A/N: Thank you for the comments once again! I know these are some dark times for our Cloud, but we might get some reprieve this chapter! Thanks for sticking around.

Chapter Thirty: Judas in Plain Sight

The world is a vampire, sent to drain

Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames

And what do I get, for my pain?

Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

Even though I know-I suppose I'll show

All my cool and cold-like old job

Sleep refused to claim me. And I found myself staring at the white bottle again as it made promises under fluorescent lights. I know if I take these, I'm going to be a zombie in the morning. I know if I don't, I'm going to be a zombie anyway. Double edge sword and no viable outcome. The thought of preying on my mother's guilt, like I've done in the past, slithers into my head like a rattlesnake. The fading bruises on my face add an extra layer of concern; she might actually buy I need a break from school. But she discussed her meeting with an advisor at The College of Staten Island to finish up the last bit of her credits for an Associates Degree she never received; and then how she was already planning on going for her B.A in Psychology or Counseling. And there's no way she's leaving me alone in the house. She already shot me looks throughout the night, right up until I shut my door and turned out the light. I could hear her lingering outside, ear pressed, wondering if she should come in and make me talk.

And if she refuses to let me stay alone, she'll either cancel all her appointments or drag me along to them. And neither one of those options sounds good.

I negotiate two pills. Enough to make me sleep; hopefully not enough to welcome the sleep paralysis demon into my thoughts. I crash onto the bed with my eyes glued to the wall. The Slipknot and Hellraiser posters frame the curtained window. I can hear the wind clawing through the weeping willow which rests directly outside. It's long bare branches scrape against the glass giving off troubling sounds that just barely reach conscious ears. It's unsettling. But familiar. And it adds to the weight I feel when I bring the comforter over my head. Pinch my eyes and hope for sleep.

And this time I think about the last time I felt this worn was more recent than I'd like to admit. The first weekend my mom left, and I had pushed an unbothered aura throughout the week started to chip and crumble by the weekend. And I wasn't exactly sure why I felt so vacant. The center of my body opened, exposed, like the wind could just pass through me and I could feel the chill like skeleton fingers grazing against my insides. And all I wanted to do was melt into the fabric of this bed and cease to exist.

Until he had shown up, unannounced. He knew where we hid the spare key under a fake rock in the front of the house. He walked in as if he lived here. Traversed the nearly empty house. And if I concentrate hard enough, I can even hear him now ascending the staircase. When he found me, laying under the covers in the middle of the afternoon, he didn't say a word. He laid on his side of my bed, the spot closest to the window. And I watched as his fingers gripped the comfortable and pulled it down. The sun was bleeding through the window. The curtain opened, closed when I decided to wallow, but Reno had other plans. The rays blinded me for a moment, eyes pinched shut. All I could do was feel. His hand running along my face, into my hair, where it stayed.

What's up, pretty boy?

And I knew I didn't look pretty. There was no way. I had been in between strangling tears from my eyes. Rimmed with scarlet and veins like webs around the whites from lack of sleep. My skin had it out for me. Blotches of acne from binge drinking the night before after he left. Alone. My hair greasy and wrecked from tossing in the bed all night and then laying still in the morning. And I was mortified he was seeing me like this, that I tried to scoot under the covers again to hide my face. But instead he removed his hand from my hair and wrapped his arm around me, tight, so I couldn't move. He laid next to me- and he smelled clean, like he had just gotten out of the shower- and he ran his long fingers up and down my spine.

It just be like this sometimes? He asked and I nodded against his chest.

You should go, I had warned, I'm not very much fun to be with right now.

A small laugh, pinched with sympathy, rumbled along his body. But he didn't move or leave. Not even when I fell back into a dreamless sleep, enjoying the warmth his body provided. At some point, he leaned up against me, his breath against my ear. No place else I'd rather be.

I jump up. My eyes fly open and I'm met with the cold darkness of four am. The light from street lamps attempt to push through the black curtain. I blink a few times, to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I swear I just heard him. I still smell his scent on the sheets- Old Spice and Irish Spring soap- but the spot remains empty. It was a memory leaking into my dreams. For no other purpose than just to torture me. Or comfort me. Or remind me that there is someone in this world who would be so willing to lay in bed all day on a Saturday because their boyfriend can't find the strength to move his body. How could that have been a month ago? Felt like yesterday.

I fall back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. I recall that day; how not only he stayed with me, but when the sun began to set, he started making moves to get me out of bed. He played Ocarina of Time entirely too loud, and kept asking me questions.

How do I get the sword?

How do I find the Castle?

Who's this bitch ass green fuck?

Until I had to sit up and act like a living gamer guide. And I remember how it felt to rest against his back. My head on his shoulder. Mumbling strategy in his ear. Until he gave up on his act- revealed he actually beat this game when he was ten- and turned to capture my lips with his.

I still taste him. Tobacco and licorice. Even though it's been days.

And I wonder how long it takes to get over someone; especially when you can't imagine a life without them. That terrible feeling returns, and I hide underneath the covers hoping my mind could turn off long enough to get some real sleep. But it's not in the cards. I continue to drift in the black ocean of lucid sleep. And the veil between alive and dead continues to thin.

He never leaves my thoughts. Not entirely. I think of the five stages of grief and how the red flower in my story died before acceptance. But isn't death a type of acceptance? I feel poison in my stomach swirl at the thought. I try to acknowledge which stage I'm in as I move through the day like the zombie I am.

