Prompt: Lively

Wes sighed heavily as he trolled the corridors, one hand clenched in his pocket, other kneading both his temples with his thumb and middle finger. One of the few joys of being a senior – and a prefect – was that he was able to just get out and clear his head, no matter the time of day.

Which is really what he needed to do. To say it had been a long day, was like saying Jupiter is a long way from Earth. Long didn't even begin to cover it. He'd run from assessment to Warbler council meeting to class to meeting with the headmaster to make-up assessment after school to LATE Warbler rehearsal to meeting with the boarding masters. By the time he finally got around to eat, it was about 8:30 pm and he'd had to reheat everything in one of the kitchen ovens. When he managed to get to his room – and we're now past 10 on the clock – there was a line of about 5 boys – both Warblers and members of his own house – of varying levels of anxiety needing his advice. He'd finally managed to sit down to work on his Literature essay at a little past midnight – only to discover his head was too crammed to even begin to comprehend how Jay Gatsby did or did not represent the death of the American Dream. Bed was out of the question – so he'd shoved the pen, paper and novel aside, pulled on his softest slippers and glided out the door.

He scuffed his shoes down the corridor, through the foyer, until he came to the house music room. Too often he'd be brought here in the middle of the night. He'd slip inside, sit down at the piano stool, lose himself in thought, clear some from his head. Some nights he'd dampen it with the practise pedal and play pianissimo, maybe humming along. Other nights he'd mime playing. Sometimes he'd bring sheet music and work on arranging.

Not tonight. He knew something was off as he crept down the stairs. As he worked his way closer and closer to the door he could hear the gentle hush of the muted piano and a soft voice singing. He stopped at the door, ears pricking.

My shadow's the only one who walks beside me.

My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating.

Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me.

Till then, I walk alone…

He wasn't entirely sure who it was. He recognised the voice, of course – Wes knew everyone in his house like the notes on a stave, especially the musicians – but it was too quiet, too… emotional. He considered going in there, trying to help whoever it was out… but it was past midnight. Whoever was there didn't want to be disturbed. Honestly, it sounded like they just needed to vent – and Wes knew from experience not to interrupt. So he slowly turned away and shuffled back upstairs, the echo of the song lulling him into sleep.

The next day, thankfully, was not as busy. He'd pulled together the Warblers, tried talking to each of them to work out who'd been so distraught the night before. He knew it had to be one of his boys – he was kinda psychic when it came to that sort of thing – but they all seemed fine. A couple perhaps a little more tired than usual, but he couldn't really read anything into that – a lot of the guys had stuff going on in their lives, and midterms were coming on top of sectionals preparation.

But it was still bugging him. There were a few there that Wes was worried about – though he didn't really know why. Maybe because he saw people. That was really the only way to describe it. He'd look someone in the eye and could tell exactly what they were feeling, what sort of person they were, how much horror surrounded their past, how strong they were now, how much of a burden they were trying to hide… But he still couldn't work out what it was, or who, or just how badly they needed him.

So that night he again found himself drawn to the piano room, the refrain from last night echoing in his mind, calling him back. And again, he heard that haunting sorrow.

Woke up this morning and hoped for a dream,

But reality came and sat next to me, and forced me to believe.

Knocked down too soon

Like a skittle on the lanes.

The man who took the wrong stop

From life's fast-moving train…

It was Trent. There was no doubt about it tonight. That guttural rasp of country twang that very few can pull off… Sure, there were others that could sing jazz – David and Blaine, for example. But their voices were too sweet, too smooth. Trent's was… perfect. From the pitch to the emotion it conveyed… There was a horrifying sort of maturity that his voice carried, some strange loss of innocence. It was beautiful, in a twisted manner.

He waited until the song had finished, then knocked quietly on the door. "What's up, Trent? Couldn't sleep?"

He could hear some papers rustling inside. "Was… Was I too loud? I'm sorry, Wes, I'll just… I'll just go…"

The door remained closed. Forcing himself to trust that Trent was alright, he turned back away. "No, you're fine. Just… make sure you get some rest tonight, okay?" And, regretting his decision the instant he acted upon it, Wes turned and hurried back to bed.

