Hey, sorry for the delay, I've been writing this for the past few weeks, it's another prequel. I hope you enjoy it!

Trigger warnings: Sexual abuse/ assault, grooming, abuse, self-harm, victim blaming, self-hatred.

It's quieter in this neighbourhood than what he's used to. There's no blaring of car horns or revving of motorbikes, no yelling from apartment windows and little bodegas in rapid, angry Spanish or music playing from speakers on street corners.

Instead, the occasional car rolls by. Tall, well kept looking apartments line the streets, set much further back from the road than the ones back in Harlem. He can't help but feel intimidated at the wealth around here, looking down at his own appearance. Beat up Adidas sneakers, at least third hand by now, clothes that scream charity shop.

The car parks in a small bay, right next to a tall, expensive looking apartment building. Alex wonders how much the rent might be, probably well into the three thousands. He doesn't even want to think about the figures of buying a place here. The architecture is, what Alex thinks, mock baroque style. The building can't be that old though, it looks new. With its shiny windows and gates, pillars and ledges showing no sign of wear. It reminds him of photos of London, those town houses around the Mayfair area, old fashioned yet ridiculously wealthy.

His social worker, a tall man with a name Alex always used to struggle to pronounce, Knox, nods at him to get out of the car. He complies quickly, pulling his duffel bag with him, straightening up and brushing down his jacket. There's not much point in this, he hears Mr. Knox let out a sigh. He can't make his tattered old puffa look any less beat up than it is.

The walk up to the front door of the building feels about five times longer than it probably actually takes. His social worker looks at a slip of paper and then buzzes at number three on the intercom. The door is opened by... Alex would think it was someone who lived in the complex, but she's dressed in what looks like a uniform of some sort. It takes him a second to realise that someone's been employed to answer calls and let people in.

This is just another thing to add to the growing pile of insecurities and doubts on his shoulders. He doesn't belong in a place like this.

"We're looking for a Mr. and Mrs. Elliot?"

They're brought to another door, within the main entrance way of the apartment building. Alex tries hard not to let his awe show on his face, because, in truth, he's never been in a place like this. Everything about the building, the design, the decorations, the colour, they all feel sleek and expensive. He knows many people would disagree, but he thinks he prefers the scruffy comfort of Katherine's apartment or the cool, tiled home he grew up in. Full of wind chimes and reed blinds to keep out mosquitoes and afternoon heat.

His social worker knocks thrice on the door and taps his foot as they wait. He's not an unkind man, he's just willfully ignorant. He's started to give up on finding a permanent home for Alex.

The door opens and Alexander instinctively takes a step back at the movement. A man stands in the doorway, he's tall — maybe even as tall as his social worker — and probably in his late thirties or early forties. He's white, with light brown hair, dark eyebrows and prominent cheekbones. He's got the look of someone who was called good looking when they were younger, but now probably gets 'dignified' or 'charismatic' instead.

He's not heavy set, which Alex supposes is a good thing. He's always been hurt the worst by people with so much strength they don't realise how hard their punches land on a small body. Though he's not exactly slim either and Alex knows by now that adults don't need to be strong to hurt foster kids. The Harveys and Mrs. Newson ring true to that.

"Ah! Good evening, you're Alexander, I assume?"

He nods, tries to smile and hoists his bag a little higher up on his shoulder.

"Why don't you come in?"

If he had been impressed with the lobby outside, he's surprised he remains standing when he walks into the hallway of the apartment. It's spacious, airy —much bigger than most houses he stayed in— and decorated with an assortment of art, vases and accessories; everything seems to be made of marble or porcelain. It's tasteful, like you'd flip open a home decor magazine to see a photo of this place.

A large, gilded framed mirror hangs above a small table in the entrance way. In it, he catches sight of his face. His mouth is slightly open in shock, he shuts it quickly. Katherine used to joke that he'd catch flies.

He follows Mr. Elliot through a door to their right and into the sitting room. A woman sits on the sofa near a window, her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks to be around the same age as her husband, but her face has more lines. Especially around her eyes and forehead. Stress or grief lines, Alexander thinks. Her hair is pulled half back with a tortoiseshell clip and she's dressed like someone who's lived with money for so long, they've forgotten they have it.

She smiles as they come in, her eyes flicking up and down Alex's appearance in the now familiar way new foster parents always do when they first meet. He wonders if she's the type to judge or pity his shabby appearance. He doesn't much like either, but the latter is preferable.

"Well, it's time for introductions I suppose," his accent isn't from the city. It's not as rounded, sounds like it's from upstate, maybe Albany. Educated and intellectual too. "My name is Mr. Elliot, this is my wife. You can call us by those names. Do you prefer Alexander or Alex?"

He clears his throat, tucks his hand in his pockets and shrugs, looking at the floor. When he speaks, it's with a conscious effort to downplay his accent.

"I don't mind."

They're invited to sit down and Alex's thoughts stray as his social worker and the Elliots converse. He thinks of Katherine. Of two days ago, when she'd collapsed, started coughing blood. It had been pneumonia. Dangerous for someone of her age, she's been deemed at least temporarily unfit to care for him He's been moved on now, away from perhaps the only home he's been truly happy in. He's hoping he'll return soon, that once she's better he can live with her again.

"Alexander?"

He starts, looks up from his hands to see the eyes of the three adults all trained on him. Someone must have asked him a question.

"You'd be in what grade now? Seventh? Eighth?"

He wonders why Mr. Elliot didn't just ask his social worker this, he knows.

Because he's trying to make conversation, get you to actually say something for once, idiot.

A rather sarcastic voice in his brain supplies this and looks up, trying to make eye contact with Mr. Elliot and appear a little more polite than he's come across thus far.

"The eighth grade. I'm fourteen."

Mr. Elliot smiles and Alexander fiddles with the string on his hoodie. He's tired, it's late. This placement was rushed, due to the circumstances of him leaving his last home. Normally, he'd arrive at a new home at a reasonable time, but they had to put him somewhere before nightfall. He couldn't sleep in Katherine's empty apartment with some bored social service worker looking after him another night.

The three adults speak for another ten or fifteen minutes about his previous placements, his situation and the standard, esoteric foster care jargon. He's finding it difficult to stay awake, he hasn't slept well since what happened with Katherine and he finds his eyelids drooping slightly as he sits on the sofa.

"It's late, I think some of us are getting a little tired. Maybe we should consider wrapping this up?"

Alex's eyes had just slid shut, despite his logic's protestations. He hates this state of half-sleep; when you're desperately trying to stay awake but your body is dragging your eyes shut, screaming at you to rest. You drift off, and then, suddenly, snap back into consciousness, only to begin the whole process again.

He sits up a little straighter, blushing and pushing some stray strands from out of his face. Mr. Elliot smiles at him indulgently but his social worker's look is warning, telling him to behave.

His hair, which last year he kept intending to get cut, has grown out past his chin now. At this point, he's content to just tie it up. He doesn't like the idea of someone cutting it, he doesn't think he'd let anyone near his neck with scissors or a razor.

His social worker stands up, brushes himself off of imaginary lint and smiles. Alex stands too, picking up his duffel bag from where he's laid it carefully by his feet. Mr. Knox doesn't hug him before he leaves, he's not that sort of social worker. He nods, smiles and shakes hands with Mr. and Mrs. Elliot before climbing back into his car and driving away into the night.

He turns to his new foster parents shyly, now that he has no one here to speak for him, he's even more nervous about how he comes across to these people.

"Well, Alex, we're very happy to have you staying here," Mr. Elliot smiles. Alex tries a smile in return. He opens his mouth to respond, almost replies with 'ditto', but stops himself. These people won't appreciate his short, snappy teenage slang.

"Thanks for having me."

Mr. Elliot smiles and his wife gives a small nod, her mouth still set in a tight line. Alexander gets the impression her husband wants him here more than she does.

"Did you have dinner? Do you want something to eat?"

He shrugs and then remembers people don't appreciate indecisiveness, so he shakes his head.

"I'm alright... I'm not too hungry."

Mr. Elliot smiles and turns to his wife, putting a gentle hand on her arm.

"Shall I show Alex his room?"

She nods, tight-lipped and gives him a small smile, "sleep well, Alexander."

Then, she retreats back into the sitting room they'd just come from.

Mr. Elliot grins at him and leads him upstairs, past expensive vases on little tables and framed, Victorian-looking watercolour paintings.

"So, you're social worker tells me you're from the British Virgin Isles?"

Alex nods. Generally, when he meets new people, this is the usual conversation starter. He supposes Americans find the idea of the Caribbean so exotic and alluring, to him it's just home.

"Yeah, I came here a couple of years ago."

Mr. Elliot hums in interest as they walk through a small little hallway, as elaborately decorated as the one downstairs,

"I'm guessing, from your accent, that you grew up speaking Spanish?"

Alex shrugs. People assume a lot of things, he gets Caribbean, Mexican, Cuban, French, Spanish, once even Haitian. It's normally only fellow Puerto Ricans or Caribbean people that guess right. It's always difficult to explain that he was born in Nevis, to Puerto Rican parents, speaking Spanish, French and English.

"Yeah. I was raised speaking a few languages, I guess Spanish is one of my first. It's complicated."

Mr. Elliot smiles, nods and pushes open a door at the end of the corridor. To his room. His room.

It's larger than any he's ever had and definitely, well, not nicer per se, but it's like everything else in the house; expensively furnished, everything seems new, clean and perfect. There's a bed, tucked neatly into the corner by a large window, a desk, a wardrobe and a dresser. On said dresser, he sees deodorant, shampoo, soap and shaving things. Alex doesn't shave, but he supposes the Elliots didn't know what kind of teenager they were getting. He appreciates the thought.

"The bathroom's just down the hall, next to mine and my wife's bedroom. Our son, he's a junior at Cornell but he stays weekends occasionally, he sleeps across the hall. You probably won't see him very often."

Alex nods and places his bag at the foot of his bed, feeling very small in this wealthy, upper-class home. He feels out of place in whole foods stores, here, he might as well be a penguin in the Sahara.

"Thanks... Thanks for letting me stay."

Mr. Elliot smiles and looks Alexander up and down a few times, bites his lip.

"You wouldn't have any aversion to some new clothes, Alex? We could go tomorrow or the next day?"

He squirms, embarrassed and shrugs. He could do with new clothes. He still owns some stuff he stole from his middle school on Staten Island and only about a third of his meagre wardrobe fits him properly, the other sixty percent varies from being to baggy, too small too long and too short.

"I suppose... Yeah, if you'd like."

Mr. Elliot smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder jovially, squeezing once. Alex holds his flinch back, smiles shyly and mumbles a tentative good night to the man.

"Night, Alex. See you in the morning."

He's not sure what to make of this new placement. It's definitely better than the majority of the ones he's been in. Mr. Elliot is nice, he supposes. He asks Alex about himself often, they talk together a lot about various different things. He's a clever guy, Alex talks to him often about things he's reading. Clever in an academic sense, really, maybe not so much in the way of street smarts, he's a little ivy-tower. Mrs. Elliot is quiet still, reserved. She's not unkind to him, or even uncivil, they just don't interact much.

Sometimes, though, there are little things that make him feel less welcome here, or at least smaller. They're a rich family and he comes from homes that have teetered on the poverty line, supporting themselves paycheck to paycheck. He can't help but feel out of place, and when Mr. Elliot takes him to buy some new clothes this feeling is only exemplified.

"What size would you be?"

Alex looks up from examining a pair of jeans. The price tags in this place all end in more than one zero, he's wondering if there's anything here he'd be able to wear without feeling incredibly guilty.

"I- uhh. Maybe a small? I'm not sure."

Mr. Elliot frowns, examines the labelling on a shirt and picks two sizes of the shirt up.

"Try an extra small and a small, see which one fits better."

He tries to tell Mr. Elliot that the things are too expensive, but he waves Alexander's protests away. This is really the one thing Alexander dislikes about this placement, how wealthy the family is. He gets the distinct impression that their kindness is rooted in pity, rather than decency. Maybe it's a little cynical, but he thinks they do look down on him as this poor, Hispanic, inner-city kid.

He doesn't really fit in with their way of living. On the very first morning, when he wakes up, he changes and walks out onto the landing. It's early on a Saturday morning and he doesn't expect anyone to be awake, he had wanted to get a glass of water and then fall back asleep until a more a reasonable hour.

He pads quietly downstairs and into the kitchen, freezing in terror when he sees someone who isn't Mr. or Mrs. Elliot stood by the cupboard. He stands still for a moment, she evidently hasn't noticed him as she rummages through the cupboard. He clears his throat awkwardly and she jumps, turning around to face him, hand clutched to her chest.

"My God!"

She takes a step back and runs her eyes over him for a second, her brow furrows in confusion and she seems to be trying to figure him out. She's young, maybe in her early twenties, and she looks like she could be Hispanic. She has dark, very curly hair, a small heart-shaped face and a boyish figure.

"Who are you?"

They both speak at the same time, in what Alexander realises a second later are very similar accents. She replies first, brushing her hands down on her apron.

"I work for the Elliots, I'm a cleaner."

He should probably have realised. What she was taking out of the cupboard were cleaning products and she wears an apron over a pair of black pants and a black shirt.

"I'm... I'm their foster son. I only came yesterday."

She narrows her eyes, regards him for a moment and then speaks in Spanish, startling him slightly.

"¿Hablas español? Hablo con un acento."

You speak Spanish? You have an accent.

He nods, briefly thrown off. The most he's spoken in Spanish recently have been a few words in the bodegas back in East Harlem, it's been a while since he's talked to somebody properly in the language.

"Si, Soy puertorriqueño. ¿Y tú?"

Yeah, I'm Puerto Rican. You?

Normally if he's speaking Spanish or someone Hispanic asks him where he's from, he'll just say he's Puerto Rican. He's never even actually been, but most people don't immediately associate the island of Nevis with Spanish speakers, so it's easier to just say his heritage than explain the long, complicated story of his upbringing. Anyway, his dad, though they could never afford to vacation in Puerto Rico, made sure he learnt Spanish properly and deeply impressed on him the importance of his culture, to a point where Alex wasn't allowed to speak French to him.

They ate Puerto Rican food growing up, listened to Puerto Rican artists and had even talked about moving there when Alex was about seven or eight. That had been when his parents first started arguing, but had thought they could work things out. They'd thought going home might help, but there hadn't been enough money to make the move.

He thinks that maybe she's Dominican or Cuban, it's a reasonable guess, he knows the majority of Hispanic people in this area are from those countries. Anyway, her accent isn't Puerto Rican and he doesn't think it's mainland southern American.

"Soy Dominicana pero, Señor Elliot cree que soy mexicana."

I'm Dominican, but Mr. Elliot thinks I'm Mexican.

Alexander winces at this. He gets it, Americans have this tendency to assume if you're Hispanic, you're Mexican. Sometimes they guess El Salvador or Cuba, but it does often feel like they're just naming countries they know people that look like him are from. Dark hair? Dark skin? Speaks Spanish? How different can they all be?

"Lo siento ¿Como te llamas?"

Sorry, What's your name?

She sprays some cleaning product onto a rag and starts to wipe down the counters, speaking as she works. He feels a sudden urge to offer his help, he's never lived in a house that employed domestic help before. He doesn't know how people stand it, he feels so awkward.

"Danna ¿Y tú?"

Danna, and you?

He opens a cupboard to get a glass but only finds plates and bowls. Danna laughs at his rather lost expression and points to the cupboard behind him. He grins and takes out a glass, filling it up with some water.

"Alejandro. ¿Qué piensas de él? Señor Elliot."

Alexander. What do you think of him? Mr. Elliot.

She shrugs and places a kitchen cleaner back in the cupboard, reaching now for some wood polish.

"Es bueno. Él es un Republicano rico y blanco. ¿Qué tan bueno puede ser?"

He's fine. He's a rich, white republican. How good can he be?

Alexander laughs, he has to agree. He's not too sure his own opinions on Mr. Elliot yet, but he's not so sure he completely likes everything he sees. All this reminds him that to Mr. Elliot, Latin people are his cleaners, people in service jobs, not ones he bothers to actually get acquainted with. It makes him that bit more uncomfortable.

Just then, as Alexander is about to say something about the aforementioned rich, white Republicans, Mr. Elliot walks in. Speak of the devil.

"Él no entiende español, no te preocupes."

He doesn't understand Spanish, don't worry.

Danna says this casually, her eyes fixed on her work and her back turned as though she doesn't see the man behind her. Then, she puts down her rag, turns and smiles widely at her employer, as though she'd only just noticed him.

Alex has to hold back his laughter, stifling a rather undignified snort behind his hand and disguising the sound with a coughing fit.

"Morning, Mr. Elliot."

He smiles and walks to the cupboard, pulling out a mug and setting it underneath the coffee machine.

