skin. The wind swirled around him, soft snowflakes curling around him like a dance. He closed his eyes to brace himself, but Zach felt like the cold was more inviting than the warmth. 

 

He stood there for a little while, letting the chill fall over him. His shoulders relaxed, his slouch becoming more natural than a forced action to save the little masculinity he had left. He breathed in deep, the fresh chill hitting his senses. It was nice. The winter air was inviting him out.  Without his shoes on, Zach wandered out into the white landscape. His feet were beginning to ache from the feeling of snow beneath calloused skin, toes featherlight against cold pavement. He tip-toed out, the same way that a mouse would scamper about. He had no hoodie on, arms bare for the sky and clouds to see. He dragged the trash bag down to the road, stepping slowly over the snow as he let the biting cold take over his body. It felt harsh, like claws scraping against his exposed skin. It was biting like sharp teeth and claws uncut. He could lie down in the softness and stay there until his body froze over.

 

His eyes fell to the ground, looking at the snow. He could lie there until his body froze over. Zach felt his knees get weak at the idea. His heart thrummed in his chest like a rhythm begging him to lurch forward and fall. His head felt light, the dullness and pain fading in exchange for the idea of getting rid of it all. It was such a beautiful idea. It was welcoming him like a gentle hug, biting away at his skin to let his soul roam free.

 

He sighed, dropping the plastic bag by the roadside. Matteo is waiting for me. Zach turned, the cold making its way down his spine with a long shiver and chatter of teeth. He made a quick return back into the warmth of the house, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. 

 

He felt the snow that had clung to him and his skin begin to melt off into small water droplets, slowly dripping down as he felt the chill become increasingly warm the further he walked into the house. It was clean now, thankfully. He could tell Matteo to swipe one of his mother’s perfumes and douse the whole kitchen in it to try and cover the scent of blood, liquor, and vomit later. 

 

He wandered past the kitchen and towards the stairs, careful not to place his hand on the bannister under pressure. He simply leaned on the wall as he slowly walked up each wooden step, his feet slowly dragging to the next. He was tired. His bones ached and his chest felt sore and his stomach felt uneasy. He was nauseous and in pain, still covered in blood in all the other places but his hands. He’d have to wash it off before leaving so nobody would see anything. 

 

Once Zach reached the top of the stairs, his eyes fell on Matteo’s bedroom door. It was open— just a crack. He swallowed. “M..” It was quiet. Like he was trying to learn how to speak again. “Matteo?” He called, like a zombie slowly shuffling towards the door. He heard some rustling beyond the door, making him feel a wave of relief. “Zach?” He didn’t even care enough to correct Matteo. Slowly, he used the back of his hand to push open the door. First, he peeked around the corner, head lowered. His eyes lifted to look at Matteo, who was sprawled out on his bed like a kitten. It looked comfy. 

 

Matteo smiled at him. Zach felt his head hurt. “Are you leaving now?” He sounded so sad. Like the last two hours never happened. Zach wordlessly stumbled towards the side of the bed, sinking to his knees before resting his chin on the soft mattress. He looked up at Matteo. “M’ sorry.” He started, looking away. Matteo sat upright, shaking his head as his curls shook with him. His hand reached out, just enough in view of Zach’s gaze for the older boy not to lean away. “Ew,” Matteo giggled.

 

“Your hair is super greasy.” He ran his fingers through the shiny locks of Zach’s hair, watching the older boy just let out a chuckle from his throat. “Yeah?” Zach murmured, cracking an eye open to look up. He wouldn’t admit that he liked the way Matteo was running his fingers through his hair. He wouldn’t dare let the younger boy know he had been needing this for a long time. It felt good. The softness of the mattress, the warm hand, the quiet.

 

Zach wanted to cry. He wanted to cry from the feeling. It didn’t send any shockwaves of pain or blinding numbness through his body. It simply… made him feel good. It felt better than sleeping on an empty stomach. Better than the feeling of nails digging into his arms late at night. It was better than the sound yelling in his ears, a hand wrapped tightly in his hair as he was dragged across the floor. It was nice. Zach enjoyed it.

 

Tears began to well up in his eyes, reality setting in. He couldn’t stay like that forever. Skeet had to go home. He mumbled something incoherent to Matteo, slowly lifting himself from his knees. “I have to go.” He said rather solemnly, wiping his tears with his arm. Matteo looked at him, almost upset. He knew Skeet had to go, even if he didn’t want him to. “Can I walk you home?” He asked, slowly getting ready to leave his bed. There was a hopeful, almost eager look in his eyes. 

 

Skeet sighed, shaking his head. “M’good. I’ve put you through enough today.” Was it a joke? Maybe. He didn’t quite know what he was trying to tell Matteo. All he knew was that Matteo looked sad. Skeet bit the inside of his cheek, looking around. “Uh—“ He started, looking at Matteo as they locked eyes. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” The words sparked a look of light in the younger boy’s eyes, almost like a puppy wagging its tail. “I’ll bring juice. And we can play Roblox together.” Skeet didn’t even know if he’d be able to get out of bed tomorrow. The next day forever depends on the evening that lies ahead. 

