He sat there, tapping his pen loudly against the wooden frame of his desk. It was raining outside and the wind was crashing thunderously against the windows, trying desperately to get in. The lights flickered overhead and he stopped tapping for a second to glance at the ceiling. A chill ran down his spine and he shivered slightly. Damn, it was cold in here. Behind him he could hear Scott and Stiles discussing their evening plans involving Derek Hale. What a joy their lives must be. He peered out the corner of his eye to his left to see Jackson. Jackson was sitting perpendicular to him, his legs blocking the middle of the aisle. He could feel Jackson staring at him, and every minute that ticked by agitated him to no end. Stop looking at me; stop looking at me; STOP LOOKING AT ME.

The lights flickered again and Coach stopped his seemingly boring lecture to make some asinine comment about the electricity bill. Greenberg smirked slightly, and continued his tapping. The ink was beginning to come out of the pen and he could feel the wet sticky blue liquid sprinkling his hand. Lightning struck outside the window, someone screamed, and then the lights went out. One of the windows shattered and rain filled the tiny room. He could hear movement and screams but he sat there, unable to move. He felt something sharp collide with his hands, and dropped his pen stiffly. His hands hurt, no they burned; they burned like hell. OH GOD, THEY BURNED SO FUCKING MUCH. It felt like the skin was being peeled back from his hands piece by piece. Tiny daggers being stabbed into them over and over again then pushed further into his flesh until they pierced the other side. He felt something crawling over his hands and chest, like hundreds of tiny spiders he couldn't see, and biting down, burying themselves beneath the broken flesh. JESUS MOTHERFU-

He wanted to scream, but couldn't. He wanted to move, but couldn't. Out of all the chaos that was winding around him, he was the one unable to do anything. He was the one unable to move. He sat still, focusing on his breathing and trying his best to keep it calm, trying his best to focus on something else. To focus on something other than his hands. He heard more glass shattering and people scrambling, doors being slammed, and desks being pushed. He sucked in a breath as something sharp slid up his back and wrapped tightly around his throat. All the oxygen that his lungs could manage was suddenly pushed from his chest, leaving him with nothing. He couldn't breathe; his hands were burning and he couldn't breathe! He felt something sharp pierce his shoulder- no SOMETHING WAS BITING INTO HIS FUCKING SHOULDER! He felt the thing rip through his shirt and tear into flesh. Jaws clenched down hard until Greenberg was sure the thing had reached bone. His eyes burned from the pain, and he found he was suffocating again not only from the lack of oxygen but from the pain. White noise had begun to fill the room until the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Something wet was coursing its way down his shoulder and through the pitch black darkness he assumed it was blood. Thump. .

"Why'd you do it?" someone whispered. He felt something poke his side and the thing that had been feeding on his shoulder released its grip hastily. Air filled his deprived lungs and through excavated gasps he felt movement beside him. He saw two perfectly red eyes glowing in the darkness. He felt a chill run down his spine again, and tried moving out of his chair but his laces were a tangled mess. He moved slightly only to fall face first on the floor. Stupid fucking shoes. "Why'd you do it you freak!" He heard somebody yell. The thing that had once been paired to his side was gone and so were the eyes. He let out another sigh. There was no way in hell he was going crazy. Greenberg steadied himself then glanced up trying to peer through the rainy black abyss, trying to find the voice as well as his own.

"Why did you do it!" Someone else yelled. Something sliced through his back and pain once again shot through his hands, shoulder, and side. The lights flickered then popped, turning back on to reveal a shambolically bright room. Papers and desks were everywhere; the classroom, although puddles littered the floor, looked dry. A few of the students had managed to leave the room while others stood humbly in the corner. He looked at his shoulder to see blood soaking his right arm. Greenberg looked down to see he was standing in a muddy puddle of blood and water. He cleared his throat finally able to find the voice he had seemingly lost moments ago, and looked back up… everyone was staring at him. Stiles and Scott were portraying the same look of insanity and disbelief, and Jackson was sitting on one of the overturned desks, smirking. Pain shot through his hands again and he looked down to see his hands were covered in blood. Glass broken into tiny pieces was embedded in his hands, in the crevices and sticking out murderously through the palms. Had a window busted near him? Blood dripped from his hands and landed in the puddle on the ground.

