Heya! Sorry that last update took me a while, things are hectic right now. I've been a bit ill.
AlmaSwat: sorry I made you cry... thanks though, I guess. Those other two fanfiction s were just fun to write, especially the lams one. I actually enjoy historical writing much more than modern settings, but this particular story seems to have taken off so it's the one I focus most on.
Guest: haha, I guess you could read it like that. Well, I have to say I disagree. As someone who is currently in therapy, I find it really, really helpful. Obviously, different things work for different people, you can have treatment resistant conditions, but no one can really judge how someone will best improve. Besides, I know these characters, Alex could benefit so freaking much from being allowed to speak his mind and just... let go, I guess. On another note, are you lecturing Alex on his methods of self harm lol? He's not in a great state of mind right now.
Anyway, on with it I guess.
When I first wrote this I swore so much in it, I had to go back and take some of it out. It went a little overboard.
Yo, I may have slightly misused the word asceticism a while back, because Alexander isn't a fuck boy turned monk. Imma just roll with it though.
Trigger warnings: Mention of self harm, suicide, mentions of homophobia, mentions of abuse, hospitals.
John pushed a few dimes into the coin slot of the vending machine and watched as the bottle of water was pushed further and further towards the edge of the shelf until it clattered to the opening at the bottom.
He twisted open the cap on the bottle, hearing the plastic snap, and took a long drink, leaning against the cold, black metal of the machine beside him.
The waiting room was almost empty, save an off-duty nurse sat behind the desk a few metres away from the door they'd come through earlier. The parking lot outside was dark, lit only dimly by a lone street lamp and the red neon sign above the door, urgently screaming the words accident and emergency.
He walked through the automatic doors and stepped out into the frigid nighttime. He remembered loving automatic doors as a kid, he'd run up to them and watch them open, only to dart back and laugh as they closed again. A stupid game of cat and mouse his dad would always chastise him for playing.
The night was cold and John could see his breath curling upwards as steam when he exhaled, catching the red light so it looked like blood diffusing into water.
He sat on the wall of the lot and watched the cars rumble by, reduced to blurs of red rear lights and blazing headlamps. He pulled out his phone and opened his messages, tapping into his dad's contact.
He didn't call him, of course, but scrolled through their text messages. John hadn't sent one to him in just about a week, but to his surprise, his dad had texted him more than once since he'd left.
The first one was from the evening of their argument, his dad had texted him asking if he was coming home or not and whether he was ready to apologise for what he'd said. John rolled his eyes at this and scrolled to the next message, frowning slightly. The texts became less sternly disapproving thereafter, however.
His dad had been asking him where he was staying all week. He'd messaged John inquiring whether he was coming home while he was at work and if he was at Lafayette's house or not.
The most recent texts were from this morning. There were two of them, they were short and simple but came like a punch in the gut to John.
Dad (8:55 am today): Please just come home, John.
Dad (9:03 am today): It's been over a week. I need to know you're staying somewhere safe.
John bit his lip and shifted slightly on the wall, running his fingertip repeatedly around the ridges on the mouth of his bottle of water.
He felt torn, ripped down the middle like an old newspaper. His sisters and brother were at home, Mary, Martha and James; every day he spent away from them felt like he was being ripped another inch apart.
Then, there was his dad. He couldn't live with that man anymore, not when he was so set in his beliefs and so determined John would have to bend to his will.
He texted back with shaking fingers, pressing send before he had time to think too much about his message.
John (just now): I'm safe.
He left it at that. He didn't want to give his dad the impression that he wasn't angry at him, or that he planned on coming home anytime soon. His dad hadn't even apologised yet, and no way in hell was John going to make that move first. He'd smashed a vase, his father had hit him; there was a significant difference in those two situations, he thought one required a little more leniency than the other.
He would be sixteen in thirteen days, legally allowed to work, drive too. He'd find a job at a coffee shop or some shit, earn some money and either pay Herc's family rent or find his own place. He was willing to make up with his dad if he apologised, but living with that man was like a ticking time bomb, he wasn't going to risk it exploding again, not when the fallout would affect his entire family too.
He wasn't exactly sure how legal it was for him to live alone when he was only sixteen, but he rationalized that it wouldn't be too difficult to find a landlord who would take money no matter whether it came from a teen or not.
His mom lived in South Carolina now, and he had briefly considered moving down there a few years ago, but his ties with Lafayette, Hercules and now Alexander, stopped him.