"I see you've met, Danna is Mexican, Alex. So you both speak Spanish, don't you?"

Alexander nods, smiling. Mr. Elliot grins back. He must think Alexander is a just a little less tired this morning. Danna shoots him an exasperated look while Mr. Elliot is working the coffee machine.

"Do you want some coffee, Alex?"

He watches the mug Mr. Elliot just brewed for himself and instantly wants some. He hasn't had a mug of coffee since the day everything happened with Katherine and now his body is humming for some, it's maybe why he was so tired last night.

His coffee consumption has steadily increased over the past year or so, ever since he started having trouble sleeping when he was thirteen, he uses this stuff as a substitute. The problem lies therein, that he doesn't give sleep the opportunity to give him energy, always assumes he'll not get any. Just drinks coffee instead. He prepares in advance, because even when he does get sleep, it's not always undisturbed.

"Yeah, thank you."

Normally, he might ask Danna if she wanted a cup. The very few times Katherine had people around, he'd make tea or coffee for them all. It just feels like the right thing to do, it's probably the Puerto Rican hospitality he grew up with. His mother would rather die than have someone in their home and not do her best to feed them and make them comfortable.

But Mr. Elliot hasn't offered any to her and it's only his very first day here, he doesn't want to overstep any bounds. He says nothing, just takes the steaming mug Mr. Elliot hands him and smiles.

On his third day with the Elliots, a Monday, Mr. Elliot wakes him up a little earlier and drives him to school. It's the same one he went to when he lived with Katherine and his previous foster families, in Manhattan. It's not very far from this new placement, so moving to a new school didn't really seem necessary.

He wears a new pair of jeans and an older jacket in better condition than the other things he owns. Mr. Elliot makes breakfast and dresses for work. Alex isn't one hundred percent sure on the specifics of what he does, but he knows it's something along the lines of strategy management. Something that makes him a lot of money, anyway.

Mr. Elliot talks as they drive. He talks a lot, Alexander notices, asks a lot of questions too. Alex tends to let the ones about his previous foster homes glance off, though he talks a bit about Katherine, but Mr. Elliot at least seems to sense that it's a sensitive topic for him. He backs off after the standard platitudes of sympathy.

Mr. Elliot is fine, Alex would even say he likes him, aside from one little thing he can't exactly shake. He can't help but feel as though he's some sort of make-a-wish kid, brought into this rich family and given nice clothes and food, because he's this inner-city orphan, pitiful enough that even rich, upper-class families would turn the spare change from their pockets for him. It makes him feel funny if he thinks too hard about it, so he tries not to.

It doesn't help matters that Mr. Elliot has started throwing around this little saying, something that may or may not be from Lady And The Tramp or The Aristocats. Alex isn't so sure, those two movies sort of blur into each other. He thinks he watched them back to back in elementary school.

It's 'You can't teach an alley cat to be a pedigree', or whatever. He likes to use it whenever Alex looks shocked at how expensive something is, or Mr. Elliot's casual mention of his many trips abroad or his frequent air miles.

It's a joke, but it just serves to remind him how little Mr. Elliot, despite his intelligence, actually understands his situation.

The school week passes in a grey-linoleum-floor-coloured blur of lessons, homework, forgettable interactions with his classmates and a fair amount of stress. He can't take his mind of Katherine, of how she's doing. Mr. Knox said he'd call if he received any news about her condition, yet so far, there's been nothing. He finds his mind straying to what he could have done differently that day. Maybe if he'd had noticed sooner that'd she'd been tired and looked ill, she might not have gotten as bad as she did. He should have seen it coming.

In English class, they have ten minutes left after they've finished all the work so they do a crossword on the whiteboard. He used to do the crossword with Katherine, it was painful. He'd just leant his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

That night, Friday, he eats dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Elliot in the kitchen. They talk about their son, Johnathan, who's coming home from Cornell the week after next for a night. He's quiet, listens rather than talks. He's still got Katherine on his mind, he can't think of much except how he could have he helped her.

He watches some TV for a little while in the living room. Mr. Elliot comes in and out, making sure he knows how to use the setup, asking him about what he's watching, if it's any good. He's a pretty nice guy, Alex has decided. He's becoming more comfortable with joking around with him.

He goes to bed at about eight forty-five, it's early yet but he doesn't see much point in staying up late. He wants to catch some sleep, because he knows if allows himself to dwell even further on thoughts of Katherine, he'll not sleep at all.

Sleep comes quick, but if he had hoped it would work to distract him from thoughts of Katherine, he'd be wrong. In fact, it only made it more real.

His stomach churns as he runs for the phone. Not in a metaphorical way though, he physically has to swallow down vomit as he runs through the apartment and towards Katherine's room. He almost stops in the bathroom, afraid his stomach will decide the best time to get sick is now, but he chooses to go for the phone instead. He'll have to deal with it if he throws up on the floor, he needs to call 911.

He dials the number with shaking fingers, sprinting back to the living room as the number rings. He stands by Katherine, who's still slumped in the armchair as the operator answers.

"911, what's your emergency?"

He pushes some hair from his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry.

"My foster mom, she's unconscious."

"Are you alone? Is there another adult with you?"

"No, no, we're alone."

He kneels beside Katherine, trying not to look up at her face, where blood leaks from between her lips. He takes her wrist, checks her pulse, it flutters quickly, too quickly for it to be normal. He knows that will be the next question.

"Is she breathing, is there a pulse that you can find?"

He nods, draws in a deep breath and chokes back a sob.

"She's breathing. Her pulse is fast. Por favor, ella necesita ayuda! Ella estaba tosiendo sangre, por favor!"

He holds his forehead in his hand, tries not to look down at his own shirt splattered with blood.

"Sir, do you need a translator?"

He shakes his head wildly, that would only waste time. He can speak English, he's fine.

"No! No, sorry! She was coughing blood, and she's unconscious, please, we need help!"

"Okay, you need to remain calm. Is her head tilted back? You need to make sure she doesn't choke if there's blood in her throat."

He can feel tears pouring down his face as he repositions her head, trying to make it so that it sits straight on her shoulders, not lolling forwards or backwards too drastically.

"No sé qué hacer, please, no sé qué hacer! Will you send an ambulance, please, she's still unconscious."

"Sir, please remain calm, we need an address to send an ambulance."

He nods frantically and paces up and down the sitting room, eyes flicking back to Katherine every other second or so, just to see if she moves, coughs again. She doesn't.

"The address is number 103 on East 120th street. We're in an apartment, the eighth floor, door number twelve."

"Okay, an ambulance has been dispatched, it'll be there in three minutes or so, try to remain calm while you wait, watch her for any changes in breathing or pulse."

He nods, tasting tears salty in his mouth. He's praying now, words he thought he'd forgotten since his mother taught them to him when he was four. He doesn't even really know why, he doesn't believe there's anyone up there to help him, it's really just a comfort thing; praying.

"Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día."

He's not sure if the dispatcher is still on the phone, if she is, she's not asking any questions. He hears a sound above him, stands up from where he sits on the floor. Katherine is coughing again, blood drips from his lip and onto her clean, light blue shirt.

He wakes up half out of his bed, a yell on his lips. His entire body is instantly in panic mode, he's sweating, his hair is plastered to his forehead and his heart pounds against the inside of his ribcage.

He sits there, crying and failing to catch his breath as he hears noises in the corridor outside. This is the first time he's dreamt like this in months. During the first half of his stay with Katherine, he dreamed occasionally, but she was always there next to him to help him through a panic attack.

The door to his room swings open and Mr. Elliot rushes in. He tries not to cower, knows it offends people when he's scared of them, but doesn't succeed all too well.

"Alex, are you okay? What happened?"

He wipes roughly at his eyes, takes a deep breath and shakes his head, trying to apologise.

"I'm fine, I'm... Sorry."

Mr. Elliot sits down next to him on the bed and puts one arm around his shoulder.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

He nods, wiping another tear that had slipped down the side of his nose. He's frantically trying to push himself out of the panic attack he already feels he's succumbing to.

To him, panic attacks are like exactly drowning scenes in films.

The character's fingers always scrape frantically at land, at safety, but whatever's dragging them down is too strong, they always succumb in the end. Bubbles rise from between their lips as they frantically try to breathe but can't. Fingers go limp, eyes flutter shut.

That's always exactly how he feels.

He closes his eyes and feels his body tremble as he takes sharp, quick breaths. Mr. Elliot's rubbing comfortingly at his arm and saying soothing words, but he doesn't know what they are. He's busy employing every technique he knows to try and relax, to calm down. He counts his breaths. They're fast at first but start slow to down eventually, he starts trying to fit three breaths in one count, then two, then one. Katherine taught him that.

He's shivering, though not exactly sure why. Moments ago he was boiling, his hair sticks to the back of his neck with sweat. But now, he's freezing. His arms are bare and prickle with goosebumps.

Eventually, his body seems to slacken and his shoulders droop, his head rests on Mr. Elliot's shoulder and he tries not fall asleep then and there. He's exhausted. After panic attacks, all his energy is instantly drained. He just wants to sleep, to pass out and not wake up for hours.

Mr. Elliot's still holding him tightly and Alex is too polite to say that he's okay, ask him to let him go. After an awkwardly long space of time, in which his breathing is still audible in the silence of the room, he yawns, tries to get the message across that he's really, really tired and for the most part, through his panic. Mr. Elliot seems to take the hint.

"Are you alright? Will you be able to get some sleep?"

Alex nods. Thinks, yes, he'll be able to get to sleep, it's all he's wanted to do for the past ten minutes.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, thank you."

Mr. Elliot smiles, at least Alex assumes he does. It's dark, he can't really see, but he's always smiling at Alex anyway.

Alexander lies back onto his bed and closes his eyes as Mr. Elliot leaves the room. He rolls onto his front, yawns again into his pillow and it's not long before he's fallen back into a deep, impenetrable sleep.

Mr. Elliot doesn't mention what happened the previous night until they're in the car, driving to the grocery store the next day, away from Mrs. Elliot.

"Did you sleep okay last night, after what happened?"

Alex nods and watches a cyclist pull off a particularly daring swerve to cut a line of traffic piling up behind a red light.

"Does that happen often?"

Alex shrugs, "not really. Maybe twice a month, sometimes three. I don't always yell or wake up so abruptly."

Mr. Elliot nods and they pull up outside the store. Alex gets out, pulls some shopping bags from the trunk and follows Mr. Elliot into the store.

He thinks he's settling down somewhat at the Elliots. He likes talking to Danna in the mornings, she understands when he talks about feeling out of place here, about feeling guilty they're spending money on him.

Mr. Elliot can be a little unwittingly offensive sometimes. He still seems to think Danna is Mexican and to him, at least, his 'teaching alley cats to be pedigrees' joke hasn't gotten old yet.

It's his third week there and Mr. Elliot is driving him to school, they're stuck in traffic again, as usual. Manhattan is always bad in the mornings, but today it's particularly slow. The radio's playing the traffic report, giving some bull excuse about delayed road works or something. He sighs and watches kids that all go to his school walk by. They'll probably get there before him.

"I never want to be in school, except when we're stuck in traffic, it's so weird."

Mr. Elliot laughs and pulls on the clutch, the car shifts about a metre forward.

"Don't worry," he rests his hand on Alex's knee, "the traffic will clear around sixty-fifth street soon, then we'll be able to take a shortcut down seventieth."

He doesn't move his hand, his fingers squeeze comfortingly once and he steers one-handed. Alex sits there, slightly uncomfortable, heart beating fast, watching his breath fog up the car window. It's just friendly affection, he thinks... But all the same. Well, Alex has been beaten and slapped around by enough foster parents. He's not going to complain if one is just nicer than the rest. He's probably only a bit uncomfortable because he's not used to being treated kindly.

Still, he's glad when the traffic clears and they pull up to the front gates of his school. He hops out with a small wave to Mr. Elliot before jogging quickly towards homeroom.

School that day is better. He loves his English classes, and he gets to do politics too. Both languages, French and Spanish, are compulsory, so he has to sit through lessons. But on the first day, he'd explained to his teacher in Spanish and then French, that he had grown up speaking both languages and was fluent in them already.

Now, he has a seat right at the back. The teacher gives him French and Spanish newspapers and he reads through those. Sometimes she'll give him a book.

Math has to be his very least favourite class. He works hard, so his grades are generally pretty good, but he's often lost. His brain doesn't naturally work in a very mathematical way, he prefers to write, use language and words to convey meaning. Numbers just tend to confuse him. His classmates think he's good at maths, ask him for help with their work. They don't know the only reason he understands what they're learning is because he stays up till ungodly hours reading his textbook, testing himself and practising.

To be perfectly honest, he wouldn't give a shit about science or math if all the colleges he wanted to go to required higher than 3.5 GPAs. He can't get that high a GPA if he flunks all his science and maths classes.

He walks home that day. Normally, Mr. Elliot drops him to school but doesn't pick him up. He doesn't come home from work until about half five most nights.

He goes straight to his room, says hello to Mrs. Elliot in the hallway upstairs and dumps his school bag on his chair. He has some homework to do, then he'll shower and eat dinner.

He writes a page in French about a book he'd read in class, does a math sheet and finishes plotting a graph for science. He's finished his homework now, so he showers. In this house, even the shower is fancy. He only knows how to change the temperature and pressure, everything else is lost to him. There's a towel rail that's connected to the shower so when the hot water turns on, the rail heats up.

Rich people, he'll never get used to it.

He dries off, ties up his wet hair and wraps his towel around his waist. He hasn't brought any pyjamas to change into, he left them in his bedroom.

He opens the door to the bathroom and steps out, almost walking straight into Mr Elliot in the hallway. He's obviously just come back from work. He's dressed in a crisp business suit and he's got an leather, expensive looking messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Alex instinctively pulls his towel a little tighter around him and up higher around his waist, instantly remembering the car ride that morning.

"Hey, kiddo, how was school? You weren't late?"

He shakes his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. His bedroom door is right behind Mr. Elliot's shoulder, blocked by the man's frame. He's very conscious that he's shirtless and that if he were to turn around, he has scars on his back from Mr. Johnson's belt last year that would become instantly visible.

Mr. Elliot grins and Alex steps to move past him. The man shifts aside to let him pass but as he takes a step towards the door of his bedroom, Mr. Elliot places a hand on his side, halting him.

"Oh, and Alex?

Alex flinches at the sensation of a hand on his bare skin but turns anyway, wincing at the way the hand slides against his waist as he moves. He tries to make a grimace look like a smile. He knows Mr. Elliot can probably feel the goosebumps growing on his midriff.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry, just wondered if you'd eaten yet? Shall I make something?"

Alex's chest is tight as he responds, itching to take another step away. His heart is pounding now and there's a crawling sensation across his skin, as though he's covered in thousands of tiny, scuttling bugs.

"Okay, I'll just change."

Mr. Elliot nods and then his hand is gone. He smiles and turns around, walks into his bedroom without another word.

Alexander pulls his towel tighter around himself and walks quickly back into his room. He shuts the door behind him and sucks in a deep breath.

He's overthinking this, being paranoid. He's just a touch-averse foster kid. He just isn't used to how foster parents are supposed to act. Of course he'd interpret something totally normal as weird or unusual.

He pulls on some pyjama bottoms and shirt before walking downstairs, a book in hand. He sits at the kitchen table reading as Mr. Elliot cooks dinner. Occasionally the man makes conversation with him, asks about what he's reading.

He always seems surprised when Alex demonstrates proficiency in anything. He'd looked so incredulous when Alexander had mentioned that he spoke three languages that Alex had laughed and shown him.

He'd spoken a few words in Hebrew too (that was a long story involving unforgiving, Christian elementary schools and kind Jewish headmistresses) despite the fact that he didn't actually speak Hebrew, just knew some phrases from his rather eclectic upbringing. (Eclectic, that's a rather useful word for him to use in the future, makes him sound as though he'd enjoyed a very cultured, well-rounded childhood, rather than the hardships of abject poverty.)

It had been funny before, Mr. Elliot's incredulity, but part of him thinks that his foster father is just surprised that this poor, disenfranchised kid could be good at anything. It doesn't exactly make him proud that he surpasses these expectations, because the man shouldn't have them in the first place.

He gets news about Katherine in his third week with the Elliots. They're eating dinner when the phone rings. Mr. Eliot stands up and walks to the sideboard in the dining room. He picks up the telephone and answers in that monotonous voice all adults take when speaking on the phone.

"David Elliot?"

He listens for a moment, his eyes flicker towards Alex and then he nods.

"Yes, yes, I'll get him now."

He covers the receiver with his hand and calls over to Alex, who's put down his fork, watching Mr. Elliot fearfully.

"Alex, it's Mr. Knox, he says he has some news about Katherine."

Alex jumps instantly to his feet and rushes for the phone, taking it almost roughly from Mr. Elliot's hand and holding it to his ear, his heart hammering.