"Greenberg, why did you do it?" Someone asked loudly. Coach? He turned to his right to see the Coach lying on the ground, blood covering his body. Glass was all around him and some shards were sticking out of the exposed flesh, morphing it into an ugly mess. Coach Finstock's face was a distorted mess of bruises and cuts. His eyes were open; and he wasn't breathing. Greenberg's breathing hitched. He gulped loudly, trying to breathe but it seemed like all the oxygen had been pulled out of the room. He felt like he was being suffocated again. "I-I" He started, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. Did he do this? Was the Coach dead? Was his-

He heard laughing echo throughout the room and tore his eyes away from the Coach to see Brett sitting in one of the seats beside him. The room seemed to freeze. The temperature dropped to negative zero and the students that had remained in the brightly lit room vanished. The lights flickered again as Brett chuckled. His freshly pressed suit stood out murderously in the shattered classroom. His posture and composer were impeccable, and his voice even more so. What was he doing here? Brett cleared his throat loudly and straightened the light purple tie around his neck, "See son, you're more like me than you're willing to admit."

Greenberg looked down at his hands again and watched as the blood ran between the tiny pieces of glass and dripped neatly on the ground. "Greenberg." He wasn't Brett's son. His body was beginning to tremble, his vision beginning to fade. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think… or maybe he was thinking too much. Maybe his brain was overthinking, spewing out questions that he didn't have the answers to. Why was Brett here? What was that thing that had bitten him? Was this his fault? Was the Coach dead? Was his-

"Greenberg." He turned disoriented, feeling his world beginning to slip away. His throat was closing and he could feel his eyes beginning to burn from tears. He was turning into Brett. He was a monster. He had killed his-

"What?" he said weakly.

"WAKE THE HELL UP!"

Greenberg jerked awake, falling from his chair and taking several papers and pens down with him in the process. Sweat clung to his shirt and face, and he found he was gasping for air. Was he dreaming? Where was he? The last thing he remembered was Brett. How did he get here? Did he teleport? He felt pain course itself through his hands and he looked down seeing blood pooling in his palms. He sucked in a breath, it was real… it was real… Coach! He looked around; everyone was staring at him… including the Coach. He inhaled rapidly, he couldn't breathe, MOTHER OF GOD HE COULDN'T BREATHE. He looked back down at his hands, fingernail marks were visible. He had dug his fingers into the bottom of his palms until they bled. Thank God.

"GREENBERG!" He whipped his head towards the front seeing Coach standing there, one hand on his whistle, the other placed firmly on his desk. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Greenberg sat there for a second trying to catch his breath and after several failed attempts he had managed to break into a coughing fit that somehow had enabled the sweet nectar of oxygen to enter his lungs. Coach had moved to the side of his desk and stood there perplexed for a moment before yelling "GREENBERG!"

Greenberg stood up shakily, and silently started picking up the papers and pens that had fallen to the floor. He reached for some of the papers that had managed to venture down the aisle. Jackson ripped them off the ground and analyzed them enthusiastically. He looked at Greenberg then back at the papers multiple times. "I was unaware you were such a poet" He said softly before handing them back. Great.

"Are you done interrupting this class Greenberg?" Coach asked impatiently. Greenberg looked up at him, smirking slightly. "Probably not" Greenberg muttered while getting back in his chair. This proved to be more difficult than it should have been considering his legs were almost too long for the cramped area. Coach stood there a second, contemplating whether he should reply to his remark or not. He turned back to his lesson and started rattling off whatever nonsense he deemed suitable for Economics.

Greenberg ran a hand through his hair and tried wiping Jackson's mud from his papers. It was useless. He felt something tickling his right shoulder and looked to see a dark stain seeping through his light grey hoodie. He rolled his sleeve up gently, feeling his breathing beginning to hitch again. Had that thing actually bitten him? Was it here? He rolled his sleeve up until he saw the puncture marks. He was breathing fast now, hell, he might have even been on the verge of hyperventilating. It took him a second to remember it was from yesterday when Brett had pushed him into the rake that hung dangerously on the shed out back. He grinned faintly; from a distance it almost looked like bite marks.

Greenberg slid his sleeve back down gently, letting the blood drip down his arm. Class ended in 10 minutes, he'd take care of it then. At least there was a clean hoodie in his locker. He smeared the blood off his hands and settled further down in his chair. He steadied his breathing. He wasn't a monster… was he? He felt Stiles tapping his shoulder and tried his best to ignore it. The tapping continued until Greenberg turn around slightly, "Dude, are you okay?" Greenberg stared at him for a second before Stiles made a gesture towards his shoulder then systematically made a panic noise that was supposed to resemble what had just happened. Stiles raised an eyebrow and looked over at Scott who had leaned in to hear his response. Both of them were staring at him awkwardly. Wonderful, he was being outed as the freak. Greenberg nodded his head gently before turning back towards the lecture… but deep down… he had no fucking idea.