He pocketed his phone and looked back at the hospital behind him, up at the row of lights he thought belonged to Alexander's corridor. They'd been here for about an hour now and since their arrival, dark ink had spilt across the cloudy sky so that it was mottled and charcoal grey like a bruise.
John heaved a heavy sigh and turned wearily back towards the building, ignoring the nurse and walking straight back through the double doors and in the direction of Alexander's room.
The five of them had moved chairs to sit comfortably around Alexander's bed, George and Martha next to each other closest to the wall, Hercules and Laf side by side and John directly beside Alexander's pillow.
He raised his hand in greeting, walking cautiously into the room, making eye contact with Alexander as he did so. He wished for some time alone with him, he knew Alex did too. The way that they had both been staring at each other gave more than enough away, he was surprised no one else had caught on yet.
Perhaps they had, perhaps no one had deigned to mention it yet. Lafayette would probably tease him about him later.
He sat down again and smiled at Alex, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. The granola bar a nurse had apparently brought in for Alex over an hour ago sat half eaten on his bedside table. Martha had gently persuaded Alex to eat it, to which he had grudgingly conceded and taken a few bites.
Alexander, who had previously kept himself wrapped tight up in the bedcovers, pushed them aside a little and lifted his left arm up to adjust the oxygen cannula at his nose. A layer of bandage wrapped around his wrist and forearm, secured by some surgical tape. John frowned slightly, stomach churning and goosebumps rising on his arms.
He watched Alexander's arm, feeling a certain tightness in his chest, clenching and squeezing like a boa-constrictor
He had thought Alexander had only taken pills, but… had he done something more? No one had mentioned him doing anything like that, surely they would have said something if he had indeed slit his wrist?
Lafayette was chatting about something or other, his voice was doing that weird thing where it got increasingly faster in his eagerness until he realised the speed at which he was talking and slowed down. This was a habit he tended to fall into when he was nervous; when he needed to fill up silence with anything that made the situation less awkward.
John knew Lafayette was just as uncomfortable as he was, just that the French teenager tended to fill silence as often as he could, rather than John, who preferred to just sit in it.
He must have been staring because Alexander slowly, subtly, tucked his arm back underneath the covers. He looked at John nervously and then let his eyes flit back to Lafayette, his other hand moving surreptitiously to pull the covers further around him.
John looked around to where George and Martha sat, following George's gaze to see that it indeed was fixed on the spot Alex's arm had been a moment earlier.
"What time is it?"
Alexander spoke for the first time in a few minutes, strands of his hair were pushed haphazardly behind his ears and his cheeks were flushed. It was admittedly very warm in the room, John considered finding a nurse and asking to open a window. He could feel himself beginning to sweat.
"Nearly half five."
Alexander nodded and pulled the covers around himself even tighter, despite the warmth of the room and the heat on his face.
"Do you want the window open?"
Alex shook his head, eyeing Lafayette, whose arms were bare, only wearing a grey tank top.
"It will get cold."
John sighed, irritated that Alex would put Lafayette's own comfort over his own when he was the one ill in hospital. Lafayette could deal with being a bit chilly, he would want to for Alex. The French teen had evidently caught on and shook his head hastily, laughing awkwardly.
"C'est bon, je n'aurais pas froid. Il fait plutôt chaud ici, en plus, tu as l'air d'avoir chaud."
It's okay, I won't be cold. It's hot in here, besides, you look warm.
Alex shrugged nervously and George stood up, moving towards the door with a small smile.
"I'll ask a nurse if we can open the window. You do look warm, Alex."
John frowned, watching as George disappeared out into the hallway. Exactly how much French did George understand? It never seemed like he got much from what Lafayette, he or Alexander said.
Numbers, days of the week and simple phrases Lafayette used often were normally the extent of his understanding.
He came back a minute or so later with the same nurse that had brought them to the room just over an hour ago. Lafayette smiled at her as she walked in.
"On pourrait ouvrir la fenêtre? Il fait chaud, et Alex as l'air d'avoir chaud."
Can we open the window? It's hot, and Alex looks warm.
The nurse frowned slightly and John prepared to translate, wondering why Lafayette had attempted to speak French to this perfect stranger.
"C'est vrai? J'espère que il n'a pas de fièvre."
Really? I hope he doesn't have a fever.
