There were so many cans. Their room wasn’t exactly the cleanest in the world, but at least they had variety in the rubbish lying around. The only difference between each aluminium cylinder was the brightly coloured label, either plastered onto the front or worked into the metallic material, sometimes scratched or dented but still vibrant and attention-seeking. They could barely see his carpet through the near-mountains of crappy, squashed and mostly empty cans. It was… it was almost like he had a problem, but they thought they were the only one with anything near to a serious problem in their small group of friends.

“Fancy one?” He passed them a garish yellow energy drink before they could protest, herding them towards the single bed hidden away in the corner of the room, just by a large window, tightly closed. “Now, this is where I should turn on the Xbox and we should mindlessly beat each other at stupid games until the early hours of the morning, but that’s not happening, and you know why.”

“Yeah.” They were too tired to argue, their fingers fumbling with the ring pull on the can until he took it from them, opened it with a quiet crack and hiss, then passed it back. It tasted sour, but they didn’t complain, gulping down the caffeine-riddled substance in hopes of being able to keep their eyes open for another hour or two. “Thanks.”

“So, who’s responsible for that-” pulling his feet up onto the bed so that he was sitting cross-legged, T gestured to the darkening blot on the side of their face, “and when did it happen? Last period? As you were leaving? Did someone corner you?”

“T-”

“Just tell me who I’ve got to murder. Say the word.” There was something incredibly dark and serious about him; something entirely non-joking and downright dangerous looking. It made them shrink down into the bed, just a little, their hands finding the duvet material and twisting into it. After a moment, he seemed to realise that the violence ricochetting around in his mind was showing, and he shoved himself back from them a few centimetres, eyes downcast. “Sorry. That got a little heavy.”

“You’ve done this before.” It wasn’t a question, and he knew it. With a sigh, he offered a hand to them, and the space between them closed. The hand, peculiarly, didn’t move, and a thumb began to drag itself from their knuckles down to near the wrist, warming the paper-white skin between. “Shit- I’ve spilled-”

“Doesn’t matter.” His hair was falling into his eyes, in a way that they were sure must’ve been annoying, since it almost became a curtain, separating them from each other. “I’ll text Cleo; ask her for that concealer. She’ll bring it round in the morning. Until then,” using his free hand, he swept the hair out of his line of sight, so that their gazes melded into one, “you’re going to tell me who did this, and I’m going to try my hardest not to find out where they live and slaughter them in their sleep.”

“… don’t want you to get in trouble… again… ” Casting their eyes down to the duvet, and the slowly growing pool of sugary liquid eating into the fabric and darkening it. “… not for me… not worth it…”

“Again? But - Jey - I haven’t hur- I mean, accidently injured a kid before. Only Mr… oh, fuck. No. Jey, tell me that I’m wrong.” His hand removed itself from theirs, both finding their cheeks and forcing them to look into his eyes. “You have to- this can’t be right. You- fuck. I’m gonna- I’m-”

The absolute brokenness in their eyes silenced him, as hot tears attack their vision, spilling down their cheeks and onto his rough fingers, rolling down past prominent knuckles and escaping into his blazer sleeves. Something inside him twinged at the sight, and his arms were around them before another second passed, as they began to shake and bit their lip in an attempt to stifle the sobs trying to make their way out of their body. They didn’t have to say another word.