…..

He sat there; pressing his palms into his knees and watching the chaos unfold on the field. They were at a lacrosse match, playing against some shitty team from some shitty school. And they were losing, mainly because Coach hadn't decided to put Jackson or Scott on the field. Which, all-in-all, was a terrible idea. Jackson had been benched due to a neck injury he had "mysteriously" acquired yesterday and Scott due to some stupid academic probation or something. This meant they were down two of their best players, and he anxiously waited to be put in even though it could mean he'd be expelled. He knew Coach would take the hit if it meant winning the game. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. He could hear the crowd chanting and Coach yelling at Stilinski or Bilinski as he called him, for almost scoring in the wrong net. Stiles was a mediocre player, not the worst but not the greatest. He was severely ADHD and this meant that more than half the time he wasn't paying attention, at least in school. More than likely the only reason he was still on the team was because of Scott… who had somehow managed to become an expert in lacrosse over the summer.

He closed his eyes and drowned out the threats spewing from the Coach's mouth, and focused on the crowd. He could hear words of encouragement from some parents and students. None of them were there for him, not that he'd expect them to be. Hell even Isaac's abusive father had managed to show up somehow. He listened to the roar from the other team's fellow supporters, and the noise of the horn going off signaling halftime. He could feel the bench shake as players raced to it, looking for a place of safety in a brutal game. He hated losing, not as much as Jackson or the Coach but he hated losing when he could do so much better.

He took a deep breath. He wished his mom was here but she would never come. She was never around when he needed her and that sucked. He felt dread in the pit of his stomach as he realized the game was almost over. After the game he'd have to go back. He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to go there. But he would have to. Back to that house. Back to him. Alone. He felt his fists clench together and anger bubbling beneath his chest.

"GREENBERG!"

He jumped and opened his eyes, realizing everyone was looking at him. Had he said something out loud? He ran a hand through his messy black hair, "Yes, Coach?"

Coach crossed his arms and huffed, "Now I'm not sure why your off in lala land daydreaming but in case you haven't noticed we're playing a game here and LOSING! I'm putting you in and so help me God, if you don't get up and win this game, I'll make you wash the whole team's uniforms for a week!"

He eyed the Coach, feeling the backwash of a sarcastic comment itching in the back of his throat, begging desperately to escape. He nodded and yanked his helmet from Stilinski's head, who in turn offered an annoyed look and exaggerated "Ow!" He turned back around, feeling slightly sorry for the guy, who wanted to play so badly, especially with his father watching. "Don't worry Stiles, you'll get you chance. I promise." He said gently.

The Coach clapped his hands together as Greenberg put on his helmet, "Okay everybody knows what to do, right? Now get out there and win me- I mean us- win us that game!" He smacked the back of Greenberg's shoulder hard and eyed the rest of the team.

Greenberg rolled his eyes as he ran onto the field. God the Coach could be such a jerk sometimes. He ignored the shouts and screams coming from the crowd and menacing insults coming from Jackson on the sideline. He turned to face the benches, looking over the faces slowly, looking for someone familiar, someone he could focus on and "win" the game for. Lydia? No. Allison? No she was taken. Alec? Hell no, that relationship ended months ago. Erica? Maybe.

He heard the whistle go off and scanned the sea of faces again, listening to the game begin. Lydia. Allison. Alec. Eri- Brett. He froze. He could hear the game around him, the people screaming, and the players moving. He felt the world around him fade, and focused on nothing but Brett. There was no game. There was no crowd. There was no field. Only. Fucking. Brett. Brett stood there wearing a nice purple button down Greenberg's mom had picked out and a smile that made him look like your stereotypically proud father. Pathetic. He shuttered slightly at the idea of Brett acting parental. It was more than disturbing. He tried his best to direct his attention back towards the game but he couldn't. Brett had noticed him and had begun to wave gently. He gave Greenberg a devilish smirk and shoved his hands in his pockets. Greenberg shuttered again. He could faintly hear Coach yelling his name as the game continued.

"Greenberg!"

"Greenberg!"