She moved towards Alex and felt his forehead, ignoring the way the teenager flinched reflexively back when a hand was raised in front of him. She felt his forehead with the back of her and hand then used two fingers to feel his pulse underneath his jaw.
"It is warm in here… Do you feel hot or cold?"
Alexander shifted backwards ever so slightly away from the nurse.
"Just a bit warm."
She passed him the styrofoam cup of water and he obediently took a sip, watching her cautiously.
"You don't have a fever, maybe you have a migraine coming on, open the window for a little while, that might help. Does your head hurt?"
Alexander gave a tiny shrug and shifted uncomfortably. Lafayette looked ever so slightly alarmed and looked pointedly at John, who was in the easiest position to reach the window.
John moved hastily towards the window, bringing the blind upwards a little so he could push the window open.
John sat back down and Alex moved slightly to the right so that they were sat closer together. Alexander was only about ten or so inches from him now.
"Has… Has my social worker called?"
Alex fiddled awkwardly with the cannula tube across his bed that lead to his nose, not looking up at George and Martha.
Martha glanced at her husband and her eyebrows furrowed slightly, he shook his head almost infinitesimally and narrowed his eyes.
"No, was he supposed to?"
Alex shrugged and looked out the window, biting his lip and pushing himself downwards, further into the bedcovers.
"Aren't they supposed to kinda… know when this stuff happens?"
John looked from George to Martha, watching their expressions carefully. George looked as serious and pensive as usual, and Martha was focused ardently on her nails, examining a chip in the clear polish there
"Yes, we- uh, we'll be in touch with him, things have been busy."
Alexander seemed to tense slightly but said nothing, nodding quickly. He hugged his knees to his chest underneath the blankets and adjusted the cannula at his nose for what seemed like the one-hundredth time.
Lafayette turned his head and watched Martha and George, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed. John thought the two adults had answered the subject of the foster service quite strangely, but he was too tired to give it any proper thought.
He said nothing and thereafter the room fell into silence.
It had been awkward since they'd walked in. No one had said much about what had happened, almost completely avoiding the subject altogether.
The doctor had been firm in informing them not to ask difficult questions or distress Alex any further, but it was clear this was throwing the teenager off even further.
Alexander seemed quite bewildered as to why they were all trying to act normal, in the midst of how chaotic and crumbling everything was. John wished they could just address what had happened, rather than make stupid conversation about anything that popped into Lafayette's head.
He had thought he wanted to see Alex, and he had- he did- but not like this.
He would say he wanted to go home, but he didn't. Home was where his dad was, where Bibles and crucifixes and promises of hell resided. Home wasn't where he wanted to be. He didn't think he knew where home even was anymore.
He just wanted quiet and warmth and peace and Alexander.
It didn't look like he'd get that for a while, though it wasn't much to ask. It occurred to him then that he hadn't been alone with Alexander for over a week. Nine days, actually.
"What are the visiting hours here?"
He turned to George and Martha with this question, wondering when it would be acceptable to go back to Hercules' place and not appear rude. He didn't notice as Alex moved further into the corner, trying to remove himself from the lights and sounds, flinching slightly.
"It's half five now, I think we can be here until half six or so."
Then, however, it would have been difficult not to notice Alexander's visible flinch at those words. His eyes were half closed, squinting against the bright, fluorescent lights of the ward.
"You okay?"
He nodded quickly but stopped almost instantly, taking a sharp, audible breath. His cheeks were slightly pink and his face was screwed up in pain. Alex closed his eyes and Lafayette looked from George to Martha anxiously, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair and preparing to stand up.
"Alex?"
He looked up at John, his eyes darting from one face to another in repressed panic. Alexander flinched away again the noise and half closed his eyes against the bright lights.
"I'm alright, just- just a headache."
George stood up carefully, pushing his chair slowly behind him to make as little noise as possible.
John looked from him to Alex, frowning in concern and reaching a nervous hand out to grasp his friend's.
He still wasn't one hundred percent sure what was happening, though George seemed as though he knew. The nurse said Alex might have had a migraine coming on, which, John realised, made sense.
Henry, his older brother, got migraines occasionally. He always just shut himself up in his room with the lights off after yelling at the entire house to shut up. People who got migraines tended to get all sensitive to noise and light.
George came back a moment later with the nurse, perturbed and nervous looking. She immediately went to the light switch and turned it off, so that the room was suddenly cast in thick, hazy darkness.
