A/N: On a roll again.
He doesn't move for a long time after she goes. Sprawled on the bed, knuckles smarting, trying to forget the taste of her and how he's the worst best friend, the worst everything really, that the town of Dillon has ever known.
Lyla hates him. Loves what he does, hates what he is. No way around it.
For a second, he misses Tyra, sharp nails and soft lips, who hates him for the things he does, but not for what he is.
There's so much. Too much. Tim drags in a breath, wonders what would happen if he never got up again. Time's ticked on and he's screwed everything to hell a dozen times over, shattered the pieces that were already broken, that fateful Friday night.
Something's just...missing.
He sure as hell misses the way he used to feel, flying down the field with so much purpose that even pain was pleasure, when he and Street worked in tandem, when nothing could touch them.
Missing, missing, missing out. It's the whole damn story of his life, and he thinks of the split-second of silence when Jay fell, the gravel in his eyes and mouth when he wakes up alone, the horror in Lyla's eyes when she stared at herself in the mirror, and thinks, I did that.
He tells himself he'll stop caring.
He'll stop caring, just as soon as he gets up.