A/N: 11k word chapter. oops.

xXx

Idiot.

The unnerving jolt of undivided attention struck him an instant too late as the lingering effect of his words reverberated down the hall of silent, staring bystanders.

Only Pole's wide, shining eyes pierced the haze of adrenaline, yanking him back to reality just as Eleanor's dumbstruck confusion shifted into a flash of rage.

And Eustace bolted.

He plunged through a cluster of gaping onlookers and ignored the yelps and curses that rippled in his wake, slipping between two streams of foot traffic toward the front hall.

What did he think he was doing?

Stupid. Rash.

Somewhere far behind him, someone shouted his name.

He skidded and wheeled down a side corridor he'd only just glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, giving up on the front doors where the gang would know to follow him, footsteps slapping and squeaking down the echoing concrete hall as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Had they seen him?

Were they catching up?

He glanced around desperately for an empty classroom or closet, anywhere to hide until they gave up the chase, veering sharply around another corner only to catch a flash of—daylight?

He slowed and spun, blinking spots out of his vision for an instant before he recognized the recessed door to an emergency exit, shade-dappled afternoon brilliance pouring in through the slatted window above the handle, and he burst out through it without even pausing to wonder if it was unlocked.

A crisp breeze struck his face and tossed his hair over his forehead with a rush of relief that almost pulled him up short before he ducked automatically along the edge of an alleyway he'd never seen before, sandwiched between the high concrete walls of the school and the gym with a hedge of laurels crawling up the narrow, earthy incline separating it from the main street.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to ensure he hadn't been followed.

One minute.

Two.

He heaved a long, deep sigh, and an involuntary grin split his face as the momentary panic wore off, shoulders shuddering with an alien spasm of breathy laughter.

Eleanor's stupid, bewildered face flashed again in his mind's eye, and for a moment it almost didn't matter that he was as good as dead tomorrow morning.

A swell of muffled chatter wafted faintly from the direction of the street where students would be pouring out onto the sidewalk and dispersing in scattered groups toward their respective neighborhoods. Perhaps he only imagined his own name bouncing between them in astonished tones—perhaps he only imagined the grating squeak of Eleanor's petulant whine, but something akin to pride swelled within his ribcage all the same.

He licked his lips and suppressed another self-indulgent smirk, and he barely heard the quiet click behind him.

"Oh—"

Eustace spun sharply to find Jill Pole frozen halfway out the door clutching her bookbag tight to her chest, pale face starkly shadowed by messy, skewed bangs where the ribbon had been torn out, glassy brown eyes fixed on him as if she'd just stumbled upon a three-headed lizard mutt behind the gym instead of an uppertown boy.

He scoffed in disbelief.

Why did it always have to be her?

She wavered in place for a moment, as if the ground might drop out from beneath her if she took another step out into the open, tear tracks still plain on her cheeks, and Eustace rolled his eyes.

"Can I help you?"

Pole blinked and cast her gaze sharply to the ground as her face flushed a shameful pink, stepping out into the narrow alley and letting the door click shut. "Sorry," she muttered. "You used my door."

"Nobody owns the door."

"Well, no, I—" She halted abruptly mid-word, perhaps surprising even herself with the automatic retort, but then she twitched as if shaking off a fly. "It's just that I'm the only one who ever uses it, so I thought maybe you—"

"Maybe I what? Followed you around and stole your favorite hiding spot? You think I have nothing better to do than watch you all day?"

"That's not what I—"

"I found it on my own," he snapped, and turned to walk the length of the building, tossing his bookbag over his shoulder and stuffing a hand into his pocket as he forced himself to listen for any sign of the gang on the other side of the hedgerow.

Nothing distinctive met his ears, save for Pole's footsteps behind him, each soft crunch of gravel grating on his nerves until she stopped a few paces away.

"You're really in trouble, now, you know."

"Oh, really?" He spun on her despite the faint tremble in her statement, frustration lending an edge to his tone. "I hadn't noticed. That's why I'm hiding behind a bush like a normal person."

Pole shut her mouth and he pinned her with the most disdainful glare he could muster before turning his back on her again.

A dog barked in the distance, punctuating the muted city noises as the last of the student bustle faded away beyond the sanctuary of the laurels, and at last he abandoned the hidden alleyway, climbing the embankment and slinking cautiously out onto the sidewalk.

A quick glance confirmed the gang was nowhere to be seen, and he shrugged his bookbag onto both shoulders as he struck out for home.

No, not home, he corrected himself automatically. Not home.

If Pole followed, he didn't notice. He certainly didn't turn back to check.

The rumble of slow mid-afternoon traffic mingled with the shouts and laughter of young school children trailing far behind their upperclassmen, dallying together in groups, a game of tag spilling into a nearby front garden as a snowball flew into the street.

Two boys darted ahead of Eustace half a block from Steel Street, racing across the crosswalk with another spattering of sooty snow and an echoing squeal of glee.

He glanced over his shoulder, tracing their path with sharp eyes until he rounded his own corner and a familiar whine snapped him jarringly back to attention.

"Davy are you sure you know where you're going?"

"Steel, it says right there, can't you read?"

Eustace doubled back and almost smacked straight into Pole on the other side of a crooked white fence, and without a moment to think he grabbed her arm and yanked her down behind a dumpster.

"Ow! What do you think you're—"

"Shh!"

"What?"

"Shut up," he hissed, and his urgency took her aback just long enough for Stanley's voice to drift over from the road they'd nearly blundered straight into.

"How much of your work was Scrubb doing, El?"

Pole's face went white.

"Oh, cut it out already," snapped Eleanor, "I can read, alright? But do you see them? How do we know this is the right place?"