Next to him, John saw Alexander's shoulders relax marginally, yet, through the dim, it was clear his face was still twisted in pain.
The nurse ushered them all out of the room, John felt Hercules grip his forearm and lead him towards the door.
The corridor was adversely bright, the vaguely off-white lights stung John's eyes as he blinked, disoriented and perplexed.
"Is Alex okay?"
John looked from George to Lafayette to Martha, then back at the door the nurse had closed behind her.
"A nurse mentioned he might get migraines, I think it's probably our cue to leave. We shouldn't have stayed so long, I think it stressed him out a little."
George rubbed a large hand over his face and sighed, turning and looking towards the door with a resigned, almost defeated face.
John winced slightly and glanced quickly at Herc, meeting his eye as they both wondered the same thing.
"Do you think Herc and I should hang around, or…"
Martha shook her head at this, though she wasn't looking at them. Her face was partially obscured at this angle by her dark curls, but her voice mirrored her husband's tired tone.
"I don't think we'll stay much longer either. We probably won't see Alexander again until tomorrow."
Lafayette's hand had released Hercules' now, for what John guessed was the first time since they'd arrived. He didn't miss the look Lafayette shot at their friend however, it was like a kind of predetermined pining, as though Lafayette was already anticipating missing Hercules.
The situation with Hercules and Lafayette was complicated, to say the least.
The history concerning the three of them and how they'd discovered their own queerness was almost funny if it hadn't, and continued to, impose so many problems on them.
Lafayette had first told John he thought he was gay in 6th grade. He'd spent a few months trying to figure himself out, the two boys had spent countless nights talking to each other in French about that sort of stuff on sleepovers. It was safer that way; no one could understand them.
Then, Lafayette had watched Buffy The Vampire Slayer for the first time, which they didn't really have in France, and immediately developed a crush on Willow, the later revealed to be lesbian witch. It had all been very confusing for a while until Lafayette had decided he didn't so much care about gender and was fine with letting whatever happened happen. By the time he was fourteen, he'd had it all figured out.
John had always envied him for this mentality. He had noticed something was 'wrong' when in seventh grade, boys were talking about kissing girls and going on dates with them. He'd felt no such attraction.
He'd grown up with the typical, fire and brimstone bible verses from his dad and the promises of hell if sins were committed. This had only ended up scaring him as a kid though, he'd never really felt the kind of warmth and comfort you were supposed to from religion. He'd only ever been terrified of God.
He'd become more accepting of gay people around age twelve, but never thought he'd turn out that way. He had to like girls. He had to.
Gradually, media and more open-minded friends had helped him become slightly better acquainted with his identity, and he and Lafayette had spent a comfortable, lazy year or so content to leave those kinds of things be, pretend didn't really exist.
Then came Hercules.
He'd always been in their year, always a quiet presence in the back of the lunch queue or across the field from where they'd sit at break. They'd been pretty close friends since fifth grade, but as they started to hang out more in middle school, Lafayette had developed an almost laughably adorable crush on the boy.
It had a been that way ever since. Back then, Hercules had never really shown any sort of persuasion towards boys or girls, steering away from that topic altogether. In their last year of middle school, Lafayette had developed an almost irritating habit of going on long rants in French detailing all the reasons why Hercules might be gay and why they would make a good couple.
It had all seemed futile, until the end of eighth grade. Hercules had casually remarked that he thought Leonardo Dicaprio was cute after they'd watched Romeo and Juliet in English class. Lafayette had not shut up for weeks afterwards.
So things had been a lot like that ever since. Hercules had never really come out and said he was gay or bi, or anything like that, but he'd dropped hints on occasion. No one but Lafayette and John knew this about him, he was quite sensitive about that sort of thing. Lafayette didn't blame him.
Being Black? Hard as hell, especially in America.
Queer? Just as hard.
But both? It felt a lot of the time like the whole world was stacked against you.
This wasn't to mention the fact that Lafayette was also Jewish, a part of his identity he didn't disclose often but nevertheless felt strongly tied to.
Lafayette had hesitantly come out to George and Martha about two months before he turned fifteen and had immediately been assured by them that this was okay and that they loved him as much as they had before. John had smiled and clapped Lafayette on the back at the time, but couldn't help feeling the anger pooling in the pit of his stomach expand and burn hotter and hotter.
It was all to do with John's dad. It had all started when he was fourteen and the Republicans of Virginia were holding a convention. Thus had begun the six-week long argument with his father about whether or not John would attend.
