Blaine hears the bottle smash and he cringes into his pillow, pulling away as he realises how wet it is. He hadn't even realised he was crying.
His parents are fighting.
He doesn't know which of them started it this time, but he guesses that with 24 years of resentment built up inside of them, it can't take much to set them off. It doesn't take much to set them off.
Finally, he hears the door slam and lets out the breath he'd been holding for god knows how long, but it comes out all choked and rattles in his throat. He blinks owlishly at the glowing numbers on his alarm clock. 2:47. Not too bad, then. Maybe he can get up early in the morning and escape to the library to get some work done before school. His teachers are starting to notice his slipping grades, and soon enough his parents' anger will be directed at him if he doesn't do something about it.
He catches sight of the nearly-empty bottle of concealer on his bedside table – used to cover up bags under his eyes or bruises depending on what mood his father's in. He'll have to buy some more soon. Maybe he can swing by the shops before the library tomorrow – but no, they won't be open that early. Maybe another time.
He freezes in the motion of dragging his pyjama sleeve across his eyes as he hears the light footsteps on the stairs. So it was his father who stormed out tonight – for the first time this week. He likes to keep a tally in his mind. He relaxes as he hears the footsteps fade up another flight of stairs. He can relax now. At least until tomorrow.
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