"Mr. Knox? Is she okay? What's happened?"

"Alex, hello, I got some news this afternoon. She's doing better, she's been in hospital these last few weeks. She's due to go home in a week's time."

Alex takes a deep breath, trying to stop a wide, elated grin spreading across his face. Happiness blooms in his chest.

"So I'll be going back? When?"

Mr. Knox takes a few moments to answer, his sigh is heavy, Alex can hear it even through the phone.

"Alex, I don't think you understand. She's still very sick. She's not young, from now she'll need to live with a carer, there's no way she'll be cleared to take you back."

Alex's chest tightens and when he speaks his voice is choked. He can feel Mr. Elliot's hand heavy on his shoulder and his vision is swimming unpleasantly.

"What— What do you mean? I'm... What? I'm never going back?"

Mr. Knox sighs again, Alex can picture him now. Lined forehead resting against his hand, cheap, polyester tie loosened, top button undone.

"Alex, I'm sorry. No one knew about her condition, this couldn't have been helped."

He can feel tears in his eyes, maybe they're even rolling down his face. Mr. Eliot's arm is around his shoulder now but he ignores it, speaking ever more frantically into the phone.

"But it'd been five months, I was going to be there permanently. You said that was the plan! You told me that was the plan!"

"Alex, I don't know what to tell you. I'm sorry, there's not much more I can do. I really am sorry, I—"

Alex doesn't hear the rest, he puts down the phone, his vision blurred with tears. The plan had been that he stay with Katherine permanently, until he was eighteen. It had been almost guaranteed. She had been the first placement in which he was happy, it had worked for everybody. The paperwork had practically already been drawn up.

His knuckles are white as he grips the wooden side of the table, tears falling freely down his face now. Mr. Eliot pulls him into a tight hug and he momentarily forgets about the vague misgiving he'd had previously about the man; it feels good to be held. He's crying into the man's chest and his shoulders tremble unwarranted.

He doesn't want to sit back down at the table, he knows he won't be able to eat like this. He feels Mr. Elliot start to walk in the direction of the stairs, he follows, trying to control the volume of his sobs, feeling bad that he's getting tears on the man's clothes.

Mrs. Elliot is still seated at the table, she's set her glass of water down, hands folded neatly over the napkin on her lap. She watches them as they leave, lines across her forehead drawn into further prominence by the pensive, narrow-eyed expression she wears, suspicion, knowing almost. She doesn't continue eating, merely begins to tidy away the food she knows will be left uneaten. Alex, of course, sees none of this.

Mr. Elliot brings him out into the hallway, one hand around his shoulders, supporting him as they walk. He opens the door to Alexander's room and the teenager sits down on his bed, buries his face in shaking hands.

Mr. Elliot holds him as he calms down, he wipes the tears from under his eyes with his shirtsleeve and slows his ragged breathing.

"Were you very close?"

Mr. Elliot's stroking his lower back in large circles, like he'd done to his arm the night Alex had dreamt.

"Yeah."

It's already dark outside. Alex wonders if he could get away with going to sleep now. He doesn't have school in the morning, he's got no homework to do, save the crossword in a French newspaper, Le Monde, that his teacher asked him to complete.

The crossword. This sends him into another bout of sobbing as he remembers doing the crossword with Katherine every morning. He remembers how, on the day she'd fallen ill, she hadn't filled in the whole thing. He'd thought it had been worrying, but hadn't said anything.

Mr. Elliot holds him, gently strokes his hair as he cries, one arm wrapped around his middle. He doesn't know how long it takes for him to regain his composure, just that eventually he's all cried out. Exhausted, totally drained.

"Do you want to get some sleep, Alex?"

He nods sleepily, his eyes flutter shut as Mr. Elliot dislodges his arm from around his waist and guides him to lie back on his bed. Alex mutters a miserable, sleepy goodnight and the man smiles. He turns off the light and before his footsteps even reach the end of the hallway outside, Alex is asleep.

That weekend passes without incident. Alex still feels a little embarrassed at losing his composure right in front of Mr. Elliot, even crying into his shoulder, but the man doesn't bring it up, so neither does he.

Mr. Elliot drives him around to the library for a school project on Sunday. The traffic isn't as bad as it had been a week or so prior, but the drive still takes around twenty minutes. Mr. Elliot's hand finds it's way back to rest just above his knee. Alex thinks it must be a habitual thing, he probably doesn't even realise he's doing it.

He researches for a few hours or so in the library before Mr. Elliot picks him up. Alex had insisted he didn't need to, but he'd said that it was raining, a long walk for someone on their own and that it was getting dark anyway.

As they wait in a long tail of traffic, Alex shakes his hair out from its ponytail and then reties it, a little higher, into a small knot.

"It's getting too long..." He murmurs, trying to fit the hair band a third time around the knot. His hair is pretty thick, but he manages it with some force.

"For what it's worth, I like it where it's at."

If he were talking to anyone else, a classmate maybe, he might shoot back a snarky, 'well thank God it's my hair and not yours then,' but he doesn't. He shrugs, suddenly content to let the subject drop.

He sees Danna the next morning, talks to her over a mug of coffee. This time, now that Mr. Elliot's not there, he offers her one. She gladly accepts.

"¿Aún vas a la escuela?"

Are you still at school?

Danna only looks to be in her early twenties, Alex wonders if she goes to university. She nods and wipes down the breakfast table, pushing a curl behind her ear.

"Sí, estoy en tercer año en la universidad Hunter."

Yeah, I'm a junior at Hunter.

He whistles in admiration. Hunter's a public college, but a good one. She must have done really well in high school or come from a rich family. Somehow he doubts that latter option, she is working a service job for a wealthy family in the Upper East Side. Who would do that if they already had the money to support themselves?

"Guay. ¿Qué estás estudiando?"

Cool, what do you study?

She pauses to take a sip of coffee, smiling at him over the rim of her mug.

"La literetura Español y Ingles."

English and Spanish literature.

He hums in interest, part of him though, feels a little sick. Someone smart enough to get into such good college shouldn't be cleaning the kitchen of a rich family just to avoid drowning in student loans or rent.

He wonders if, in four years time, he'll be the one wiping down tables or taking orders at McDonald's to afford university. He wonders if he'll have to put up with ignorant employers just to keep a job that gets him a decent paycheck. He thinks the likelihood of this happening is pretty high. Foster care doesn't exactly help you save for college.

His next week passes slowly. He dreams again, about three weeks after the first one he had here. It's not about Katherine this time, it's about his first ever home in America. Mrs. Newson's one. He dreams about how she'd punished him for all the times he'd woken up the house after a nightmare.

He sees her hand fly at his face, feels cold concrete against his knee and hears the slam of the back door. He swears he can feel the sensation of rust gathering under his fingernails as he scrapes at the lock, the smack of glass against his hand as he pounds on the window, yelling to be let back in.

When he wakes up, Mr. Elliot is already by the side of his bed. He must have been yelling before he awoke, probably asking to be let in, apologising in his sleep. He sits down on the side of his bed and holds Alex while he tries to calm his breathing. This time, though, his hand is a little lower down Alex's back and his arm little tighter around his waist.

Alex doesn't really notice any of this, too involved with the effort to control his breathing and still his trembling. He does notice, however, when Mr. Elliot's hand conveniently moves to rest against a section of his skin where his pyjama shirt's ridden up. His thumb rubs small circles into his skin, which might have felt comforting on his clothed arm, maybe not so much his bare waist.

He's still panicking, breathing heavily and squeezing the sheets of his bed between tight fists. He doesn't have the coordination to try and get Mr. Eliot to stop and work himself through this at the same time.

After a time, he's calm enough to release the bed sheets from his tight hold. He yawns, tries to get across the message that he's tired and would rather be left alone to sleep, but Mr. Elliot doesn't seem to take the hint like he did last time. He holds Alexander tightly for a while longer, his hand still rubbing circles onto his skin. It had been comforting before, when it was against his arm and while he was panicking, but now it just makes Alex shiver.

Eventually, after a third yawn, Mr. Elliot gives his middle one last squeeze and stands up. Alexander shuffles back quickly and pulls his bed covers tight around him, the panic in his chest spiking dramatically now, again, due to what had just occurred.

"Goodnight, Alex."

Alex assumes he smiling, he perpetually is. He forces a deep breath out. He's being stupid. This man woke up at an ungodly hour just to comfort him after a nightmare, he's a good man. Alex is being paranoid.

"Night, thanks, Mr. Elliot."

The man leaves the room and Alex snuggles down into his bed, pulling his shirt down far past his waist and wrapping his arms around himself protectively. The heating's turned on and his blankets are thick, but somehow, he can't seem to get warm again.

Mr. Elliot still gives him lifts to school every morning now, citing the bout of showers and rainy weather they're receiving. Yet despite the warmth of Mr. Elliot's car and the extra minutes he gets in bed, he always feels guilty accepting lifts, especially since his school is a little out of the way of Mr. Elliot's work.

The traffic is often heavy around Manhattan but Mr. Elliot never seems to mind terribly. He's an ardent conversationalist, always tries to get Alex to talk about himself more, and when that fails, makes conversation about anything he can.

One morning when the traffic is particularly heavy, Mr. Elliot brings up a subject they've, much to Alex's relief, avoided thus far. Politics.

The crux of the matter is that Mr. Elliot is a card-carrying Republican, he's actually spoken at conventions and contributed to this Republican news site, The Drudge Report.

And Alex, well, Alex would rather gouge his own eyes out than support the Republican party. Mr. Elliot raising this probably has something to do with the debate that came on the previous evening on CNN. It had been about taxes, whether taxes for America's richest should be raised to fund health care and public service.

Mr. Elliot had shaken his head and muttered something about lazy liberals before changing the channel.

"So, Alex, do you have an opinion on politics?"

Alex starts. He's been watching someone hand out leaflets on the street corner and trying to ignore the now almost familiar weight of Mr. Elliot's hand on his lower thigh.

"Well..."

If he were to express his true opinion on politics, specifically the debate last night (that America's white, upper-class have been robbing the poor working class for years and not paying enough back to the government) he feels it will most likely get him kicked out of the car and told to walk.

"I don't know. I like Obama..."

Mr. Elliot shrugs and they break through the lights at last.

"Well, I suppose that's your opinion. Maybe when you're a bit older you'll see why I don't like him."

Alex withholds a heavy sigh. If Mr. Elliot hadn't wanted to hear something against his own opinions, he shouldn't have asked. And if he hadn't thought Alex was old enough to have opinions of his own, he should have turned the conversation to something else.

"But hey," his hand squeezes a little on Alex's leg, "think whatever you want. This is America."

Alex tries a smile, Mr. Elliot's hand inches a little higher and he urges to traffic light to change.

Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on.

Thankfully, nothing changes in the five minutes remaining of the drive, and though Mr. Elliot's hand stays were it is, it doesn't move any further up his leg.

When they pull up in front of the school, Alex opens the door before the car's even fully rolled to a stop.

"Someone's eager for school," Mr. Elliot laughs, shifting the clutch.

"Yeah," Alex fakes a laugh and pulls his bag over his shoulder, one foot on the concrete already.

"See you soon."

"Okay, thanks for the ride."

Alex sits down at his desk in homeroom and opens his book, not actually reading the words on the page, just thinking about what had just happened. He thinks he can still attribute this to friendly affection. It's probably that Mr. Elliot's just a little old-fashioned, doesn't understand how his totally innocent actions might be perceived.

Alex is content to settle with this explanation, he doesn't remind himself that Mr. Elliot isn't even old, and even actually owns an iPhone. He isn't old-fashioned at all.

Alex doesn't receive any more news about Katherine, it's the start of his second month with the Elliots. He's met their son now, Johnathan. He's fine. A lot like his father, but that comes as no surprise.

He seems surprised to see that Alex is Latin and has only been here for a year and a half, yet speaks English so well. It's not like Alexander has been speaking English daily since he was born or anything.

Johnathan is the type that ties his sweaters over his shoulders and wears chinos and Tommy Hilfiger jumpers as casual clothing. Alex doesn't really have anything against people who dress in certain brands, but it does make him a little more self-conscious of his own appearance. He's probably a walking stereotype of a foster kid. By looks, anyway. Skinny, long hair, beaten up shoes. He should really have been on Park Avenue.

Johnathan never stays long. He drops by sometimes to say hello, occasionally stay for dinner. He doesn't talk to Alex much, except the standard, expected pleasantries. A hello, a 'how are you?'. If he's lucky, Johnathan might try to talk to him about a video game or app or something. Probably because he's the only young person in the house. This stopped pretty quickly though, after he learnt Alex didn't use the internet for anything outside school work.

He's thinking about this as he eats dinner in the kitchen with Mr. Elliot. It's a Wednesday, around six, Mr. Elliot's said he'll help him do some math homework after they eat dinner. Apparently he considered doing math at college, he got good grades in high school. Says he still remembers most of it, that he'd be happy to help.

Alex rinses his plate and puts it to dry in the rack before jogging upstairs to grab his maths book. When he comes down a minute later Mr. Elliot is just finishing rinsing off his plate. He leaves it to dry, washes his hands and walks back over to the table.

"So, what's the homework?"

Alex sets his maths book on the table and sits down, opening it to their homework.

"Some questions on formulae with negative x terms, I can't seem to wrap my head around them."

Mr. Elliot nods and pulls his chair to be next to Alex, scanning the questions quickly. He lifts his pen and underlines x where it's written in Alex's book.

"Okay, so to start, you need to make x the subject..."

Mr. Elliot starts by working through a question on his own and showing Alex how he does it as he goes along. Alex isn't as fast a learner when it comes to math as he is in other subjects, but he sets his mind to it, eventually understanding the first, easier half of the sheet and completing the questions quickly enough.

When he moves on to the second half however, things get a lot more difficult. Mr. Elliot explains as carefully and succinctly as he can, but it's still annoyingly convoluted, there are so many things he has to remember to do to the formulae. The first time he gets a question right with minimal prompting from Mr. Elliot, the man slaps him on the back and grins, one hand resting on Alex's knee beneath the table.

Alex stiffens slightly but tries to ignore this, deciding that rather dwelling too much on a friendly, innocent touch he'll write the next question out into his copybook.

"Okay, so I just find the square root of both sides?"

Mr. Elliot nods and quickly works the question out himself on some spare paper, just so he knows if Alex gets the right answer. The teenager's book is now a mess of sums and working out, but he's getting it, slowly but surely. Eventually, he finishes the question and slides his book to Mr. Elliot to check.

"Yep, that's all right, well done. If this comes up in a test, you'll have it."

Alex smiles rather stiffly and feels Mr. Elliot squeeze lightly at his knee, his hand inches up a little, heavy on Alex's thigh. He holds his breath and focuses instead on the next question, a tricky looking one that spans at least two and a half inches across the workbook.

He starts working on it, his pen scribbling back and forth as he writes lines and lines of working out beneath the question, annotating the formulae and trying to find x.

Mr. Elliot's already worked the question out on his spare paper and is watching him as he bites the end of his pen, planning out his method.

He gets an answer eventually, after maybe five minutes of trying, but he isn't so sure it's correct. Sure enough, when he slides Mr. Elliot his book across the table, the man shakes his head, looking from his own working out to Alex's.

"Check this bit," he taps his pen on the third line of Alex's working out and his hand slides even further up Alex's leg. Now, it's far too high for Alex to even try to ignore, he can't pretend he isn't bothered.

"Okay, give me a sec, I just want some water."

Alex stands abruptly, backing quickly away from the table and towards the cupboard. He pulls out a glass with shaking hands and fills it up slowly with water, trying to buy himself more time until he has to sit back down. His heart hammers in his chest.

He drinks the water slowly and leans against the wall of the kitchen, making conversation with Mr. Elliot to delay returning to the math work.

"So how come you didn't do math at college?"

Mr. Elliot shrugs and puts down his pen, turning in his chair to face Alex and smiling.

"I'd planned to do strategy management and thought business fit better with that. So I took those."

Alex nods and sips at his water, drumming his finger against the kitchen wall. He bites back the urge to ask what kind of high school senior plans to do strategy management.

"Come on then, these questions won't do themselves."

Alex finishes his water and walks reluctantly back to the table, sitting down with his lower half-twisted to face away from Mr. Elliot, instead turned towards the cupboards. If Mr. Elliot were to put his hand on his knee now, it would be a considerable stretch.

He doesn't. Alex finishes the last five questions in about fifteen minutes and packs up his stuff quickly, eager to go up to his room.

"Thanks for the help, I'll understand the class much better now."

Mr. Elliot smiles and takes a sip from the mug of tea he'd made before they'd started.

"Anytime, I'm happy to help, with math at least."

Alex smiles and nods, taking his books and pencil case into his arms and backing towards the door. He turns around and quickly jogs back up the stairs, one hand clenching so tight that his nails dig hard into his skin.