"She's got a point, Dave, it looks like we're late."

"Then Scrubb's getting just as slippery as Pole," said Davy, "we should've seen him before now."

"Unless he took a different way home," drawled Stanley, characteristically uninvested.

Eustace didn't even need to look to imagine Stanley leaning against the low brick wall that ran along the edge of the neighborhood, taking lazy a drag from his blunt as Eleanor stamped her foot impatiently.

"You said you'd get him!"

"Cool off, he'll still have to turn up tomorrow."

"I don't want to wait for tomorrow!"

"You know, it probably wouldn't hurt to spend some time studying, if you can't even write your own homework without him."

"Eugh, I'll just copy off you."

Stanley tutted. "I don't work for free."

Their voices dulled as they moved off, a stone skittering as Eleanor presumably kicked out in frustration, three sets of muffled footsteps fading back up toward the streets of the uppertown.

Eustace breathed out shakily, and Pole pulled her arm free with a ruffled but indignant look.

He'd already half forgotten she was there.

"You're welcome," he hissed, picking himself gingerly off the ground and peering around the edge of the dumpster.

"For what? They're looking for you!"

He turned on her in disbelief. "Whose fault is that? You knew I was on thin ice before you caused a scene, if Ellie hadn't heard you to begin with—"

"Oh, it's Ellie is it?" And for the first time, an icy edge crept into Pole's voice as she tilted her chin up. "Don't tell me you still think you're one of them."

"You don't know me," snarled Eustace, a violent surge of molten hatred flashing through his nervous system only to clash with a sickening, cold twist in his gut. "I'm not one of them, and I'm not one of you, whatever you are, we're not friends just because I landed in your filthy gutter of a neighborhood."

"Of course not," she snapped, and Eustace almost didn't recognize her for the fire in her eyes.

Their withering glares met with a near-tangible crack of electricity, and his lip curled in disgust before he turned sharply and stormed up the sidewalk, resisting the urge to kick at a patch of loose gravel just as Eleanor had done in her petulant fit of rage.

His front steps creaked under his weight, sagging and rotten just like everything else in this place, mocking him, grating against fragile nerves that threatened to snap at the slightest infraction.

He almost tore the doorknob clean off as he ripped the kitchen door open and slammed it again behind him.

The house shuddered, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he braced for the exclamation and the worried questions. But only a dull, lifeless silence settled around him, drifting like the sea of lazy dust motes cast into harsh relief by the grimy greenish daylight of the window at his back.

No television buzzed in the next room, no footsteps came hurrying down the hall.

He didn't need to look into Alberta's bedroom to know she'd gone out.

He was perfectly alone.

Good.

He didn't want to hear the uppertown gossip she'd picked up so eagerly from her vapid, brainless friends anyway. He didn't need to know who was getting divorced and who was having an affair with the mayor's cousin's nephew when Alberta couldn't even keep track of her own husband.

He dropped his bag onto the counter and paced the cramped length of the tiny kitchen, restless energy stirring under every inch of his skin until at last he cracked and turned on hot water tap, cheap plates clinking as he heaved them into the rusted sink basin, as if by clearing out the mess around him he could clear his own mind.

Who did Pole think she was? Arguing like she had some reason to be angry with him? Hadn't he distracted Eleanor and put a target on his own head? Hadn't she practically goaded him into it, too, with those huge, pathetic doe-eyes?

Some victim she was.

She should be grateful.

"You're really in trouble, now, you know."

He scoffed and dunked a plate with just a little too much force, splashing the front of his blazer with warm soap suds.

As if he didn't know exactly how much trouble he was in. As if he hadn't spent his entire life on the other side of it. As if Davy hadn't made it perfectly clear how much of a petty annoyance Eustace had always been, whether he'd known it or not.

Whatever foolish satisfaction he'd felt in that brief moment behind the gym drained away like someone had pulled the plug on a cistern.

How careless could he possibly get? How was this laying low? If he wanted to avoid awkward questions, he was doing a real bang up job. Not that Alberta was likely to notice anything short of a broken arm.

The kitchen door creaked open and Eustace jumped, spinning with another splash of soapy water as Harold stepped inside, pausing like a strangely tall and skinny shadow in the bright doorway.

Eustace blinked, frozen for a moment as Harold's keen eyes swept the scene, lingering briefly on the dish towel in his hand before he closed the door and scraped his boots on the mat, the stark silhouette regaining its ordinary, bland appearance, once-yellow hair receding over an unremarkable face and weak jawline, bony fingers clutching the black duffle bag he carted in and out every few days without so much as a word to his wife or son.

As usual, no greeting seemed forthcoming, and Eustace turned awkwardly back to the dishes as Harold crossed to the hall where a basket of clean laundry sat outside his room unfolded, rifling roughly through the heap of garments.

"You wash these, too?" he asked abruptly without looking up.

Eustace hadn't been prepared for a question.

He cleared his throat as he dried a plate and replaced it in the cupboard overhead. Did he want a yes? Would it please him that Eustace at least had too much self respect to live with Alberta's laziness? Or would it knock his pride to know that his wife had abandoned household chores altogether in pursuit of galavanting around town like she had nothing to hide? "I was bored," he said at last, settling somewhere between the two.

Harold grunted, hauling his freshly packed bag back into the kitchen and propping it on the table. "I suppose one of you is useful, at least."

Eustace let out a silent sigh of relief.

"Your mother's out, then."

A statement, not a question.

Eustace gave a noncommittal "Mm."

"And she's told you next to nothing, I presume."

