We're nearing the end here, guys. I'm excited for your reactions.

TW: hospitals, psychiatric ward, panic attacks


It's the beeping that comes first.

Dim at the beginning, then louder and louder, burrowing its way into his brain, into the cozy cocoon that Alex had tucked himself away in.

Spots of color burst in his vision, though through the fog clouding his brain he knew that his eyes were closed. Streaks of yellow and red burst across the blackness, and he squeezed his eyes tighter. He wanted to go back to sleep, hide in the comforting blackness and the warm embrace of blankets.

The beeping was growing louder, and with it, the hum of machines around him. He slowly became aware of an IV leading into the top of his hand, a stinging sensation that he couldn't ignore. And sheets that scratched against his arms, the thin pillow his head rested on.

Memories came trickling in, slowly, then with the force of a dam breaking.

Pills. A bottle of vodka. Smashing John's razor. Laying on the floor, the ceiling spinning above him.

He was in the hospital.

And it didn't work.

He opened his eyes, blinking away the spots. The room was dim. Machines hummed around him. An oxygen cannula was laced across his nose.

I can't even fucking kill myself.

A small sob slipped out of his mouth. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, dripping down and soaking into the pillowcase.

I can't even fucking kill myself.

Someone shifted off to his left, and Alex turned his head. John was sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, tangled in a blanket, his head lolling back against his shoulder. He blinked, eyes fluttering, and slowly lifted his head, squinting in the darkness. His eyes roamed the room, darting over the heart monitor, the IV drip, and landing on Alex.

They widened immediately, and he sat up, the blanket falling off of his shoulder and puddling in his lap.

"Alex!"

John hit the call button on the side of the bed, and Alex heard a distant ding in the hallway.

The tears were coming faster now, shaking his body. John grasped his hand tightly like it was a lifeline, and the beeping grew faster as Alex sobbed. He tried to talk, to get words out, but his voice didn't want to work.

"Hey," John swiped a tear from his face, his own voice wobbly. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay."

The door opened and a nurse ducked her head into the room. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in the scene. "I'll get Dr. Mitchells."

Alex opened his mouth. "I'm- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry-" his voice was crackly, as though it hadn't been used in a long time, and John kept brushing away the tears that streamed from his eyes.

"I didn't- I didn't mean to-" he gasped around the words, and John just shook his head, his own tears welling up.

"It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart. It's gonna be okay."

A doctor pushed the door open, a clipboard in his hand. He took in the scene- sobbing Alex, equally distressed John, and a heart monitor that was going crazy.

As he stepped into the room, a flurry of nurses followed him, each moving around the pair of boys and checking monitors, detaching wires and tubes and adjusting the oxygen levels.

The doctor stayed at the end of the bed, face passive. Alex turned to him, eyes still glistening.

"Hello, Alexander. I'm Doctor Mitchells. Do you remember me?"

Slowly, Alex nodded. He clutched John's hand a little tighter.

Dr. Mitchells glanced at the chart in his hand. "Do you know what day it is?"

A shake.

Dr. Mitchells nodded. "Okay. Today is Sunday. You were brought in via ambulance on Friday night around six, admitted to the ICU around two in the morning after we were sure you stabilized. Do you remember anything?"

Another head shake.

"Okay. When you were admitted to the ER you had lost a lot of blood due to the lacerations on your forearms. Due to the number of narcotics mixed with alcohol you ingested, your system was compromised before we were able to pump your stomach. You stopped breathing around 6:04 pm, we brought you back almost immediately and were able to successfully flush your system with activated charcoal and a mix of drugs to counteract the serotonin and alcohol in your system."

He paused, taking in Alex's wide eyes and pale skin. "Is there anything else you need?" This was spoken in a gentler tone, one that had sympathy laced through it.

"When do I get to leave?" Alex's voice was scratchy and caught on the last half of his sentence.

"We're going to keep you here for a few more days, just to ensure that you're stable. After that, it's up to you whether or not to go into inpatient or move on with outpatient therapy."

Alex stared at his feet, the thin blanket tenting over them.

Inpatient.

I can't even fucking kill myself.

"Okay." His voice was barely a whisper.

"Any other questions?"

He silently shook his head.