I'm in the shower when I realized we never formally broke up. Midway through washing my hair when I paused. Maybe never talk to me again could be a break up. But I never said: hey we're broken up. How easy I slung those words at him before the actual event. Maybe denial was believing we could continue this charade. And bargaining was the mutual begging to stay in each other's lives even when the writing was on the wall. And anger was when it all came crashing down and I screamed in his face until my throat felt like raw, bleeding, meat.

So this is depression; I consider. Washing the soap from my hair.

This is depression and it hurts way too fucking much. I'm in physical pain. My bones crack with every movement. And my muscles strain just to keep my body upright. I feel the nerves burn and fray as I go through the motions of my morning ritual.

And I go back to a month ago. After he had kissed me, he looked at me briefly like that simple action should have been enough to put me all back together. It didn't, but I felt compelled to force it if only for his benefit. And everything hurt in much the same way, except he shouldered some of my weight. He had gotten into the shower with me, at my muted request. And helped me wash away the stale alcohol through bitter kisses up against the cold tile. Taking my face in his hands and raking his fingers along the blemishes on my skin, but tangling his fingers with my hair. And despite being naked underneath cascading water, there was nothing sexual about his actions. His eyes bore down on me, scanning the colors of my iris' as if looking for me in the murky blues. And I could see the wheels in his brain turn as he tried to solve the problem standing before him in the guise of his boyfriend.

Later, he leaned against my dresser, wearing only his black jeans and no shirt. As I stared at my open draw of black band shirts trying to figure out who I wanted to be that day. My eyes couldn't focus on the task, when I had him next to me, looking like a porcelain statue that an artist would have spent decades crafting. And I couldn't help running my eyes along his body. Arms crossed over his chest which accentuated his muscles. He stared at the wall opposite of him, eyebrows dropped, deep in a well of thoughts. My gaze falls to the scars on his body. The three faded brown brands that walk up his torso like a ladder.

What does it feel like? He had asked and I jumped because I felt his words penetrate my brain. Exactly what I meant to ask him. He didn't look at me, still analyzing the cracks in the wall in front of him. Depression, I mean, what does it feel like for you?

I pondered the question, No one's asked me that before.

Yeah, well, it's a pretty rude question to ask? Then he brought his eyes to me and I watched him analyze my body as I just did to him. And, thinking back, I wonder if he was looking for scars as well. No real easy way to ask right?

Guess not. It's not really discussed in high society, I noted with mocking sarcasm, and he chuckles. Or low, I suppose. Or at all, I recalled considering. No one, except my therapist and maybe Cid, asked me why I attempted it in the first place. And I can no longer remember the bullshit answer I fed her to get her off my back and sign off on a prescription I could monetize. Even then, though, did she ever ask how it felt before?

It feels like I'm drifting in the center of the ocean, with only my head above water, and there's no lights, or land. Just me, and the open sea, and my legs treading enough water to keep me from sinking. Sometimes I can kick all day. Other times...it hurts. My legs are tired. My eyes are heavy. Sometimes...I think it'll just be easier to slip under the water and not come up.

My lips vibrated when the words tumbled over them. The image I had never vocalized, but one I lived with for years. He had reached over and pulled me so I was between his legs. He kept me there with long arms around my body and I could see the worriment etched in his blues as he looked at me. I noticed the realization flash across his face- when he had asked me if I was happy and I lied. My eyes fell to where our bodies met; I felt creeping shame crawl my spine. But immediately replaced with his nails against my skin.

What can I do to keep you from slipping?

A pained laugh forced itself through my teeth. No ones ever asked me that either. But I shook my head, Not your responsibility.

Hm, he mused and shifted his body so he was standing over me. I'd like to renegotiate that then.

I rolled my eyes at him, and firmly placed my hands on his arms to try to untangle myself from his grasp. Negotiations on the terms of this relationship concluded October 31, 2004. And this one isn't up for discussion.

He made a noise in his throat- a cross between a laugh and a growl- that rumbled through his chest pressed against mine. And before I could unhook his arms from my body, he pulled me into a tight hug that came out of nowhere and I hesitated for a moment. Reno wasn't a hugger. Infact, the last time he hugged me like that was the morning I came out to him. And while he enjoyed the physical attention I showered on him daily, hugging was not his style. A level of intimacy, I think, he struggled with. So, when the initial shock wore off, I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my hands in his mess of red hair. And somehow, he pulled me impossibly close. Like he was trying to meld our bodies together.

Against my ear he whispered, I don't go around tellin' people I love them. That isn't just a word to me, and this isn't just a high school relationship; this is a partnership. And I don't like that something is going on and I can't see it. I love you and I don't want to lose you. So I'm trying to figure out how to help. He pulled away so he could scan my face. So I just wanna know what I can do when you get too tired to keep swimmin'?

If he had any doubt about his words, he didn't give it away. I envied the confidence. How assured he could handle my own shit on top of his own. And maybe back then, he believed he could shoulder my pain. And I wanted to hold on to that. Because I was getting tired of doing this on my own. I spent a few seconds toiling his words through my head. And I did something, that in hindsight was maybe wrong, but in the moment. In the moment it felt right.

