Frankie is looking at him weirdly.
It's not entirely odd. He's hardly the normal sort and they're hardly any better. But-
Still.
The celebrations have died down. Halloween, and all its associated criminal activities, well on its way to being forgotten entirely. Students no longer feel the need to look at him and point and snicker any more than usual.
Jackson blinks back at them from his spot across the Creepateria. Spreads his hands out in an exaggerated 'what' sort of motion.
Frankie blinks. Shrugs their shoulders. A shit liar, always has been. Jackson can see it in their strained expression. The smile that doesn't quite meet their eyes.
Against his better judgement, he ignores it. Puts it down to 'teenage weirdness' and vows to never bring it up. Easier that way.
Deuce is hugging him.
Too hard and too long. Jackson can feel his muscles, solid as stone.
He pats Deuce's back. Just to diminish that spike of awkwardness.
Deuce pulls away and Jackson tries to shake the red from his cheeks with a dry laugh, but it's violently interrupted by a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Tell Holt we said hi, yeah?" Deuce says, and it hits Jackson not unlike a bucket of cold water. Composure regained and smile dropping.
"Sure." But he's not. Because he hasn't really thought about how much of himself he's been seeing lately.
How fucking weird that is.
Jackson is breaking out.
Reds and pinks. Across his chin and cheeks and forehead.
Acne.
He should be thankful for the remarkably normal problem. Should scramble at the chance to experience any sense of normality. Would, too. If the sudden break out wasn't accompanied by loose chunks of hair on his pillowcases, or extra burns on his hands.
Exam stress. Criminal record stress. Alter Ego stress. Just plain 'teen' stress.
But Jackson knows he's been remarkably fine lately. No hangovers, no parking tickets, no big gaps in memory.
No Holt.
He's greedy, he thinks. Wants to cling to the peace like a drowning man to a log. Knows it's wrong but doesn't care. Let Holt live his 'emo phase'. It's hardly Jacksons problem.
Mom says that Holt attends night school. Easier for both of them that way. It doesn't explain the gaping hole where Holt's day-to-day interruptions in his life used to be. Mom just pulls that tight smile, like Frankie, when he asks.
Shockingly, it's Cleo that snaps.
It's been a few weeks since Halloween, and the hallways are tense. Thick with a fog that Jackson wades through, unknowing and ill prepared.
Jackson sits at a table for lunch, picking up a fork with stinging, burnt up hands. A quick 'click clack' is the only warning he hears before Cleo slams herself into the seat opposite.
"Right, where is he? I've had enough."
"He does night school now." Jackson doesn't even bother to ask who they're talking about. Keeps his face flat and tone flatter.
"And what? He has a life outside of school, does he not? He hasn't spoken to us in weeks and if you think for one second that I will continue to suffer through Frankie's pathetic snivelling, you've got another thing coming-"
"What are you talking about?"
Weeks? It seems unrealistic, foreign to his ears.
"Holt!" Cleo says, throwing her hands up as if Jackson's an idiot. "We haven't seen him since Halloween. He's locking himself away as if that will help more than us."
Jackson doesn't comment on how 'us' includes Cleo, doesn't comment on how scary a situation has to be in order for her to be concerned.
Suddenly her face looks all guilty and stricken, voice soft and coated generously in something sickeningly close to understanding . She composes herself, always manages to in times like these, "pushing everyone away doesn't help. Believe me."
Cleo de Nile has a way of speaking that makes everything sound like a fact. Makes her appear wise beyond anything Jackson could imagine.
"What happened on Halloween?"
Jackson almost regrets his words. Cleo's face is pulling an impressive bout of emotions. Would be comedic were it not so damn scary. Scary enough to push Jackson into action, because something is very, very wrong.
Holt keeps a diary.
Jackson has never rifled through it. A cocktail of fear and respect making the thought never cross his mind.
It's different now.
Holt is his friend , his sibling . Jackson has never quite sat down and thought about what they are.
It doesn't matter. Maybe it never did.
Jackson pulls out the drawer in Holts dresser. Messy combination of socks and loose wires that has him rolling his eyes before digging his hand in, underneath the debris, until his finger brushes a hardback and pulls.
Jackson pauses.
He's not quite sure what he expected. Doodles? Burnt pages? The diary doesn't deliver on any of his expectations. It's neat, calculated even, every page neat with the same ink. The opposite of everything Holt stands for.
It is also thin. The pages date weeks apart. Obviously an outlet. Jackson tries to imagine Holt so stressed that he isn't. So upset that his near constant, excited vibration stops and leaves him, hollow, a husk, alone to sit and write. It's sickening. Leaves a pit in his stomach. He wants to put the diary back and pretend he never picked it up.
It's too late for that.
The recent passages are close together, written days apart. Jackson begrudgingly turns back to Halloween time.
The page is neat. As unassuming as the rest.
The contents make Jackson want to scream.
Peeling his eyes away is impossible. He's a deer in headlights. An onlooker in a road accident.
Holt's writing screams dread. Fear and horror scrambled. It contradicts itself in a sickening way. The neat, roundabout way he describes a death sentence as if it were any normal day. Jackson feels it, almost, an echo in his head. Holt hyperventilating himself into a terrifying numbness.
They were going to kill him.
Jackson is shaking. But he's not sure if it's upset, anger, or fear. Rationally, he knows he needs to sort his thoughts, to wait until he figures out the right response to Holt's situation.
Instead he gets up, grabs his phone, types the message with a frantic sort of calmness while his other hand idly gropes about for Holt's headphones.
We need to talk.