He glanced up from the dishes to look his father properly in the face, heartbeat quickening at the casual allusion to the mysterious, unspeakable circumstances Alberta had been so hell-bent on denying at every turn.

"Less than nothing, I think," he said tentatively.

Harold almost smirked, resting one hand on the back of a once-ornate dining chair and leaning there for a moment. "You've gathered enough, though."

Eustace bit his lip, forcing his eager brain to consider his next words carefully despite the thrill of a real conversation, all too keenly aware of the dangerous line he walked between sounding a fool and saying too much.

"I know you're in debt."

"Yes," said Harold, silver eyes losing their focus for a moment of half-lidded contemplation. "I suppose that is all you need to know."

Eustace watched him as if to catch out some extra hint, some tiny betrayal of the truth, a sea of unanswered questions swirling just beneath the surface, threatening to bubble up if he opened his mouth too quickly.

It seemed, however, that Harold was still waiting for him to speak.

He swallowed, steeled himself, and drew a short breath. "Are you going to jail?"

Harold said nothing for a moment, scrutinizing him with that piercing grey stare he'd once been so accustomed to meeting over the mahogany desk in the study at the old house.

"We're in no more danger than usual," he said at last. "A good creditor doesn't really want to send anyone to jail, whatever they might say. Do you know why?"

Eustace answered after a moment of measured consideration. "You can't pay them, then."

"Exactly. And what else do they care about?" He motioned vaguely and shook his head. "No, they'll just keep hounding you until you cough up whatever it is they want, plus interest. It's better for them to drain you long-term, anyway."

"Just a matter of keeping them occupied," said Eustace, "isn't it?"

"Simple risk and reward," said Harold with the faintest hint of satisfaction, just as if he were quizzing Eustace on some obscure aspect of business over the dinner table. As if he'd never heard the man curse him like a burden from the front steps. As if they were discussing anything other than their own crushing debt in a kitchen that never quite came clean. "You may still grow up clever in spite of that fool of a woman."

Eustace shot him a smirk as if sharing some long-running inside joke, and suddenly felt uncommonly as if he were talking to Davy.

He swallowed hard against a sick wriggle in his stomach, and turned back to the dishes, rinsing a bowl under hot water and toweling it dry as he re-schooled his expression.

Harold had always liked Davy.

What would he think if he saw them now? What would he say if he knew Eustace hadn't even been able to keep their secret from a bunch of stupid, nosy teenagers?

The boys in Alberta's television shows always asked their fathers for advice when they had trouble at school, but Eustace couldn't even imagine such a scene between himself and Harold.

Hey, turns out my best friend actually hates me and he's probably going to crack my skull open on Mrs. Livingston's classroom floor tomorrow, any tips on how to flee the country?

No, perhaps not.

"Here."

Eustace turned to find Harold extending a hand to him, thumb and forefinger clamped around a folded wad of cash.

"For next time the collectors come by. Don't tell your mother."

Eustace blinked and dried a hand on his trousers before accepting the money, staring at the huge numbers on the bills and biting back the question he knew he wasn't supposed to ask.

Instead he stuffed the wad securely into his pocket and risked a different angle. "Where will you be?"

Harold shook his head. "It's better you don't know. Plausible deniability," he added with a half-teasing smirk, and clapped Eustace on the shoulder.

But the mingled scent of alcohol and strong, flowery perfume struck him even through the sickly-sweet chemical barrier of dish soap, and an image rose instantly to mind of some dim, smoky room filled with men's muffled chatter around a table as indistinct women brushed past in the background.

Whatever perfume they wore, it was not rosebud.

Eustace forced a tight smile, and Harold picked up his bag from the table as he crossed back to the door, lingering there for a moment in the absence of a farewell before stepping out and letting the screen slam behind him, his footsteps creaking down the steps and leaving Eustace alone in the kitchen again.

Somehow the emptiness of the descending silence felt deeper now than it ever had.

Alberta didn't get home until after dark, and he tuned out her idiotic rambling as if it were nothing more than radio static, never once mentioning that he'd seen Harold, or that he'd stuffed half their property value in cash under his mattress where she would never bother to check.

Only her foolish, overpriced peppermints made any dent in the plunging, hollow sensation that seemed to have settled itself permanently in his gut, cool sweetness spreading over his tongue like a numbing drug as he lay in bed wondering what lie he would be telling her tomorrow to cover for his impending accident. Wondering if she'd known all along where Harold went. Wondering whether she cared. Wondering if it was some natural property in peppermint gave it that calming, blanketing sense of unfounded safety, or if it was simply a placebo he'd developed over all these years.

The questions followed him into his dreams, broken only by the misty grey birdsong that always seemed to bleed in-between sleeping and waking, half a dozen versions of the day's events already having played out in his head before he finally hauled himself out of the threadbare sheets and pulled on the uniform he would be scouring with calloused hands in a matter of hours.

"What do you think?" Alberta asked when he stepped out into the kitchen, and he had to do a double take to register what she was talking about, her dark hair already up in curlers, hands cupped behind her ears where a pair of glittering ruby-studded earrings dangled, flashing in the grimy light.

He raised his eyebrows, blinking off the lingering weight of sleep. "Where did you get those?"

"I told you last night, silly boy, don't you remember? They were a very kind gift."

Eustace opened a cupboard and glanced over two bare shelves before spotting a package of stale biscuits. "From who?"

"Oh, just a gentleman friend."

He paused halfway through extracting a biscuit from its flimsy plastic wrapping, glancing at Alberta who beamed like a schoolgirl as she arranged her maroon blouse over its matching skirt, pride radiating from her every delicate movement. "One of your friends' husbands?"

"No, no… just… someone nice." She shot him a sugar-sweet smile and then nodded to the counter. "He sent those, too."

