Time was both ridiculously fast and obnoxiously slow. Less than a week ago, he was sitting in the same seat, laughing. Now, he just wanted to scream.

He always wanted to scream.

Douglas didn't know how to handle this; he had never been emotional, not really. He hadn't cried when his parents—his real parents—died. He hadn't cried when he lost his first dog, Ruffles, or when his second dog, Stonemason, went missing for a full month. He hadn't even cried when he fell down the stairs and broke his arm when he was thirteen or when they had to rebreak it after a bad self reset.

So why did he want to do just that? Cry and scream until...until what? He was lost. Completely, utterly, lost.

And he didn't know how to handle this; he had never been emotional, not really. But wasn't he? He was too emotional for his own good. He cried when his real parents died. He cried easily over stupid animals. He cried when all he broke was an arm. It was too much, too much, and he just needed to release the pressure so it wouldn't hurt anymore. And it was such an easy fix.

"Douglas!" A pair of warm hands wrapped around his—when did he get so cold?—and pulled. Something flew loose from his stiff fingers. They grasped at nothing, curling instinctively around the other person. They were speaking, loudly, shaking him hard enough to rattle his brain, but, as though he were underwater, all he heard was muffled sounds.

"What?" Douglas whispered, voice hoarse and drowned out by the buzzing in his head. He blinked slowly, lowering his eyes slightly to the voice, and he stared at the blurred mess of shapeless colors. A long, angled jaw with a wide chin came into focus, and he felt his breath hitch.

Of all the people to find him why the hell did it have to be Benjamin Moore?

Ben shook him once more before abruptly shoving him. Douglas tripped over his own two feet and stumbled, roughly, into a chair. He peered, anxiously, at the other boy. "Seriously? What the hell is wrong with you?!" Ben's eyes were wide and wildly searching the other's face, his fingers dug painfully into Douglas' tense shoulders.

"Hasn't this town suffered enough already? You want to add one more body to our funeral home?"

"I—I don't know," Douglas stuttered. And he realized he really didn't. There were too many verses to too many songs in his head, and he couldn't tell which one was him in all that mess.

Was it even his idea to come here?

It was his idea to come here.

Ben cursed under his breath and stepped away. "You're impossible," he said.

Douglas gripped the sides of the chair and waited, his heart tightening with each second. It was coming. It had to be. He raised his shoulders and clenched his jaw. Did he really think he wouldn't cry again? He won't, though, because he knew better; crying made things worse.

Did it? It did. Ben's mouth was moving, but he couldn't understand. His brow furrowed and he strained his ears to hear.

"—od, you need to go. We need to get you out of here." Ben was back to clutching at Douglas' arms but this time he was pulling instead of pushing.

"Why aren't you saying it? You always say it."

Ben froze, a flash of uncertainty crossed his face. He sputtered. "That was—That was years ago, shit. Why are you bringing this up now? I thought you forgave me."

Douglas looked away. "I can't remember," he whispered. Did he...?

No, he hadn't.

Yeah, that was right. He hadn't forgiven Ben. But he did.

He did. He did. He...

He did.

With a sudden burst of energy, he sprung forward and grabbed the front of Ben's shirt, his chest heaving and hands uncontrollably trembling. "I did! I know I did, but I—I didn't at the same time. Ben, please, help me! I don't know what's going on and I just—"

Ben cursed again and threw his stocky arms around Douglas' lanky frame, successfully cutting him off from the budging panic attack. Neither spoke, just stood, rocking smoothly left to right, with Douglas' forehead on the other's shoulder. It hurt his back and he'd most likely have a crick in his neck later but he felt his eyes close, his head growing lighter.

He was warm.

He was cold.

Breathing was getting easier, his heart didn't feel like it was going to explode anymore.

"You alright?"

Douglas nodded, and, with one last shuddering breath, stepped back. "Yeah," he said. "I don't know why I...I'm sorry."

Ben's answering smile was sad. "It's alright. Let's just get you out of here, okay?" He put a hand against Douglas' back and guided him towards the door. It was gentle, barely there, but the presence was enough to ground him, to remind him. He glanced around uneasily, his eyes catching a glint of light on the floor several feet from them. Quickly, he looked away from it, bile rising in his throat.

He was close to doing something terrible, and it wasn't him who was going to do it. Somehow the fact it wasn't really his choice upset him more. Absentmindedly, one of his hands drifted to his hoodie pocket where the torn motel card was; he had grabbed it without thought.

Where did he get it from again? He wasn't sure but he had a feeling he had to go there.

"Hey, do you know where the Yellow Brick Motel is?"

"I just caught you with a knife at your throat and the first thing you want to do is go to some shotty motel at the edge of town? Sure, why not. Nothing suspect there." Ben bit his lip before shaking his hand and scowling. "Nope. You're not going there alone."

Douglas sighed, thinking over his next words carefully. "I'll be—"

"What part of 'knife at your throat' are you not getting?"

He couldn't stop the second, stronger, sigh. Ben stepped away to open the door. Once it was open, creaking in all its rusted glory, he turned to face Douglas with an expected look. "Well?" he demanded. "Do I need to handcuff you to me or..."

"Alright, alright! You can come with," Douglas chuckled, rolling his eyes. He tried to forget the rising flush on his face. God, he must've looked like an idiot; a blushing, gangly idiot at that.

Ben stretched out an arm. "After you, musical boy." Despite his words, there was a tremor in his voice, an uneasiness. Paired with the flighty glances he was giving Douglas, there was no doubt what happened here wasn't about to go unspoken.

Douglas swallowed. That was a stupid wish. Of course, it wouldn't be forgotten—he was going to cut his own throat. Of course, Ben would be worried. Of course, he'd want to make sure there wouldn't be any more attempts. Of course, he wouldn't understand the pressure in the back of his head or the voice that sounded so familiar. And, of course, it wasn't anything else. That well had dried out long ago and left a desert.

He shuffled past Ben with tightly crossed arms and a heavy heart, swiping at his ear with one shoulder.