"GREENBERG! GET YOUR HEAD IN THE FREAKING GAME!"

Greenberg shook his head and pried his attention from Brett to the player coming towards him. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world around him moved at an ungodly sluggish pace, including himself. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't focus; his mind still reeled from the endless questions that rambled through his brain. Brett had never once been to a game, hell Greenberg had become convinced that he hadn't even known where the school was. He shook his head again raking through the muddled mess that was his mind, trying to come up with a logical explanation. Why in the hell was he seeing Brett everywhere? Was he going mad? What- He didn't get to finish his thought.

…

"Dad! Daddy! Come back! Don't leave me!" Greenberg looked to his left to see a 6-year-old boy kneeling in the dirt; hands and knees covered in dust and scrapes from where he had landed. The kid was crying; tears streaming down his face and landing on the ground below. "Daddy! I'm sorry. Come back!" he yelled over and over again. Clouds had started to draw overhead and rain was beginning to come down. The kid straightened his posture slightly, sitting on the ground and wiping his eyes with his muddy hands. He looked like he had been out here for hours. Greenberg ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

He knew this memory well. It had been the day his father left. He remembered hearing his parents fighting in the kitchen then something being thrown. His father stomping out of the house and Greenberg running after him, begging his father to take him too. He watched as the taxi drove away, and he remembered running after it until he couldn't run anymore. He sat in the road for hours yelling for his dad and apologizing over and over again until his voice cracked and it hurt to talk. He begged for his father to come back but he never did.

"Samuel! So help me if you don't get in this house this instant I will make you wish you had!" someone yelled from the porch steps. Greenberg didn't need to turn around to know who it was. His mother. His mother, standing there in a bright purple dress with pink paint splotches covering it, and some other guy's jacket. Greenberg opened his eyes; it was dark now, the streets illuminating light from the posts above. The kid stood up, wiping snot and tears on his shirt and headed towards the house. He stopped in front of Greenberg and looked up. Tearstains were visible on his muddy face. "It's your fault he left, and it always will be" the 6-year-old spat sharply. The kid stared at Greenberg, hate and disgust imprinted on his little face. Green stood there, trying to find the right words to say but, he couldn't. The kid shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again and headed back into the house slowly.

Greenberg stood there for a second mulling over what just happened. He sighed deeply and looked back at the house door. It was green, unpleasant and splintered, along with the rest of the house. It had been the last house Greenberg had lived in since they moved; the last house Greenberg had been happy in. He ran another hand through his hair and sighed again. It didn't really matter how many parents or therapists told him that his parent's divorce wasn't his fault, because like most kids of divorce, he felt like it was.

…

He heard whispers, or maybe it was voices; really, really soft voices. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn't. Everything around him felt like it was spinning and he felt a weight on his chest like someone was sitting on top of him. He inhaled and groaned slightly realizing breathing hurt. Where was he? What happened? He moved his fingers slowly feeling for something familiar. He was laying on something wet and squishy; and it took him a second to realize it was dirt; dirt and grass and mud. He blinked a couple of times before opening his eyes fully to a hellishly bright world. Shapes moved in his vision blocking the light above him but he couldn't make out what it was. He closed his eyes quickly as the world began to spin. He coughed, inhaling shakily. Something slapped his face and he opened his eyes once again to the same spinning hell.

He looked to his right seeing disoriented doubles of someone and he blinked a couple of times trying to clear his mind. Everything was hazy and unclear. He felt someone grab his right shoulder, pressing their fingers into the puncture marks. Pain lit up his side. All of a sudden things became clear. He was lying on the ground; he was lying on the ground during a game; he must have gotten hit. Greenberg could hear Coach yelling "foul" like an insane person, over and over again. His mind was fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy and bright, and it seemed like the voices he heard around him were underwater or far away. He sat up slowly, mentally checking his body to make sure nothing was broken. He closed his eyes for a second; everything was too bright and off-kilter. Pain lit up his side again and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Dude, are you okay?" He heard McCall ask. His voice was muffled and hard to hear. Greenberg opened his eyes and looked at Scott, worry and concern was written on his face and Greenberg couldn't help but feel guilty. How long was he out? He shook his head and reached for his helmet, but it wasn't there. He looked around panicked. Where the fuck was his helmet? Stilinski would need it to play; he didn't want that weird awkward kid getting hurt. He glanced around seeing it laying a few feet away; he must have gotten hit hard. Greenberg shook his head again. God, everything was blurry. He felt someone shake him and directed his attention back towards McCall, "Dude, are you okay?"