Dr. Mitchells left. A nurse handed Alex a cup of water, helping him hold it while his hand shook. John watched, quiet, eyes following the IV that snaked around his hand, the bandages wrapped around his forearm.

When she had left, it was still. Soundless.

When John looked up, tears were streaming from Alex's eyes. His face was empty, hollow and worn, as though he had aged 20 years overnight.

"I'm going to call Hercules and Laf," John murmured, and he stood up, pushing the door open and stepping into the hallway.

Even through the shut door, he could hear the sobbing.


"He's awake."

"Oh, shit-" John could hear clattering in the background and Hercules and Lafayette scrambled to gather their stuff. "Okay, we'll be there in 10."

John ended the call. He watched the nurses that hurried past, on their way with cups of pills and bags of saline. Doctors walked at a brisk pace, clipboards in their hands, tight expressions on their faces.

When he finally went back into Alex's room, his eyes were closed. John sat back down in the chair, wrapped his hand around Alex's.

"I'm sorry." The words were whispered, almost lost in the low beeping coming from the heart monitor.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

John clutched his hand tighter, "No, no Alex, stop."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

"Stop."

Alex finally opened his eyes and turned his head, his face crumpled.

"I didn't mean..." The words were small and hung in the air, tiny and fragile as a butterfly's wings.

"I didn't want to end up like this," he finished. It hurt John more than if he had just let the sentence trail off, this admittance of defeat.

There was a knock on the door, and it swung open, Hercules peeking his head through. Behind him, John could see Laf and the Schuylers, all craning to see Alex.

"Hey." Alex's voice cracked, and Laf pushed past Hercules, a sob rising in his throat. John helped Alex sit up, propping a pillow behind his back and raising the bed up.

Lafayette lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Alex and burying his head in his shoulder.

"Laf, easy," John murmured, reaching around his arm and tucking the oxygen cannula that had been bumped back behind Alex's ears

The rest flooded in behind Laf, filling the room. Once he had let go, the rest replaced him, each taking their turns in touching Alex, reassuring themselves that he was alive, real.

Eliza, surprisingly, was the one who took it the hardest; holding onto Alex with a fierceness that shocked everyone. She cried silently, with sobs that racked her body and streaked mascara down her cheeks in thick black streams.

"I should have seen it, I'm so sorry-" Alex hushed her, shaking his head.

"It's not your fault." He lifted his eyes, looking at everyone. It's no one's fault. It's mine."

Eliza stepped back, drawing her cardigan around herself and wiping her hand across her face, further smearing the makeup.

"Why?"

The question came from Laf, heavy with an accent and wobbly.

Alex hung his head. He was silent for so long that John thought he would never speak.

Then,

"I hurt...everyone." The sentence was so quiet that they had to strain to hear it over the machines humming alongside the bed.

Alex looked up, eyes shining. He wouldn't meet their eyes, instead staring at the ceiling.

"I walk into people's lives, and I demolish them. I destroy myself, I destroy the ones around me. I break, and everyone pays the price, and I just keep going, I drag everyone down until I'm at rock bottom and all the people I love are there with me.

Because that's what people like me do. We hurt people. Because we're fucked up, and we don't know how to fix it."

He paused, breath shaky and uneven.

"I just wanted to stop hurting people."

"So you thought that killing yourself would help?!" John exploded, and Eliza reached her hand out, clutching his arm hard enough to hurt.

The tears welling in Alex's eyes finally welled over, spilling down and splashing onto his hands that clutched the sheets.

"I fucked up your life," he sobbed, "I wrecked you."

"Alexander, the only thing that I love more than my family is you," John cried. "I have no life without you in it, and if you think that I can live without you-" he broke off, covering his mouth. Laf put a hand on his shoulder, a rock to cling to in a whirling storm.

Alex had folded over, his head in his hands, crying so hard that sobs racked his entire body.

"I just wanted it to stop." The words were half-choked wails, gasping and broken.

A nurse opened the door, took one look at Alex, and began pushing people out.

"You have to leave," she said when Laf protested. "He's in a fragile state and you're causing distress. Out."

"I just wanted it to stop, I just wanted it to stop, I just wanted it to stop-"

John was the last one to be hauled out, eyes locked on Alex's crumpled body.