He shuts himself in his room, doesn't come out at all that night except to brush his teeth and wash up in the bathroom before bed.

Even then, Mr. Elliot walks in as he's washing his face and puts a hand on his shoulder, fingers just slightly touching the bare skin of his collarbone. He reaches up into the cabinet above his head and takes down some mouthwash, pouring some out into the lid.

"Night, Alex. See you in the morning."

"Night."

He manages to half convince himself that all this is all friendly, even paternal affection and that he's reading too far into things, being overdramatic. And even when he can't quite convince himself of this, he comes to the rather fatalistic conclusion that at least this is better than being beaten daily or starved, and that he can put up with the occasional weird touch or look if it means living in a home that feeds him, treats him well and doesn't hit him.

Even so, he doesn't get much sleep that night.

Alex has his first non-dream related panic attack for a few months just days later, at school. He comes out of the showers after gym class to find that someone in his class thought it would be a good idea to steal his shirt and shoes from where they were on the bench outside the showers.

He hates Gym class anyway, because it's tough changing in front of the other boys and not showing the scars he's got on his back from living with Mr. Johnson. There aren't many, maybe four long stripes of raised, white flesh stretching from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back.

Right now though, he has two choices. He can wait in the shower cubicle until everyone else leaves, hopes whoever took his clothes has left them somewhere in the changing room outside and be late to class. Or he can walk into the changing room now and try to find his shirt, put it on before anyone sees anything.

He decides on the latter, he doesn't want to be late to politics class next period. He pulls on his socks and jeans, wraps his towel around his shoulders to cover the scars and walks out into the changing room.

He hates the changing rooms in this school. They're small, so small that his large class of thirty-five are always cramped in together, vying for time in the showers and space on the benches. Deodorant fumes hang in the air, making him cough and boys tend to save their grossest talk for now, when the girls in their year aren't around.

He yells over the din of the changing room. The sound of boy's laughter, the hiss of lynx, god how he hates that smell.

"Hey! Whoever took my fucking clothes, give them back."

The boys fall silent and Alex throws his hands in the air, irritated.

"Seriously? Come on, just give them."

He hears laughter in the corner of the room and cranes his neck to look over the shoulders of the taller boys in front of him. It's Miles and Carlos, two annoying best friends that absolutely no one likes, himself in particular. Of freaking course.

"What the hell, Miles? Give them back!"

He walks over to where they're still laughing and hold out his hand. Behind Carlos, he can see his shoes and shirt on the bench.

"You're not funny, you know that right?"

Miles shoots Carlos an idiotic grin and throws Alex's shirt at him, kicking his shoes over too.

"Take 'em back, look like they cost like five bucks anyway."

Alex flips Miles off and turns around, clutching his things to his chest. Before he even has time to react however, Carlos has whipped the side of his shoulder with his towel, probably half jokingly, half maliciously. Unfortunately for Alex however, the towel he'd draped precariously around his shoulders to cover up his scars slips and falls to the floor, leaving his bare back completely exposed.

"Woah, the hell are those?"

Carlos' voice is loud, carries throughout the changing room, everyone looks over, interested. Alex frantically scrambles to pull on his shirt, but Miles catches his arm, staring at his back in morbid fascination.

"Damn, how the hell'd that happen?"

The whole left half of the changing room are turning their heads to stare at Alex's completely exposed scars now, falling quiet. One boy, Malik, who Alex likes better than most of the kids in his class, has his face set in horror, dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"Alex, how'd you get those?"

He looks numbly from one face to the other, slowly all the talk in the changing room is dying down and everyone's turning to watch him.

He finally manages to speak and snatches his arm back from Miles' hold.

"Back the fuck off."

He pulls his shirt roughly on, grabs his school bag and sprints from the changing room, ignoring the muttering he can hear behind him, the eyes that follow him intently as he stumbles out the door.

He sprints off down the corridor and slides down the wall in a secluded hallway, burying his face in his hands and feeling his chest tighten, the first major warning sign of an impending panic attack.

He knows the bell will go any minute and classes will probably come out of the rooms either side of him when it does, but he can't walk or do anything really when he gets like this.

He's just begun to feel his heart hammer in his chest and his breaths become sharp when he hears the door at the end of the corridor open. It's his English teacher, Mr. Cooper. He stops for a moment in the doorway, clearly taken aback, and then walks quickly over, a stack of marking clutched to his chest.

"Alexander? Are you... Are you alright?"

He says nothing, manages to give a brief shake of his head and bites down hard on his lip, feeling the skin there split a little, stinging sharply. Here comes that drowning sensation again, like he's in one of those shark films, being dragged down deep under the ocean.

His teacher takes his arm and helps him to an unsteady standing position, his expression concerned as Alexander sways slightly on his feet.

"I think you should go to the front office, uh, I'll... I'll come."

He helps Alex quickly down a thankfully empty flight of stairs and towards the office, evidently slightly uncomfortable and unsure of what's happening, but anxious to help all the same. He's a nice teacher, Alex likes him. From now on though, he's just going to think Alex is some needy, panicky freak.

The front office is empty but a sixth grader sat on the bench in the corner, clutching an ice pack to his head. He collapses down onto a sofa, draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, biting down on his fist, his stomach aching with waves of nausea and anxiety.

"I- I have to get to my class, I'll talk to the nurse first."

Alex does nothing, he can't multitask in the slightest when he's like this. He hears Mr. Cooper speaking quietly with the nurse, "I think he's having a panic attack," and the harsh, scraping sound of a chair being pushed out from behind a desk.

He feels the nurse's presence in front of him but doesn't look up, pretty certain his eyes will be watering badly. She crouches down before him and puts a careful hand on his shoulder, speaking softly.

"Has this happened before? Is this the first time?"

He shakes his head and feels his tooth dig hard into the delicate bone of his knuckle. The nurse squeezes comfortingly on his shoulder and then straightens up.

"I'll call your parents, we'll have the number on the system."

Alex suddenly straightens up and shakes his head wildly, not caring that tears have stuck wetly to his eyelashes.

"No, please, he's... At... Work."

"It's school policy, anyway, it's just fifth. You won't miss much."

Alex doesn't argue, just clenches his teeth as waves of nausea and anxiety roll over him, white spots flashing and saturating his vision.

It doesn't take long for Mr. Elliot to arrives at his school after the nurse calls him. The traffic in Manhattan is at his worst at around six 'till nine in the morning and six 'till nine in the evening, so though the roads will be busy, it's probably not so congested at the moment, being only around two thirty in the afternoon.

Alex's knees are stall drawn up close to his chest when Mr. Elliot walks through the door of the office, expensive coat pulled on over a business suit. His panic attack has subsided somewhat, yet he's still shaking with pent-up adrenaline and so drained of energy, it's all he can do to look up at Mr. Elliot when he walks over.

"I didn't want them to call. I'm sorry."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head and sits down beside him on the sofa, he puts a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, rubs circles there comfortingly.

"No, it's fine. I wasn't all that busy today anyway."

Alex suspects he's lying just to placate him but isn't going to protest this, he just wants to get back to the house soon so he can sleep.

"We should get home, you look tired."

Alex nods and Mr. Elliot takes his arm, helping carefully him to stand and guiding him towards the door. Alex wants to protest, say that he's fine to get to the car himself, but he doesn't want to come across as rude, especially since he made Mr. Elliot leave work early to pick him up. If this man has some saviour complex or something, he'll play ball.

Anyway, after what feels like years of being pushed and shoved around by uncaring, irritable foster parents, it's nice to be treated gently for once, like Mr. Elliot cares whether he's okay or not.

He sits in the passenger seat and tucks his backpack between his knees, putting his gym bag in the back. He rests his head against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes, feeling damp condensation cool his warm brow. He's so tired, he just wants to get back to the house and sleep.

Mr. Elliot sits in the drivers seat beside him and clasps his shoulder gently, turning the keys in the ignition.

"Are you alright? Ready to leave?"

"Mmmhhm."

Mr. Elliot nods and puts the car into gear, backing slowly out of the parking space they're in. As he twists round to look out the back window at the road behind him, his hand falls almost thoughtlessly, casually, on Alex's knee.

Alex is too tired, too used to this to pay much thought to it. He closes his eyes against the window and rests, feeling adrenaline and panic drain out of him to be replaced with sheer exhaustion and miserable resignation.

As they drive, Mr. Elliot hums along to the radio but doesn't talk, sensing that Alex wouldn't really be listening if he did, that he just wants some rest. His hand is warm and heavy on Alex's knee, almost grounding. Alex thinks he might be okay with it if Mr. Elliot never moved it higher than the bone of his kneecap, but he does, so it just serves to makes him uncomfortable.

Alex does his best to ignore it when Mr. Elliot's hand moves a few inches higher, it's starting to push on the bounds of what could be called platonic and innocent, Alex doesn't know what he'll do if it goes any further. It's becoming harder to convince himself that he's just being paranoid these days.

He falls asleep around sixty-fourth street while they're waiting at a traffic light. The car is warm, the glass is pleasantly cool against his forehead and the hum of the engine strangely relaxing.

He wakes up around twenty minutes later just as they're slowing down outside the apartment building. The very second he's slightly more lucid, he panics. He shouldn't have let himself fall asleep, he shouldn't have let his guard down. He's such an idiot.

Mr. Elliot's hand has moved, not quite into dangerous territory yet, but certainly higher than before, higher than is normal for and adult to a fourteen-year-old. Alex doesn't think anything happened while he was asleep, he would have woken up if it had, right? He feels lucky, says a silent prayer of thanks in his head to no one in particular.

He grabs his gym bag from the back seat and gets out of the car, hoisting his backpack higher around his shoulder. He yawns and stretches, clasping his hands together and raising them high above his head, wincing at the tension in his muscles and back. Mr. Elliot watches the movement and chuckles, unlocking the front door.

"You should get some sleep, I'll wake you up for dinner later."

Alex nods and steps into the house behind Mr. Elliot, heading instantly for the stairs, already pulling his coat off as he goes. He walks into his bedroom and changes quickly into some pyjamas. It's laundry day, so all he's got left to wear is this old, oversized Yankees shirt (he doesn't even follow baseball!) and some pyjama shorts he's probably has since the Johnsons.

It doesn't take long for him to sleep once he collapses into bed and pulls his blankets tight around himself. He's too tired to think about what happened at school, or the car ride, or whatever the hell's going on with Mr. Elliot. He just wants to escape from it all for a few hours. He doesn't think that's so much to ask for.

The next few days pass as days are prone to do. When he goes back into school the next day, he gets a fair few weird looks from his classmates. But Alex has grown accustomed to brushing this sort of stuff off. He's never really fit in at school, or with kids his age.

He's not trying to sound like some sort of edgy Holden Caulfeild, there's nothing wrong with fitting in, he just doesn't. He likes some boys in his class and gets on well with more than a few girls in his year too. He has friends, just no close ones, no one he'd think to call if he moved schools, no one he'd go to if he had to talk about something.

And, well, he does wish he had someone to talk to right now. He has so many anxieties, intrusive thoughts and worries that he just wants to pour out to somebody, about Katherine, about school, about Mr. Elliot.

The thing is, he knows if he had a friend to confide in and he told them about Mr. Elliot, he's almost sure this imaginary confidant would tell him to get out of this house, to tell someone. But the crux of the matter is that this home is so much more bearable, better even, than the ones he's lived in before.

Who's to say whether or not his next home will be as bad as the Johnsons' or the Harveys'? Trying to get out of the Elliots' house is a gamble, because he could trade this placement in for something much worse. The foster care system is Russian roulette, you never know if you're going to fucking shoot yourself in the head or not.

So he doesn't complain. He eats the food put in front of him, relishes in the bed he sleeps in, is glad for the clothes on his back. He can put up with occasional Mr. Elliot incidents, even if they are getting more frequent. He's not letting himself get placed in another home like the Johnsons', not when he has the opportunity to a comfortable life here.

Mr. Elliot almost always has his hand on Alex's leg now, while they're driving places, underneath the table at dinner, watching TV. As long as they're alone. And it's not so much his knee anymore as his thigh.

Alexander's growing increasingly uncomfortable around Mrs. Elliot, even though he doesn't see her often. He always feels guilty, because he hasn't asked him to stop.

Logically, he knows he's justified in not asking Mr. Elliot to stop this. He doesn't know how this man would react, whether or not he's the type to hit teenagers. Alexander's been fine with a number of foster families until he asks them to stop something he doesn't like or pushed his luck for something he wants. Then, things tend to turn against his favour. He's worried Mr. Elliot will be offended if he asks him to stop and what if, even more horribly, he's misread the entire situation and Mr. Elliot's just a nice, kindly foster father trying to make him feel more comfortable here.

Anyway, it's not as though Mr. Elliot thinks he's comfortable with it all. He's let on his displeasure with the whole charade through ways other than verbal. Despite attempts to act normal when it all happens, Alex can never hold back his flinches, or the way he stiffens if Mr. Elliot touches him. It's not rocket science, to tell that he doesn't like it. Mr. Elliot knows this.

But like he said before, he's not about to play Russian roulette with his foster placements, he's not going to gamble on it.

So, he just gets on with his life here. It's not at all bad. He reads loads, learns a lot at school and has gotten a little less scrawny looking since he got here. Miles and Carlos still call him 'twig' and 'pencil wrists' but he thinks he looks a bit healthier these days.

He's been at the Elliots' for one month now and it's on a Wednesday that he gets news that makes his stomach drop.

Mrs. Elliot is going to visit her sister in Massachusetts on Friday, for a whole week. He'll be alone in the house with Mr. Elliot for the whole of that time. He's told all this at the dinner table, while Mr. and Mrs. Elliot are both there. He's sure his face probably paled noticeably and he'd choked on his water before nodding and spluttering something to Mrs. Elliot about enjoying her trip.

That night, just before he goes to bed, he walks down to the kitchen to get a mug of fruit tea or anything herbal he can find. He finds it helps him sleep. The kitchen's dimly lit and empty, sparkling clean after Danna's visit that morning. He's just placed a tea bag into his mug and is waiting for the kettle to boil when he feels a hand on the small of his back.

He probably jumps about a foot in the air, gasping in shock and twisting around to see who it is. Mr. Elliot stands there behind him, like an unwelcome apparition, a smirk pulled across his face.

"Bit jumpy."

Alex's heart rate slows slightly from its pique of adrenaline moments ago and he lets out a nervous laugh.

"You scared me."

Mr. Elliot's hand finds his hip and rests there casually as he fills a mug with some coffee granules, then, as he waits with Alex for the kettle to boil, his second free hand finds his waist.

"Any plans with friends this weekend?"

Alex, in a normal situation, might laugh. When has he ever hung out with friends?

But now, the hands on his hip and waist and the presence of a person standing so close behind him that their bodies are about an inch from touching, makes the situation that bit more serious.

"Don't think so, I was just going to get some homework done."

A contemplative hum is all he's given in response to this statement. The kettle finishes boiling with a small click and Alex grabs it quickly, just to have something to do with his hands, just to get all this over with sooner. He pours the water into his mug, hands trembling ever so slightly (he hopes Mr. Elliot doesn't notice) and stirs the drink quickly. He hisses in pain as he sloshes burning water over the side of the mug and onto his hand.

"Careful there," chuckles Mr. Elliot, his voice sounds out much closer to Alexander's ear than before. It's soft, sotto voce.

Alex nods, bites down hard on his lip and picks up the mug, turning around to face his foster father. They're far too close for comfort. Alexander steps aside slightly to walk past him and Mr. Elliot smiles.

"Night, Alex."

"Night."

Alex wants to stop, put down his mug of tea, wait for it to cool. The handle's burning his hand, it stings agonisingly as he walks quickly from the kitchen. But he won't stop, he wants to get out of that room.

He eventually reaches his room and puts down his mug, gasping in pain and shaking his hand out reflexively. The handle's left a long red line across his palm. It will fade in a few hours, but it stings like hell.

He sits down, puts his face in his hands and groans. How did he get himself into this situation?

Alex is going to stay out of the apartment as much as he can while Mrs. Elliot is away in Massachusetts. He'll revise in the library after school, he'll walk around the city during the day, say he's made plans with friends. Just keep himself away from Mr. Elliot.

This is what he does on Friday evening. He stays behind until five at the school library finishing some bio and history homework. He'd have stayed longer, but the librarian was closing up, said he had to leave.

After that, he delays going home. He browses a book shop for a while, despite not having any money and walks slowly along the streets, kicking at rocks absently and taking his sweet time. He knows Mrs. Elliot had left this morning for her sister's and as far as he knows, Johnathan's not planning any visits soon. So it will only be him and Mr. Elliot in the house this evening. Danna will be there during the mornings, but only for a few hours.