I don't...really feel like doing much of anything when I'm like this. Thinking or anything. I cringed at how soft my voice felt in my throat. How different it was from the graveled assuredness from Reno. Could you just call the shots for now? If it were up to me, I'd just lay in bed for the rest of the night and drown. Maybe I need to turn my brain off for a minute. You know?

He nodded, but the smile that tugged at his lips was drenched with concern. Maybe even a bit of hesitation. That much power. I was willing to relinquish to relieve me of the burden of living. He kissed me on the forehead to seal the deal. Gave me the rundown of the night: fast food, and blunts in his car while we listen to music. Then back home- home- to watch Saw which he never seen.

And I remembered how tightly I wrapped my arms around his waist while we laid in my bed, watching the movie. I never felt so full. So elevated. And a smile pulled along my face everytime his body rocked from his laughter at the torture porn on the screen. I told him I wanted this forever. And he agreed, this time, with zero hesitation.

Fuck.

I curse to myself. As I stand in front of my mirror, my hands gripping the sink as I try to remain upright. I took those pills at least six hours ago, but my mind weighed heavy from the fog. And I swear my legs trembled from holding up this meatsuit. I pinch my eyes shut and try to push those images of Reno out of my brain. I don't want to relive the good moments. I don't want to remember how easy it was to constantly give up any control or say because I felt I could trust him with that power. He would never abuse that privilege.

I open my eyes and stare at the white sink. Where's anger? Where are the bad memories? The fights, the few of them we had. Why aren't they pushing to the forefront of my mind? Why am I replaying those shared moments where he meant everything to me? It's devastating. Mocking even. Because right now, in this moment of self-reflection, staring at the open drain, I want to call him. And only him. And ask him to come over and call the shots so I can make it another day at school.

And the sad truth, he would. Without even a second thought.

Which...makes me think: who really had the power in this relationship?

The knock on my door breaks me from my thoughts; my mother telling me to hurry up so she can take me to school. I offer her a grunt as a response and she vanishes for the time being. I look at myself in the mirror. The bruises have begun to fade, but the scars remain somewhere underneath the flesh. And I acknowledge that I look older than sixteen suddenly. Like I've aged ten years in three days. I might have even grown for one final time- maybe dad was right about 5'11. But I am still hunched over like I can't force my bones to stand straight, and confident, and alert.

I don't feel like I'm in an ocean, as much as maybe this is a swamp. And it's heavy around my brittled body. No amount of growing, or aging, is going to keep me safe from what lies under the surface.

I open the top draw on the sink like I'm being pulled by a string. And on top, where I left it, Cid's straight razor. The one his dad gave him for his thirteenth birthday. Which has his initials engraved on the metal. I've laid waste to all my friendships. Hurt the people closest to me. The only healthy relationship I've experienced has completely fallen apart.

And I have felt this helpless before.

I keep counting the seconds in my head as my mom drives me to school. I had all but made the decision to use the razer until I saw her downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Her hair blown out in light brown waves that framed her slender face. She adorned a black pencil skirt and baby blue button up shirt tucked in. Like she was going to a business lunch and needed to impress her boss. When I emerged into the kitchen, she tilted her head to the side, the modest studs in her ear glimmering against the new morning light. She smiled when she saw me. I noticed she was wearing the necklace and bangle my dad got her for Christmas and my lips twitched at the sight of her.

"Dad's gonna throw a fit if he smells the smoke," I scolded.

"I won't tell if you won't." She winked.

She's overdressed for a meeting with a school advisor for continuing education. But I thought about how the effort that went into picking out the outfit, the simple makeup on her face, the time it took to wash and blow out her hair. This was more for her than for the school. Or maybe, and I only thought this when she walked over to me and tried fixing my own still wet hair, she did this for me. She spoke the whole ride about her plans for the day. She wanted to get a job, was thinking about calling Tifa's mom about working at the daycare and I cringed. I didn't know what Tifa told her mom, but I didn't want her to tell my mother anything before I had a chance to- if I decided to...I guess. But my mother was dedicated to getting her life back. The one alcohol had tried to rob her of. And I knew in that moment, if I tried anything- worse if I am successful this time- all of her effort would be for nothing. Weighed down by the guilt.

But I still took the razor with me. Tucked in my messenger bag next to the pack of cigarettes my benefactor left behind. A strange juxtaposition between life and death. I turn the images in my head as my mom pulls in front of the school.

"Need a ride home?" she inquires.

I shrug, "I'll let you know?"

"Okay," she forces a smile before running her manicured fingers through my hair forcing me to look at her. "Cloud, what's wrong?"

This is the perfect time to tell her. And even as the thought passes through my head, I feel sick. But I just shake my head and tell her. "Everything's fine."

She bites her lip and I can tell she doesn't believe me. "We are going to start family therapy," she begins, slowly, as if delivering bad news, "and I am thinking we should all get individual therapy as well."

I nod but I keep my mouth shut. She frowns as she continues, "Therapy really only works if you want help. We can't force you to get better. I really want this to be your choice, too."

"Okay," I mumble, "I mean, whatever helps us, right?"

She doesn't seem satisfied with that sentiment. And I wonder what she's trying to do. What she knows. Does she really have this sixth sense when it comes to me? Does she read minds all of a sudden now that alcohol hasn't clouded her mind? I tell her goodbye, and I'll call her around lunch if I need a ride home- play it off like I might go to the afternoon game, or Barret may give me a lift even though neither of those options exist.