"I just wanted it to stop, I just wanted it to stop, I just wanted it to stop-"

The door was shut firmly, and John stared at it, willing it to open.

He sat on the floor, his back to the wall.


He stayed there for two hours, after the Schuylers had left, after Hercules had quietly told him that he and Laf were going back to the dorm to get some sleep.

When the doctor finally let him back in, John curled up on the chair, tucking his head against the armrest. He watched Alex sleep, his face passive. They'd given him something to knock him out, a mild sedative to calm him down.

He fell asleep after half an hour, and when he woke up, Alex was the one watching him.

"Hey," John croaked, blinking away the sleep crusting his eyes. "Hey, you're up."

Alex shrugged. "They knocked me out for a few hours. I don't like sedatives," he added, glancing at John, face impassive.

"I didn't mean to freak you out," John said after a moment. "I just...I don't understand, Alex. I don't."

"Didn't expect you too."

"So make me understand."

"I can't."

John closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"You remind me of him." Alex looked at him, eyes dark, all hollow cheekbones and pale skin. "Nick."

John didn't say anything.

"Broken family, the rampant homophobia, overly protective." Alex took a breath, held it. Ran his hand across his collarbone. John narrowed his eyes. He'd seen the gesture enough to know what it meant.

"I look at you...and I see him. I see him everywhere. He's a ghost. And I find myself doing the exact same thing to you that I did to him. Breaking someone down, tearing out walls and ripping through their life.

I can't do that again. I don't want to see you fall apart. I'm not strong enough."

Alex frowned at the ceiling, playing with his oxygen cannula.

"Do you know what RAD is?"

The conversation did a one-eighty so fast that it caught John by surprise. "What?"

"RAD. Reactive Attachment Disorder. It's in the majority of foster kids. Like, 97%. Doctor came in, talked about it. Symptoms matchup, ya know? Emotional detachment, lack of bonds between caregivers. Basically, kids learn to fend for themselves, they don't react in normal ways. They're focused on when they're going to get their next meal. Who they're going to have to manipulate to get what they need. It's all about survival."

He sighed through his nose. "Just another disorder to add to the fuck-up list."

"That's not you," John said quietly.

"It is."

"No, it's not." John grasped his hand. "Alex, you're not a disorder."

"I manipulated you. Ate your food, hung out with your friends, loved you until I decided to leave," Alex whispered.

"Do you love me?"

Alex's eyebrows furrowed. "Yes."

"Do you love Hercules? Laf? The Schuylers?"

"Yes."

"Then you weren't manipulating us. You were shoved through the cracks of a broken system, and you did what you thought was right, because it's the only way you know. I'm not going to pretend...why…you did this. But you cared so much about how you thought you were hurting people that you wanted it to stop. So you removed what you thought was the problem- you.

That's not manipulation, Alex. That's love. In a really screwed up way, but still love."

Alex wiped his eyes. "You should be a therapist."

John laughed, the sound loud over the humming of monitors. "I think I should see one first."

Alex clutched his hand tighter. "I'm sorry."

John rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand. "I'm sorry I didn't see it."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"It would have hurt me more if you had died."

They sat in silence for a while. A nurse came in, handed Alex a jello cup, and helped him sit up. John watched him eat it slowly, trying to ignore the gauze wrapped around his arm.

"When was the last time you slept?" This was mumbled around a mouthful of jello. John raised an eyebrow.

"I woke up and you were staring at me. How about then?"

Alex set down the empty cup, "No, I mean at home. When was the last time you slept."

John shrugged, "Haven't left here except to change."

"Yeah, that's not healthy. Those chairs- uncomfortable as hell. You need a bed."

"I'm fine right here," John said, and Alex shook his head, squinting at John.

"You're having nightmares." It wasn't a question.

"...No."

"Uh-huh." Alex pointed his spoon at John. "To quote Euphoria, you're playing pool with Minnesota Fats. I know nightmares when I see one. So talk."

"It's nothing." John picked at a cuticle, avoiding Alex's eyes.

"Jonathon."

"I don't like seeing your dead body when I sleep, okay?" John stared at the blanket on the floor.

"So you thought that barely sleeping would fix that?" Alex raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not the one in a hospital bed."