Eustace glanced down to spot a box of donuts from the expensive uppertown bakery in which he'd once spent long afternoons loitering around in the cozy oven warmth with Davy and Eleanor.

"Wouldn't you prefer something sweet?"

He swallowed, and his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You never do seem to eat much lately, is there anything you'd like?"

He shook his head again and waved a hand dismissively, tossing his biscuit untouched into the bin as he scooped up his bag and aimed for the door.

"Eustace Clarence, you haven't—"

He banged out into the street without a word, without a goal, without a glance into the blustery clear sky overhead, or the pale sunlight peeking over blocks of low, squat buildings.

He'd had half an idea of showing up so late to class that he couldn't be cornered beforehand, perhaps to delay the inevitable just a little longer, but now his long strides carried him swiftly into the upper district, reckless energy crackling under his skin, itching to burst free.

How long had someone nice been paying for Alberta's foolish purchases?

How long before the whole town knew?

How long had the thought been lurking in the corners of his mind, half a secret even from himself?

He barely felt the bite of the wind, or the blast of hot, dry air as he shoved through the swinging front doors. He barely heard the chatter flood in around him, or the cacophony of slamming locker doors. But the laugh he knew—the broad-shouldered figure leaning so comfortably against the wall with a flash of blonde at its side, the lazy brutish posture that straightened as he approached without sparing a single glance in its direction.

"Where do you think you're going?" the familiar voice teased, unfailingly bright, like a sun flare reaching out to scorch the earth.

Eustace didn't stop, and Davy's hand struck out to catch him by the chest as he passed.

"Woah, woah, woah, someone's in a hurry."

Eustace shoved him off with an abrupt burst of strength, as if he had any hope of making it another step before Davy grabbed a fistful of his collar and threw him hard against a locker.

His head slammed back against the metal door with a bang, throat constricting under Davy's grip as his own hands flew up reflexively to clutch the powerful arm that pinned him like a moth to an index card, and a sharp choke of a laugh escaped his throat before he could swallow it—derisive, almost mad, the absurdity of these dramatics sinking in as it never had before.

Davy's eyes narrowed, rich brown depths alight with the thrill of his petty, ridiculous game. "The hell's with you today?"

Eustace met his penetrating stare and scoffed unflinchingly despite his compromised position. "None of your business."

"Oh yeah?" came Eleanor's scornful pout at Davy's shoulder before he could spit back a retort. "You want to try your luck two days in a row, Scrubb? That doesn't sound very clever to me. And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

"Wow," said Eustace before he could help himself, "I'm impressed, Ellie. I didn't know you could count to two all by yourself."

Davy failed to suppress a snort, and Eleanor blinked stupidly for a second before flushing a brilliant hue that perfectly matched her bubblegum pink lip gloss.

Eustace almost smirked.

And then Davy's knee slammed into his stomach and he doubled over as white stars burst in his vision, the air vanishing from his lungs as the shock of it snapped through every nerve in his body.

His knee struck the floor as Davy released him and his hands flew out to catch himself against the cold lockers, his insides spasming as if trying to breathe through a plastic bag, choking in vain against the crushing sensation.

"Anything else to share with the class?" asked Davy, his sunny grin dripping from every word, and Eustace could only suck in the tiniest, painful squeak as his eyes stung from watering, the concept of words far beyond his capabilities at the moment.

"Thought not."

Eleanor tutted petulantly, crossing her arms and tossing her hair over her shoulder in the hazy outskirts of his vision as the trampling flow of students gave them a wide berth, and at last a tiny croak of a breath slipped into his lungs and he coughed, shuddering, choking on the sharp, dry gasps as they struck the back of his throat.

The bell rang.

Davy tucked his hands into his pockets and turned smugly away before a teacher showed up to usher them into class, nudging Eleanor playfully on his way past.

She hesitated for another few seconds, as if not yet satisfied, but the bustle of hurrying bodies forced her up the hall at last with nothing more than a scoff of disgust as Eustace struggled to draw regular breaths, his insides squirming to untangle themselves.

The volume of conversation rose around him again, lockers banging open and closed in every direction.

"Move," said someone overhead, yanking on the door he was blocking, and Eustace scrambled out of the way without looking up or arguing, hauling his bookbag up after him as he staggered to his feet.

Someone small brushed past with a flash of mousy brown hair, familiar black-buckled shoes hurrying away through the throng, but even Jill Pole's sharpened silence couldn't quell the dregs of satisfaction that settled in his gut with the ache of the blow.

Even as he slumped into his seat and ignored the murmurs around him, dragging in quiet, steady breaths, he had to bite his lip to hide the irresistible grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Mad.

Yes, he was going quite mad.

But the feeling didn't dissipate even as the school day moved on, the whole ridiculous scene playing over in his head as he filled out his geometry quiz; as Mrs. Livingston lectured on the five historical uses of force field technology. And the airy flutter in his stomach wasn't just the hollow tickle of hunger.

Was that really the best they could do? Was that really what he'd been so afraid of for days on end?

If Davy punched him in the face right now, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't just laugh.

Reckless, hissed the only sane voice in the back of his mind. The one that sounded uncomfortably like Harold.

But what did it matter if he got reckless?

What was going to happen?

If the rest of his family was so eager to act a fool in public, why should he even care?

Oh, yes, because our reputation can really be salvaged at this point.

If he was going to get shoved down the stairs every other day no matter what, he intended to deserve it.

xXx

"That was stupid."

Eustace didn't even turn around when Pole caught up to him on the sidewalk beyond the laurel hedge.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion."

