You run your hands through your hair, across your face, down your neck, your chest. You pause at your rib cage, glancing quickly at the kid's door to make sure it's closed, to make sure he's not here, staring, demanding answers from you.
You don't have the answers. You never did.
Your hands inch up, hovering over your heart. Breathing in, out, in, out, making sure it still works, it's still beating, you're still alive.
God…
Your hands return to your hair, massaging your scalp. You lean on your elbows and try desperately not to think about it. Suddenly, it's difficult to breathe, painful even. "C'mon, Strider." You tell yourself. "You're better than this." You have to be. You're not the only one you have to think about.
Your eyes drift over to his door again. You hope it won't open. You might even have prayed, but that wasn't your style, and you're all about style. You have an image to keep up.
In and out. In and out.
You're pretty sure you're okay now. You're pretty sure that there's nothing buried into your chest. You're pretty sure you're not dead. Dave's not dead. Cal is here, and your less than shitty swords and smut puppets. This is the real world. You aren't dead.
The doorknob jiggles. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Quick as lightning, you compose yourself, shove your shades on your face, and stuff the last of the cold pizza crust into your mouth. You watch him from the safety of your shades, moving quietly, as if you wouldn't notice him. Amateur.
You expect him to say something. Maybe ask about yesterday again, try and draw the information out of you like a goddamned interrogator. He won't get far. You know all of his tricks, inside and out, because at the very base of it, they aren't his tricks. They're yours.
You stay very still as he takes his fucking time walking over to the kitchen. You expect a timid, "Bro?" and you're slightly surprised, (and very relieved), when he shuffles behind you to the fridge without so much as a word. You don't turn your head to watch. Instead, you listen. The sound of the fridge door opening. Hesitation. Careful consideration. Location of the Apple Juice found. Clashing metal (Dammit, you should have taken those katanas out). A string of whispered curses. Heavy, panicked breathing. The creaking of the floor as his weight shifts to glance at you, see if you noticed. The clock ticks seven times, tensely. The door closes. Light footsteps to the cabinets. Open, take a glass, shut. Pour the juice. Put it back. Don't disturb the knives. Walk away.
He's in your field of vision again, walking back to his room, a tall glass of juice in one hand, drips of blood on the other. He closes his bedroom door. You think you hear it lock behind him.
And then you exhale and release your death grip on the counter.