When he finally arrives at the apartment it's just about six o'clock, by the battered old watch on his wrist. He'd told Mr. Elliot he was going to stay behind after school, but he's taken three hours to get back. He's sure Mr. Elliot expected him sooner. He hopes he won't be angry.

He opens up and walks into the hall tentatively, pulling off his coat and taking his bag off.

"Alex?"

Mr. Elliot's voice calls out from the living room, not angry exactly, possibly stern. It's definitely not the jovial, friendly tone he usually takes with him

Alex walks into the living room quickly, his arms folded protectively over his chest, dark strands of hair have escaped from his bun and hang around his face. Mr. Elliot sits on the sofa, the coffee table in front of him piled with what looks like work things to Alex. A laptop, some manilla folders. A binder and a mug of coffee.

"Hey..."

Mr. Elliot pushed his glasses down his nose slightly (it's the first time Alex has seen him wearing them) and closes a binder open in front of him. His expression is slightly reprimanding, the least welcoming Alexander's ever seen it.

"It's six o'clock."

Alex rushes to apologise, terrified of what the consequence might be if Mr. Elliot doesn't feel that he's truly sorry.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, I lost track of time and I stayed behind to revise and-"

"Alex, I'm not angry. It's alright."

Mr. Elliot cuts him off before he can go off on a tangent, holding out his hand and smiling again, back to his usual, convivial self.

"Just tell me when you plan to be home so late, okay?"

Alex nods, twisting his hands awkwardly in front of him

Just for a way to fill the silence, he looks in interest at what Mr. Elliot's doing, squinting to read the nearest sheet of paper to him on the coffee table. Mr. Elliot smiles at his curiosity and pats the space of sofa next to him assertively, a clear invitation for Alex to sit own.

Alex's curiosity suddenly diminishes at the invitation, but he's backed himself into this corner now and to refuse would look exceedingly odd.

He sits down, fiddling with a hair band as he scans the work laid out in front of him. Most kids his age would probably find strategy management extremely boring and Alex... Alex thinks a fair amount of it probably is.

As Mr. Elliot explains what he's been doing over the course of the week at work and what his job involves, his hand finds it's way to Alexander's leg. The way he does it, Alexander could almost believe it was an accident. He leans forward to grab a folder about half a metre away on the edge of the desk, in doing so, placing a hand on Alex's leg to brace himself.

Alexander wants to go up to his room, finish his book, do anything but sit here. He's considering saying something, making an excuse, when the hand travels up a little further. This solidifies his intentions.

"I have some bio work I need to get done, I wanted to have it finished before it got too late."

He stands up and Mr. Elliot tilts his head questioningly, a smile playing across his lips.

"What about all that work you did after school?"

Ale pretends to look sheepish and rubs the back of his neck in a manner that he hopes denotes embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'd planned to do the bio then but I stupidly left my book here. A bit irritating but..."

He trails off and shrugs, crossing his fingers tightly behind his back. Mr. Elliot smiles, jovial again and nods, taking a sip of his coffee. Alex grins, he hopes convincingly, at him and leaves the room with a light step, not wanting to show Mr. Elliot how rattled he is. He feels the man's eyes on him the whole way.

The rest of Friday evening passes quietly. Mr. Elliot works in the lounge until around six forty-five, tidying away his stuff when he finishes and settling down for the next hour or so, writing something for the contributions section on that right-wing news site he reads.

Alexander changes into his pyjamas at around seven and goes down to make something to eat for himself. He goes into the living room momentarily, just to ask whether Mr. Elliot wants anything or is fine to make something for himself later. The man's eyes snap up from his work and he considers for a moment, fingers pausing over his keyboard.

"It's alright, I'll have something later."

Alex doesn't want to think too hard about his state of undress at that moment (pyjama shorts and a t-shirt) or the way Mr. Elliot's eyes flick more than once down to the bare skin of his lower thighs and knees. He leaves the lounge quickly then. He's becoming more and more uncomfortable in Mr. Elliot's presence, has been for a while.

He wishes he could just eat a frozen lasagna or a pack of ramen noodles like he used to when he couldn't be bothered to cook at Katherine's. He's never eaten a frozen meal that he's loved before, but right now one would feel a bit like home. Katherine's place, warm and comfortable, crosswords, misty windows and humming radios; home.

But Mr. Elliot doesn't buy frozen food and Alex isn't about to make a full-blown meal, so he settles for a bowl of cereal and some orange juice instead. Breakfast for dinner, it's a little childish, but he doesn't really care.

He sits at the kitchen table and stirs his cereal lethargically. It's going to go soggy, which he hates, but he wants to take his time. He doesn't have anything better to be doing, doesn't think he'll be able to focus enough to read or right at the moment.

He speeds up when Mr. Elliot comes in to make his own dinner, however. Alex doesn't want to be there at the table when he sits down. He's wearing shorts and Mr. Elliot can't seem to keep his hands to himself.

Alexander goes to sleep early that night. He doesn't have anything else to do but sleep and if he gets ready for bed before Mr. Elliot comes up, he can avoid another incident with the man. It's only eight thirty when he climbs into bed, but he'd gladly go to sleep much earlier, as long as it meant he could limit his interactions with his foster father.

He pretends to be asleep a few hours later when he hears the footsteps he's come to recognise as Mr. Elliot's in the hallway. His light has been turned off for hours and he's not gotten up for around that amount of time either. He hears the door of his bedroom open slightly and bites down hard on his lip, his back turned away from the noise. A few moments later, however, his door closes again and the footsteps retreat, fading slowly away down the corridor.

Saturday dawns bright, the sky is the colour of milk, thin and cold, poured out over the jagged New York skyline. It rained the night before, the sidewalks are dark with water and the trees drip like rain clouds when the wind shivers through them. Alex is still not entirely used to New York weather.

It's been over a year, but before this city, everything in his life was warm, it all carried that hot, dusty smell he can never source. Like sun heated tiles and salty sea air.

He misses his home, misses the patter of rain on corrugated iron rooves in town when they got stuck in rainstorms, the way sand used to get everywhere, coating the floor in a thin layer, sticking in his shoes and socks. He used to hate that, but now he thinks he'd give anything to feel it again.

Here, summer is dusty and dry. City smells of gasoline, nicotine and weed are often one hundred times stronger when there's no rain to wash them away. He does like New York, thinks big cities suit him, but he can't pretend he doesn't wish to feel Caribbean sea air on his face again.

He dresses early, eats breakfast before Mr. Elliot even wakes up. He's finishing when Danna comes in, tired looking with dark under eye circles and hair tied in a messy knot. She must have been studying late, or else partying. Though, he has the feeling she's more responsible than that, considering she has work today.

"¿Te acostaste tarde la pasada noche?"

Were you up late last night?

She sighs and walks to the cupboard, kneeling down to take out the usual cleaning products.

"¿Dios, es tan obvio?"

God, is it that obvious?

Alex winces, he probably could have employed a little more tact there. Sometimes he doesn't think enough about the words that come out of his mouth. He shakes his head and shrugs, awkwardly stirring the leftover milk of his cereal.

"No, no... Lo siento."

No, no... Sorry.

She smiles, reassurance that she isn't actually angry. He shoots his own smile back in return, stands up and walks towards the coffee machine. He's had a mug already but Danna looks like she could use some.

"¿Quieres café?"

Want some coffee?

She nods and he pours her out a mug, handing it to her with a small smile. She accepts it gratefully and he suddenly feels a surge of anger. Not at her, of course, but at... He's not even sure himself. Mr. Elliot? The government? The public school system? He mainly just feels angry that she has to do this, work awful hours in a job that probably doesn't pay very well and do a full time college course at the same time.

He goes to the cupboard, takes out a cleaning rag and some kitchen anti-bac spray and starts to clean the table. He feels it's the least he can do. He's spilt a little bit of milk there anyway and sure, Danna's been payed to do this, but he's perfectly able to clean up after himself. Why shouldn't he at least help?

"No tienen con qué ayudarme."

You don't need to help me.

He shakes his head and shrugs, wiping up the few droplets of milk he spilt earlier.

"No me importa."

I don't mind.

She smiles tiredly and sets down her mug of coffee, picking up her cloth and starting to wipe down the kitchen counters.

Mr. Elliot comes down about a half hour later, dressed and more awake looking than Alex (or Danna) feels. He smiles at Alex as he goes to make his coffee, not seeming to care that he's blocking Danna from cleaning the sink. Alex had finished cleaning the table and gotten the large window of the back door too, but Danna had stopped him from helping any more after that.

"Morning, sleep okay?"

His question's obviously directed at Alex, even if he's facing in the opposite direction to the teenager. Alexander isn't sure if he's ever heard Mr. Elliot ask Danna how she was.

"Good, fine. You?"

He nods and drums his fingers against the counter top as his mug fills with coffee from the machine.

"Fine. You went up early, I barely had time to see you yesterday."

The second part of his sentence is spoken somewhat lower than the first, it's obviously a jibe, a statement of offence disguised under simple pleasantries. Alex shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"Long day at school, did a lot of revision."

Mr. Elliot hums into his coffee and shrugs, pushing off the side of the kitchen counter and making to leave the room. He puts his hand briefly on Alexander's shoulder as he walks over the threshold of the kitchen and Alexander can't quite refrain from wincing at the touch. A second later, he looks up to see Danna's eyes on Mr. Elliot's retreating figure, a small frown on her face. She surveys Alex shrewdly for a moment or two before returning to her work, her dark brows creased in confusion.

Alex wonders how much she can figure out from a mere touch and flinch.

He doesn't do that much on Saturday. He goes on a walk around central park, visits a French and English bookshop on Fifth Avenue and makes his way back to the apartment for one o'clock.

He has some homework to do, not much. Just some maths sheets and a finished essay he needs to check over one last time. He lays out his stuff on the kitchen table (his desk upstairs is a mess, one he can't be bothered to clean) and starts on the maths work. He doesn't really understand it too well. He knows for a fact the topic will come up on the test, so he has to learn it, make sure he understands it well enough. That doesn't make it any easier.

If only Mr. Elliot was a normal foster parent, if only he could help him with his math without having some ulterior motive behind it. He would ask him, but he knows he can figure this out himself.

Unfortunately, ten minutes later, the choice is made for him. Mr. Elliot comes into the kitchen to get a glass of water and stops behind where Alex sits, absorbed fervently in his work. He leans over his shoulder and reads the question he's been working on for the past five minutes.

"That needs to be divided by eight, because you need to find the overall average to plot the graph."

Alex sighs. He nods and divides the number on his calculator, heart pounding furiously at the immanent presence of his foster father behind him.

"And... Well, you need to find the square root of this one, rather than squaring it. I can help, if you'd like."

Alex can't think of anything he'd hate more. He'd honestly rather get every single answer on the sheet wrong.

"I couldn't take up any more of your time, honestly, I'm alright."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head dismissively and pulls out the chair beside him, he sits down and reads the question Alex is in the process of answering. Alex's chest tightens uncomfortably and he barely hears what Mr. Elliot is saying over the very loud din of his thoughts, intrusive and becoming steadily more frantic.

"Alex?"

He's snapped out of his anxious, muddled thoughts by Mr. Elliot saying his name.

"Sorry, sorry. Yeah?"

The man looks at him slightly oddly and then grins, amused.

"Penny for your thoughts, ey? I was just saying, you've plotted the first three points right, but it starts to go bit wrong here..."

Alex tries to focus on the question in front of him, but it's a task that becomes ever the more difficult when Mr. Elliot's hand rests again on his leg.

He manages to finish the question at last, but it's after much prompting and help from Mr. Elliot. The man must think him incredibly stupid, his comprehension skills have drastically decreased since the very second Mr. Elliot sat down.

Alexander starts on the next question. It's on formulae with negative x expressions, the subject Mr. Elliot helped him with about a week ago. He gets the answer without any help in about a minute, comforted in the knowledge that if the subject comes up in the test, he'll be guaranteed a few marks.

Mr. Elliot grins as he writes out the answer assuredly and elbows Alex playfully.

"Maybe I should have been a teacher, huh?"

Alex wants to comment that no one in their right mind would let Mr. Elliot teach a room full of thirty kids, but he smiles instead and shrugs, because saying something like that is what gets him hit.

"Maybe."

As he works through the questions, his foster father helping him along the way with the more difficult ones, the hand on his leg moves up a little. Alex's fingers are clutching his pen so tightly that his knuckles have turned white and his hand is cramping. Mr. Elliot pays his obvious state of discomfort no mind and continues to help him with the questions on the sheet.

Panic is properly setting in now. To the left of Alex is a wall and to the right is Mr. Elliot. If he wanted to leave he'd have to back out, and there's a fridge only about a metre behind him. He doesn't have much room at all if he needed to stand quickly.

As he works through the sheet, Mr. Elliot continues to move his hand higher until Alex is worried his grip will break the pen. He wants to say something, move away, but he's frozen. He can't even hear what his foster father's saying about the maths question, he's just staring straight down at the blank expanse of paper before him.

He writes out a sum with a shaking hand, his writing thus becoming wobbly and uneven looking. Mr. Elliot is continuing, as though nothing is happening and Alexander can feel the familiar panic-pain throbbing in his head and chest. Then, Mr. Elliot's hand moves again, higher and higher, not stopping until it's right between his legs.

Alex is frozen in terror for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds. Then, he practically launches himself backwards, away from the table. The chair makes a horrible screeching sound against the tiled floor and when he stands up, it wobbles precariously, nearly toppling over with the violence of his movement. He's breathing heavily, the panic's seizing him in full force now and his brain is only sending his body one signal, and that's to get away from the man sat in front of him.

"I— I... I think I feel a bit sick, I... I'm going to lie down for a bit."

He doesn't wait for a response, merely sees Mr. Elliot's jaw tighten and his brow crease in anger? Annoyance? Disappointment? Alex doesn't even bother to analyse it, or take his homework with him, just hurries quickly from the room, his hands shaking violently.

He closes the door of his bedroom behind him, leans heavily against it and holds his face in his hands. Alex can't comprehend what just happened, how to deal with what just happened.

He... He wants to shower. He wants to take a long, burning hot shower with the pressure turned up so high he can't hear anything but the pounding of water on tiles. He pushes off the door, scrambles for some soap and shampoo before bolting into the bathroom. He locks the door, triple checks it's secure and gets undressed.

The shower doesn't go as hot as he'd like it to. It's probably a safety thing, but he tuns it up to the very highest anyway. Afterwards, he uses some soap to scrub himself clean, anywhere Mr. Elliot touched. By the time he's finished, he thinks he's removed at least the top three layers of his skin.

He feels sick, nauseous like he's going to throw up. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the spray wash over his face, hoping the feeling will pass.

It doesn't. It abates slightly, ebbs back a little like a retreating tide, but it doesn't go away. He still feels like he's going to heave up his insides at any given moment.

Eventually, when he realises that this feeling doesn't mean he's actually going to get sick, that it's really just anxiety and revulsion melding into one, he steps out of the shower. He almost wishes he would get sick, though. Maybe it would do something to mollify the horrible feeling in him.

He shuts himself in his room then, writes an essay about the American upper class exploiting the public for their own benefits. It's a very thinly veiled attack on Mr. Elliot that he won't ever let anyone read, it's quite bad, his mind is too clouded to string words together into coherent sentences.

It's around six o'clock when he hears Mr. Elliot's footsteps on the stairs. He feels his fists clench almost subconsciously on the sides of the book he was trying to read.

There's a knock on his door, he stiffens, weighing up his options. Mr. Elliot will come in even if he doesn't answer yet he can hardly bring himself to invite him in.

"Yeah?"

He says finally, quietly. He's half hoping Mr. Elliot won't hear him and just leave him be. But no, he does hear him and he does come in, standing up straight, smiling at Alex as though an hour or two ago he didn't touch... He didn't do what he did.

He holds a glass of water and a blister packet of pills in his hands.

"Hey, are you feeling alright? I brought some Tylenol if you still feel sick."

So he's playing clueless, then. Alexander doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He'd like to take that glass of water and dump it over his head, he'd like to tell Mr. Elliot to go fuck himself, but he doesn't put it past his foster father to hit him, so he shrugs and stares at his hands instead.

"I'm alright."

Mr. Elliot puts the glass and pills on his bedside table and sits down next to him on the bed, not holding him like he's done before, just sitting there. Like he's Alex's friend or something.

"Do you want dinner or have you lost your appetite?"

Alex thinks yes, yes he's lost his appetite. And more importantly, he'd rather disturb a nest of angry killer bees with a stick than sit with Mr. Elliot to eat dinner.

"I'm not all that hungry."

Mr. Elliot nods and smiles at him, clasping his shoulder in a gentle grip before standing up. Alex flinches at the movement but doesn't break eye contact with Mr. Elliot until the man turns around, walks out of his room and back downstairs.