 

Matteo giggled. “Okay. Pinkie promise you will?” Skeet felt his breath catch in his throat. Promise? He looked at Matteo’s hand, extended out with only his pinkie facing Skeet. Slowly, Skeet extended his bony arm to the other. Their pinkies locked, both of them wincing at the dull thrum of pain that followed before they pulled away. “I forgot my fingers still hurt…” Matteo smiled bashfully, pulling his hand away as Skeet nodded with a sheepish sigh. “Um. Well, goodbye, Zach. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

 

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow too, Matteo. If-“ Skeet stopped in the doorway. “If anything happens, message me, okay?” There was a beat of silence that followed his words, with Matteo looking from his own hands to Skeet. “Okay. I will.” Followed by a smile, and the sound of the door closing behind Skeet. 

 

Skeet had quickly moved from the door to the stairs, feet padding along before he reached the bottom. His eyes caught his sweater hanging off the side of a chair in the kitchen, making him stop. Shit. He didn’t put on the laundry. Matteo will probably do his own— and leaving his bloody hoodie was like leaving evidence of the crime at the crime scene. He quickly snagged it off the side, rolling it into a ball in his arms. It was wet and still smelling of blood and alcohol, bits of puke intertwined into the fabric. Gross.

 

He slipped his shoes on, pulling the heel up with his finger. Skeet put his hand on the doorknob again. He sighed. He’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. If there was anything he should be worried about, it should be himself. His dad, he hoped, was out drunk on the couch and he’d never care if Skeet was home on time or not. He was already walking down the sidewalk, practicing. Heels up, toes firm to the ground but never a step strong enough to make a sound. Head down, voice straight and respectful when explaining his excuse. 

 

Skeet hated it. He could already feel the jealousy bubbling inside of him. He wanted to claw his brains out, wander into the middle of the road, and let some shitty car run him over with a loud thump and crunch of his bones. He looked to the road, swallowing as cars came and went with thundering booms. 

 

No. Not today. Matteo wanted to hang out tomorrow. We pinkie promised each other.

 

So, Skeet continued to walk on the sidewalk, heading back home just as the streetlights began to turn on. 

Notes:

Next chapter will be posted sometime soon hopefully I think it’ll be the heaviest? Poor Zach

Chapter 5: Oh, To Be Your Father’s Very Own.

Summary:

The nightly routine of Skeet’s home life.

Notes:

HELLOOO early chapter or later chapter I DONKNOW but it’s finals season for me which unfortunately means that for the next two weeks there will be no updates until AT THE ABSOLUTE EARLIEST December 14th. I really wanna focus in on my finals n stuffs so I wrote this a little earlier than planned and chapter 6 has already been drafted so I have a head start. Anyways HEAVY TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR
Verbal abuse
Transphobia
Self harm reference

Enjoy! I’ll see you all in December.

The walk home couldn’t feel any different from a walk to death row, at least for Skeet. There was a feeling of despair that loomed over him, like he knew what was to come. It was cold, too. Very cold. Despite it being only a few minutes away, the walk still felt so biting. The snowflakes looked pretty from the window, but now that they kissed his thin skin and winding scars, they were chilly little pins against his arms. His hands rubbed against his own skin, but it barely did anything. He hoped that his father wouldn’t notice the stain on his hoodie or the stench he carried. The way alcohol clung to him with a dizzy head and heavy heart certainly didn’t help.

 

The spinning inside of his stomach and head hadn’t stopped since he left Matt’s house. Maybe it was sickness, or the cold clashing with the hot. Skeet was used to feeling sick, used to stomach pain. From hunger pangs to the monthly kind of sick, he was used to it. However, this feeling, felt like it had twisted his organs into a grotesque bow and double-tied the knot. He wanted to vomit. He could feel the disgusting taste begin to form slowly, knowing all too well what was to come.

 

He slowed down, the tightness in his stomach becoming very apparent to the boy. He stopped on the snowy sidewalk,  hands flying to his mouth to try and cover the mixture that would pour from his dry lips. Skeet hunched over, chest tightening without pesky bandages causing the pain and burn. He felt his body flex as he tasted copper on his tongue, warmth spilling through his hands as his vision blurred at the edges. All that was clear was the liquid vile that spewed from his throat and out of his mouth like words.

 

The feeling came without a warning, or at least one Skeet could handle. He retched, the first heave being a silent plea for nothing to come out. It was unfortunate that his body never listened to him no matter how much he begged, for the emptied the little bits that were left in his stomach, the spew landing on the snow in front of him and splattering onto his shoes. It spilled so disgustingly through his fingers, tears blurring his vision and refusing to let him see what he had puked out.

 

He stayed bent over the mess until he was sure that no more would leave him. Skeet let out a couple of sharp breaths, shakily pulling at his shirt collar and wiped his mouth with the back of a cold hand. He then wiped his hand on the side of his pants with a long sigh. He could feel how weak his knees were, the urge for them to give out and sink into the snow and lie down to cool off after that. But he did not let himself kneel. The winds picked up while the snow brushed up against his body, reminding him to continue into the cold. The boy scowled into the sky, eyes dark like the snow-filled clouds above. He moved his hair from his eyes, rolling his shoulder as he felt the sting in his throat of leftover bile. It was gross, but he didn’t have the time to heave or let the tears fall. He had to get home.