The ice of her answering silence struck him bluntly in the clear, pale afternoon sunlight, and her footsteps quickened to keep up with his long strides, trailing a few yards behind him as he turned down a side street. "Do you think you're invincible or something?"

"What?" He glanced back without thinking, Pole's usually downturned eyes fixed piercingly on him, pale cheeks rosy with the nip of the wind, not a scrap of her ordinary hesitation holding her back. His brows knit with incredulity. "Why do you care?"

"I don't."

He scoffed and looked back to the sidewalk ahead of him.

"I just wanted to know," she said. "So I can tell the peacekeepers after you get yourself murdered."

"I'm not getting murdered."

"Well, I sure don't think Blakiston would mind."

"Don't be stupid," he snapped.

What was he doing? Why was he even entertaining this conversation? What exactly about yesterday's encounter had given Pole the impression he wanted company?

He quickened his pace, cutting across someone's back garden and aiming for the shortest way into the lower district.

He almost smirked at the little huff behind him as her footsteps hurried to keep up.

"What are you doing?" he sighed at last.

"Walking home."

"I'd gathered that much, believe it or not. What are you doing here?"

She hopped forward, stockinged legs moving double time as her short hair swished in the corner of his vision. "At the moment, I'm waiting for one good reason to think they won't be scraping you off the pavement by next week."

Eustace rolled his eyes. "Davy just wants an excuse to hit something, it's no deeper than that."

"And you're just willing to give it to him? For— what, a few petty insults?"

"Call it an investment," he snapped in the same superior tone he'd always loved to use on Eleanor when she proved herself to be particularly daft. "He can't exactly kill me if he wants to have more fun tomorrow, can he?"

"Only if you stay fun."

He scoffed again. Of course Crybaby Pole couldn't fathom wanting anything interesting to happen. "You know, I really think I preferred it when you didn't talk."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion."

He shot her a withering glare, but she didn't recoil as she ordinarily might have, returning the look with equal surly distaste.

A dozen poisonous retorts leapt to mind with reflexive readiness, but something held them back, sticking halfway up his throat, and he merely forced his eyes ahead again as he took another back road down the length of a disused factory building, ignoring Pole in the renewed, crackling silence.

He didn't have the energy to argue with her right now. That was all.

Steel Street approached without another word passed between them, and Pole turned silently off into her front garden as he trudged up the steps to his own hovel.

He glanced over his shoulder when her door slammed, the empty, dust-caked walls of the Pole house staring blankly back at him.

And he stepped inside with a sigh.

This time Alberta's worried questions bombarded him from the moment his boots made contact with the ugly linoleum tile, but he brushed them off with convenient excuses about a stomach ache, and she left him alone in his room after only an hour of insistent pestering when a car pulled up for her outside.

She never even seemed to guess at what might really be bothering him—never troubled to hide the boxes of chocolate that piled up on the counter, or the brand new dresses she wore into town every day. And the deepening purple bruises over his ribs and knees became almost comfortable compared to the stifling, suffocating pressure of keeping his mouth shut—that exhilarating rush of adrenaline before the snap of pain like an honest breath of relief.

It happened like clockwork, slipping out at the crack of dawn, taking a shot at the gang's expense and paying the price between classes, then ducking out behind the gym only for Pole to catch up day after day, until it became a strange ritual of sorts, and he finally gave up on his futile attempts to ignore her.

"Don't you have anyone else to bother?" he snapped for the third time in a week, his tone's usual bite dulled by a twinge in his lower left rib.

"Don't you think if I did, I'd be bothering them?"

"I don't know, I'm beginning to think you just like watching me suffer."

"I don't like watching anyone suffer," she spat with the icy bluntness he'd learned to expect from the strange girl, almost the polar opposite of the meek, weepy persona she put forward in class. Then a moment later she amended her statement. "Except… well, I guess I could make an exception for Blakiston."

He scoffed. "Yeah, I'll bet you could."

They fell into silence for half a block before Pole spoke up again.

"I'm surprised you got that stain out of your sleeve, it looked really bad yesterday."

Oh, of course. What did she want, a medal? As if giving him that tip about corn starch was anything to be proud of, really.

Eustace only rolled his eyes.

"Is that why you were up so late last night?"

He looked sharply at her. "How in the bloody hell would you know if I was?"

"Oh, don't get so bristly," she retorted coolly, "your light was on, that's all."

He raised a brow, masking the strange, indignant shiver that rushed through him at the idea of being observed with his guard down. "So you're spying on me now?"

Pole's footsteps quickened to keep pace with his, rather dampening the effect of her offended scoff. "Don't act like you're so bloody interesting, your bedroom window faces mine, I wasn't looking on purpose."

"And how exactly do you spy on someone accidentally?"

She tossed her hair out of her face. "It's not my fault you left your curtains open."

The curtain rungs screeched over the dusty rod the moment he stepped back into his bedroom and yanked the blinds shut, blotting out the last orangey glow of dusk through the factory smoke.

Now his paneled bedroom walls reflected only the pattern of his sickly yellow ceiling lamp.

Have fun with that, he shot to the Jill Pole in his head, though she returned none of the ironic, lofty contempt he would so like to have earned from the real one.

"Nosey little weasel," he muttered, this time aloud, yet still devoid of any satisfying reply.

He rubbed his arms as if he could brush off the idea of her invasive gaze, lowering himself gingerly onto his stiff mattress and wincing anyway as he propped an arm behind his head.

His fingers played absently with the tips of his hair, noting its length with a distant thought that Alberta would want to have it cut soon, only to remember of course that they couldn't afford the uppertown barber.

Not with their own money, anyway, and he certainly wasn't about to accept anyone else's.