"No, but you will be if you keep doing that. So, sleep." Alex set his spoon down. "Look, call Laf or Herc to babysit me or whatever, and go home. I'm already in a hospital, what am I going to do?"

The joke fell flat, and Alex grimaced. "That came out badly. You know what I mean, though. Please, just get some sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

John called Hercules, who came in with a laptop and dropped it on Alex's lap. "I have class in a few hours, but until then, we're watching Project Runway. The new season came out and Laf won't watch it with me so I'm kidnapping you."

Alex's mouth quirked into a smile and he looked at John. "Please take a nap so that you can rescue me."

Herc opened his mouth in mock offense and slapped a hand across his chest. "I am injured, Alexander. Really, you've hurt me."

John rolled his eyes, hand on the door. "Bye!"

"Bye."


Laf came in after Hercules, carrying a stack of books and even more emotional baggage.

Alex watched him fiddle with his phone for a few minutes before speaking.

"You obviously want to ask me something, so please, just say it."

Laf looked up, eyes wide, as though he'd been caught in the act of sticking his hand in the cookie jar.

"Seriously Laf, just say it."

"Why do you cut?"

The question hadn't been the one he'd expected, and Alex was taken aback for a second.

"Um, I don't know how to explain it. I guess it's because...because there's so much stuff in my head that doesn't make sense. Pain, I guess. So I want to make it make sense, on the outside. Give my body a reason to hurt."

Laf nodded, eyes downcast.

"John had a drinking problem in high school," he said quietly out of nowhere, and Alex looked up. "What?"

Laf nodded, "Yeah. It got really bad around Junior year. Alcoholism runs in his family, you know."

Alex shook his head, "He never drank around me, not really."

Laf looked at him, something sparking in his eyes. "Yeah, he didn't. He stopped as soon as he started dating you."

"But in high school- it was really bad. He'd get blackout drunk every weekend. He just wanted to forget what it was like at home. He was in the wrong crowd, this group of kids that his boyfriend was in. They did a lot of drugs, drank all the time. It wasn't good.

He took his chemistry midterm drunk. Don't know how he didn't get expelled, he smelled like a bar. Herc and I pulled the plug when I woke up and he was on my doorstep, in a puddle of his vomit. Someone dropped him there. We didn't know if he had alcohol poisoning or not, but we made him sit down and promise not to drink anymore."

Lafayette snorted, laughing without humor. "The stories our cars could tell. The amount of puke we've scrubbed out of those seats." He shook his head.

Alex was quiet. "I didn't know."

"He didn't want you to. He wasn't proud of it, wanted to leave it behind."

Laf met his eyes. "John wanted to be a better person for you. He loves you. Now, you have to show him the same thing."

He left shortly after, leaving Alex in a dim room, alone with his thoughts.

I'm going to have to give this up.

All of it. The eating disorder, the cutting, the endless pits of depression he didn't try to pull himself out of.

He didn't know if he could do that. He'd been trapped in a cycle for so long he didn't know how to pull himself out. It was an addiction- not in the way like drugs, or alcohol, but in the way that he watched himself fall apart. There wasn't a need to escape it- he craved it. He was sick, his brain was sick, and the only way that he found to accept that was to destroy himself, so that his body was just as messed up as his mind. It was a justification, in a twisted, horrible way.

And he was going to have to give it up- for John, for his friends.

For himself.

"Well, fuck," Alex sighed into the empty room.


The knock at the door lifted Alex's head. He had been trying to read, but the words kept slipping off the page, twirling around the room and looking more like Chinese characters than a book on the industrial revolution. The nurses had said that would happen, that it was a side effect of the pills, that he shouldn't push himself too hard.

And now Washington stood in the doorway, looking like he's just come from a lecture, all dress pants and starched shirt.

Alex opened his mouth, but no words came out.

How do you talk to someone who you looked up to, who watched you crash and burn out?

"Can I come in?" The silence was broken, and Alex closed the book and set it aside.

"Um, yeah, sure." He drew the sheet up, tucking away his forearms under the thin blankets.

Washington settled into the chair that usually occupied John. He watched Alex for a minute before clasping his hands together and sighing.

"I am so sorry, Alexander."