 

He could see his house ahead, the single-floor building with the wooden porch and busted-up blue car. There were scratches everywhere, and the inside was no different. Neither his mom nor his dad apparently knew how to drive, despite having licenses. He scoffed. I could probably drive better than both of them combined. The two of them being in the car at the same time probably made driving even more unsafe— they’d yell and argue before Skeet’s dad would shut his mom up with a clean snap. He shuddered at the thought.

 

Skeet dragged his feet through the snow, feeling his heart pounding in his chest the closer he got to the door. By now, Skeet would’ve thought he’d get used to the feeling, the anticipation. But no- there’s rarely anything or anything at all that could prepare him to go home. He’d get into fights and get sent to after-school detention just so he could stay out of the house longer, even if he knew what was waiting for him when he entered the door.

 

Slowly, the soles of his feet would begin to get lighter with each step, becoming silent against the snow. The only thing that touched the ground was the tip of his shoes, hands folded in front of him as he lowered his head to rehearse. The streetlights weren’t fully on, and the sun was still out. He didn’t want to disturb his father after a long, long day of work. He didn’t want to be loud inside the house, Matteo needed something urgently. Skeet knew the endless list of excuses and lies he could make up to try and avoid the wrath of his father but it really was no use. Lying to him became easier and easier each day, but the blowback if he was found out for his lies also got worse. The very thought of a raised voice screeching like a banshee in his ears made him shiver, throat bobbing with fear as he tried to swallow the last bits of his anger, overcome by anxiety.

 

He stepped up onto the porch, careful not to make a sound. He avoided the creaky boards, moving like he was performing a well-practiced dance. His hand touched the cold doorknob, twisting it slowly and pushing with force but not speed. There was light from the outside that slowly spilled into the doorway, slowly spilled onto the old mat that sat in front of the door on the wooden floor. He kept his eyes down, but his ears were sharp. He kept listening for sounds, anything that could mean something. A creak there, the sound of the pipes beneath him, the brush of wind against the tiles and the sound of his shoes on the mat, trying to make sure he didn’t track any water or snow in. He closed the door behind him quietly, locking it softly after.

 

He knelt to the ground, letting his knees rest as he peeled his shoes off and placed them neatly by the door, beside his mother’s Sunday flats. He pursed his lips, looking up. The living room was dark, save for the flashing glow of the TV playing evening sports. Skeet sniffed the air like he was searching for danger, the smell of aged whiskey and beer bottle glass reached his senses. His room was upstairs, doe-brown eyes looking to the stairs as he moved quietly across the carpeted floor and towards the wooden staircase. Moving past the figure on the couch was a terrifying feeling. If Skeet could water it down, it felt as if he was walking across the floor of a bear’s cave while the bear slept in front of him. His eyes stayed fixated on the man, as if waiting for him to strike first.

 

He could see the subtle shifts; the head movement, the way his shoulders moved with his chest, the idle tap of fingers on the bottle. For a moment, Skeet felt as if he could slink away like a silent ghost passing through, making sure to step on the safest parts of the ground as he made his way to the stairs. What he thought was a perfect moment was soon ruined by the soft and long creak of a floorboard beneath his feet. Panic shot through him like an alarm, stopping dead where he stood. He didn’t dare lift his foot off the plank, knowing the slow removal of his foot would make it groan even louder. Skeet stayed there, eyes fixated on the figure sitting on the living room couch. He swallowed, waiting for the moment to pass like a storm overhead so he could rush up the stairs without a word uttered.

 

His eyes were probably burning holes in the back of his father’s head with how much he was staring. Every little detail and shift from the way his father’s throat moved to the way his eyes stayed glued to the TV despite Skeet knowing he was now very aware that Skeet was in the room. Skeet didn’t move an inch.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Skeet felt his stomach drop. He knew he couldn’t stay quiet forever. Skeet slowly lifted his foot from the plank, the soft groan of the wood beneath him filling the silence for a few moments before he spoke. “Um- I was just playing outside. With Matteo. I didn’t want to disturb you, or Mom.” Skeet spoke, his tone softening as he rubbed his knuckles to soothe himself. The silence that passed was terrifying to the boy. He had no idea how his father was going to react, or if he would at all. Sometimes his reactions were like the thunder of a storm, or it was the lightning that came before. Oftentimes, it was both.

 

His fists curled up and he straightened his posture, stiff as a board and preparing for the worst, but he was beginning to recite for the best. Skeet’s jaw clenched as he waited, watching his father deep in thought -or just drunken slowness- as he awaited a response. “And the first thing you do when you get home is bother me? Fucking useless little shit.”

 

Of course, the words hurt Skeet deeply but it was a far more welcome pain than the feeling of fingers curled around his neck like a python’s teeth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Skeet said as calmly as he could, that faint sting in his nose making him feel even worse. “Go get me another pack from the fridge and get the hell out of my sight. I don’t need to have two useless bitches sulking around the damn house.”

 

Skeet was quick to nod his head, walking into the kitchen to retrieve the pack of beer bottles from the fridge. He walked quietly across the wooden floor, hand out and gliding across the fridge’s front door before latching onto the handle to pull it out.

 

Opening the fridge always felt so underwhelming to Skeet. Of course, he knew nothing but beer and maybe some milk would be in there, but it still felt so depressing. He had gotten used to the sorrowful sight and grown accustomed to it. He stuck his head in, searching around for the pack of beer behind rotted produce and awful-smelling items he couldn’t even register. When his hand finally reached for the pack at the back of the fridge, he felt nothing. He furrowed his brows, confused as he stuck his head in deeper. For a few moments, Skeet was left puzzled as to where the beer could—

 

Skeet felt his stomach drop at the realization of where the pack of beer was. Gone. It was gone because Skeet brought it over to Matt’s place earlier. Right. Fuck.