The thought of the new bedroom slippers Alberta had shown him so proudly this morning popped unbidden into his mind, and his stomach turned.

Purely out of habit, he pulled a peppermint from his pocket and popped it into his mouth, sighing as he closed his eyes.

Too early to sleep.

He opened them again.

How late had Pole been awake last night that she'd seen him?

He rolled onto his side, but no position ever did seem to get comfortable on this bed. He may as well have been sleeping on the floor for all it mattered, sore ribs or not.

He sat up again, then stood, then paced back and forth across the cramped floorboards.

A familiar muffled, sporadic hum told him the Poles were arguing again, and he paused to listen, though he'd never been able to pick out any individual words through the walls of both houses, only the cadence rising and falling, the anger in both man and woman.

What did Pole hear?

Did they argue about money, like Harold and Alberta? Did her mother ever splurge on extravagances they couldn't afford? Did her father spend too much time at the pub down the road?

He'd seen Mrs. Pole only once at a school function several years ago, a gaunt-faced woman who might have been pretty once, before the years of grueling factory work caught up to her. Eustace had whispered something vulgar to Davy about her unbecoming dress and then promptly forgotten all about her.

She had never registered in his mind as a real person.

He glanced toward his window, but the dust on his dark blue curtains afforded no answers, and he pursed his lips.

No, he was being stupid.

But what did it matter?

Slowly, he crossed to the window, hesitating there for a moment before at last he reached out and lifted the edge of the stiff material with his middle and forefinger, peering through the narrow gap into the saturated orange haze.

Sunset reflected in the square window directly across the narrow gap of pavement between two houses, dark blinds drawn shut behind the glass.

She'd closed hers, too.

He scoffed.

Then a fleck of white caught his eye on her sill, and he squinted at something like a rolled up piece of paper.

No, not rolled up. Folded.

Folded into the shape of something with wings.

The image of her hunched form on their back stoop flashed abruptly back to him, carefully creasing notebook paper between her short cropped fingernails, and he let the curtain drop.

Still the distant argument hummed on, bouncing around at the edge of his senses as he turned his restless attention grudgingly to robotics homework.

"What's with the butterfly?" he asked as Pole caught up to him the next day, her uniform jacket tossed over one arm in the creeping thaw of late February, laurel greens peeking through their once-white blanket behind her, the fluttering breeze now almost approaching a reasonable temperature.

She blinked, evidently playing at confusion. "What butterfly?"

"Don't act coy, you know what I mean."

"You mean in the window?"

"Yes I mean in the window, are you thick?"

"I'm just impressed you could tell what it was. Paying attention, are we?" The smirk in her voice gave her away.

"I have excellent eyesight, I'll have you know," snapped Eustace. "And I'm allowed to look outside my own house, it's not my fault yours is in the way."

Pole made a noise like a poorly suppressed snort, and Eustace clenched his jaw, suddenly wishing he'd never spoken at all.

"It was a simple question. Your hideous art is interrupting my view."

"Hey! At least you could tell it was a butterfly."

"Two-year-olds know what butterflies are, Pole, it's not difficult."

She huffed.

An old car rumbled past, their footsteps crunching over leftover sidewalk salt.

"Well?"

"Well what?" she snapped.

"You still didn't answer my question."

Pole sighed. "Well, suppose I didn't have anything better to do with my time, did I?"

He shook his head. "I mean why is it in the window?"

Her bob cut swished as she looked at him, and he glanced over to find her almost smiling—a terribly smug expression, if ever he'd seen one.

"To give you something to look at while you spied on me."

"I— wh— hey!"

Pole giggled and bolted up the street before he could so much as form a coherent retort, and he almost followed her, hesitating just a few moments too long before he sighed and trudged on at his own pace, shooting sharp remarks after her in his head as her clacking footsteps echoed off the concrete.

The barrage of silent, stinging barbs piled up until he reached his doorstep, Pole having already vanished into her own ever-taunting abode. But only then did it dawn on him that in all his life, he'd never heard Jill Pole laugh.

Grating, he thought.

Yes, quite grating.

Yet it replayed over and over, until the sun made its glowing orange descent and he glanced for the briefest of moments through the blinds at a folded paper butterfly.

xXx

"How's your face?"

Pole's voice came out unusually tight, as if trying very hard to sound casual.

"No worse than usual," spat Eustace, and his fingers brushed his left temple reflexively, grazing the tender spot where Davy's well-aimed rock had struck him during recess.

Their first day back outside for the year and already its dangers had made themselves more than evident.

"Guess I should learn to duck, huh?" he muttered grimly.

"At least it doesn't look like your eye will bruise."

He forced a dull, sarcastic smirk. "It really is the little things in life."

Pole fell silent.

Technically, she was right. The cut was just far enough off to the side that he could probably just brush his hair over it. Even Alberta wouldn't have been thick enough to miss a black eye.

It was the fresh bloodstain on his vest that really bothered him. That, and his fraying cuffs where he'd struck gravel too many times, and the rip over his right knee.

"This thing's gonna be in pieces by the end of the year," he sighed after several long, empty minutes as they turned at last onto Steel, almost without meaning to speak aloud.

That was a conversation he didn't want to have with either of his parents. Asking for a new uniform came with questions, and there were only so many accidents he could reasonably blame before it became too ridiculous to believe.

"I can try to mend it for you, if you want."

Eustace's head snapped up and he halted abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, just a few yards from her front door.