Greenberg took a deep breath and nodded gently. Everyone and their mother seemed to be asking how he was doing today, and honestly Greenberg wasn't sure. Someone pulled him to his feet and it took a second for his world to readjust. He felt his knees buckle and stumbled slightly; someone grabbed his arm, catching him before he met the earth twice in one night. He looked over to see it was McCall. He was a good kid; it was a shame about his dad. Greenberg froze. Brett; Brett was here. Where the hell was Brett? He glanced over at the bleachers, scanning through the crowd again. Lydia. Allison. Alec. Derek. Boyd. Ms. McCall… but no Brett. Great, he was just going fucking insane. He shook his head again and pushed himself away from McCall. Scott stopped for a second turning towards Greenberg in shock and confusion before nodding and running back towards the goal. He knew Greenberg could hold his own; he wasn't weak.

Greenberg stood there in the middle of the field under the unbearably harsh lights. He hated these lights; they made things seem fake and played tricks with your mind. Greenberg was pretty sure he saw Scott's eyes turn gold one time and it took him a second to write it off as the fluorescent lighting. He stood there stretching slightly before grabbing his left side and steading himself. God that hurt! Pain encased his ribs and Greenberg cursed loudly; he let go after a few seconds and bent down to pick up his helmet. He was pretty sure if he had stretched all the way he would have passed out, but he had to know what he was dealing with. He was pretty sure one of his left ribs was broken again. Perfect. He cleared his throat and looked over to see Coach standing on the sideline, whistle hanging loosely from his mouth. His hair was a mess, like always, and he had his arms crossed furiously. Greenberg smirked slightly, he could see the agitation written on Coach's face and assumed he had gotten a lecture and a few forfeit threats from the ref. More than likely the whole team was going to have one hell of a practice tomorrow for something that Coach had done. Coach Finstock pointed at Greenberg and gave him a small nod. Greenberg looked up at the sky feeling raindrops beginning to fall. He closed his eyes. You can do this Greenberg. You got this. So what, you got hit. Big deal. Brett hits you all the time. You got this. He opened his eyes and looked back towards the Coach and nodded. He was going to be okay. He always was. He put his helmet back on and waited for the game to resume.

….

Greenberg stood there, staring at the locker in front of him trying to decide if he really needed the Biology book on the top shelf. It was more than reachable considering he was almost as tall as the locker, but the slight throb in his side was warning him not to overdo it. He shook his head gently and closed the door, deciding he would take Mr. Harris's lecture instead. He sat down on the bench in front of him and pressed his back against the locker. Everything around him was still off-kilter and bright, and he wondered if he had a concussion. His head hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. And as long as he didn't stretch too much, the pain in his side was manageable. But he could deal with the pain; he could always deal with it. No matter what. He pulled out his headphones and pushed play on his iPod, listening to some shitty rendition of Mozart's 7th symphony by some shitty amateur.

The locker room was empty by now. Most of the team had left straight after the game, hanging their heads low, and waiting for the lecture guaranteed tomorrow. They had lost, but not by much. For many, this was a defeat in itself. The season was almost over and so far it hadn't been an exceptional one. Greenberg grabbed his grey shirt that had fallen to the floor earlier. He looked down at his chest seeing purple and green coating the outside of his ribs. He touched it gently, cursing faintly when he pushed against his side. Yeah, definitely broken; he would have to be careful. He pulled his shirt on slowly and grabbed his bag.

The air was brisk and wet. Something he hadn't expected when he stepped outside. The rain had stopped from earlier and instead gathered silently in puddles on the ground. Greenberg looked around. A majority of the parking lot was empty which wasn't surprising considering it was close to 2am. He had been in the locker room for almost two hours, showering, finishing his Calculus homework, and dodging the inevitable question of whether or not he was okay. He shifted his bag to his right side; skipped the song on his iPod and started his journey home. He put his hands in his pockets and started humming the rhythm to whatever song he was listening to. Lights flickered behind him and he looked over his shoulder to see a car slowly pulling up beside him. It was the Coach. Great, just what he needed.