I step out of the car, into the cold without a proper jacket. New York City weather continues to be a fickle bitch. And before I close the door my mom tells me to wait. I snap my eyes at her.

"Cloud, step one is admitting to yourself that the problem has become unmanageable," she pauses and I watch her eyes dart around my form, and I wonder if like Reno did a month ago, she's looking for scars. "But you have to seek out the help-"

"What makes you think something's wrong?" I bite, "I'm fine. If something was wrong, I'd tell you."

And she shakes her head, "No you wouldn't." My turn to frown. Bitter and angry at her sudden intrusion. "You and I are a lot more alike than I had hoped. And I don't want to pull a your father and give you an ultimatum but…" she trails off and then sighs loudly. "I just want to make sure we're giving you every opportunity to succeed. You've been looking down since I've gotten back and I just-"

"Mom. Stop it." I beg, "I'll do whatever it is you want me to do. Just drop it, please."

Her face changes. Contorts into disappointment and she turns towards the front of the car with a soft shake of her head. "We need to talk about something when you get home today. Okay?"

I grit my teeth, "Fine." And slam the door as hard as I could muster. I don't wait for her to pull away, I make my way into the school, too distraught to even smoke a cigarette. Because I could read her face like an open book. Like she did me. And she knows I am the one who has stolen her medication. And she knows that the problem I am facing goes well beyond typical teenage angst, or depression, or anxiety. That my problem could have legal repercussions if not put under control. I don't even know how to argue my stance. What words could I possibly feed her? Denials? Apologies? She's giving me the entire school day to either find an excuse or to come clean.

And I have no idea which route to choose.

I make it to my locker in record time. But lungs start to seize when I open the door- not even noticing if the graffiti from yesterday has been washed away and replaced with something new. I even consider telling the janitor to not bother erasing the vile words as they appear. Like a spider web, they'll just rebuild with more force. And fuck, they'll eventually get creative. I'm trying to catch my breath, steady my hands as I replace text books for what I need. Count seconds. Read the words on the books slowly. When I slam my hand into my bag, I feel the razor. And something toxic weasels into my thoughts. And I feel the tears brimming in my eyes.

"Cloud?"

I look to my right and Reeve Tuesti stands next to me, gripping his own taupe bag firm. I arch an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of one of Rufus' lap dogs. And he looks a cross between perplexed and riddled with nerves. His black hair grown out to nearly outside of school code. And his normally clean shaven face buds with sporadic black hair that could maybe be considered a beard. Dark circles that plague his dark eyes, intensifying his features. He looks like shit.

"Hey," he clears his throat, "How's it, uh, going?"

"Fucking swell, how do you think it's going?" I snap.

He nods, understanding the reason behind my attitude. Then he shifts, tries to stand up straight with false confidence. "So, I wanted to apologize…"

"For?" I can't think of a single thing his kid has done to me that would warrant an apology. And my defenses wise, putting to rest the panic that gripped me for a moment. A temporary fix.

Reeve drops his eyes and hesitates before curving his mouth around the words, "I'm Fireman O'toole..."

"Excuse me?" I enunciate every syllable with the sharpness of a new knife. And I see the beads of sweat form on his forehead. "Rufus said he is Fireman O'toole."

"Rufus was protecting me," he trembles.

And something in my snaps. I grab him by the collar of his blazer and slam him against the metal lockers, sending a shockwave of sound down the emptying hallway. My eyes are fire. And I see my reflection vibrate in his blacke iris'.

"Talk, now."

"Uh, I-I'm the original one. R-Rufus figured it out and didn't tell anyone," he stutters and I get closer to him in silent warning to talk about more recent events, "Then he told me to restore the page and post that picture of you with the title. He said if I didn't do it he'll tell everyone I'm the original Fireman O'Toole!" I press him against the locker with more force. "And the school! Cloud! I'm not like the rest of you, I can't buy my way back in if I get expelled, okay? My dad's a Public defender, he doesn't make that much! If I fuck up, it's all over."

The desperation in his voice. And the realization, that I've hung out with this kind plenty and times, never once did I ask him his story. I release him. Try to dissect what he just spewed. He's shaking like a leaf caught in a tornado, trying to hold on to a branch before being torn apart. I narrow my eyes, "You called yourself a faggot for an entire blog post once?" I ask unconvinced.

But he straightens out his blazer, trying to remain steadfast, but his face matches the color of our ties. "Everyone else was callin me one; I figured I'd just own it."

The sick feeling in my stomach returns. And he returns the pinch glare I offer him- I was one of those people. And now, I can reflect, that was overcompensating on my part. But doesn't change how wrong it was at the time. And while he does look apologetic face to face with his victim, maybe he owed a little bit of revenge.

I run my tongue along my teeth and try to think about what to do with this information. It doesn't bring comfort. Just adds to the list of people who watched this unfold and did nothing to stop it from happening. I try to think of bible verses about bystanders during evil events, but I'm all out of Religious allegory.

"Delete it," I say, "Delete the page and the picture."

His eyes widen, "I can't! I mean-" He swallows hard, "I want to, but Rufus will get Reno or Rude to kick my ass."

"And if you don't I'll fuck you up? So take your pick."