Alex didn't know what to say. His brain had suddenly forgotten how to speak to an authority figure.

He swallowed and focused on a spot on the wall over Washington's shoulder. "It's okay."

"It's not. I should have reached out, I knew what was happening. It was my job, and I didn't follow through." Washington fidgeted, and the thought that Alex had never seen his professor fidget flitted through his mind.

"It's no one's fault. I...I think it was coming for a long time. And I didn't do what I needed to prevent it." Alex gave a half-hearted shrug, shoulders lifting the hospital gown.

"I know what it feels like, to be in that dark hole, where it seems like there's no light. After the crash, I didn't think that I would make it out. But I did. I see myself in you, Alexander. I see all the great things I know you can do." Washington stood up, hands in his pockets.

"I hope, that once you're back on campus, to see you in my class again. My office door is always open, no matter what time of day."

Alex nodded slowly, hand tracing the IV line feeding into his hand.

Washington walked to the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. He turned, meeting Alex's eyes.

"I'm going to tell you a secret. Dying is easy, Alexander. It's the living that's the hard part."

He left, closing the door behind him.


"Alex?"

John pushed on the door. It wouldn't open, impenetrable as though it were made of steel.

"Alex?"

He pushed against it with his shoulder. It didn't open, didn't even creak.

John backed up, until the back of his legs hit the desk. He took a running start, shoving against the door with all his might.

It banged open, ricocheting off of the edge of the bathtub and clanging back into John's face. He pushed it back and stopped dead in his tracks.

Alex lay on the floor, blood pooling around his body, eyes open and unseeing.

"No, no, no-" John collapsed next to him, wrapping his hands around Alex's wrists. No matter how hard he grasped them the blood kept coming, soaking into his shirt sleeves and pants.

"No, no, no-" John was crying. He sat back, hands coated in blood, staring at the mess he'd let go for so long.

John woke up screaming, thrashing in the blankets that wrapped around his legs.

Hercules flicked the light on and scrambled out of bed, kneeling next to John. "John, it's okay. It's okay, everyone's fine."

He hugged John as he cried, gesturing at Lafayette to get a glass of water. Laf almost tripped over John's ankles in his haste, catching himself and swearing in french.

"Alex, he-" John broke off, gasping.

"It's okay," Herc repeated, rubbing his hand up and down his back. "It's okay, it was just a dream."

"No, it wasn't," John's voice caught. "It was real."


"We're looking at about two weeks inpatient, more if needed. You'll be in contact with your therapist and your practitioner through our providers here, but we'll be taking your phone and any other devices to eliminate the possibility of a relapse."

Alex nodded, clutching John's hand tighter.

"Are you sure?" John's voice was quiet. Dark circles bagged under his eyes, the type that comes from trying to sleep and failing. Alex felt a pang of guilt- those were his fault. He'd seen them on himself, and now, looking at John, he knew what they were from.

He wanted to fix it. All of it. No more breakdowns, no more cutting.

He was done.

"I'm sure."

Dr. Mitchells flipped the papers back on his clipboard. "Great. I'll get the paperwork for voluntary inpatient, we'll get your visitors list sorted out. We'll be moving you up to psychiatric shortly."

"Okay," Alex said, and for once, his voice was strong. Determined.

John leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I'm proud of you, 'Lex."

Alex leaned against his chest, closing his eyes. "I love you."

"I know." For the first time in days, it seemed, John smiled.


In Alex's opinion, the most broken people are the most beautiful ones.

This was what he learned after two weeks during inpatient, other than getting his head screwed on right.

Angelina, the 19-year-old star ballerina who was in for anorexia, was the most caring. After Bella (12, self-harm, suicide attempt), cried for an hour after therapy, Angelina was the one who wrapped her in a blanket and sat next to her on the couch in the dayroom. The night that she'd had her feeding tube removed, she'd been allowed to use the railing in the hallway to stretch as a reward. Everyone gathered outside to watch as she lifted her leg high above her head, kneecap to her ribs, toes pointed in a delicate arch. Alex marveled at the way she carried herself, the delicate pirouette she'd executed before sitting back down in her wheelchair.