"I see you're still here." Coach said sarcastically, rolling his window down. Greenberg stopped, "I see you're still an observant dick. Case closed Sherlock." He said putting his headphones back in and turning the volume up. He pulled his hoodie over his head and continued walking. He really didn't need this right now. He could hear the Coach yelling at him but tried his best to ignore him. A car horn echoed through the trees around him and Greenberg turned back towards the car, yanking his headphones out of his ears. "What?" he yelled.

Coach stopped; he looked surprised and shook his head slightly, "Where's your bike?"

Greenberg shrugged. Brett was currently playing hide-and-go seek with his keys and Greenberg hadn't been able to find them for the last few days. This in turn meant he was either reduced to walking, or catching a ride from Stilinski- neither of which he minded. He shivered slightly feeling the temperature drop and pulled his hoodie closer, trying to keep warm. "Can I give you a ride?" Coach asked cautiously. Greenberg shook his head, walking slowly beside the car, reaching for his headphones, "You can't give me anything." He started putting his headphones back in when Coach honked again, "Greenberg! I'm trying to help you out here. Now look, it's getting cold out and I need you in Economics tomorrow for the test. So either spend a good half hour freezing your ass off out here or, get in the damn car." Greenberg sighed and glanced down at his watch. It was nearing 2:30am now and his headache was beginning to aggravate him. He shoved his iPod back in his bag and got in the car.

Coach Finstock watched as Greenberg put on his seatbelt gingerly. Greenberg held back a wince as he threw his backpack in the backseat and leaned his head against the cold window. "You sure you didn't break anything? Maybe you should let me ch-"

"I'm fine." Greenberg cut him off. He glanced over at the Coach and then back out the window. He didn't really want to talk about it. None of it. That's not what they did, ever. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the old rattling of the car. He had only been in here once before and last time he remembered it smelled vaguely of pizza and cheap alcohol; that smell was gone now and instead replaced with the smell of stale cologne and musty papers. In a way it was comforting. He pressed his face harder against the window feeling throbbing near his eye; it was the black eye Brett had given him yesterday evening when Greenberg had dropped a glass on the floor. He sighed quietly. He wasn't really scared of Brett, just annoyed.

"I don't remember you having a black eye yesterday." Coach said after a few minutes of awkward silence, "You had one a few weeks ago, but I don't remember seeing one yesterday."

Greenberg shifted in his seat, pressing his legs against the dash, "Then maybe you weren't looking hard enough." He retorted. He shifted again. Damn, Coach's car was small.

"Well I'm sorry my car's too small for your liking." Coach articulated sarcastically. He threw his blinker on and turned right. Greenberg opened his eyes and looked over at him. Had he said that out loud? He shook his head again and leaned it back on the window, closing his eyes. God he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"There's going to be one hell of a meeting tomorrow regarding tonight because I am not losing another game this season."

Oh good, we'll just wait until next season to lose again. Let me just pull out my handy dandy cell phone and inform the team we have Coach's approval to start winning.

Coach cleared his throat, "Don't expect me to go easy on you either."

No, we wouldn't want that. God forbid we go a freaking day without someone on the team getting hurt, crying or puking.

Silence had begun to fill the tiny space and after a few minutes, Greenberg could feel himself beginning to drift. Sleep had never sounded so good. God he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep- wait, hadn't he already-

"The test is going to be hard tomorrow, you know. I thought this would be a fair exchange for the shit game you guys played tonight."

I'd expect nothing less and yet I will still be disappointed I'm sure.

Coach messed with the radio, flipping through different stations before turning it off. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel and looked over at Greenberg. He looked like he was asleep. His face pressed against the window and his body resting at a weirdly awkward angle. A faint bruise outlined his left eye and a small cut was visible on his top lip. His unkempt hair was shielding most of his forehead and stuck up messily in a few places. He needed a haircut. Coach glanced at the road quickly before turning back towards the kid. Even with his eyes closed, he still looked lost. Not helpless, but lost. Like the light in his eyes had gone out years ago and instead had been replaced with some meaningless void that couldn't be filled; that continued to search for something he couldn't find. He glanced at Greenberg's knuckles to see faint outlines of previous fights. The kid shifted again, pulling his right sleeve up slightly revealing pale skin, and some scars Finstock was dreading. They were about a year old, about the time Greenberg had started high school; Brett had told him he had been going through a tough time and thought it would be better if Greenberg switched schools. That's how he ended up here. The jagged dark lines were visible whenever Greenberg wore a short sleeve shirt or took his jacket off; reminding him and everyone else of what Greenberg had tried to do. Finstock cleared his throat again and turned back towards the road as the light turned green. "So… how's Brett?" he asked after passing a few more streets.

