You wake up for the second morning in a row feeling like absolute shit. As the scene plays over and over in your head you can't even he bothered to freak out. Some tears come, but you brush them off and decide to go shower to get the grime off and out of you. There's blood on your sheets from where you were laying. You exhale a deep sigh and throw your sheets over the spot to hide it before starting your long, painful trek to the bathroom down the hall.
When you meet your reflection, you quickly avert your eyes. You still catch the bruise shaped like a hand print on your left cheek and the heavy bags under your bloodshot eyes joining the wrecked skin of your arms. There's no way you can go to school tomorrow. People will ask questions. John will ask questions. But you have to get out of here. You start thinking of excuses while you turn the shower as hot as it will go and step inside the stall.
The grunt that comes out of your throat trails off into a whimper as the steam and water scalds your skin and stings your freshly open(thanks to Cal) wounds. When you look down, it's almost soothing to see the blood swirl down the drain, making patterns as it goes. You clear your throat and your voice cracks miserably; you immediately reason that it was from you screaming for as loud and long as you did.
You wash yourself on autopilot, not wanting to focus on the feeling touch on your skin, and quickly walk to your room with a towel around your waist, avoiding the pitiful reflection to your left once more. After you get dressed you lay on your bed and end up spending the whole day there, thinking. Thinking about school and what you'll say to your friends, hell, your teachers, when they see the hand print on your face. You think about John, and most importantly you think about that persistent little voice in your head that keeps popping up.
(enditenditendit)
You are startled awake by your alarm clock. Fuck. You have school today. A few excuses come to mind as you get dressed and you pick the most reasonable one: clearly, there was a mosquito on your face. You tried to kill it and put in just a little too much gusto into the whack. It's not a very "you" thing to do, but it has the best chance of getting people off your case.
Opting out of the bus ride to take your bike was the obvious choice, though you still get strange looks from the people you pass. You disregard them, remain cool, and sooner than you realize, or would like, you're at the bike rack on the side of your school. You take as long as you can setting the lock on your chain and slowly walk to the glass doors. The mask slides on and a smirk takes over your face, as well as a strut taking over your gate, mostly hiding your limp.
You're assailed with greetings from friends, bombarding you with questions about Friday night: how hungover were you the next day, did you have fun, did you get laid. God, you'd think these people hadn't seen you in weeks. You get stray questions about your bruise and you laugh off your excuse to them. They jokingly call you a dumbass, but they take it, easy as that. They don't even ask you about, what you thought was, your obvious limp. This could work out.
When you see John walking down the hallway to meet you, you walk the remaining few steps to him and internally flinch when his face screws up in concern.
"What the fuck happened to you, dude?" He practically demands, though quietly. You snap yourself out of the panic swelling in your chest and laugh.
"Mosquito, man." You lie easily, having practiced.
"Sure. Then why are you limping?"
"I-I slept weird, it's cramping." Shit.
"Yeah, ok." He scoffs, rolling his eyes. He's suddenly next to your ear and whispering to you. "Come over to my house after school and tell me the truth." He pulls back and gives you a very intense, very knowing look. "I gotta get to class. See you later?"
"Y-yeah." Jesus, you have really got to get this stuttering under control.
You spend the rest of the school day unfocused, not that that really says anything, and try to think of better excuses to tell John when you go over. You honestly can't think of anything. Maybe you should just be honest. Not fully honest, Jesus fucking Christ no. But tell him that you can Cal got in a fight. He already knows that the two of you don't get along, and it's only a hand print, not a black eye or anything. You wonder if he would buy you falling down the stairs for the limp. Just tell him that you didn't want to say anything because you were embarrassed. He's not stupid by any means, but you hope he believes you. For both of your sakes.
The end-of-the-day bell ringing terrifies you. Usually it's a Godsend, but you don't want to be alone with John. He's bound to see the cracks in your mask. At school, your classmates, your teachers, all of your friends except that one perfect boy, they all believe your story so easily. Maybe if you just stay here you can pretend like nothing happened. You could hide out in the library pretending to study. It's not like you ever study, but who knows, you could be turning over a new leaf or some shit. When you see John standing outside your class door, you curse to yourself, looks like hiding is no longer an option.
John lives in walking distance to the school, so you unhitch your bike and walk with him to his house. He acts totally normal, rants about school and test grades and teachers. You play the role of the stoic friend, nodding and agreeing where it's your place to. This performance keeps up all the way to his room. As soon as the door shuts, his goofy smile is replaced with fierce eyes and upturned brows.
"Who hit you?"
"It's not a big deal, John, me and Cal got a in a fight. I acted like a shit, he smacked me. End of story." Your hands are shaking and you really fucking hope he can't tell.
"So what's that got to do with your leg? What else happened?" He's got this look on his face and you're halfway to considering telling him the whole truth.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of the other guys, but I fell down the stairs this morning on my way to my bike." You laugh and rub the back of your head, acting embarrassed.
"Bullshit."
"W-what?" Your eyes widen behind your shades.
"Come ON, Dave." He groans. "I'm your best friend, dude, I know when you're lying." He looks at you, face the epitome of worry. "You know you can tell me anything, right? And if you need to, you can stay here. My dad loves you, I know he wouldn't mind."
He's so fucking nice.
You're such a piece of shit.
"I…" You have no idea what to say. You would love to get out of that fucking hellhole, but you can't bring John into this. "I…" You look at him, your eyes welling up.
