They stay locked for more heartbeats than he can count. Trent slows from shuddering sobs to whimpers to slow hitches to even breaths. Eventually, the torrent of tears slows to a trickle, and dries up all together. And, somehow, he manages to hold onto Trent without losing his own breath, without wanting to throw up, without being overwhelmed at all.

"I'm sorry," Trent sniffles, and wriggles out of his arms. "I know you don't like to be touched."

"It's okay," he shrugs, trying to be casual about the first prolonged human contact he's had in ages. "It's just… better? if I'm the one to initiate it?"

Trent nods, and scoots back. "Sort of a trigger?"

"I guess. I just… not a lot…" He shrugs. "Most of the time, growing up, touching didn't mean good things. It was doctors or nurses."

"What about your family?" Trent looks genuinely curious.

Another shrug. "What about my family? My granddad might have, maybe, but not my sisters." His laugh is mirthless. "They're not exactly that you'd call affectionate." He ignores the fact that Hunter Clarington was an only child whose parents managed to be both absent and helicopter-esque in an absolutely obnoxious combination.

Trent's expression darkens.

"Look, my parents were gone by the time I was seven." He sighs. "I grew up in and out of hospitals and foster homes. I just … don't do touch, normally, okay?"

Trent fiddles releases a final screw and flips the metal casing off the toaster. "I'll try to reign myself in. It's just hard. My dad, my granddad, heck, even my … brother, they're all physically. Not in a bad way… even Scotty hugs me sometimes. I mean, he's as likely to kick me in the nuts as hug me, but when he does, it's safe?"

His foot cannot stay in the damn shoe any longer. He unlaces the trainer. "Scotty?"

"My damn twin." Trent hits the table with surprising force. "Stubborn, intelligent, creative, passionate, and occasionally almost feral."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that most people would say you're the good twin."

Trent laughs manically. "That's what we want you to think!" He sobers, after a minute. "We're just on … different sides of a difficult issue."

He gets the brace off. It takes some effort to get his inflamed ankle out, but he manages it. He props his sock-clad foot up on a chair and throws the shoe and AFO onto the table. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Trent fiddles with the toaster and pulls out a crumb drawer. It's empty. "Not right now. I'd rather talk about how thin the walls are at Dalton. There was … someone screaming last night."

"I don't want to talk about it." He words are hard and harsh, a defense mechanism designed to shut down any attempts at counseling. Its better if he can just ride the nightmares out. Better to cope the way he always has than to try something new and get half way through.

"Well, I'd prefer not to think about how many times Niff did it last night, too," Trent says, his tone serious in contrast to his light-hearted comment. "But your defensiveness suggests that you might have been the one. For all I knew, it was Thad. Or Jeff. Or Sam. Even Jonny sometimes has nightmares, although I usually know about them." Trent tests the springs on the lever, and determines them to be broken. It's possible they worked before their collision with the wall, but it's hard to say.

He has done enough emotional sharing for one day. He's spent. He picks up his discarded brace and roughly shoves his foot into it. "Look, I said I don't want to talk about it."

Trent shrugs. "I just want you to know."

He shoves his foot into his shoe, and reaches under the table for his crutches. He reaches down for his crutches. Trent has a casual foot on them. "Move your foot." The words are forced through clenched teeth.

Trent looks down, blushes, and quickly adjusts his position. "I'm so sorry!" His apology is profuse. "I didn't realize. I wouldn't…"

"For a nice guy, you're really a bastard." He grinds out over Trent's apology. He fits the crutches under his arms, and starts making his way toward the door. It hurts like hell. His ankle is nowhere near better enough for this.

Trent laughs, the sound clear and without malice. "I think Jon and Scotty are the only two who would agree with you."

He has perfected a shrug on crutches. "I guess most other people aren't as good judges of character."

Trent uses a par of tweezers to disentangle the spring from the toaster. "There's a reason they call me the Hulk…"

"And I suppose that makes your incarcerated twin Dr. Jeckyll?" He turns back from the door. He tries to keep from wincing as the AFO presses against his swelling ankle. He really hopes that it doesn't rub his skin raw, or worse, cut him.

"Actually, I'd Dr. Banner and he's Dr. Jeckyll." Trent begins to test the spring between his fingers. "And while I realize there isn't much difference between a potion and gamma radiaton, Banner manages to control his anger while Jeckyll succumbs." Trent seems to notice the way he's becoming increasing pale. "Sit down and at least let me text somebody to come with your wheelchair!"

"It's fine." He limps back to his seat and props up the swelling ankle. "And I suppose David is a Cyrano? … Or is that Jeff?"

"Actually, Long Jon Silver and Blaine do most of our arranging. That's currently the closest thing we have to an Cyrano. Unless you mean Thad's tendency to impersonate Captain Jack Harkness on every occasion possible… and then he'd refuse help even if it was offered." Trent unwinds another spring from the toaster. "I mean, we have some older stuff that other people have done, but when you're famous for Top 40's…" He shrugs. "It takes work to keep our repatoir up to date."

He's confused, now. "Your repertoire?"

"The Warblers. Our show choir." Trent grins. "Oh, God. I know you can sing. I heard you. You're going to try out. And you're going to love it."

"He's gonna love what, mate?" Jeff bursts into the room, grinning. "Warblers? We've got practice this arvo."

"No, I'm not." Show choir brings up too many bittersweet memories of Colorado and Hunter and Evens … and what happened to them. "I'm not joining any choir. I'm focusing on school work."

"At least come," Trent wheedles. "You've slept more than any person has a right to, and you don't have any homework because you haven't been to any classes."

"No." He insists. He gathers his crutches and his demons and slowly limps out of the room.

Behind him, he hears Jeff turn to Trent. "Fuck, what's up his ass?"

Trent's sigh is audible. "You just missed an explosion."

"Looks like the fucking toaster was a victim. Scotty, again?"

Another sigh. "Why are there so many assholes?"

A/N: Another week, another chapter. I've been working on this since last Sunday. And, believe it or not, I actually researched toaster repair for this…

I apologize to everyone who I haven't answered or talked to. Suffice to say that this month has been hard for a number of IRL reasons (April Snow, proposal writing, Dementors haunting me) but I think they're finally starting to get better. Including the fact that I submit my final proposal for the semester tomorrow. And hopefully it meets with professorial approval and I don't have to redo it. Again. (They say sixth topic is the charm...)

Anyway, I love and appreciate you all. Thank you for stick with me through this. And, I promise, I have plans. (Muwhahaha). -C65.