The less fortunate Wahlberg brother? Fantastic, can't you tell.

"Less fortunate Wahlberg brother" Coach chuckled slightly turning left. Greenberg forced his eyes open. Had he fucking said that out loud? What else had he said out loud? He swallowed loudly feeling his heart speeding up. What else had he said? He didn't remember talking out loud. He looked back over at the Coach again then sat up quickly, panicked curiosity coursing through his body. He winced loudly and hunched over in his seat; he had forgotten briefly about his side. "Fuck!" He gasped harshly, grasping the dashboard with his left hand while his right continued to hold his side. Stop being such a baby; you've had worse. Stop being a baby. It took him a second to realize there was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Coach had stopped the car.

"Hey kid, you sure you're okay?" Coach asked. Concern and worry showed on his face. Greenberg let go of the dash and his side; he felt guilty. He wasn't that hurt, just a couple of broken ribs, nothing he hasn't had before. Then why are you being such a baby? He breathed deeply and nodded. He just needed to focus on his breathing and remember to move slower than usual. He looked back at the Coach who was still staring at him, eyebrow arched. "Greenberg, you know you can tell me if something's wrong, right?"

Greenberg looked out the window realizing they were already at his house. The light was on at the porch and Greenberg shuddered at the thought of going inside. He turned back once again towards the Coach. He couldn't tell him anything. He couldn't tell him he was slightly hurt. He couldn't tell him that every night he had to go home to sadistic Wreck-it Ralph. He couldn't tell him he might be losing his freaking mind… they weren't that close. And they would never be.

"Noted," he said bitterly. He reached for his backpack ignoring the burning in his side and opened the door. Coach grabbed his arm, "Greenberg. I mean it. You can tell me anything. You don't always have to leave." The teenager stood there for a second mulling over how this conversation would go. The wind picked up around him and he shivered, pulling his hands past his sleeves, "Of course not. I'm not you" he said, slamming the door shut.

He started walking towards the house. Part of him wanted to turn around to see Coach's reaction, wanting to know exactly how that comment struck him, while the other part wanted to apologize. He heard the car click into gear and the tires rolling against the wet road as it drove away. Greenberg sighed. His mind was still fuzzy and everything around him still shined with off-kilter vibrancy. He opened the door and stepped inside kicking his muddy sneakers off and walked towards the stairs.

"How was the game?" someone asked and Greenberg jumped; he had expected the house to be sleeping. He turned seeing Brett leaning against the wall. He was wiping one of the dish plates off with an old yellow hand towel. Greenberg groaned, "God Brett, look, I'm not in the mood to do this right now, so what do you want?"

Brett stopped wiping and stared at him for a second before placing the rag on his shoulder. He sighed. "I asked how the game was" he repeated. He set the plate down on top of a stack of books and crossed his arms. Greenberg felt his headache spreading down his neck. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and forget about this whole damn day. He dropped his backpack at the bottom of the stairs and cleared his throat, "It was fine Brett. They won, we lost. Yeah we suck; I suck- blah, blah, blah. Can I go to sleep now?" Agitation was beginning to creep in his voice and he bit back a sarcastic comment. He started walking up the stairs slowly, keeping Brett in his vision.

"Yeah sure. Get some rest kiddo." Brett said. Greenberg shuttered. Brett was never this nice. Ever. The teenager made it to the top of the stairs before Brett called again, "Oh! One more thing, that guy hit you pretty freaking hard tonight so watch yourself; it would be a shame to get another concussion so soon. After all, we wouldn't want to stop having fun now would we?"

Greenberg closed his door slowly and collapsed on his bed. He sighed loudly, letting the warmth and comfort of his blue bedsheets envelop his aching body. He peered at the tiny red numbers on his clock, 3:00am; he had exactly 3 hours before he had to be up. Perfect. He twisted his shirt off awkwardly and gently rolled onto his back. He would bandage his side tomorrow before school and down some Tylenol for his head. He felt himself drifting off and closed his eyes, replaying the game over and over again in his mind. Everything was still unclear. But out of all of it, one thing he was certain about, Brett had fucking been there.

…..

Hey Lovelies!
I swear to God I will post another chapter of Grimm by the end of next week! Also, hopefully, another chapter of Teen Wolf. Let me know what you think.

Peace out!
Mic Drop.

-Kasey Beth