The way he huffs, I wonder if he believes I could or would beat the shit out of him. But honestly, the pain in my muscles subsided for a moment when I considered rocking his jaw with my fist. I also want to point out that despite being friends with Rufus, Reno and Rude ain't coming for Reeve. He's pathetic at best and nothing would come from it. Hell, Reno could probably just convince the kid to kick his own ass if he felt so motivated by whatever blackmail Rufus can present. Reeve, meanwhile, seems to consider my words as I throw particularly vile looks in his direction. And the longer he stands there in silence, the more the rage bubbles to the surface.

"Fine," he sighs, "I'll delete it."

"Now." I push.

"I can't now, the school has Myspace blocked."

"You expect me to believe you can't bypass that shit?" I counter. He acts like I don't remember the original. His pathetic posts during the school day; just to twist the knife of paranoia. He can easily delete the page without much of an effort. Even if it doesn't change anything. I know everyone's seen the photo. It's possible some sick fuck even saved it incase the site went down. But at least it won't be hanging there, in the web, for anyone else to stumble upon.

"Okay," Reeve nods, "I'll get rid of it now."

I slam my locker shut and take some pleasure in how he jumps from the intrusive sound. "By the way," I narrow my eyes at the smaller boy, "Why? Why bother telling me if Rufus already covered your ass?"

The raven-haired boy curls his lips inward without breaking eye contact. "Look, if we're being completely honest here: I think you're kind of an asshole. But no one deserves to be outed like this. The more I thought about it, the more I felt like shit." He folds his arms over his chest, "I knew it was wrong, even if you sold drugs to his sister. I mean, Rufus does the same thing all the time. The whole thing felt dirty. Wrong. Like I am part of some…" he scrunches his face in disgust, "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't concrete on anything. I keep thinking that you're going to do something to yourself, or...someone's going to realize it was me. Cid's already giving me second glances during Lacrosse practice. And I swear Aerith is following me." Then he whispers to himself, "She's scary." And I even allow a smile push through my own face.

"I just thought," he continues with a soft nod, "You deserved to at least know all the players in the game."

I grunt but pull my eyes away from his, back to my locker which has been cleared of the slur. "The players…"

"I'm sorry," and I can hear the tense regret in his words, "I don't expect you to forgive me or anything. But I really am sorry this happened to you…"

I offer him a stone look, before returning to the faded metal of my locker.

Something isn't sitting right- and I have been so concerned with the mounting issues piling up in my life.

I'm due for an avalanche.

Reeve bids me a strained goodbye before departing. But I roll his words through my head. Still too much to figure out from Saturday night, and I am no longer sure if I can believe Sephiroth's recollection of events. I think back to his excuse. He blacked out. Took too much K. But then he remembered me crying on my phone. He remembered driving us home. So how does he not remember a guy on top of me- and someone snapping pictures? There's no text exchange between Reno and I on my phone and I'm sure he deleted any damning evidence that would have his parents second guess him again. And I can't trust Sephiroth to give me the whole story.

Then there's only one more person I could confront, and I'm not sure if I have enough money to make him talk.

Genesis Rhapsodos spends sixth period leaning against his father's white 2004 Infiniti G35, toying with his phone- weather permitting. It's mid-forties, cold enough for me, who decided against a jacket and relying on the navy blazer for warmth, but Gen looks comfortable in his expensive leather jacket. Everyone knows the nefarious deals he partakes in out here. I'm sure even the school has a suspicion, but considering the amount of money his family "donates" to the Church on a yearly basis, I'm sure he could commit actual murder and get away with it. Thus, I'm not exactly excited to approach him- but I can't bring myself to even look at Reno's direction, especially with how conflicted my feelings have been- so Gen's my only option to fill in the blanks of my memory.

I approach him with forced boldness. But I'm sure he can smell my lack of conviction when I stand in front of him. His whole 6'3 form towering over me like a skyscraper and I curse my short stature in the face of a giant with an unconcerned expression on his blank face.

"I need to talk to you," I announce.

"I don't talk to children," he grumbles, "Unless you're buying shit."

"What you got?" I flash the hundred dollar bill quickly, placing my hand back in my pocket. He sighs and lifts his body off the trunk of the car, popping it open to examine his stash. I scan briefly, not really interested in the plethora of illegal substances, but I settle on an 8th of weed. However, he looks at me like that's small scale and not worth his time. "Fine, and three sticks."

He gathers my purchase in silence, and I lick my lips trying to will my mouth to move. "So, I wanted to ask you about Saturday-"

"Didn't you talk to Sephiroth?" he darts his eyes at me like two pointed guns, "Why you askin' me shit?"

"He doesn't remember…" My voice trails off when the smirk dances along his stone features, making him look more like a Batman villain than a teenage boy with too much freedom. "At least, that's what he says. Just wanted to know if you recalled me...with a guy or...whatever."

He rolls the baggie with three white pills in his hands, contemplating for a moment his answer. Considering if I'm worth the trouble. He's a senior, he's got sights set outside of Staten Island. I'm the equivalent of a cockroach that follows his friend around like an unwanted sibling. And while we've never exchanged blows, we never exchanged kind words. The feeling is mutual. No love loss here. And I'm expecting him to just overcharge me for my purchase and then tell me to fuck off.

"For the record," he starts, "I fucking can't stand your shit."