Thankfully, the next day held a Warbler rehearsal after school. Wes had not been able to get Trent off his mind all day. That pain in his voice. How frightened he'd sounded at the interruption… at being discovered. And Wes knew from experience that the more terrified a person seemed at exposure, the higher a toll it was taking on them.

It wasn't really a surprise, therefore, that the freshman was absent from rehearsal. But upon asking Jeff – the only Warbler who shared a class with Trent, who took advanced history – Wes was concerned to learn he hadn't attended class that day. And that night, the piano room remained eerily quiet.

And so it remained for the rest of week. Whenever Wes was not kept busy with whatever errands he had to run, he spent the rest of his time trying to track down Trent. He didn't show up to rehearsal. He didn't show up to class. The piano room remained Wes' alone at night.

Eventually, on the Monday of the next week, Jeff came forward and told him that Trent had finally made an appearance after lunch – he'd lost weight, looked dreadful and sounded even worse – though, Jeff repeated back, "he was feeling a lot better than he appeared – and better than he'd felt since late Tuesday night."

Wes had been checking the music room every night since he'd first heard the singing. And he wasn't disappointed that Monday night. Sneaking down yet again, ear turned towards the soft oak door, he was greeted again with a lament, the voice much rougher than usual after nearly a week of disuse, the pitch slightly faulty, but the self-hatred just as evident.

And I don't want the world to see me

Cos I don't think that they'd understand.

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am.

The song ended abruptly as a harsh coughing fit broke out inside. And without even thinking about it, Wes pushed open the door and had his arms around the freshman, rubbing his back as the boy turned red and started gasping for air.

"Trent… Breathe… That's right."

But as soon as he was able, the freshman pushed himself out of the senior's arms. "What are you doing here?" Eyes flashing. Accusatory. No, not accusatory. Defensive. Wes let his own eyes wash over the boy, from the trembling hands to the firmly folded arms to the dark bags ringing his eyes and the drawn expression of a boy that's lost a lot of weight in not very much time at all.

Wes was shocked, actually. "I couldn't sleep," he said, half-honestly. "So my feet just kind of lead me here." He bit his lip. "Are you okay? I mean… relatively? You're usually so… vivacious…"

Trent shook his head, eyes widening. Like he hadn't anticipated the question and really had no idea how to answer it. Or maybe he did know, but was fighting to decide whether to burden Wes with the proper answer or just side-step it. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "I'm getting better," he finally whispered, eyes darting.

"Do you want to talk about anything? It's just… I know that look. It's okay, Trent. You can trust me, I promise."

That terrified expression. Wes would never forget it. They both knew at that moment that something was about to change. But it was up to Trent to dictate it.

Or maybe not. Trent's eyes fluttered shut and his breath began to hitch before sneezing twice. He snapped forwards and, on instinct, his hands raised to cover his face – the sleeve on his left arm falling back. Trent quickly realised his mistake and pushed the sleeve back to his wrist, but not before the damage had been done. Wes had seen the cuts. Tiny little things. Some white and healing, some still jagged. All in neat little rows.

"Trent…" Well, shit. Not exactly what he was expecting. Though thankfully, this wasn't his first experience with a friend. Wes sat down on the piano stool, watching the boy's lower lip begin to tremble. "Come here." He opened his arms and Trent fell into them, slowly beginning to cry.


Part 3 of the drabble series... Because who doesn't love some Trent!angst? Poor darling. The original prompt was "Lively". I'm thinking I might extend it, if I get the inspiration, but I do have a few things flowing through my mind. And TSAB always needs work.

The songs I've used are Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day, My Legs Are Weak by Paloma Faith and Iris by Goo Goo Dolls.

I've said it before, I'll say it again - if you guys ever need to talk about absolutely anything, you are more than welcome to PM me or hit up my Ask box on Tumblr. Compassion Alert is another great place to go on Tumblr, and there are heaps of lines in your country, virtually all toll-free. Please, whatever it is - you don't have to go through it alone.

Like it? Hate it? Want me to be shoved into a Vanishing Cabinet so that I end up with no idea where I am? Please let me know!

Keep smiling! :D