 

Standing up and taking in a deep breath, Skeet tried to mull over the possible ways he could deal with this. He could be honest and tell his father that there was no beer pack but thankfully a few cans were left in the back of the fridge. He wouldn’t directly say that the pack was gone, but that he just gave him the beer and then ran off upstairs. -quietly of course.-

 

Skeet took in a breath, collecting two beer cans from the fridge and closing it softly before he turned around and walked back into the living room to hand them to his father. Well- not actually hand it to him, he knew his father wouldn’t dare allow that. So instead, Skeet merely placed both cans on the table beside the couch -letting the tin hit the wood loudly enough to alert his father that he had done what was asked of him- before he turned away as fast as he reasonably could and rushed up the stairs without another word. He didn’t want to even give his father a chance to make any remarks.

 

The climb up the stairs was easy for Skeet, slowly peering down the hall towards his room at the end. His house was not nearly as nice as Matt’s, especially in the decor. Barely anything lined the long hallway. If anything, it was more like an attic if anything. The walls were thin, making it much colder upstairs, and the ceiling was low. It was a miracle that Skeet could even sleep up there.

 

He walked along the wooden floor, trying to ignore the thrum of a headache beginning to bloom in his skull. He could see that the only door that was even ajar was to his mother’s room. Technically it was the guest room but his father wouldn’t allow his mother to sleep anywhere else. Not even what used to be their ‘shared’ room. The funny part is, they aren’t even divorced. He just doesn’t want to even look at her. Skeet felt bitter at the thought as he passed by, slowing at her door.

 

He slowly stepped closer to it, opening it only a bit more to peer inside. At the other end of the room, he could see her. The light from the window left her silhouette clear to Skeet, sitting in her armchair with a cigarette between her fingers hanging off the side of the armrest. She didn’t turn her head, even as Skeet shuffled across the floor. He closed the door behind him, the routine setting in.

 

He knew she wouldn’t respond to him, nor would she even acknowledge his presence. But it didn’t bother Skeet. Not that much, at least. He walked across the room, spotting the ashtray beside her chair. He frowned a little, walking toward the window first to open it. The smoke that had collected in the room wasn’t doing either of them any good, he thought. Neither his mother nor he had said anything for the entire time Skeet had been there. Once the window had been opened enough to let the smoke out, Skeet turned around to look at his mother. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it after no words came out the first time. Hesitancy laced his mind, leaving him to fiddle with his fingers.

 

“Mama?” He eventually mustered the ability to speak. His mother did not respond, not even bothering to look at him. Skeet sank to his knees beside his mother’s chair, laying his head on the side of her thigh as he held onto her leg. She didn’t do anything, only idly tapping her cigarette against the chair and placing it in the ashtray. At first, Skeet got worried. His head lifted slightly as he watched her hand move, pressing on his head to keep him lying on her thigh. Her bony fingers carded through his greasy hair, long nails scratching at his scalp like how you would with a cat. Skeet didn’t move an inch, regardless of how uncomfortable the position was. His mother’s hand was uncharacteristically warm- he suspected it was due to the cigarette, but the thought of warmth coming from the actions that she was giving to him also put a rather honeydew-sweet memory into his head.

 

Perhaps it was childish of him to be doing such things at his big age, but Skeet couldn’t find it in himself to care. His mother felt so warm, so very inviting. Her hand was like a blessing, her gentle strokes like a soothing aid he could fall asleep to. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fall asleep there. Slowly, his hands raised to meet his mother’s own on his head. Begrudgingly, he moved her hand back into her lap as he began to stand up. Tears had already begun to fall from his doe-brown eyes, looking at his mother who only stared beyond him. Skeet simply looked to the door again, then to his poor mother. He knew that there was no good in staying here, for either of them. But there was no way for her. “I love you, mama.” Skeet spoke quietly, kneeling on one knee one final time as he held her hand in his.

 

His mother did not respond to his words. So, Skeet stood up with one final look and left to go to the door. Skeet couldn’t stop the tears from falling, the feeling of despair becoming violently strong inside of him. Shaky breaths and a weak throat were symptoms of the usual; the knowledge of such made Skeet rush to his room with a sense of urgency. He opened his door with a strong swing, careful not to let it hit the wall as he closed it hastily but quietly, letting his shuddering breaths reveal themselves to the quiet of his room.

 

He didn’t even have time to take in his room, the feeling of desperation to claw out of his feelings was growing inside of him and he couldn’t even stop it. He could feel it on his arms. The ghost of something painful and sharp sending shockwaves of nonexistent fear and displeasure up his spine like into his brain like parasites made him anxious and needy. Swiftly, Skeet rummaged through his drawers and his closet to find a long-sleeved shirt that he could toss on immediately.

 

After searching for a few seconds, Skeet pulled out a black long-sleeve shirt from the bottom of his drawers and hastily ripped off his shirt to change into the fresher one. Should he have showered first? Most likely. But did Skeet care? No, not really. What mattered was getting rid of that awful feeling sinking into his arms, making him feel paranoid like ghosts were grazing their long claws against his fragile skin.  He could feel the weight on his chest, left bare for only his action posters and mirror to see. How ugly, he thought. They stared back at him like two bulging eyes, begging for attention. Skeet grimaced, quick to toss on his long-sleeve shirt in order not to have to stare anymore.