"You and the entire fucking school." I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, you're kind of a cunt," he stands up straight; dark eyes scanning my form like a machine. The pause thunders like a storm and I can't believe what I am bearing witness to, when I see Genesis features relax.

"Seph showed up with you and some junkie kid I've seen around at like 1am at my boys place. You were fucking done. I told him to take your fucked up ass home but he didn't want to listen." He narrows his eyes at me, his voice drops impossibly low- deep like the darkest parts of the ocean- and I have to assume he wants me to strain my ears. Really listen to his words. "You all did a bump of K- I tried talking you out of it but you wanted to spiral, so, fuck it." he shakes his head, "Waste. You couldn't even keep your head up. Then Seph started fucking with the junkie kid. He was begging for more drugs anything, so... Seph said if yous two made out and let him take pictures, he would give the kid whatever shit he wanted."

My vision spins. Nausea rises from the depths of my stomach. Nothing makes sense. It doesn't make sense. I close my eyes to steady the floor beneath me that tilts back and forth. And I swear I'm going to fall over the edge any second. "Uhm," I start, my mouth as dry as the desert, "Did...did he..uhm-"

"I'm going to stop you right there," he says sternly, "I have no idea what else they did to you. I saw the picture. That's the extent of what I know. I was in the other room getting my dick sucked by some bitch- couldn't give two shits what happened to you but…" Another pause. I open my eyes and I see a new emotion on his face, one that I never expect from someone like Genesis. Sympathy. "Everything over the clothes. My boy ain't gonna let two guys fuck in his apartment. That shit doesn't fly. He was already getting tight with Seph. Kicked you all out pretty soon after that."

From the way he pinches his lips shut, the conversation is over. "Well?" He flashes his hand holding the 8th and small baggy with three pills I didn't want. But I'm suddenly overwhelmed. Violated? Like someone infected me with a poison that started taking affect.

"How much?"

"Just give me the hundred," he responds listlessly.

"Come on, your shit's midrange," I try to argue, "seventy at best."

"Extra 30 for having to talk to you."

I roll my eyes, no use debating. We make the exchange and I shove my purchase with the rest of my poor decisions in my messenger bag. I don't even know where to begin with the information he provided; and I'm about to head back to the school to lament my life. When he calls back.

"Yo, don't fucking overdose on my shit," he barks. I arch an eyebrow at his outburst. "Not like I care about you or anything. It's bad for business if a client ODs."

"Wasn't plannin' on it…"

"Good," he looks at his phone for a split second, then back at me, "Also, for the record. I don't hate you cause you're gay- don't get that shit twisted. There's so many better reasons to hate you. Like being a cry baby bitch all through middle school and being the absolutely worst drug dealer I've ever met." He shrugs at my disorientated gaze. "You know." He removes his eyes from me again, and I'm left standing in the middle of the parking lot dazed.

Leave it to Genesis, senior drug dealer and misogynist, to be the most progressive in the school. He really didn't give a fuck, returning to his regular position on his car, arms over his chest, boredly checking his cell phone for any potential new conquest. Can't tell if I have grown a new, misplaced respect for the cold hearted boy or I'm just grasping for anyone to treat me like I'm actually a human. How pathetic, I ponder as I walk back into the school, that the kindest word I've received in the recent days comes from a douchebag who frequently bullied me during my high school career.

But the minute of euphoria dissipates. Back in the stone walls of the school with my questions having devastating answers. I know enough; after I fist fought my actual best friend over my childhood friend, I called the one villain in my life and allowed him to-

It sounds wrong to think-take advantage of my altered state. The sickness I feel overpowers everything else that surrounds me. From the crushing sad of no longer being with my boyfriend. To the self-reflecting disappointment that I crossed a line with multiple friends. The shame of stealing my mother's drugs, then buying some more because I'm in a cyclone and I can't crawl my way out.

This-I'm thankful for the blackout. So I can't remember stranger hands on my body. Lips on mine. I want to throw up and I wonder if this is what Aerith felt when I caught Sephiroth trying the same act on her. Filthy, like I've been crawling in mud and dirt.

I duck into the bathroom, but not to smoke.

In the silence of the cold afternoon, I look at myself in the mirror. A real good look.

Still bruised. Cut still on my lip from aggravating the wound from biting back all the screams that wish to escape my throat. Bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, wet now from revelations I can't even begin to process. This has to be rock bottom. I finally crash landed. Bones broken and my will to pick myself up lost somewhere in my faded mind.

The bottom is where you find the foundation to stand.

Now I have to decide; am I going to stand or sink.

Willful ignorance. I claim this virus plagues my parents, but maybe it's genetic. I should have known the kind of person Sephiroth has always been- not turned into. I don't know why it took me so long to remove the sunglasses and really see him. Especially since this isn't the first time. But I can't unpack all that , not when there's too much happening in the present- the past can wait.

Sephiroth can be found seventh period with the rest of his boys sitting at the bleachers, watching the junior girls run sprints around the track, like a bunch of wicked vultures. I'm missing gym for this; but find this encounter to be more important than staring at a dumbbell trying to find the strength in my muscles to lift even a measly twenty pounds. I walk past the fence that separates the field from the rest of the school; the chain links acting like a strobe light- making the movements of the silver haired boys look mechanical. Robotic. My stomach drops when I see Sephiroth in the center, leaning against the bleachers with a smirk on his chiseled face, as he eyes Scarlet like a potential kill.