Pole stopped in the patch of soggy dead grass that served as her front garden and turned with a faint pink flush in her cheeks, as if the words had only truly struck her at the same moment she'd spoken them. She licked her lips awkwardly, eyes searching for somewhere to settle. "I mean— you know, it's just— I'm alright with sewing, and I already do it so much anyway, it wouldn't really—"

"I don't want handouts from you," he spat with a surge of hot, flustered indignation.

Pole flinched, brows knitting as she took a step back. "Alright, I was just being nice."

"You know exactly what you're being," he snapped, "and you're welcome to cut it out anytime."

"I—" She blinked, tone sharpening defensively. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you?" His temper flared with abrupt intensity that almost caught him off guard, pulse pounding in his suddenly burning throat. "No, I suppose it's just an accident that you've taken every possible opportunity to mock me like I'm somehow on your level now, huh?"

"What—?" Pole scoffed, that hateful, icy fire of defiance leaping into her eyes. "Are you mad? What have I ever done except try to help you?"

"Oh, yes, some help! You think it's funny? All of this?" He motioned widely to the ugly grey buildings in various stages of neglect or disrepair. "You think it's funny that I'm down here with the rats like you?"

She opened her mouth to retort, but he barreled on.

"You just want to feel special, don't you? You think—what—that if you hold all your good deeds over my head I'll be grateful? You know perfectly well nobody worth anything cares that you're alive, not your foul parents, not a single damned kid at school, you really think I'm gonna be any different? You really think I'd care if you threw yourself off the bloody comm tower tomorrow? I don't need a buddy, Pole, I don't need your stupid charity."

Pole stammered wordlessly, the glimmer of tears brimming in deep brown eyes as if to put out their fire at last. "I—" She choked, shook her head, and swallowed to regain her voice. "I know."

He stared at her, breathless.

"You think I don't know nobody cares about me?" She scoffed a tearful, miserable, mocking laugh. "Crybaby Pole? But at least I know! At least nobody had to punch me in the face before I realized even my best friends couldn't stand me!"

"Hey!"

"I can't believe I almost felt sorry for you," she spat, and her eyes danced fuller and fuller with tears as at last they broke free and spilled shining down her face. "You're just as horrid and cruel as the rest of them, aren't you?"

"At least I'm not a pathetic, simpering coward!"

"Yeah," she choked. "It is pathetic, how I actually thought you might be halfway decent now."

And before he could find his voice to retort, Pole turned on her heel and stormed into her own house, slamming the front door behind her.

The bang echoed like thunder in his ears, heart pounding, chest heaving, fingers trembling as he clenched them into fists and unspent fury ricocheted scattershot through his nervous system.

A gust of icy breeze nipped through his threadbare sleeves, tossing loose hair carelessly over his forehead, but he barely felt it.

Only when his own front door clicked open up the street did he snap back to his senses, one hand flying up to the edge of his vest to shield the bloodstain from view, the other brushing his hair over the cut on his temple as he spun to face Alberta.

She poked her yellow-scarfed head cautiously out the half open door as if she expected to catch stray bullets. "Eustace Clarence? What's going on out here? I thought I heard raised voices."

He strode quickly up the sidewalk and mounted his own front steps without ever looking directly at his mother. "The Pole girl. She was just… being a nuisance, that's all."

Alberta tutted distastefully. "She'll do you no good, dear, don't pay any mind to these people." She patted his arm and ushered him inside, shutting the door behind him as she busied herself in front of the silver mirror that shone so out of place in the dingy, greenish kitchen.

Eustace pulled his vest off at once, grateful to find at least that the stain had not touched his white shirt underneath. He balled the offending garment in one hand and crossed his arms. "Going out?"

"Oh, yes, dear."

"With who?"

The unsteady tremble of electrified nerves almost came out in his voice, but Alberta only smiled when she glanced at him, fixing a glittering ruby earring into place.

"Friends."

Oh, right. He was still supposed to believe that lie.

"Why don't you run off and spend the afternoon with that lovely boy—David, was it? I don't think I saw the two of you apart last year, what ever happened to him?"

Eustace shrugged, biting back a sharp, sardonic laugh. "Nothing. I see him plenty in school."

"Nonsense, you spend far too much time around the house for a boy your age, you should be out! Go somewhere nice."

"I have homework," he snapped, and pressed on before she could interrupt. "I'll need good marks if I want a decent internship next year, you know. They only take the best at the big houses."

Alberta hummed a sigh of resignation. "Well, there you are, thinking of everything. I'm sure you're right."

The smooth rumble of an engine hummed outside, gravel crunching under heavy wheels until they stopped just in front of the house, idling in the street as Alberta collected her things.

"Good luck with your sums, then, dear." She crossed the room and planted a kiss on his uninjured temple, and he only kept from flinching away for fear of exposing the other side of his face.

He forced a tight smile, and Alberta returned it happily with cherry-red lips before disappearing outside to meet her waiting driver.

So easily fooled, one might wonder whether she'd ever seen a real one to compare it to.

He parted the window shade with two fingers, peering out at the shiny black car with its tinted windows as Alberta shut her door and they pulled away, her mysterious friend still unseen.

But then, who would want to be seen around here?

The taunting, empty face of the Pole house stared blankly back at him from across the street, and he dropped the shade as an odd, cloying weight overtook him, dragging at his insides as if his stomach had filled with lead.

He swallowed, turning away and smoothing out his vest, running a thumb over the ugly bloodstain, the frayed edges, the fuzzy spot where the material has become almost transparent if you pulled it.

"I can try to mend it for you, if you want."

He breathed out shakily, forcing down the fresh wave of molten anger rising defensively into his throat.

With two swift strides he crossed the room, tossed his vest into the sink and pulled the ready box of cornstarch down from the cupboard overhead, slamming it down onto the countertop with unnecessary force and narrowly resisting the urge to throw it straight into the wall.