The culmination of this had been the week before the convention, resulting in an angered, bitter John practically screaming at his dad that he was '" going to fucking hell no matter what I do, so why should I even listen to you anyway?"'
That had been a mistake.
Things hadn't changed much since, yet John fancied Hercules and Lafayette were getting closer. He was just waiting for the metaphorical dam of repressed feelings to break and a situation similar to the 'Alex-John' makeout fiasco to occur.
George spoke then, snapping John from his reminiscings.
"Do you need a ride home? It's dark out."
Hercules shook his head silently, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.
"Hugh or Henry will pick us up. We'll get home fine."
George smiled slightly and nodded, wrapping an arm around Martha's shoulder and pulling her close.
"Okay, get home safe. We'll call you if anything changes."
Alexander squeezed his eyes tightly shut and buried his face in his pillow. The pain in his head was blinding, it was as though deafening thunderclaps were echoing around inside his skull.
The lights had been turned off, which helped to a certain extent, but the hum of the hospital generator and the low voices outside felt like hot needles of pain being driven through his ears and into his head.
He didn't know what had brought this on, he'd never had a migraine before. Though, he guessed that the events of the previous hour hadn't exactly mollified his already higher than average anxiety level.
But his head hurt too much to think about that sort of thing right then. He pressed himself further into his mattress and drew the covers up around him, trying to block out the noises around him. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall felt like rhythmic stabs of sharp, concentrated pain.
He heard the door open and winced again, clamping his hands over his ears and biting down hard on his lip. There was a gentle tap on his shoulder and he rolled onto his back, meeting the gaze of that same nurse who had brought Lafayette, John, Hercules, Martha and George in.
She held a glass of water in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Alexander winced again.
He reached forward for the water but found his hand too shaky and weak to grasp it properly, it was heavy.
The nurse helped him take a few sips, supporting his hand without the impatient, tired expression he had expected to see on her face.
She lifted the cup away from his mouth and he slumped back into the bed, closing his eyes against the nausea now stirring in his stomach, pushing bile up his throat.
He reached his hand out blindly, squeezing his eyes shut. The nurse hesitated slightly, not sure what he was asking for. She passed him the paper bag and almost as soon as it was in his hands, he was sick.
He let the nurse take the bag from him, all the while trying to repress the horrible feelings of shame, anxiety and that nausea still breaking like waves in his stomach.
He tried to choke out an apology, opening his mouth and managing to expel a few stuttered, rasping syllables.
He flopped back on the bed and pulled the covers more wholly over himself, sensing rather than hearing the nurse leaving the room.
He tried to fall asleep then, drifting in and out of consciousness for what could have been five minutes, or an hour. He was tucked tightly underneath his duvets, obstinately refusing to focus on his surroundings or the horrible smells of human suffering and death hospitals tried to cover up with bleach.
He hated hospitals, he hated anything to do with medicine or doctors. He hated talking about them, he hated thinking about them, he hated anything to do with them. It all just brought back too many memories.
When his mother and he had become ill with a fever four years ago, she'd refused to call any doctors for herself. His fever had broken quickly, he could have called someone, but by the time she was ill enough to need the hospital, she couldn't form the words to tell Alex to do so. She died so suddenly, he had barely the time to get out of bed, let alone recover enough to move to the phone.
When he'd lived in New York with Pace, trips to the hospitals had become more regular. Often, when his foster father took things too far and he broke a rib or suffered a concussion, he'd go to bed that way. Often Alexander wouldn't make it half the night, waking up screaming in pain and begging to be taken to the ER.
The nurse came back then, someone else at her side. Neither of them disturbed him, pushing open the door carefully and making sure as little light as possible filtered into the room.
The female nurse who wore the hijab (Alex blearily noted that he should find out her name) pulled back his covers gently and began to change his drip, slowly and carefully removing the needle currently in his forearm and replacing it with something else.
Alexander hoped it was something for his migraine, or better yet, something to just knock him out for a few hours. He wanted anything but a state of consciousness in this place.
It must have been just that, because after the nurse had left it took under five minutes for the pain in his head to dull from a slicing hurt to a vague throbbing until he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Lafayette could hear Martha and George talking in the kitchen below. Well, he could hear sounds, not so much talking as quiet murmurs and low humming, filtered through layers of plaster and insulation.