I call him. Not knowing if he'll even answer, but I don't want to chance approaching him while he's surrounded by his minions. I watch as he pulls out his phone, his face contorts into a frown but he answers.

"You got some ball-"

"I know what you did to me," My words spring from my mouth like a bullet. He sits up straight and waits for me to continue. "Meet me behind the church, we need to talk." I hang up before he has a chance to argue. I pause in front of the fence for a few frantic beats of my heart. I can see the curves of his face move like a snake as he weighs his options. Once he rises, I make my way to the spot. My fingers tremble. Sweat forms along my hairline despite the cool air that freezes the beads before the fall.

What am I supposed to say? I realize I don't have a plan. He could easily deny everything. Then inquire who the snitch was- and like I'm going to sell out Genesis and risk another enemy.

Watch it Cloud, you're making more enemies than friends these days.

I hear Seph's heavy footsteps behind me. I swing around and he stands out against the red brick of the Church as he approaches me. His expression blank as he drags his eyes over me with complete disregard. I could be any other pathetic stack of nerves and bones. He tilts his head, pointed glare, with his arms over his chest- waiting for me to unhook my jaw that has suddenly chosen to lock in this moment.

I swallow the last bit of nerves. "I know what you-"

"You said that already," he hisses, "Try again."

I attempt to gather all seventy-one inches of my form to stand straight. "The picture. I know it was you who took it. I know you sent it to Reno. I know you texted Rufus. And I know you were the one egging on the junkie-"

Sephiroth unleashes a baleful laugh, "You think you know everything but you don't even know who was on top of you?"

A shudder passes through me, but he's derailing- and the Rufus and Reno comment were bluffs. I don't have confirmation he was at the other end of those texts. But the twinkle in his glowing hazel eyes tells me what I need to know. "The fuck gives a shit. You got him to make out with me, while I was blacked out, and then took pictures." I pause to stare directly into those two orbs that look like tiny planets spiraling in the blackness of space. "It was you. All of it. You were the one who outed me."

The click of his tongue sounds like a timer about to go off. Then he shrugs, as if this conversation, this revelation, could be the most tedious encounter of his life. "Whatever."

"No!" I bark back finding the deepness of my voice a chilling cold that shocks me. And Sephiroth arches a silver eyebrow at my sudden outburst. "Not whatever. Twelve years, bro. Twelve fucking years of being friends. And you let some fucked up kid abuse me? For what?"

"Alright, chill out, no one abused you, drama queen." He waves me off, "So, he kissed you a few times? You were into it."

"The hell I was," I gather as much force in my voice as possible, "I was practically unconscious!?"

Another slow shrug. His face never cracks. Everything, from the monotonous tone of his voice to his aloof stance further insults me. The weight of my words don't even seem to reach his mountainous heights. He truly, without a doubt, simply does not care. And that has got to be the most formidable rejection. The hours I spent caressing his ego, being his punching bag, offering him sanctuary in my house- at the risk of my own mental health. I threw away the most productive relationship I've been in for him. I shake my head; shock takes over all the other terrifying emotions that beat against my brain like a bass drum.

"Why?" I ask; pleading force dripping on the single word. My last attempt to find the friend I thought existed within his menacing form.

"Why?" he parrots back with a condescending tone. "Because I could."

And that's it. That simple.

How effortless. Even now, there's not even a flash of regret in his eyes. His lips flick upwards as he relishes the outcome of his game. And that's all this was; a game he played for his own amusement. Reno, Rufus, and I mere pawns. Pieces he could coil his hands around and snap. Like the action figures he laid waste to when I was five; just plastic he could rip apart when he became bored. Because he could.

And I have just made it so fucking easy for him.

"Though I'm kinda pissed," he leans against the wall of the church, bringing his eyes to the sky, "I wanted Rufus to out that bitch Reno, too; guess I'll have to find ano-"

My vision blurred. And I feel disconnected from my actions. But I recognize that when he uttered Reno's name with a pinch of salt I couldn't ignore, I curled my fist. And before he could finish his vile thought, that fist connected with his jaw and sent his head into the red brick wall with a fascinating jerk.

Pain doesn't shoot up my arm.

Satisfying tingles dancing along my bone, instead.

And my turn to smile when blood cascades from his head.

And before he can acknowledge the red liquid also flowing from his lip, I catch the other side of his pretty face with a left hook I didn't know existed until knuckles catch the point of his nose. Smashing it with a stumble back. His grunt sounds my guitar in drop D. Rumbles through my chest.

And this exhilaration that courses through my bloodstream feels both new and familiar. Like a dream I've revisited. And I relish the look. The shock. The shock that mirrors my turmoil. I finally surprised him. Flashes of agony well in his face; uncontrolled.

I think about how much I've wanted this- holy shit- better than any violence I could inflict upon myself. And I want to enjoy in the satisfaction of turning a threat he slung at me right back- and I can only say I was distracted by floating memories that boiled to the top- but I'm struck back.

I stumble when the trembling eruption explodes on my right cheek. And as I tumble to the floor I think, fuck. I need to stop letting people get me in the face. Sephiroth is one top of me- the smile gone replaced with a scowl drenched in red. He clocks me in the jaw again. And I choke on the blood, before gathering enough sense to return a pathetic clip to the side of his temple. He's stun for a minute. Long enough for me to knee him in the torso, right near that healing rib.