 

Once the shirt was on, Skeet felt his heart rate drop back to something akin to a normal pace. He still felt agitated and unwell, but at least now it wasn’t so bad. Yeah, right. Skeet slowly rolled his shoulders to get the shirt more comfortable on his small frame, the ache in his arms eventually subsiding enough to let it become nothing more than a buzzing fantasy to store away for the deep evening ahead.

 

His hands brushed up against his chest as he was pulling his shirt down, making his eyes fall on the obvious issue. He looked to his door, then under his desk. Slowly, he lifted his shirt and held the fabric between his teeth, lifting his shirt enough to give him room to work. Kneeling under his desk, Skeet pulled out a first aid kit. He clumsily opened it with two clicks of the tabs, hastily pulling out the bandages as he began to unravel the spool and place one end in the middle of his chest while the other, longer end, was tossed around his front and back until it slowly made his problem smaller, and smaller, and smaller. It was a painful tightness, the kind of ache that made breathing hard.

 

A part of him felt the wish to be kind this evening. After everything that’s happened, perhaps some kindness would do him well. Skeet dwelled on the thought for a few moments, before he repeated himself and shook his head. No. After everything that’s happened today, he didn’t deserve to be kind to himself. He didn’t deserve to be kind or have kindness given to him. Not today, not ever.

 

Slowly, Skeet let the shirt drop from between his teeth as he looked in the mirror. It looked natural, as painful as it was. He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. I’ll shower tomorrow. If I remember.

 

He turned his gaze to his desk once more, then to the open first aid kit on the floor. He knew he should clean it up, he really did, but he couldn’t find the energy to kneel and take care of it. I don’t even wanna’ play Roblox right now. Skeet felt himself grow shallow at the thought. Matt was probably sleeping, so there wasn’t even a reason to log on if he wasn’t playing.

 

Skeet then turned his gaze to his bed, eyeing the unmade covers that he had left in the morning. He should really shower before he lies down on that. At least it won’t smell of beer and blood, he thought as he slowly walked towards the comforting sight. It was like a siren calling out to him, beckoning him to come forward and to stay. Skeet was no stronger than any other man, flopping down on the mattress with a soft thump and bounce. He felt his bones turn to jelly and his body become heavy like his mind. His vision darkened and blurred, seeing double as his hearing muffled out into nothingness.

 

What a long day, all Skeet wanted to do was die.

 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t. So Skeet decided that he was going to sleep instead. That was close enough for now.

Chapter 6: Dreamlike Wishes Of A Little Boy’s Growing Pains.

Summary:

Skeet has a dream.

Notes:

GUESS WHOS BACK. ITS ME AND I HAVE A NEW CHAPTERRRRR
I know I said I’d aim for a 14th release but I had finished writing it last night and just needed to like, sleep lol. I’m gonna be writing as much as I can over the break BUT I’m also juggling my twitter plus another fic right now. Also I wanna write skaterlight sobad. Anyways heads up for this chapter there are mentions of eating disorders and also transskeet propaganda. Because you can’t tell me that the parallels don’t exist.

The moment his head hit the pillow, Zach felt his body grow heavy against the cheap mattress. It was comfortable, at least to him. He felt himself begin to breathe more slowly, the weariness of the day taking over, making his eyelids heavy, as if weights were on them, trying to make him close his eyes and finally fall into a deep slumber.

 

Zach, unable to fight back, let his head sink deeper into the pillow as the covers did nothing to make him feel any warmer the more he slipped from consciousness. Why can’t this last forever? He thought with the last bits of fleeting power in his brain. It was so nice, being able just to lie down and feel like he was sinking into his bed like it was dirt. It was so comfy, this false grave of his. Why can’t I just lie in bed forever? It wasn’t much to ask for, just a simple request. Maybe he could rot there, fused to the bed so they couldn’t even move him into some stuffy, stiff casket.

 

Zach smiled a little at the thought. He sprawled out against the bed, staring up at the ceiling as his vision began to double with the black spots around the edges. Staying in bed forever, what a dream. His eyelids fluttered, taking a short breath before he went black like the night sky.

 

Zach sighed softly. It felt so good. The coolness of his room began to shift, the blanket wrapping around his arms with a fleecy softness that he’d never known before. He rolled over onto his side, the brightness of the sun beaming into his eyes. Skeet scrunched up his nose, balling up his fists. He quickly rolled over onto his other side, facing the wall as his expression softened once more now that the sun was no longer burning his eyes. Skeet lay in bed forever a few more minutes, enjoying the newfound softness of his mattress and the warmth of his favourite fleecy hoodie.

 

That was, before he heard an obnoxiously loud knocking sound coming from downstairs. His brows furrowed, at first thinking it maybe to be his father beating at some wall again, electing to ignore it for his own safety. Then it came again. This time, followed by a voice calling from the outside.

 

“Skeet, comon! We know you’re awake, it’s a snow day! We all wanna play!”

 

Skeet sat upright in bed like his name was a sleeper agent codeword. We? Snow day?

