“Is he asleep now?”

Mal bit his lip as he paced back and forth by the door.

“I think so,” Teeran nodded.

Mal blinked hard to keep himself from tearing up.

“He’s gonna be ok, dear.”

“You don’t know that!”

Mal shook his head and threw up his hands.

“Does Dean even know yet?”

“He didn’t want his father to know.”

Mal flinched in shock.

“Seriously, Teeran? Are you fucking kidding me?! He needs help! Serious help, and you’re just gonna stand back and let it happen? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Teeran recoiled at Mal’s sudden outburst, and Mal realized how antagonistic he seemed at that moment. His shoulders slumped, and he buried his face in his hands. Fuck, now I’m acting like him. He felt an arm wrap around him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here anymore.”

“This is your home too. Just because you’re not my son doesn’t mean you don’t have a say just like anyone else. I’m going to talk to Dean in the morning. It’s late, and none of us are rational.”

Teeran’s voice came out shaky and hoarse. Mal looked up from his hands and saw that he was crying, his green eyes flooding with tears. His delicate features scrunched as he heaved a soft sob. He looked away.

“We should get some rest. It’ll be better for the both of us.”

Teeran pulled away from Mal, walking down the hall towards the bedroom he shared with Dean. Mal wanted to say something to stop him, but when he tried to speak, no sound came out. Teeran turned, giving a small sad smile, tears still staining his rosy cheeks.

“Goodnight, my dear. We’ll figure this out together. All of us.”

Teeran shut the bedroom door, and Mal was left alone once again. He had half the heart to leave, drive far away, avoid all these feelings that threatened to spill out of him. The sting he’d previously felt started feeling like a stabbing, a clawing of his insides. He clenched his jaw so hard it was starting to become sore. Part of him wanted to march into Teeran and Dean’s room and fess up to everything that transpired that night, but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. At best, he was an outsider to this family issue, a fly on the wall. At worst, he was a burdensome interloper to the entire thing. He felt sick, he felt nauseous, he felt afraid, some of him felt angry about the whole ordeal. He needed Moses to be ok, maybe if Moses was ok, then he could be ok too. He heard the door to Moses’ room grunt open, and realized he’d turned the knob on impulse. In the dark, he saw the boy’s figure in the bed, his wild hair still wet from the shower and glinting in the moonlight. He was absolutely breathtaking. His tan skin was kissed with dottings of freckles. Even the stubble on his face and the bags under his eyes were pretty. His eyelids fluttered, and he let out a soft grumble.

“Teeran, I ok,” he mumbled sleepily.

For some reason, Mal felt a heat rise in his stomach, spreading to his face, and he balled his fists. He felt the anger-was it anger? Was it hurt? Was it passion? Mal wasn’t quite sure, but whatever emotion it was, it made Mal warm.

“Moses,” he spoke firmly but barely above a whisper, “it’s me.”

Moses’ eyes opened, making out Mal’s dark frame in the doorway. He sat up in the bed, blushing slightly.

“Am I dreaming? Are you…really there?”

Mal stepped forward.

“Do you think I am?”

Moses looked him up and down, and Mal saw a glint in his amber eyes.

“I dunno.”

Mal leaned against the edge of the bed.

“Heard about what happened.”

Mal said it straight up, matter-of-fact.

“Ya weren’t ‘sposed to.”

“You weren’t gonna tell me,” Mal muttered.

“I’m sorry for all of this. I-I’m messin’ everything up. Again.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“‘Cause it’s true! Look at me, man. I’m-”

“Don’t finish that fuckin’ sentence.”

Mal leaned forward and pulled Moses into his arms. He felt his long hair against the side of his face and he cradled the side of his head. Moses ran his hand down the small of his back, and Mal felt the electricity shoot down his spine. He breathed in the scent of fresh herbal shampoo as Moses pressed his head into his chest. In that moment, Mal realized how exhausted he was. He closed his eyes, taking in everything by touch, by smell, by sound. This person next to him was warm, was fragile, was real. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much warmth from one person in this way. Not since him. Mal wondered why now, of all nights, he was thinking of him once again. It seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances, but then again, since when are thoughts about these things ever appropriate. Moses was nothing like him. He was small, shy, reserved, unkempt, had a painfully thick drawl and seemed to place a greater importance on others than himself. Maybe that was why Mal was so drawn to him in the first place. Whatever it was, Mal found his heart doing somersaults in this moment. He felt the stiff bandage against the bare skin of his back where Moses’ arms touched. He heard the soft sound of Moses’ breathing, felt his breath against his chest. Part of him wished he could freeze time in this single instant, so neither of them had to think, neither of them had to do anything. Why was nothing simple? It would’ve been so much better if everything that happened came with a direct answer or explanation so you could at least know what it meant. But it didn’t. It had to be like this. With people in pain, people struggling, people angry, people confused and just trying to figure things out in a world so unforgiving.

“Y’know,” Moses mumbled, his voice muffled and obscured, “I don’t think I’ve ever really had a positive thought about myself.”

“That makes two of us.”

Moses looked up, startled by Mal’s statement.

“How? You’re handsome, probably popular, you’re annoyingly cheerful. You’re nothin’ like me. Ya probably have a whole fan club.”

“Actually, I keep to myself, believe it or not. Only friends I really HAVE are Teeran and Dean.”

Moses was taken aback by this. How could he not be? Mal seemed like the kind of person who’d get along with just about anyone, even the most unsociable. And now, he was being made to believe that he was more popular than this masterpiece of a man? It didn’t add up.

“You’re sayin’ that to make me feel better about all this.”

Mal furrowed his brows, laying down on the bed, pulling Moses onto his chest.

“I’m not someone who shares his heart easily, but I’d never lie about somethin’ like this. I keep to what’s mine, and I don’t open up. I’m fucked up, Moses.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do about that? In the first place, you just do whatever ya want. I’m a disaster, and I don’t even know what you are. Nothing feels like anything anymore!”

Mal felt the heat rising in his chest again. Everything about Moses called to him, his voice, his warmth, his smell, his eyes. Those fucking eyes. He drove him mad and he didn’t even know it.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like….if we were different?”

Mal jumped at this question. Moses’ eyes peered at him earnestly, like he was asking the most important question in the world. He’d thought about this loads of times, of course, and given the vulnerability of their situation, he was unsure of how to answer this question. Could he be truthful with this man, or would this be far too devastating information? Ultimately, he decided on the former approach.

“A lot,” he murmured, “an embarrassing amount.”

Moses nodded, “me too. I just want things to be better, y’know. I try so hard to be more…to be different but I just feel so empty inside. I don’t know what to do anymore…”

Mal kissed his cheek, and Moses rested his head on his neck.

“I want…I want you so bad.”

Moses’ hand traveled up his shirt, caressing his chest. Mal faltered.

“I dunno if I feel right doin’ anything while you’re like this.”

Moses shrugged.

“We don’t have to do anything. I just want you here.”

He nuzzled himself deeply into Mal’s chest, and the boys tried to escape into a reality that was nicer than their current one.