Derrick, Alex's roommate, had been on the streets since he was 14, and had been brought to the hospital after a drug overdose. During Arts time, he'd sat in the corner and worked wordlessly, finally shuffling over and handing Alex an origami Quinjet from the Avengers movies. It sat on Alex's nightstand for the rest of his stay, and when he left, he wrapped it carefully in a shirt so that it wouldn't get crushed in his suitcase.

Theodosia lived down the hall. She had been enrolled at King's College, but at the start of the second semester had taken a medical leave after her boyfriend Aaron had found her in cardiac arrest brought on by bulimia. She sat with Alex at mealtimes, each of them slowly picking at their food and talking about college. What they were going to do after they got out, when they graduated, what jobs they wanted.

"I think I want to go into music," she said, frowning at the ranch drizzled across her salad. "Like, music therapy. I think it would be good for me, you know? I played trumpet with the band before I got admitted here, and I really liked it."

Alex nodded, talking around his sandwich. "I want to write. I don't care for who, just write. It's easier to talk on paper than in person."

Theo poked him with her fork, "Maybe you'll write the next American Novel."

Alex snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

Mostly, he sat and watched. The people that moved around him, the way that they slowly started piecing their lives back together. It was...hard.

Hard in the way that saps the energy from your body, in the way that you give all the effort into healing.

Having all that turmoil in your head is hard enough- talking about it was harder.

To heal, you have to break. And Alex broke, in more ways than one. Having to talk through things, really talk through them, was the worst part. There was no bullshitting anyone in here.

Therapy left him crying in the hallway outside of the group room more than once. The day that he talked about Nick was the hardest, to say the least. He cried until Staff came and gently guided him to his room, where he curled up while Theo stood in the doorway, lip between her teeth.

And yet, in the end, he almost didn't want to leave. He was safe there, he felt whole, a feeling that he hadn't felt in years. The people in the ward were caring, gentle. On the outside, they were screw-ups, druggies, failed attempts to end a life.

To Alex, they were the most understanding, the person who would give you their only blanket during movie night and talked you through mealtimes when you wanted to freak out about the amount of mayo on your sandwich.

The most broken were the most beautiful.

John was waiting for him with a bouquet of flowers next to the nurse's station when he walked out, and Alex grinned at the sight. He wrapped his arms around him, holding the hug for a long time, took the flowers, and signed himself out.

Lafayette and Hercules were waiting in the car, smiling so hard that Alex thought he might go blind. He slid into the backseat, John next to him, and threaded his fingers through John's. They headed away from the hospital, up the street, and instead of turning right, they turned left.

Alex glanced over at John, "Why aren't we going to the college?"

John was fighting a smile. "I, uh...got us an apartment. It's not big, it's not fancy. But it's ours."

"John!"

John laughed. "It's not a big commute to classes, and I already set everything up. I couldn't stay in our dorm anymore...I just couldn't. So, I moved out, moved our stuff. It's nice. It's home, Alex."

Alex rolled his eyes, fighting a grin. "I hate you."

"Uh-huh."

John was right, it wasn't big, but it was roomier than their dorm room at King's. Old wood floors, queen size bed pushed against the wall, two desks and a table with Charlemagne's tank on it. Tony the betta had gotten an upgrade, and his new tank was perched on the counter next to Alex's coffee maker and stove.

John's Phantom poster hung on the wall above his desk, and a fern next to the large window was reaching out its leaves towards the watery winter sunlight cascading across the floor.

"I love it." The words were whispered as Alex set down his suitcase. He ran his hand across the plaid bedspread. "Seriously, I love it."

John shrugged, "Herc and Laf helped me decorate. It's not much." He shrugged, and Alex crossed the room and took John's hands in his. They kissed, and when Alex pulled away John's eyebrows crinkled, worry crossing his face. "Lex, what's wrong?"

Alex twisted his mouth. He was quiet as emotions passed across his face. "What if I fall apart again?"

John tightened his grip, running his thumb across his hand. "You won't. And if you do-" he kissed Alex's cheek, looking him in the eyes. "I'll be there to pick up the pieces."


I've waited 4 goddamn years to write that line. It has lived in my head rent-free for so long that finally getting it out gave me a rush that probably rivaled that of crack cocaine.

Also: the time Alex's heart stopped? 6:04 pm? That's 18:04 in military time.

*evil cackle*