Sleep doesn't come easily that night. He can't shake that nauseous feeling in his stomach and he has a headache, psychosomatic or not, it hurts like hell. He wants to take one of the Tylenols, but somehow feels like it would be letting Mr. Elliot win. Giving into him. So he just lies in bed, hoping that he can will himself to sleep. He's long since finished the water, hoping it would help his headache, and he's certainly not going down to get any more.

Eventually he drifts off, but it's to a sleep ambushed and warped by nightmares. Not the type that scare him awake, not so vivid or sharp, more hazy and uncomfortable. When he wakes up on Sunday he's filled with a vague sort of anxiety he can't exactly place.

He gets dressed into the largest hoodie he owns and a pair of jeans before walking downstairs. Sunday is the only day Danna doesn't work, so they're entirely alone in the house. He wants to eat before Mr. Elliot even wakes up, then he can go out for as long as possible, avoid all contact with the man. Mr. Elliot's footsteps descend down the stairs just as the kettle clicks, boiled. Alexander curses under his breath. He hasn't woken up early enough to avoid him, either that or Mr. Elliot heard him come down and got up earlier to see him.

He pours the water into his mug and tries not to react when he hears Mr. Elliot walk through he door behind him. A hand rests on his back and he feels goosebumps rise on his arms, glad he's wearing a sweater so that his foster father won't see.

"Feeling better?"

No.

"Yeah."

He doesn't want to encourage any sort of conversation with his foster father, he wants to get across with as few words as possible how little he wants to talk to him, see him, be in the same room as him.

But Mr. Elliot doesn't take away his hand, not while Alex pours his coffee, adds the milk or stirs it. He slips it lower to his waist, holding him there instead.

Alex wants to whip around, throw his coffee right in this man's face, kick him, slap him, tell him to take his fucking hands off him; but he's done that before. He's told foster parents not to hit him, not to speak to him like they do; it never gets him anywhere but on the floor with a bleeding lip.

He turns around, his coffee held tightly in one hand and his fist clenched in his hoodie pocket.

"I'm going out today."

He doesn't phrase it like a request. It isn't one.

"Okay, where? With who?"

Alex knows Mr. Elliot will have more reason not to let him go if he tells him he's going alone. He thinks on his feet, he's actually pretty good at bullshitting extemporaneously.

"Fifth Avenue. With Malik and Jesse, guys from school."

"Someone's talkative today."

Alexander shrugs and steps away from Mr. Elliot's hand, moving backwards towards the door. He's going to drink this in the sitting room, he doesn't want to sit at the table, especially not with Mr. Elliot there.

He turns on CNN and sits down on the sofa, watching two white news presenters discuss an immigration issue. Mr. Elliot comes in to sit beside him a minute later. He's like a cat following a toy. It would be funny, maybe even pathetic, if he wasn't so much taller, stronger than Alex, so unapologetic in his actions.

Alex shifts subtly away from him, taking a sip of his coffee and focusing intently on the screen.

Mr. Elliot's hand moves to his thigh and Alex bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. He shifts an inch in the other direction, hoping Mr. Elliot will just take the hint and leave him alone. He doesn't, his hand moves higher.

Alex clenches his fist as Mr. Elliot shifts slightly closer to him, his hand still on Alexander's lap.

He wants to tell him to stop, to back off, but he's frozen. He knows that if he were less petrified, more capable of dealing with his own anxiety, he'd be pushing Mr. Elliot away, but he isn't. He can't move. Mr. Elliot's close to him now, his hand moves up, right between Alex's legs and Alex bites hard on his lip, his hand clenches around the handle of his coffee mug.

He's seemingly frozen, watching the screen but not taking a single word in. He sees the man cut across the woman speaking to make a point but doesn't know what it was, it's as though his lips are moving wordlessly. He can only feel Mr. Elliot's hand and his own beating heart. Is it always this loud, this fast? Can he normally hear it, the steady thumping of blood and life, or has he just learned to block it out?

Mr. Elliot's other arm has reached around to hold Alex by his waist and he's trapped in this position, both the man's hands touching him.

Then, he somehow, miraculously, comes back to himself. The disassociation seems to shatter and suddenly he can hear the people on TV yelling at each other, feel the sensation of cool leather against his arm, smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen.

He stands up abruptly, Mr. Elliot's hand falls away and he moves back from the sofa, feeling his eyes water and his hands tremble.

"I'm going to get ready. I... I don't wanna be late."

Mr. Elliot smiles and takes another sip of his coffee. His eyes look... Alexander can't quite place it. It could well be triumph, but it feels crueller. This look, it flashes there for only a moment, as out of place in his usual lively, genial manner as Alex feels in this house.

He hurries to his room, grabs his coat and puts on some shoes. He doesn't know what just happened. What Mr. Elliot did, that he can comprehend, but how he reacted? How he froze, disassociated? How he wasn't even able to hear the TV. It terrifies him, that he was so powerless.

He doesn't hesitate in leaving. Mr. Elliot meets him in the hallway as he walks to the door and guides him with a hand on the small of his back.

"Be home before five thirty, it'll be dark by then."

Alex almost laughs at how ironic this is. Mr. Elliot is concerned for his safety, yet he just spent the last five minutes feeling him up. It's absurd.

"I will."

He departs quickly, speed walks down their road and towards fifth avenue. He doesn't even really have a plan as to where to go. He's got five bucks in his pocket and a book in his bag. Maybe if he can find a relatively empty coffee shop and buy something, he can hope to spend at least two hours there.

So he does that, sits on the upstairs floor of a Starbucks with his book. The coffee shop gets busier as the day goes on and he ends up having to share a table. Granted, it's large enough, but he would rather read alone.

It also doesn't help that the boy sharing the table with him is around his age and... Strangely good-looking?

Alex has looked at girls before, like this. He's had quiet crushes, he notices little things. But he's noticed boys too. Not in the way that he respects them, or wants to be their friend, but in the way that he wants to know how their hand might feel in his.

He doesn't exactly understand it. He doesn't really know how he can like boys and girls in the same way, he's still in a sort of denial concerning his affinity for the former of that equation. It's easier to ignore at school because most of the boys in his class that he does notice tend to have asshole personalities. Just because someone has freckles he likes doesn't mean they'll treat him less like scum than Miles or Carlos.

He watches the boy across from him for a few minutes over the top of his book. He's working on a laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, fingers typing at a lightning speed. He's got short black hair, buzzed down about half an inch from the scalp and dark skin. A rather worn Nike backpack sits by his feet and he doesn't wear the expensive, high-end clothes Alex always sees on the people in this area. It's refreshing.

He'd grinned apologetically at Alex when he'd asked if he could sit, shown really white teeth, his smile was bright against his dark skin. For a moment Alex had stuttered, finally gesturing wordlessly to the seat across from him.

He tries to concentrate on his book as best he can. It's a French one, more difficult than the ones he usually reads. His reading pace in French is just a little slower than that of his English one and he doesn't always know what certain idioms and phrases mean.

He's trying to figure out what a certain expression means when the boy curses loudly and groans, holding his head in his hands.

"Are- Are you okay?"

Alex looks up from his book and over at the boy, just across from him. He frowns, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry, I just deleted an entire essay by accident."

Alex winces and sets down his book, leaning forward on his elbows.

"That sucks... I might know how to get it back though, I've done that before."

The boy looks up and nods quickly, his eyes hopeful. Alex feels a surge of excitement in his stomach and he grins, standing up. He's not great with internet culture, but he certainly knows how to use computers.

"How did you delete it? Did you not save it or type it out..."

The boy laughs sheepishly, it's a nice laugh. Soft.

"I closed the tab, hadn't saved anything. I'm bad with computers, sorry..."

Alex sighs in relief, that's simple stuff. If the boy had typed out his work or his laptop had shut down, he might have tried a system restore, but that's never guaranteed to work.

"Oh, that's okay, it's just shift, control plus T."

The boy grins and Alex does the short cut, a word tab opens up on the screen, a few pages of writing open. The boy sighs in relief and looks gratefully at Alex, slumping back in his seat in relief.

"Thanks so much, really."

Alex shakes his head and sits back down, smiling.

"It's nothing. I'm Alex, by the way."

The boy takes a sip of his... It might be hot chocolate. God that's cute.

"I'm Robert. What school are you in? I don't think we know each other."

Alex shakes his head and stirs his coffee, trying not to go pink.

"I'm in eighth grade, King middle."

The boy nods in recognition and pulls at the collar of his shirt, it's yellow. Suits him. He grins.

"I'm at Eastway middle, over in midtown east. Eighth grade too."

Alex nods and smiles, he knows the school. Some boys in his middle school have friends there, it's not too far. The boy gives him one last smile before returning to his essay, fingers typing at the same lightening speed as before. Alex goes back to his book, his heart fluttering annoyingly fast.

He forgets about Mr. Elliot, if only for a few hours.

But then, Robert has to leave.

"I'm going, maybe I'll see you round, Alex. I'm here a lot."

Alex grins and gives him a small wave before he shuts his laptop, shoulders his bag and walks across the crowded floor of the café, his bag swinging of sight around the corner.

He looks at his watch. It's half two. He has another three hours until he has to be at the apartment, but he can't stay in this coffee shop for much longer. They'll kick him out soon, if he doesn't leave of his own accord. He bought a three dollar coffee, that only guarantees him an hour or two.

He walks around central park for an hour or so. Reminds him of his stay with Katherine. They'd go to central park together, he'd sent James a photo once. That reminds him, he hasn't sent James anything in a few weeks now. He should figure out a way to email him sometime soon.

He walks around about three-quarters of central park in a little over an hour, eventually circling back to the entrance near the Guggenheim, where he came in.

It's just about four. He's got nowhere else go, no money and he's tired. Yet, the idea of going back to the apartment just seems so unappealing. He compromises with himself, starts at an extremely slow pace back to the Elliot's place. He gets in around twenty minutes later, the warmth of the apartment hits him, welcome. It has to be just above forty out. He's freezing, all pink cheeks and numb fingers.

He hears voices in the living room, walks in hesitantly, poking his head around the door frame. Jonathan and Mr. Elliot watch something on the TV together, the former's got his feet up on a pouffe, wearing his usual chinos and polo. Alex thinks he must be one of the only college kids in the world who can afford to dress like he does.

"Alex, hey."

Jonathan notices him first, looks around from the TV and gives him a polite smile. Alex smiles back, pulling at the zip on his coat. Mr. Elliot looks him up and down and smiles too, patting the space of couch beside him.

"What did you do with your friends?"

Alex shrugs and walks into the hallway, hanging his coat on the hook there.

"Just walked around central park for a bit."

Mr. Elliot nods and when Alex walks back into the room, he pats the space of sofa next to him again. Alex sits down hesitantly. Mr. Elliot doesn't do anything while his son's there, obviously, but that doesn't mean Alexander is much more comfortable. He sits on the edge of the couch, trying to focus on the television and feeling Mr. Elliot's eyes flicker back to him every other minute or so. He stays quiet as Jonathan and his father talk about his studies, stays even quieter when the discussion on politics starts.

The thing is, they don't seem to care about what they say in front of him about this sort of stuff. They talk about immigrants and borders and crime as a 'result' of 'lax' immigration policy, all while Alex is sat there. They either don't see how it might offend him or don't think him clever enough to understand the subtext behind their words. Alex is used to causal, indirect racism because of his foreigner status, but this seems a lot more belittling than usual. He doesn't like it, makes him feel small.

He gets up to leave after a little while, Jonathan doesn't even look up to watch him go but he feels Mr. Elliot's eyes follow him the entire way, the gaze is shrewd, piercing. Like he's seeing completely through Alex as easily as if he were made of glass. He hasn't felt this transparent in a while.

Johnathan leaves later that evening, after dinner. Alex wishes he'd decided to stay overnight, but he'd said something about meeting up for a group project early the next morning. Mr. Elliot fills up the dishwasher in the kitchen after Jonathan leaves and Alexander shuts himself up in his room. He's busy tonight, has quite a lot of homework due in for Monday. Mr. Elliot seems to have a lot to do as well, he sits in the living room with his laptop and work papers for the remainder of the evening.

He showers (the door double-checked after he'd locked it) and gets into bed at half nine. His mind is humming with repetitive, invasive thoughts and he needs some method of release, something to take his mind away from everything that's happening.

In search of a solution, he goes to his drawers. Mr. and Mrs. Elliot had bought him some hygiene products (soap, shampoo and shaving things) before he'd arrived and he'd tucked the latter of those items into his underwear drawer. He takes out the razor. It's one of those plastic ones you use a couple times and throw out afterwards, not particularly sturdy. Not made to last.

This makes it easy for him to pry apart, break the plastic handle and take out the two little blades inside. He rolls down his sock, places the razor to his skin and ten minutes later, has a collection of red, stinging gashes around his ankle. They don't take much to treat. Some water, a few dabs with a tissue, maybe he'll find some band-aids later if he feels like it. He rolls his sock back up over the injury and stands up, feeling rather hollow.

He hasn't done that since his first month or so with Katherine. It's been a while, it's been nice. Nice not to have cuts to worry about getting infected, nice not to have blades to worry about being found, injuries to worry about being seen at school. He supposes that nice is over now.

He hides the blades inside a rolled up sock and gets into bed, turning off his light a second later. He only wants to sleep now, seems to be the thing he wants most these days.

When he closes his eyes however, he isn't greeted by the peaceful, dreamless sleep he desires. He'd wanted to just rest for a few hours, not have to worry about anything, not be plagued by his often seemingly omnipresent anxiety, but he doesn't get that.

He dreams about Mr. Johnson that night. About the time he'd mouthed him off, tried to fight back. Obviously, this hadn't ended well. He'd gotten a punch or two in, before he was quickly met with a volley of kicks to his side and a string of violent insults, expletives even he'd be hesitant to repeat.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, knowing he'd have been making noise in the midst of his dream, hearing his own surprised yell ring out through the quiet of the apartment. And now, the anxiety that usually builds in his chest after these dreams isn't because of Mr. Johnson, isn't because of whatever fuck up in his brain that causes these panic attacks, it's because he knows what will happen now. He knows that now, Mr. Elliot will come.

He isn't disappointed. The footsteps are quick in the hallway, assured, they're like an alarm to Alex. He tries to regain himself, pushes some hair from his eyes and commits himself to the frantic, fruitless effort of controlling his breathing. It's futile, pointless, he can't disguise what's happened. Even if he did manage to come across as relatively okay to his foster father, he knows the man will find any excuse to stay with him.

His door opens as he's trying to fit three breaths into one count, like Katherine taught him, and Mr. Elliot enters.

"Hey, kiddo, are you okay?"

He doesn't respond, his terror's only building and he can feel actual tears welling in his eyes at the knowledge of the situation he's gotten himself into. Mr. Elliot sits beside him on the bed, one of his arms finds his waist and the other pushes some stray hair from his face. Alex shudders.

He does his best to relax, finally manages to fit three breaths into one count. His breathing doesn't seem to want to slow beyond that though, tears still roll in heavy droplets down his face and he's biting hard on his lip to prevent himself from making any further noise.

"Shall I get you some water?"

Mr. Elliot's voice is soft, it's sympathetic, kind, but Alex doesn't know if he can trust any appearance Mr. Elliot puts forward anymore. The whole man is an enigma. And Alex has a feeling that if he were to one day understand the man, he wouldn't like what he'd find.

He disappears for a minute or so, coming back with a glass of water and handing it carefully to Alex. He doesn't let him hold it entirely himself, the teenager's hand is shaking far too much and the cup is heavy. He guides his hand, helping Alexander drink.

It seems like an eternity before he's relatively calm again, yet an eternity isn't near long enough. Because as soon as his breathing is close to normal, he becomes aware of Mr. Elliot's hand on his thigh.

"Alright?"

Alex sucks in a breath and nods, taking a large gulp of water and swallowing quickly. Mr. Elliot's hand moves to push some more hair from his face, behind his ear. His fingers trail slowly to Alex's mouth and brush over his lower lip, soft and invasive and deadly.

"It worries me when you get like this."

Alex is uncomfortably aware of the closing space between them so he shifts an inch or so backwards, the fingers on his lip sending chills up his spine. Mr. Elliot pays him no mind, his hand moves up his thigh and between his legs, pressing down. Alex gasps and tries to move further backwards, but there's nowhere to go, only a wall.

"Stop, please."

His voice is so quiet, timid even. He wishes it were a roar, a scream, fingernails scraping down his foster father's cheek. He wishes it were anything but his meek little protest. Mr. Elliot probably just blocks him out, because he doesn't stop. The only light source in the room is a patch of silver streetlight sitting on the wall opposite them, he feels goosebumps rising on his arms.

Mr. Elliot's hand leaves his lips and slips underneath his t-shirt to hold his waist. Alexander is fully aware of every nerve ending, every cell, every breathing, living atom of his body. It's as though he can hear the rushing of his own blood. He's aware of the hand on his waist slipping higher beneath his shirt and the other hand pressing harder.