He lay on his bed, neither underneath the covers or undressed. He still wore the same jeans and t-shirt that he had spent the entire day in. It was warm in the house, the heating turned on to a comfortable temperature, yet he had goosebumps on his forearms anyway.
Martha and George were talking about something, keeping something from him. They'd acted strangely in the hospital when Alexander had asked about social services, and they'd acted strangely upon his questioning them in the car.
He honestly wasn't sure what to make of it. What was going on with their custody of Alexander that they couldn't even tell him?
He thought he'd call John, he needed to hear the voice of the person he could talk to the easiest, he thought John might too.
He turned on his phone and called his number, chewing nervously on his lip as it rang. John didn't disappoint. He picked up a few seconds later and responded in a drowsy, sleepy tone.
"Yo?"
Lafayette sighed into the phone, turning into his stomach and flicking off the light. The room was submerged in soft darkness, a fuzzy white glow emanating from Lafayette's phone that faded throughout the room.
"Désolé, je t'ai réveillé?"
Sorry, did I wake you?
He heard lethargic, fumbling stirring in the background of the call, evidence that John was lying on the couch in Hercules' living room.
"Yeah, but it's okay."
Lafayette rubbed a hand firmly across his face, feeling the puffiness of his eyes and the rough, sandpaper texture of his lips. He'd bitten at them far too much recently and hadn't used any lip balm for days.
"I'm sorry. I just, I-" he gave up on the English, biting some dried skin off his lip and resigning himself to his mother tongue, "J'arrive pas à dormir."
I can't sleep
"I get it. Everything's just gone to shit. No one's- no one's talking about what's happened… and I- I just want Alex back."
He said all of this in practically one breath, as though the words had been itching at the back of his throat for days and he couldn't seem to get them out.
"Exactement! I miss him so much, and Maman et Papa sont bizarre, ils gardent les secrets. Everything is shit, Jean."
Exactly, I miss him so much and Maman and Papa are acting weird, they're keeping secrets.
He could hear John's sigh- so tired, so done. There was a moment in which Lafayette thought bitterly that he hadn't asked for this, that he just wanted everything to go back to the way things had been before. He had been perfectly happy then.
But… He had agreed to this. Five months ago when George and Martha had talked to him first about fostering another kid. Then, a month later when they told him all they knew about Alexander- which hadn't been much. He'd been so excited, he'd agreed instantly.
No, Alexander was Alexander. Even the parts of him that had caused this, that had done so much harm; all of them were Alexander. He had been given a choice, he supposed. What could he do now but deal with this as best he could?
He was snapped from these thoughts by John's voice, quiet and hesitant on the other end.
"What happened to Alex's arm?"
Lafayette sighed and stood up, pulling off his jeans and then flopping back onto his bed.
"He uh… What you're thinking, is not… He… Il s'automutile. Depuis il avait treize ans. Je suis dèsolè, J'aurais dû te dire. C'etait… C'etait compliqué. Je n'ai pas su quoi faire."
He cuts himself - since he was thirteen, I'm sorry, I should have told you. It was… it was complicated. I didn't know what to do.
There was a long period of silence on the other end of the call, Lafayette dug his fingers tightly into his mattress and waited, a mix of guilt and pity squirming like maggots inside him. Not cute little butterflies, nothing so romantic or pleasant.
When John did speak, his voice was quiet and scratchy, like static on a broken television.
"Why does this shit always happen to people who don't deserve it?"
Lafayette pulled the blankets around himself tighter and nestled down into the warmth his body had generated around him.
"Alex doesn't deserve this, you do not deserve all that's happening with your father. Yet, nothing like this happens to Lee or… or George. Rien!"
He could still hear his parents talking downstairs so he ducked his head under the duvet and turned the brightness of his phone down.
"Do you want to go see him tomorrow? Just you, me and Herc?"
Lafayette considered this. Tomorrow was Wednesday, they all had to back at school for Monday. He supposed there was no reason not to go tomorrow.
"Okay. I suppose it will be good to talk."
John sighed again and Lafayette rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"I should let you sleep."
John grunted noncommittally and Lafayette gave a small, choked laugh.
"Night, then."
Lafayette could imagine John's expression then. Dark brows furrowed close, teeth biting the inside of his cheek.
"Night."
He hung up.
Hey, sorry for the delay on this one. I've been a bit ill and life is just hectic right now. I'm sorry! I'm not very happy with this chapter but...