(leave get out go)
"I…g-gotta go." You turn and race out the door, closing it behind you. John slams open the door and calls after you, chasing you down the stairs. When you get your hand on the front doorknob you feel him grab your shoulder, squeezing your cuts from Saturday night and making you yelp in a mixture of surprise and pain. You can feel your face contort around your tears into something awful as you turn to face him. He looks so scared. You feel so weak. You hate yourself as you sink to the floor, leaning against the door and hiccupping as bring your knees to your chest and try to disappear.
You can feel his gaze as he shifts uncomfortably before bending down and reaching out to your shoulder. You've never been more thankful for your shades than when you look up at him at that moment. Then the fucker has to go and push them up to the top of your head. He's seen your weird eyes before, but never like this. Never so open and vulnerable. You avoid looking at him and look at the denim covering your knees instead. He plays with the hem of your sleeve and you can hear his brain buzzing.
"Hey." He mumbles, almost in sigh-like volume. You sniffle and finally look at him. He bites his lip and locks your gaze. "What happened?" You stare at each other for a bit longer as you mull around the words you want to say.
"Cal…uh." You start and look away again. "He…" You clear your throat, look away, and sigh. "He got really mad when I came home Friday night. He'd been drinking, was mad that I was drinking. So we got in a fight and he…" This is it Strider, your final chance to back away and keep John perfect. To keep him as your friend.
(he wont like you anymore but thats what you deserve isnt it)
"He raped me." You blurt out and you're so fucking nervous yet so relieved to have told someone, to have gotten it over with. When you look up, John's gaping and his hand stills on yours. But…he doesn't look grossed out or angry with you.
"Holy shit." he exhales. "Are you serious?" You look away and nod, ready for the insults. "Where was Bro?"
(he was in the other room he heard everything he just didnt care because he hates you)
The sob that comes out of you is horrible and broken. Before you know what you're saying it just pouring out of you.
"He was in his fucking room, John. He heard me begging for him to help me and he just ignored me! I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move and he just fucking SAT THERE!" You don't know when you started rocking back and forth, but at the feel of John's arms around you, you fucking loose it, howling into his shoulder and moving your hands to grip at his t-shirt.
"Hey," He's rubbing your back and his scent fills your senses and this is the safest you've felt in years. "It's ok, you can stay here. We can tell dad something and I'll go with you to get your stuff. I don't think he'll try anything if I'm there." His words are soothing and you can't help but think of your mother, holding you to her warm chest, after you scraped your knee, and singing to you until you stopped crying. You remember how you loved the feeling of her nearly white hair tickling your nose and how you would run your fingers through it.
Without really thinking, you nuzzle into John's hair and you tense when you feel him freeze for a moment before holding you tighter. Eventually you relax back to your usual state of anxiety and sigh shakily before pulling back and he goes back to playing with your sleeves.
"As long as we're uh…talking about this…" He looks at you and slips his thumb in your sleeve, brushing along the thick smooth lines there. You freeze and your eyes go wide.
"I-I-I-" You think desperately for an excuse but John cuts you off.
"Hey, it's ok, I already know."
"W-what?"
"Dude, seriously? Long sleeves every day? In Texas? Even in the Summer?" He gives you this look and continues stroking your wrist. "It's alright, I uh…I used to do it too." he stammers. You look at him in awe. You knew you weren't the only one, but John? This being of pure happiness was harming himself? He rolls his eyes at you like he can read your mind and shifts back to where he's sitting in front of you. You follow his hands to the leg of his shorts and he pulls it up to reveal silver lines that look to be years old. Why?
"Why?" You practically wheeze.
"Had a really rough time when mom died. Seemed to be the only thing to help distract me." You nod and reach your hand out, quickly retracting and looking away embarrassed. He laughs. "You can touch them if you want to." He assures you. So you do. You trace the only flaws on his body with your index finger before remembering it's his thigh and bringing your hand back, blushing. "You have to stop, though, ok?" He looks at you severely before pulling the khaki fabric back into place and continuing. "I know it's hard and I'll help. If you want, we can ask dad about a therapist or something."
"I'll think about it." You murmur, and you will. John nods, approving of your answer before checking his watch.
"Dad'll be home soon." He grumbles.
"I don't want him to know everything." You affirm quickly. John considers that for a moment before nodding.
"Ok." He agrees, "But we have to tell him something."
"You can tell him about the…the hitting part…but not the uh…other stuff." Your voice trails off with the last to words.
"Alright. Do you want to or…" You frantically shake your head.
"You." You insist. And pause. "Please." He sighs.
"Ok. I can do that. You can wait in my room while I talk to him if you want."
God, how did you land the coolest guy in existence as your best friend?
He stands and helps you up with him. Looking around awkwardly before pointing to the kitchen.
"Gonna go get a drink, you want anything?"
"Whatever you're already getting." He acknowledges you with a thumbs up and makes his way over to the fridge, digging out two sodas. He makes his way over to you and hands you a can. "Hey." He looks to you and suddenly your lips are on his cheek. You pull back quickly, stammering for an excuse. "I just w-wanted to say thanks. For all this." His face is an insane shade of red and then he's kissing you.
"You're uuuh…welcome." He smiles at you and you immediately know everything is going to be ok.
Here you are.
Safe and Sound.
AN: Hey guys! So a little fun story, I was originally planning to kill off Dave, but I decided to have a happy ending instead.
Leave me a review stating if, for the last chapter, you'd rather see the originally planned ending or a happy little Dave/John epilogue!