"I said stop."

His voice isn't much stronger but with this protest he struggles back slightly, trying to push himself away. Mr. Elliot doesn't pull back either of his hands, his fingers are cool, skating over his hot skin, more insistent.

"Come on, Lex," his hand presses harder between Alex's thighs, "After all I've done for you?"

"No, I don't want to."

Mr. Elliot slides his hand further up Alex's shirt but he catches it, stopping it from moving. He presses himself backwards, against the wall and shakes his head, firmer this time.

"I'm tired, my head hearts."

Mr. Elliot's hands both withdraw and he sits back a little, still closer than Alex would like, but at the very least not touching him.

"You're tired?"

Alexander doesn't know what his response to this is supposed to be. Mr. Elliot's expression isn't clearly visible through the dim.

"Yeah, I am."

Mr. Elliot's hand squeezes lightly down on his thigh and he stands up. His fingers reach out to brush Alex's lips a final time and it's all he can do to hold back his flinch.

"Night, Alex."

"Good... Good night."

Alex watches as Mr. Elliot leaves the room and instantly, as soon as the door is slammed shut, flops back onto his bed, wanting to retch. He closes his eyes, takes long, slow breaths and fights of the nausea building inside him. He wants another shower, he wants to be clean again. He needs to scrub Mr. Elliot's touch off of him.

He doesn't sleep much that night, the next morning he looks in the bathroom mirror to see a pale, tired-looking teen staring back at him. He showers, takes longer than he should and then gets ready for school, having to rush to make time. Mr. Elliot's making breakfast while Danna cleans when he comes into the kitchen. He smiles weakly at the man and a little more warmly at the cleaner, gingerly accepting a mug of coffee from his foster father.

"Sleep okay?"

He nods, takes a bowl of cereal from Mr. Elliot and eats quickly, eyes lowered to his bowl all the while. He senses eyes on him, they could be Danna's but they're more likely Mr. Elliot's, he doesn't look up to check.

He leaves for school ten minutes later. Mr Elliot insists on giving him a lift as usual. He only agrees because he knows Mr. Elliot can't do much while he's driving, that and he has no choice.

Mr. Elliot's hand rests predictably on his thigh as they drive and he chats to the teenager while they wait in traffic. There's something between them now, a sort of tension after what happened the previous night. Neither of them will address it, but it still hangs there like an unwelcome guest you're too polite to invite to leave.

He gets out without a word, sends only a small wave to his foster father as he retreats towards the school gate.

He can't concentrate in school that day. He thinks he dozed off in chemistry while they were supposed to be working in silence and in French class he stares at his book for a solid hour, not taking a single word on the page in front of him in. Malik, one of the few bearable boys in his class, asks him if he's okay at lunchtime. This is telling because if he, the perpetually silent, sullen kid, is noticeably quiet and exhausted, he must be coming across as extremely off.

He doesn't go directly back to the apartment after school. He makes his way instead, to the subway station on fifth avenue. He's not getting a train, what he wants are the payphones outside the station. There are three of them, all in small, one-person boxes and heavily graffiti-ed.

The door handle creaks loudly, rusted with disuse. He digs into his pocket for some money and then pushes in a quarter, punching in the number he knows well by know, his social worker's. Knox made him learn it off by heart when he was thirteen, said he might need to call him one day, if there was an emergency.

He'd complained at the time, now he's glad for it.

Because, yeah, he'd talked about Russian roulette, about not wanting to accidentally shoot himself in the head. But now, he's realised that Mr. Elliot's home is the chamber with the bullet in it and he's only getting closer and closer to pulling the trigger on himself.

Alex prays that Knox'll pick up, that he's in his office, near his phone. The number rings out, goes to voicemail. Alex curses loudly, prompting stares from a few passers-by. He ignores them, pulls another quarter from his pocket and tries again.

It's on the third try that he picks up. He sounds irritated, he's evidently fed up with work, as usual.

"Hugh Knox?"

"It's Alexander."

There's a brief silence, Alex can tell Knox is surprised. Alex hardly ever calls him, not unless something really bad has happened. The last time he'd called had been right after he'd dialled 911 for Katherine.

"Is everything alright?"

Alex draws in a deep breath, he can't believe he's doing this, he's never done this before.

"I... I need a new placement."

More silence on the other end, a police car wails by. Some tourists flock into a Starbucks.

"From the Elliots? Can I ask why?"

Alexander doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to talk about what happened.

"He's a creep."

Mr. Knox sighs on the other end, Alex can hear papers shuffling on his desk.

"It's barely been two months, Alexander."

"Yeah, and already I know he's a fucking creep."

"I assure you, foster parents undergo full background checks before they take in kids. They found nothing on Mr. Elliot."

Alex seethes, his fists are clenched tightly by his sides and he's biting his lip again. He should really stop that; he'll have no skin left on them soon.

"I guess him feeling me up every fucking day is less substantial evidence than your half-assed background checks, then."

Alex waits for the man to respond, he's so silent. Can't he just hurry up, not pause so much?

"Has he actually touched you?"

"Yes, of course he's touched me! Do you think I'd be calling you if I was just a bit freaked out?"

Mr. Knox sighs and Alexander tilts his head back, groaning in frustration. The stickers on the pay phone have all rubbed off so he can't read how much time he has. He reckons he's got at least ten minutes, but he can't be sure.

"Alex, you're not just overreacting? How can you be sure he's not just being friendly?"

Alex wants to stamp his foot, he's never been so mad, he's never been treated like such a child.

"Mr. Knox, I don't grab my friends' dicks. Do you?"

There's another brief pause.

"Alex, don't use that language."

"I think there are more important things to be dealing with than my language."

Another long sigh.

"Did you tell him to stop?"

Alex takes his forehead in his hand and nods into the receiver.

"Yeah, last night. I'm at a payphone on Fifth Avenue now."

"What about the other times, did you tell him to stop consistently?"

Alex hesitates. He never said it with words, never outright asked Mr. Elliot not to. He thinks he was pretty clear, but he never actually said no...

"Well, not with words but..."

Knox groans and Alex hears the sound of a chair creaking as he sits back.

"Alex, did you do anything to indicate that you wanted him to stop?"

"I just hoped for him to stop mostly—"

Alexander is cut off by another sigh but he continues anyway.

"But yeah, I always tried to move away. Trust me, please, he knew I was freaked out."

Mr. Knox speaks again a second later, his voice is a little more cautious this time, slower.

"Did you do anything that... That someone might interpret as invitation for this kind of behaviour or—"

Alexander wants to scream.

"No. No. No way in hell."

He wishes Mr. Knox would just understand, would just stop asking him these pointless questions and help him.

"Then why didn't you stop him the first time?"

Mr Knox is speaking like he's talking to a petulant child throwing a tantrum. He either doesn't believe Alex, thinks he's exaggerating or that he wanted it.

Alex isn't sure which one is the worst.

"Because I wanted to believe that I could actually find a home that I could be fucking happy in, for once. You wouldn't understand."

Knox sighs again, Alex considers asking him if he's got something up with his lungs.

"Look, I need you to tell me exactly what happened."

So Alex launches into the full story. In a dirty, dilapidated old phone box he tells Mr. Knox everything he can physically get out of his mouth without retching. He tells him about doing math homework with him, coming out of the shower, eating dinner, waking up from his dreams, about what happened the previous night...

By the time he's finished, he's panicking just thinking of it all, his voice breaks a little towards the culmination of his explanation.

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

"No."

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"Danna might suspect something, but not really."

"Danna?"

"She works for them, cleans."

"Mrs. Elliot?"

"God, I hope not."

"Alex... Everything you told me is true?"

Alex blinks back tears, his stomach twists unpleasantly. Knox doubts him.

"Yes. I wouldn't lie about something like this."

"Has he... Has he done more than touch you?"

Alex groans, shakes his head and slams the receiver against his temple.

"No."

"Might he?"

"God, Knox, I don't wanna talk about this. Please, just get me another placement."

"Are you absolutely sure about this? It's a good placement, Alex. They could do well for you."

"Knox, I would rather go back to Johnson."

This shuts him up. They both know what that man was like, how much Alex despised him. If Alex would willingly go back to that place rather than stay with the Elliots, he must have good reason.

"I'll see what I can do, but I need time."

"How much time? I can't hold out much longer, Knox."

"Can you do five days? It might be less but at the very least it'll take three."

"I-I can do that, yeah, just please be quick, Knox."

An immense sense of hope swells in his chest, almost overpowering the tightness and nausea that's twisted there all day. Five days. He can do five days.

"Alex, look, if he tries anything, you need to tell him clearly to stop. Leave the house if you have to, during the day at least. Don't do anything that could provoke him to hurt you. Don't insult him, don't hit him."

"I told him to stop last night. It did shit."

"You just need to be careful, don't put yourself alone with him. Stay out as much as you can."

Alex nods, murmurs a yeah down the telephone.

"Do you... Do you have any news on Katherine, by the way?"

Mr. Knox sighs again and Alex bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"No, as far as I know, her condition is the same."

Alex sighs, releases the flesh of his inner cheek and pulls his bag tighter over his shoulder.

"I gotta go, Knox."

"Be careful, Alex. I'll be as quick as I can, okay."

"Okay. I'll see you."

He hangs up then, leans heavily against the glass pane of the box and closes his eyes for a few moments, resting. Five days, could even be three. All he has to do is get by until then. He walks back to the apartment slowly. Mr. Elliot isn't there when he gets in, he's still at work. He makes himself something to eat and starts on some homework in his bedroom. Five days. He only has to get through five days.

Mr. Elliot comes home at around quarter to six, just after Alex has finished the last of his homework. Alex hears the sound of his key in the lock and his footsteps in the hallway, they move from his bedroom, stay there for some time and then approach his door.

Mr. Elliot opens the door, Alex realises that he's never once knocked, and walks into his bedroom, smiling. He's in his work clothes, a dark suit and green tie, but he's discarded his shoes and bag.

"Hey, good day at school?"

Alex looks up at him from his book, a chill runs down his spine, he nods. Mr. Elliot leans against the jamb of his door, folds his arms and smiles.

"What are you reading?"

He closes his book, L'Étranger by Albert Camus and shows Mr. Elliot the cover. It's difficult, he's having a hard time with some of the more obscure references and vocabulary. His French is fluent, but it's not like he had conversations with his mom about sartrism or whatever.

"I read the translation of that when I was, oh, seventeen or so."

Alex hums in false interest and opens the book again, staring down at the page before him. The word that first hits him is fuite. It means flight, or escape. It's a funny coincidence that his eyes landed on the thing he currently wants most of all. Five days, Alex reminds himself. He can do five days.

"I'd imagine it's quite difficult, how do you find it?"

Alex is tempted to say that he'd find it a lot easier if Mr. Elliot left him alone, but he shrugs instead.

"Not too bad."

He waits for Mr. Elliot to leave; he doesn't. Alex's foster father walks towards his bed and sits down next to him. His eyes glance over the books and papers across Alexander's bed, some copy books, a math textbook, his pencil case.

"Had that math test yet?"

He had it the other day, hadn't gotten it back yet.

"Yeah. The other day."

"How do you think you did? Did those negative x formulae come up?"

He nods, pretends to flick carefully through his geography book, like he's looking for something. Mr. Elliot's not touching him, but he's closer than Alex would like. To be perfectly honest, Alex wouldn't be happy unless he was at least one hundred yards from his foster father at all times, but he thinks at least half a yard or so isn't so unreasonable a request.

"What do you want for dinner? I could make something, or we could order in."

"I'm not too bothered."

Mr. Elliot shrugs and pats Alex's thigh, smiling. He's so nonchalant about all this, so uncaring. He barely even bothers to hide his intentions anymore. Then, he stands up.

"I'll see what we have. We can decide on something later."

He leaves then, his footsteps recede down the hallway into the kitchen. Alex is left alone with his book.

Mr. Elliot doesn't do much at dinner. His hand rests on Alex's knee beneath the table, but that's all he does. It doesn't more higher, it's just there. He chats to Alex as they eat, trying to wring some form of conversation out of the teenager. He's only partially successful, because even when he raises things he knows Alex's interested in, he only gets sentence long answers.

Alex doesn't dream that night, luckily. He wakes up in the morning feeling hollow, lethargic still, but at the very least well rested. He goes down to the kitchen, greets Danna and makes them both some coffee, as usual. Mr. Elliot comes down a minute or so later, brushes his hand across Alex's shoulder. This time, Alex does his best not to flinch. Danna's clever, watchful as a hawk, and as much as he hates Mr. Elliot, he doesn't want anyone to be wise to what's going on with him. He'd rather this whole business end quickly and painlessly. Well, as painfully as it can end, damage has already been done.

School that day is better. He sits with Malik at lunch, thinks he's getting closer to him. The boy hasn't said anything about seeing his scars, nor has he treated Alex any differently since the incident. Alex actually finds himself laughing and joking around when he's with him.

He only hopes the placement Knox finds him is near enough to this school that he doesn't have to change. He's been to so many middle schools around New York, they all kind of blend into each other. All dirty gyms, battered textbooks one a pair, graffiti-ed desks and boys with tough fists. So, if he's even remotely happy somewhere, he'll do his damnedest to stay there.

After school, he's tempted to back to that phone box an call Knox. He wants to ask if he's found a home for him, when he can move out. But he only called yesterday, he has a feeling Knox will be very short with him if he disturbs him again. Besides, nothing's happened with Mr. Elliot he needs to tell him about.

So he goes home, does his homework and cleans his room. Mr. Elliot comes home at his usual time, greets him in the hallway and then starts on dinner. Alex reads until it's time to eat. Mr. Elliot's a good cook, Alex will grudgingly give him that. The food's good, it lacks the homely warmth of Katherine's soups or the spice and flavour of his mother's arroz con grandules, but it's definitely not the inedible stuff he'd be given at Mrs. Newson's.

"You've finished your homework, haven't you?"

Alex nods, twirls some of the tagliatelle around his fork and takes a sip of water.

"There's a new film on Amazon Prime, I thought we could watch it. It's by some French director, I thought you'd like it."

Alex hesitates, sets down his fork, feeling suddenly a little nauseous. He's now uncomfortably aware of the hand on his knee, it had moved there almost as soon as he'd sat down. He'd registered it at first, but now he' sort of become numb to all of this man's touches.

"I'm sort of tired. I mean... If the film's two hours..."

Mr. Elliot shakes his head, takes a bite of his pasta.

"It's about an hour and a half. Anyway," he checks his Rolex watch, "It's not even seven yet."

Alex's doesn't speak for a few moments, pushes some pasta around his plate.

"I was gonna finish my book..."

"Ah, you'll have plenty of time to read it, you'll enjoy the film. Anyway," he smiles over the rim of his glass,"you've finished all your homework."

Alex nods slowly, his appetite suddenly depleted. He doesn't have a way out of watching this film. Maybe all Mr. Elliot wants is to watch this, maybe it will be alright. Even so, the idea of it makes his stomach dangerously close to emptying itself of his dinner.

"I suppose, yeah."

Mr. Elliot smiles, picks up his empty plate and rinses it off at the sink. Alex picks up his own, half-full plate and sets it down by the sink.

"I'll bring it in for lunch tomorrow," he assures his foster father. Just because, even though he's growing to detest this man, he hates wasting food as much. He puts the remaining pasta into a tupperware box and puts it in the fridge.

Alex sits on the sofa, almost stiffly, Mr. Elliot much more languidly, casually beside him a moment later. The film starts, it's in French but with subtitles.

"Do you speak any other languages?"

Alex can't help but be curious.

"Yeah, Italian. But not French, I'm not trilingual like you. Really, it's impressive, three at your age."

Alex shrugs, turns his attention back to the screen, where the opening credits are just ending.

It's about forty-five minutes into the film when Mr. Elliot's hand rests on his knee. Alex starts slightly, looks over to his foster father. The man's staring resolutely at the screen, he doesn't even turn to look at Alex.

Alex gulps, turns back to the screen, bites down hard on his lip. Mr. Elliot's hand does what it usually does over the next ten minutes; it moves higher, apologetically. Alex winces when it stops right between his legs, pressing down a little.

He shifts away from the touch, but he doesn't have much space to move into, the arm of the sofa is only a few inches from his side. His stomach is in that floating state you feel going up in an elevator, except that this isn't going away. It's horrible, he feels like he's going to be sick.

Mr. Elliot moves to be closer beside him and Alex can't concentrate on what's happening on screen. Frankly, he isn't even trying. Somehow, the words being said barely reach him, they're warped, like he's hearing them from underwater.

His thoughts are only on the man beside him, they flash through solutions: Moving away, pushing him off, standing up... Then, he remembers what Knox advised him. To tell him to stop, as clearly as he could. He turns his head to his foster father, his voice comes out a little choked.