 

Confused, Skeet slowly began to peel the covers off his body and roll onto his side before slowly sitting up, he rubbed his head, fingers running along the white ninja headband he always wore. They slowly intertwined in the dangling bits that flowed like flags against the wind, before his hand fell to the mattress again. “M’coming!” He called down, hearing the knocking stop. Skeet let out a groan, getting to his feet. He tugged his sleeves over his hands, trying to rid his body of that mid-November chilliness. His hoodie felt a little heavier than usual, but it wasn’t from grime or grossness sticking to it, but the threads themselves. It felt soft on the inside, almost insulated to where if Skeet was maybe a little thicker in the arms, he could go out and play just in his hoodie and pants. He brushed his hands over his face, the sleepiness he thought he was feeling moments before fleeting from his body. It felt as if his energy had completely returned to him.

 

Well, He supposed. There was nothing else for him to do. Missing school wasn’t an option already so skipping wasn’t something he was accustomed to. Plus, he actually liked going to school some days, even if he didn’t do a lick of work. But since it was a snow day… Skeet felt a goofy little grin form between his cheeks as he turned his head towards the door. He could make some time to play outside. Even if he did think he was a little old for it.

 

Skeet pulled his shoes out from under his bed, slipping them on before hopping out the door while trying to do the laces on both feet and not waste any time getting out. It was a party trick he had learned- six nimble little fingers tying up the pink laces as he hopped down the steps with loud thumps on each wooden plank. He could see the blurry shape of people outside, more than just one. But… Matteo, He thought, slowing down once he reached the bottom. His hand reached for the brass doorknob, twisting it before pulling the door inwards to open it.

 

Outside stood three people. Matt, who was fastening his colourful little helmet up so it wouldn’t fall off his head was the first one Skeet looked at. His toothy grin which was split up by the gaps between his teeth was visible, before his eyes moved on. Shiners— she was there too. Although it looked like the snow had made her blurry, Skeet could still tell it was her. She had no coat on, only her nicest purple shirt and that dainty flower crown she always had. Behind both of them stood the tallest, but only by maybe an inch or so. (Skeet didn’t count the extra height Shiners’ crown gave her. But he’d never tell her that, of course.)

 

It was Galaxies. His face was completely obscured by that obnoxiously big pumpkin head he wore, the insides a burning mess of purple flames. Seriously, how was that comfortable…? Skeet stood there for a moment, seeing their smiling faces looking at him. “There you are!” Matt finally cheered, reaching towards Skeet to grab his hand and pull him out the door. “Look, Skeet!” He pointed. “The whole neighbourhood is covered in snow!” While that statement on its own wasn’t a big revelation this time of the year, the state of the snow was. Usually, it was that mushy kind of snow, the gross kind that dogs peed in or was too fluffy to make snowballs out of. But this snow, Skeet could tell by the way it crunched promisingly under his sneakers that it was the perfect kind of snow to make snowballs out of. The kind he could definitely, totally get away with shoving down Shiners’ or Matt’s shirts. But not Galaxies. Never Galaxies. That guy was tall! He’d have no trouble picking Skeet up by the scruff of his hoodie and tossing him around like he was a wet noodle!

 

Skeet let Matt guide him, watching the way Galaxies and Shiners simply followed. They hadn’t said anything to him, only greeting him at the door with smiles. Well, for galaxies, as much as a pumpkin head could smile. He always has a smile, Skeet decided.

 

When Matt finally let his hand go, Skeet looked around. It was just snow. Snow for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see. It was pretty. Very pretty. Skeet looked at the snowy ground, shifting it around with his foot. “Wanna build a snow fort, Skeet?” Matt asked him, pushing on his shoulder to get the older boy’s attention. “Huh?” Skeet looked at him. “Sure, but it’s gotta be tall. —And cool. It’s gotta be tall and cool.” Two easy requirements to fill, at least in Skeet’s eyes. Matt nodded eagerly at Skeet’s instructions, pale, bare hands beginning to dig at the snow and pull it from the ground before packing it into a mound to form a wall.

 

Skeet watched, before he dug his hands into the snow in a similar fashion. It was cold, agonizingly so, but for some reason, Skeet couldn’t bring himself to take his hands out. He kept them there, collecting the fresh snow between his fingers, watching it slip through before packing it into a mound and shaping it up. His hands burned with the biting chill of cold snow, but it didn’t even show on his face— as if all but his nerves forgot that snow /hurt/ when it was on your skin. He pulled it up, patting it down into a firm shape. He’d pull more from the ground, trying to reach the grass beneath to have a stable surface to form the mound on, but the further he dug, Skeet just kept pulling up the snow.

 

“Wow, Skeet!” Matt chuckled. “You’ve got a lot of snow.” He added, patting his own wall and trying to firm it out. “Uh,” Skeet chuckled. “Yeah. ‘Course I do. Just keep building your side and don’t get distracted.” He added, going back to digging into the snow to pull more out. While it was fun, Skeet couldn’t help but focus more on the feelings. The smells he was smelling, the nerves in his fingertips firing off messages to his brain as he dug his pinkish hands through the bright, pure white snow. The shadow that he cast over it was a soft kind of blue, deep in hue but not in gradient. It was cold, it didn’t feel right on his fingers but the scent of fresh snow was so clean and freeing that Skeet didn’t mind it. It was calming, in a way. The freshness and cooling aroma had no actual /scent/ in particular but it really did allow his senses to breathe and adjust to the temperature. His hoodie kept him pretty warm otherwise, the layered fleece making a sort of shield against the temperature and soft winds blowing at him.