The sound he makes, like a kicked dog in the middle of a snarl. He rolls off me and I try to crawl away, my head swimming into a mess of colors. He manages to extend his long arm to snatch a fist full of hair. And the next thing, my face slams against the concrete. Skin splinters like the broken glass on Johnny's door. The rush of hot liquid running down my face like an untamed river. A high pitch echo splices through my ear like a gun going off too close for comfort. I see nothing by the blur of the sky spiraling as if I'm crashing.

Fucking move.

I hear a voice, my voice, scream. I try to steady my eyes enough to catch him crawling like a spider back up me. And I anticipate the blow; he screams through the pain to lift his arm-to crash down on me like a hammer. And for a second

I remember my birthday. When I caught him on top of my girlfriend. And I heard soft no's from her mouth while he pressed himself on top of her. And white-hot rage took over the vodka mind, and I jumped on his back and clawed my nails into his neck with enough force to drag him off her. And instead of backing down, he fought back. And the last thing I could remember before I went pitch black- his face, like a roadmap of jagged mountains and his fist slamming into my face, too drunk to block.

Not drunk now. I catch his fist in my hand and with all the force I have-despite my muscles weighing as heavy as metal and my bones as weak as plywood-I shove him off my bruised form. And end his assault with a swift kick to his stomach.

He clutches the wound. Sputtering slurs through broken breaths. I push myself up- the whole world moving like a topsy-turvy ride- and try to ride the wave of adrenaline that sparks through my body like firecrackers on the fourth of July. And through bloodied teeth

I start laughing.

A hysterical. Hyena.

Laugh. That breaks through the silence of the vacated Church yard like a clap electricity.

And I'm not sure what's funny about this situation. That I finally fought back inside of cowering in the corner? That the current tragedy to befall my life was started because a kid was bored one day at a party? The ridiculousness of the simple reality.

Maybe it's the adrenaline like a drug starting to wear off.

Or Maybe if I don't laugh, I'll cry and I'm done letting him be the source of my tears.

Boys don't cry

I chuckle again.

They punch walls, and shitty ex-boyfriends, and even shittier best friends.

Sephiroth stares back at me, still clutching his side, with a crazed look in his eyes. Like if he were any closer he would silence my laughter for good. The feeling when I see the red that dyes his pearly white teeth is more satisfying than sex. And I laugh even harder.

"Go ahead," I growl, "Go tell everyone how I kicked your ass."

His lips curl into an unsettling smirk, "Snitches get stitches, Cloud. I ain't a bitch."

Warped honor code- one we share. But part of me wants him to spread the word. Finally, I have him clutching his wounds and trembling. I beat him. And if the consequence is my expulsion from this God forsaken school, I'm not complaining. I'll go to New Dorp with Tifa- if she ever forgives me- and be able to walk through a school in clothes I'm comfortable in; not this straight jacket that hinders my expression. And no one will care if I'm the gay kid. And there's no religion to push down my throat in an effort to conform me. I can be free. Maybe. Finally free.

I'm living in a dream. I don't notice Seph lays on his back to breathe through his pain until his voice, dark and damning, snakes into my ears. "I'm going to hurt him."

I snap my eyes at him. His tone devoid of any emotion, I'm rendered silent.

"I'm going to hurt him real bad," he continues, "In front of you."

He plays the pronoun game, but I know who he's talking about. And I know the next words out of my mouth need to be carefully chosen. I can't tell if this is a blank threat- something he's saying to trigger me. The idea that he could hurt someone I care about. He's done it before right? I think back to Aerith. His lack of shame. His brewing hatred for those associated with me. There's a splash of hope- maybe these are ramblings from a brain bleed. Maybe if I just walk away, he'll forget. Forget about Reno.

But I grit my teeth.

Pick myself up through my joints protests. I can feel the blood running down my face, reopened wounds, staining my uniform. Sephiroth doesn't move; only strangled chuckles sputter from his lips. I glide towards him, standing over his broken form to scan for any semblance of sanity. He's deranged. The blood giving him a grimmjow smile. His eyes like a serpent; glowing.

"You like that twink sucking your dick, huh?" he coughs, "gonna be real hard when I break his jaw."

I twitch. The adrenaline starts to fade. Reality sets in. But I hold on to one more bit of deviance. I press my shoe on Sephiroth's shoulder. His eyes shake. Sparks of pain he tries to hide don't offer the same satisfaction. I scan his face as I recall the game he's played. The fights he's actually been in; few and drug fueled. His attacks on me were his only success. I should be concerned. But I'm not.

Reno has people around him who protect him. Rude, Tseng, even Rufus. And I know if push comes to shove. If Sephiroth tried anything…

I might actually kill him.

I release the pressure off his shoulder and he sighs in relief.

"Chill, Sephiroth," my own voice extinguished of any flame. Cold. "It's fucking high school, bro."

I leave him lying there on the concrete under the hot sun. His harsh breaths dying in the wind. I vacant the school grounds, my destination unknown. I can imagine the scene- a battered private school boy walking the streets of Staten Island with blood dripping from open wounds- could garner unwanted attention.

But I don't care.

I feel my entire self retracting. Preparing for the inevitable Tsunami wave to destroy me.