"Stop it."

Mr. Elliot doesn't, he acts like he hasn't even heard him, even though Alex is sure he had. He spoke clearly, loudly, Mr. Elliot knows exactly what he's doing. Alex feels his throat close in panic and he tries to move back, but Mr. Elliot's other hand grabs his waist.

"Let me go."

He knows he sounds pathetic, his voice is small and breathy, he can barely inhale and exhale. His foster father doesn't seem to hear him, he's so close now, If Alex were to lean forward an inch, they'd be nose to nose.

The film is still playing, but neither of them are watching. Alexander can hear an argument on screen, je te faisais confiance! Tu me faisais mal!

Alex is pressed against the sofa as Mr. Elliot leans over him. He's breathing the word stop over and over, but he's not moving, he can't, he's frozen.

Alex's skin is red raw under the burning spray. The insides of his elbows, his neck and his ankles are dotted with pinpricks of blood from where the loofah's removed layer upon layer of his skin. The clothes on the bathroom floor are slightly damp from all the steam in the shower room, they smell like the lavender soap he's used and vomit from when he threw up into the toilet ten minutes ago.

He closes his eyes, tilts his face upwards into the spray and feels a shiver run through him, despite the heat of the water. He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to take several long, deep breaths. He still wants to clean himself, scrub harder at his skin, but he already stings all over and he's long since washed away any actual, lingering traces of what happened from his skin.

He steps out of the shower and dresses with shaking hands then gets into bed gingerly, wincing at the brush of fabric over his sensitive skin. He feels disconnected from his brain, none of what's happened is sinking in. His bed sheets are cold, he shivers beneath them, pushing some damp hair from his face, out from under his cheek. Alex curls up, draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face between them, sobs racking his body, but no tears falling down his face.

He falls asleep just over an hour later, after eventual exhaustion overcomes his anxiety and horrible nausea. He's wrecked, tried, wrung out, ready for nothing but hours upon hours of sleep. And what does come is sleep so undisturbed, that thankfully, he doesn't even dream.

He wakes up to someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. His eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright, pushing himself backwards from Mr. Elliot instantly.

"Hey, Alex, school, remember?"

He sits stock still in his bed, eyes huge with terror, his heart hammers against the inside of his ribcage and the only things rushing through his tired mind are memories from the previous evening. The man watches him kindly, as though what transpired had been a dream on Alex's part. Alex wishes it were.

But there's no way it could have been a dream, not when he looks down at his throat, sees the dark pink splotches imprinted there. Not when he sees Mr. Elliot staring at them too. No, all of that really, really happened.

"Get dressed, okay, I'll run you to school."

Mr. Elliot smiles, he'd already dressed, and turns to walk back out of the room. Alex feels his eyes prick with tears and he holds his face in his hands, trying to take deep breaths. He needs to get dressed, he's going to be late to school. But simultaneously, the idea of pushing through five, hour-long classes appeals to him almost as little as spending the day here with Mr. Elliot.

He gets up with a supreme effort and reaches for some clothes. The things he wore yesterday lie discarded by his dresser. His chest seizes up as he looks at them, remembers hands at the waistband of those very jeans and the hem of that very shirt. He kicks them roughly away from the dresser, takes a steadying breath and rummages for some older clothes, ones Mr. Elliot didn't buy him, more beaten up ones.

He dresses slowly, wincing at the sensitivity of his skin and the stiffness of his limbs caused by his curled up, awkward sleeping position. He doesn't eat breakfast, instead drinks a mug of coffee silently at the kitchen table. Mr. Elliot drives him to school and when his hand reaches out to touch Alex's thigh, the teenager flinches hard and pushes himself against the door of the car, as far away from the man as possible. For whatever reason, Mr. Elliot doesn't ignore him this time. His hand moves back to the gear and they drive in silence for the rest of the journey. Maybe he's willing to give Alex some time, after what happened last night. How kind of him.

School is hell. Everyone's so loud and his entire body aches. His head hurts from all the noise and his own throbbing exhaustion. He has Spanish class before lunch, they watch a film. He falls asleep on his desk and gets called out in front of everyone for it. His teacher is so clearly disappointed in him. Normally Alex is her best student, now he's not even bothering to quietly watch a film.

Alex doesn't sit with Malik at lunch, he walks straight by him with his apple and bottle of water. He ignores the slight hurt on his friend's face, knows it would be replaced by disgust if he knew. If he knew.

He eats outside instead, away from the main school building, behind the gym. No one really comes back here, so he should be left alone. He can barely eat. The water he can force down, but when he gets to his apple he feels as though he's choking the second he takes a bite. It's discarded, half-eaten into the bin after only a few minutes.

He pushes through math class at the end of the day and leaves the school as soon as homeroom ends.

He doesn't go back to the apartment, instead heads straight towards fifth avenue, to the rows of public phones there. He's calling Knox, because he thought he'd be able to survive five days, but now he doesn't think he'll be able to survive five minutes.

He pushes in one of the two quarters he has in his pocket and prays Knox will pick up quicker. If it takes three calls like last time, Alex won't have enough money to get through to him.

Luckily, his social worker picks up on the first try, his voice is business-like and professional, maybe he's having a better day than when Alex last called him.

"Hugh Knox?"

"It's Alex."

There's a long sigh on the other end and Alex slumps against the wall of the phone box, exhausted, terrified.

"Are you okay, did something happen?"

Alex bursts into tears. They're all bottled up inside him from last night. He hadn't cried when it'd happened, nor afterwards in the shower, nor today at school. He supposes all that repressing takes its toll, because now he can't stop the tears.

"Alex, I need you to talk to me, where are you? Are you hurt?"

He regains himself quickly, wipes the tears from his face with a rough, aggressive hand and takes a deep breath.

"I'm at a payphone on fifth. I'm- I'm not hurt."

He lowers his eyes, closes them and takes a few, long deep breaths.

"What happened, Alex? Did Mr. Elliot do something?"

He nods, then realises this isn't an answer, Mr. Knox can't see him.

"Yes."

"Alex, can you... can you specify? Did he... Did he force himself on you?"

Alex takes his face in his hands.

"Not... I-I don't know, sort of, oh God... Not really," he breaths out, his stomach drops at the thought, Mr. Knox doesn't seemed convinced by his indecisiveness.

"But I take it things went further than they have before?"

Alex chokes on another sob and nods, forcing out a yes and trying not to think of hands pulling down his jeans, tugging at his shirt.

"Knox, I need... I need to get out of this place."

"I understand, Alex. I'm looking into a place nearby the Elliots'. I called them earlier, they seem like a good family. I'll press them a little, see if I can get them to take you tomorrow."

Alex doesn't feel the well of happiness he might expect, he feels overwhelming relief, but happiness? Not quite. He can't, not with what happened yesterday so sharp in his mind.

"Tomorrow? Really?"

"I'll try, I'll call Mr. Elliot tonight and tell him you're being moved. I'll have to, just arriving at your door is unheard of."

Alex gulps, his stomach drops. How's Mr. Elliot going to react? What's going to happen if he realises Alex told on him?

"You can't tell him I asked you to move me. Please, he'll be angry."

"I don't plan on it, Alex. I'll tell him that... I'll say we found an error somewhere in the paperwork and you have to be moved on."

Alex wonders if Mr. Elliot will buy this, but hell, it doesn't matter. Alex is still being moved, maybe even tomorrow.

"Just... Please, try to get this family to agree. I-I'm scared, Knox."

"I will Alex, I'm sorry about this. I'm so sorry. I'll get you out soon."

Alex takes in another long, deep breath.

"Knox, what if he tries something tonight?"

There's silence on his social worker's end for a moment, Alex holds his breath.

"Do you think that's likely?"

"Yeah."

Alex isn't even going to bother denying this, because he knows he'd be lying if he did.

"I can... I might be able to put you up somewhere tonight, move you tomorrow morning?"

Alex's entire body sags with relief and he actually laughs at it all. This time a twinge of happiness does tug in his chest. It grows into a warm, safe feeling inside him and he smiles slightly.

"Knox, please, if you can do this I swear, I'll never complain again, not about anything."

His social worker's tone is gruff, even fond when he replies.

"I'll call Mr. Elliot now and pick you up at half six. I don't want you there any longer."

Alex nods, stuffs his hand into his coat pocket and closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

"Thanks Knox. You're not actually that shit of a social worker."

There's a faint laugh on the other end and the man speaks a final time.

"Pack a bag, Alex. I'll see you later."

"See you later."

He hangs up.

He packs his bag as soon as he gets back to the apartment, throws clothes and books and school things all into his duffel. It really is too small, he needs to find a bigger one somewhere. He leaves some things out, he will until the last minute because otherwise Mr. Elliot will know he was forewarned about leaving. He has to act as though the first he hears of this is when Mr. Elliot comes home and tells him.

Which happens about an hour later.

Alex hears the click of a key in the door and a loud slam emanate from down the hallway. There are loud footsteps across the floor of the entrance hall and through the quiet of the house, he hears Mr. Elliot's voice yell out to him, angrier than it's ever been.

"Alexander!"

He flinches. He's never called him by his full name. He's never yelled at him either, not once. He stands up from his bed, kicks his duffel bag into a corner and walks slowly out into the corridor.

Mr. Elliot stands in the hallway, he wears his usual expensive suit, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. The difference however, lies in his expression and eyes. They're furious, narrowed, dark. Alexander automatically takes a step backwards, his heart pounding, his head hurting with fear. Mr. Elliot's got the call, he knows.

"You brat, you fucking brat."

He storms over to him until they're stood only a few inches away from each other, Alex pressed up against the hallway wall. He calculates his options quickly. He could play dumb, he could be defensive or he could just agree, say yeah, of course he asked to be moved. His head spins with terror, his vision swims.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely know what I'm talking about, you little shit!"

He flinches away, expecting a hit, but doesn't get one. Mr. Elliot leers over him, so much taller and stronger than Alex.

"I'm in my office, working, and I get a call. It's your social worker, telling me some bullshit about paperwork, that you're being moved!"

He near yells this, prodding his finger into Alex's face, his chest heaving with rage.

"You called him, you told him!"

He's definitely yelling now, Alex closes his eyes, his entire body rigid with fear and anticipation. He's just waiting for the first slap or punch to land. Mr. Elliot doesn't strike him though, his fists are clenched and he's seething with rage but he hasn't reached out, not yet.

"When did you do it, huh? When?" He demands, his entire body caging Alex in, like he's a prison of flesh and bone and blood.

"I called him twice, today and the day before yesterday."

Alex doesn't see the point in denying this anymore. Knox will be here in under an hour, Mr. Elliot can't do anything to him. Nothing serious anyway, a slap or two, sure. But he can't hurt him.

The man seethes and Alex almost laughs, relief breaking out inside chest like thousands of little supernovas, he's getting out, Mr. Elliot can't touch him again.

"You creole shit, going behind my back, after everything I've done for you!"

He grabs Alexander's collar, tugging hard, making him stumble rightward, tripping over his ankle. Mr. Elliot lets his shirt go and he falls to the floor, elbow banging painfully against the wooden floorboards.

"What the hell did you expect me to do? Of course I fucking called him."

Alex scuffles quickly backwards on the floor, away from Mr. Elliot and stands up, his hands defensively reached up in front of him; protection.

"I shouldn't have expected any better from someone like you," the man snarls, "you take what I give you, act like a fucking tease and go behind my back all the while!"

Alex's vision goes white with fury. A tease? A fucking tease? He resists the urge to spit at him, knowing logically that the action will only increase the ideas Mr. Elliot has about 'people like him'.

"I shouldn't be surprised about you! You entitled bastard, you think you can buy me? I'd rather gouge out my own eyes than touch you again, don't fucking flatter yourself."

Alex hasn't ever spoken to someone like he is now. Not really. He's mouthed off plenty of foster parents before but he's never screamed at them, he's never been so outright insolent. Mr. Elliot advances on him, grabs his wrist in a tight grip and pulls him close, staring at him with hate-filled eyes.

"You're of no use to me anymore, I don't need pathetic foster kids like you sniffing around my house for money, for clothes, for food. I hope you've packed your bag."

He releases his wrist and steps back from him, as though disgusted by Alex. It makes him feel as dirty, as unclean as he's been telling himself he is.

"I'd rather be starving on the streets than live like you do, it makes me sick, how you behave," he retorts, desperate to have the last word.

Mr. Elliot turns away from him, walking back down the corridor purposefully, leaving Alex crumpled against the wall, still yelling.

"And by the way, Danna's fucking Dominican!"

Mr. Elliot just disappears into his bedroom.

He closes his eyes, pushes some hair from his face and takes five deep breaths. He holds his face in his hands, indulges in a minute or so of tears and collects himself eventually. He has things to get done.

He finishes packing his bag, tidies his room and washes his hands a few last times under the hottest water he can manage. He hears the front door open just as he's drying off his hands, knows it can't be Mr. Elliot answering Knox. It's not half six yet and anyway, he didn't hear the bell ring.

He walks out into the hallway to see Danna stood there, putting the spare key back in her pocket and reaching to her wrist for a hairband.

"Danna."

She looks up, smiles when she sees who it is and pulls him into a quick hug. He tries not to flinch.

"I'm leaving today, Danna."

She steps back and frowns, her hand falling from where it's tying her mass of dark curls.

"Leaving, why?"

He waves his hand, smiles sadly and shrugs.

"Life of a foster kid, I practically live out of a duffel bag."

He's evading the truth but if she notices, she doesn't say anything. Instead, they walk towards the kitchen together. Alex pulls a mug from the cupboard and makes her some coffee, like old times. He won't drink any himself though. He's done with this place and all it has to offer. They talk for a little while, but it's getting closer and closer to six thirty. Knox will ring the intercom any minute now and Alex will leave his place for good.

"Una cosa más, Danna. Deberías salir de aquí..."

One more thing Danna. You should get out of here...

She turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed. Alex gulps. She's shrewd, looks like she could see right through him.

"¿Qué quieres decir? ¿Qué pasó?"

What do you mean? What happened?

Alex shifts slightly on his feet and looks away, shrugs.

"No quieres trabajar para él."

You don't want to work for him.

Danna considers him for a moment. She looks very much like she'd like to ask him more, say something. But she doesn't. She closes her mouth, nods slightly and turns back to her cleaning. Alex knows he'll miss her, wishes he had some way to contact her after he leaves.

The doorbell rings ten minutes later. Alexander isn't sure whether he should get it or if Mr. Elliot will. He sticks his head out of the kitchen and peers cautiously into the hallway. He sees Mr. Elliot appear round the corner, at the far end of the hallway and walk towards the door.

Knox's eyes go straight to Alexander when the door's opened, they run a quick, furtive scan over his body for injuries, thankfully, finding none. Mr. Elliot greets him through half gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, Mr. Knox barely acknowledges him but a brief hello and a not-so-subtle look of disgust.

"Alex, do you have your stuff?"

He nods, runs quickly into his bedroom and grabs his duffel bag. He doesn't even bother to take a last look around, he just wants to get out of this place.

Mr. Knox and Mr. Elliot stand in tense, heavy silence when he returns, neither of them are looking at each other. The elephant in this room is about as big as Mr. Elliot's ego. He moves quickly to stand beside Mr. Knox, his eyes trained on Mr. Elliot's collar.

"I'll be in touch soon about the final paperwork, it shouldn't be more than a signature or two."

Mr. Elliot merely nods, tersely, and fixes Alexander with a last, piercing stare, it's as though he's trying to seal everything he's done to him, close it off in a way that isn't humiliating for him, only painful for Alex. It works.

The door closes and Mr. Knox walks Alex back through the apartment building and out to the car outside. They stand for a moment or two outside the car door, not speaking to each other, something akin to understanding passing between them. Alex takes a small intake of breath, then he steps forward and hugs Mr. Knox quickly, tightly before stepping back. The man smiles slightly, sadly and opens the car door for him to sit down.

Alex leans his head against the cold glass of the car window and closes his eyes, not even opening them as Mr. Knox starts the engine and begins to drive away. He feels tears slide down his face as they drive past exquisitely decorated apartment blocks and shiny, sleek office buildings. Mr. Knox turns around as they wait in traffic to look at him, but he doesn't say anything. He probably knows enough about teenagers to realise when they want to be left alone. Anyway, what could he possibly say to Alex to make any of this better?

Alex, well, Alex just wants a bed to sleep in, preferably for a long, long time. He's tired of having to fight tooth and nail, constantly, for survival. He just wants, for once, for his life to settle into, at the very least, a clear-cut, tranquil routine. He's tired of being the poor kid, he's tired of being the bruised kid, the abused kid, the weird kid. He wants to be able to make friends with his classmates without fear of him being moved far away from them, to a new school. He wants stability.

But right now, sleep will have to do.