 

After a while, Skeet poked his head up over his forming wall. Wasn’t Shiners n’ Galaxies with us…? He wondered, brows knitting together in confusion. “Matt?” He turned his head, looking over at the other boy. “Yeah?” Matt looked up, or at least Skeet thought he did. “Where did Shiners and Galaxies go?” He asked, hands leaving the snowy structure. “Oh, Shiners is there, and Galaxies is getting food!” He smiled brightly, doing mindless busy work for the fort. Food? Out here? But there was nothing but the snow. Skeet scratched the back of his neck, deciding to ignore the biting feeling as he went back to work on the amazing snow fort at hand.

 

Food did sound good anyways. He didn’t eat anything when he got home and jeez, Skeet stuck his tongue out. Barf made of sugary cake and alcohol doesn’t go down well! It tasted super gross, and even worse with blood and some glass mixed into it. Skeet shivered from the memory, or maybe it was just the cold.

 

He wondered for a moment, what kind of food it would be. Great way to figure out he was starving… he couldn’t remember the last time he actually had a proper meal in the past few days. Eating wasn’t really something he did well with. He turned his head to the side, trying to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach and lower. It did hurt a bit…

 

Shit, didn’t Matt bring up Shiners? Like a curious animal, he turned his head, looking for the purple shirt and flower crown on the girl. As if his imagination had remembered her existence, he turned to see her not far off from where he and Matt were. She was building something in the snow, face obscured by some strange snowy structure. Her hands patted at the snow gently, as if she was worried about hurting it. He chuckled. She was always so nice. Even to inanimate objects that didn’t have feelings, she treated them like they did. Skeet wondered for a moment. What’s it like? Not to even be the object that requires love, but to get it regardless because it’s someone’s basic wish to give it to you, unconditionally? He felt it hurt a bit more.

 

She looked up from her sculpture, spotting Skeet in the distance. She waved at him, making skeet wave back as he watched her return to her sculpture of snow. He wasn’t even sure what she was making, he just knew it was tall. really tall.  He didn’t bother to ask, it didn’t look like she was going to speak to him anyway.

 

Skeet turned his head back to his wall, but before he could place his numbing hands on the snow, he saw a shadow looming over him and Matt. Galaxies. Skeet looked up, staring at the flaming purple pumpkin head above him. Galaxies didn’t utter a word, as if Skeet didn’t know what kind of voice to give him. Galaxies merely handed something wrapped in paper to Skeet, which by far, had to be the weirdest thing Galaxies had ever done. —And that’s saying a lot, he always talks in such a weird way on Roblox. He smiled wryly at Galaxies, taking the food from Galaxies with a soft thank youleaving his lips.

 

He slowly peeled back the paper wrapping, looking at the delicious contents inside. Was it… Manicotti…? Skeet felt his stomach growl at the sight. Oh, oh wow. The snow around him settled softly as if it reflected Skeet’s mind. He sat on the ground, cross-legged, holding the food like it was a wrap. It was definitely a little weird to not eat it with a knife and fork, but at the same time… he was sitting in the snow outside, eating manicotti. It was allowed to be weird. He opened his mouth to take a bite, but he hesitated. His brain began to fall into that pattern. Counting, measuring, bracing…

 

Skeet tried to shake his head of the thoughts, he forced his mouth open again, taking a bite. The pasta shell itself is soft, the cheesy gooey and delicious on his tongue. It was warm, but not scalding hot to the point where it would burn his tongue. It tasted good, really good. He pulled away from the food in his hands, chewing slowly like he wanted it to last. “Mm, Galaxies,” He started, mouth full of food. “Where did you-“ When Skeet looked up, he didn’t see Galaxies anywhere.

 

Did he already leave? Strange. He disregarded Galaxies just wandering off, returning his attention to the food. It felt so good to finally eat something again, to finally have something sit in the hollow bit of his belly. And what a treat, his favourite food. Skeet couldn’t remember the last time he had something as good as this. Even on his birthdays, he wasn’t permitted the delicious taste of manicotti or even French toast in the morning; his mother found it too much of a burden to begin making it the night prior or even quickly whip it up in the morning. Skeet had to learn on his own, and even then, he didn’t find himself wishing for food as often as he knew he should.

 

Honestly, if it wasn’t for Matt’s repeated pushes to hand him half of his lunch during recess, Skeet wouldn’t be eating nearly as much as he already was. He hoped he wasn’t getting fatter because of it…

 

It didn’t take Skeet long to finish off his food, licking the edges of his lips of the extra sauce before wiping off the parts he couldn’t reach with the hem of his sleeve before letting out a satisfied sigh. While he didn’t feel as light as he did before, Skeet certainly felt more grounded. He knew he could worry about it later, but the snow falling around him began to build up at the sides of his legs like it was forming a pile around him. Skeet looked around, letting his body fall back into the snow with that feeling in his gut blooming. The world began to feel dizzy, with Skeet trying to recognize the faces around him.

 

Matt looked awfully blue— not in a sad way, but literally. He couldn’t tell if he was standing in someone’s shadow or if he had always looked like that. As for Shiners, and Galaxies, they were nowhere to be found. Skeet felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t a fan of feeling this way, the kind of way you’d feel when your anxiety spiked like a balloon popping. “Um-“ He began. “Matt?”He murmured, trying to see the other’s face, yet it was nearly impossible with how obscured it was.

 

Skeet swallowed, trying to find some sort of grounding against the dizzying feeling that was overtaking him. Why now? What was going on? It felt suffocating to try and think about it in all of its little fragments. It was the kind of feeling you got when you fell back against anything. That weird tingle that came right after, like all your organs in your belly decided to shift around and move, or just go flying. Skeet expected himself to fall back into a bed of fluffy snow, but before he could even feel the coolness melt into his back, his body jolt de forward in his bed like he had been hit by a ball.

 

Zach felt his heart thumping wildly out of his chest like it was trying to escape. What the hell? Zach cursed, looking around as he groggily tried to get it upright in bed. His lower stomach still hurt, the dull ache of something cramping throwing his whole good mood out the window in a matter of moments. Zach turned over onto his side, trying to ignore the feeling and trying to find his way back to that dream. While yes, it was lame, it was boring and barely anything good happened, but for a few moments, Zach felt like it was nice. The weather wasn’t a blistering cold that would kill him if he underdressed, and there wasn’t anyone in the house but him. Even then, it was a day without school. A day with friends, even if they’re distant from him. It felt so good, too good. Perhaps that’s why it was a dream. Something that Zach couldn’t ever have, something that was unobtainable to him. Why?

 

Why. Why did it have to only be a dream? Why couldn’t it have lasted forever? The idea of falling into the cold snow beside his friends and getting swallowed up by the pure white never to be seen again— at least he’d never have to do homework anymore, or go home and be in this god forsaken house. Sure, he’d never be able to eat again, no more video games or skateboarding, but… Zach turned his head. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be dead sometimes.

 

He groaned, sitting upright as he held his stomach a little. Whatever the hell was causing the cramps, Zach knew he was going to have to get up and investigate. But for now…

 

The bed felt a little bit cozier. Maybe it was his body heat that was warming things, making it much easier to just want to stay in bed and enjoy the warmth and the subtle coziness. He groaned, rolling his shoulders as he leaned up and began to leave bed. Before he even noticed it, he placed a hand over his stomach. Right, he didn’t actually eat anything, it was merely a dream. Why the hell am I hurting then?Zach furrowed his brows, trying to get out of bed in the least discomforting way he could as he let one leg over the other, the problem finally materialized in his brain.

 

Skeet nearly jumped out of bed, rushing to the mirror nearby and nearly tripping over a pile of clothes he hadn’t cleaned up yet. His eyes scanned like he was searching for something. He tugged at his clothes, realizing he wasn’t wearing his hoodie. Right. Right. It was sitting on the back of his chair, still bloody with glass stick in it. He was going to have to toss that, like seriously… Zach groaned, hands flying down to check. It only took him a moment to take a deep inhale, eyes firmly closing at the realization. There was a moment that commonly came with this feeling. The feeling of merely giving up and deciding that if this was it, so be it. So, Zach, with the dignity he had left while half awake, began to search around for a change of clothes that he could toss on in a quick minute. When he did, he looked at the pair of black jeans that he knows he hasn’t washed in a bit. He then began to shrug off his baggier pants, chucking them into the nearby laundry basket which by this point was overflowing with clothes that he knew he had to wash but had yet to find the motivation to do so.

 

Once he was sorted with himself, Zach’s eyes then turned like whiplash to look at his bed, rushing over to the drawer nearby and grabbing a half-used box of tissues before dropping to his knees at the side of his bed, tearing the covers off to assess the damage. He scanned the sheets, spotting the tiny splotches. “God fucking—“  Zach cursed under his breath, hoping that his shorts weren’t as tarnished. So that’s what was cramping me for that whole dream. It was at least nice to know what it was, but god, Zach wanted to throw a fuss. “Stupid body, stupid fucking life…” He grunted, dabbing away at the stain before he even thought to deal with himself. His cheeks were red with frustration and he felt like he was going to explode. Hell, a part of him wanted to go back to bed. It’s not fair. He thought, teeth gritting together as he tried to take a breath in to stay at least somewhat levelheaded which, in all honesty, didn’t really work well.

 

Of course. How come he didn’t see it before? Shiners didn’t live even close to them. And Galaxies, well, he was in a whole other part of America. And Matt… Shit. Matteo. Zach felt his body freeze up for a couple seconds, looking up. He had to make it to Matteo’s place today. Zach let his head fall to the mattress. Hands splayed out in front of him like he just needed a break. Why did the last 48 hours have to be some of the worst hours in his life? Well, partially it was his fault, but seriously, could he not be afforded a break? He groaned, bashing his fists into the mattress like he was throwing a tantrum.

 

I still have to get up and get to Matt’s place. He did promise, after all.

 

Fuck. I also need to get juice. He promised that too.

Notes:

Last few passages were kinda inspired by my life because sometimes you wake up and realize it’s that time of the month so you just stand there and accept that ur gonna have to do the laundry for real this time

Also sorry if this chapter is super weird and disconnected the whole point was like,, it’s a dream and it needed to feel weird and strange 💔

Notes:

oh thats gore thats gore of my comfort character. i need to kill the author