Don't be ridiculous.

She was just a stupid girl.

As if he needed a tag-along, anyway. She certainly wouldn't be keen on following him home now; no more false concern, no more peevish sniping, no more stupid grating giggles.

What did he even have to complain about?

He turned on the tap and let it run, watching his vest soak and darken as he clenched the edge of the counter, fingernails digging into splintered fiberboard.

"I can't believe I almost felt sorry for you,"

He scoffed. Yeah, well, I don't need your pity.

But of course, she couldn't hear him.

Nobody could hear him.

And Pole was probably crying in her room like the pathetic child she'd always been, perhaps stifling her sobs like he covered his bruises, hiding from oblivious parents like they even knew she existed.

He should have found satisfaction in the image—in the shock and the confusion and the hurt that flashed so vividly beneath the shining tears he'd caused—but something cold flopped over in his stomach, and he pushed the thought away.

"It is pathetic, how I actually thought you might be halfway decent now."

He could have laughed. As if he needed Jill Pole's judgment. As if it mattered what she thought of him. As if she mattered at all.

"I know."

He squeezed his eyes shut and blocked her forcefully out of his mind.

And then there was only the drumming of the tap in the empty house.

Dull afternoon light waned in that other world beyond the clouded windows, stretching across the floorboards until orange turned grey, and his geography essay lay unfinished on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, even after three hours of unfocused pencil-twirling in the flickering lamplight, the same line turning over and over in his mind until every word had lost its meaning.

He woke from strange, hazy dreams of watching Pole through a mirror as she twirled in glittering ruby earrings, only to find his clock glowing 6:15AM, his lamp still on, and himself still on the ground, forehead resting on one arm as rain pattered against his bedroom window.

If Alberta had come home at all, she hadn't looked in on him.

He groaned, hauling himself up off the floorboards with more than the usual stiffness in his bruised core muscles, snatching his vest off the corner of an open drawer, and stumbling into the kitchen as he rubbed thick, foggy sleep from his eyes.

Through the windows, one might have guessed it was still the middle of the night, rain beating down ever harder against the glass, but Eustace pulled his cold, half-dry vest over his shoulders, fishing a donut from the box on the counter and washing it down with an oversweet lemon drink straight from the jug, wiling away the rest of his time on the essay now due in a few hours.

Heavy grey clouds persisted even when the rain let up and he slipped outside into the waterlogged street, every house looking drowned in a way that somehow made them no less filthy.

Pole's dark doorway taunted him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze fixed pointedly on the glistening sidewalk ahead.

Only when he'd settled into his seat in the warm, dry chatter of Mrs. Livingston's classroom did that old familiar shadow flicker across his desk, and he glanced up without thinking to catch a flash of puffy red eyes and flushed cheeks before she disappeared behind him, his own eyes flicking sharply back down to bore holes into the badly illustrated cover of his history textbook.

Oh, quit putting on such a show, will you?

Class crawled on with the usual, miserable drone about wars and atrocities of the past, and his attention wandered even when Mrs. Livingston asked who knew the names of the three deadliest Capitol-engineered muttations, a subject that filled at least two of his own notebooks back home.

When the bell rang for lunch he slipped out with the rest of the babbling throng, ignoring the click of black-buckled shoes, ignoring the muffled sniff behind him.

What now? I suppose you think you'll make me feel sorry if you act sickly enough, do you? Well, it won't work.

Eleanor's squeaky cackle pierced the echoing din of the hall, and Eustace stiffened as an unpleasant shiver shot up the back of his neck.

"What's wrong with Princess Pole today, hm?"

Stanley's sharp breath of a laugh answered unmistakably as the gang caught up to her. "I think that's just how her face looks, El. Isn't that right, Pole? Didn't anybody ever tell you if you kept puckering up you'd get stuck like that?"

"Hardly a waste, though," put in Davy as if she wasn't even there, "never much of a looker in the first place, was she?"

"I know," giggled Eleanor, "you can hardly blame her. If I was Pole, I'd cry too."

"Oh, shut up!"

Eustace halted and glanced over his shoulder just as a dozen other heads turned, and the hum of chatter dulled as if all had reached the same dumbstruck conclusion at once—that it had been Pole herself who'd spoken.

She gasped in short, hysterical breaths, clutching her bag like a teddy bear to her chest as fresh tears slipped down her pink face. "Don't you ever get tired of behaving like a bunch of insufferable pigs?"

And before anyone could respond, she burst into tears and shoved through the crowd down the hall, running straight past the door to the lunch room.

Davy moved to follow.

"Really?" spat Eustace, and the boy turned back on him.

His heart skipped a beat as his wits caught up to what he'd just done, but the adrenaline crashed over him like a cool wave of reckless invincibility as Davy raised a brow.

"What was that, Scrubb?"

He breathed a short, dry laugh. "You've really got nothing better to do than beat up on little girls? I thought you liked a challenge, or can't you handle anything that bites back?"

Davy scoffed, and there was an edge to his creeping grin. "What, she your girlfriend now or something? I think all that factory smoke's finally getting to your brain, I mean honestly, even you could do better than Pole."

Eustace crossed his arms. "You didn't answer my question."

"And you're ignoring mine."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was a joke. It's getting hard to tell with you, you know, you're kind of a joke in general."

"I'm sorry?" Davy's teasing demeanor dropped like a mask as he stepped closer, looming easily over Eustace, the hall falling nearly silent around them. "You want to say that again?"

"Why, are you stupid, too?"

"What are you playing at?" spat Davy, snatching Eustace's collar and yanking it so tight he had to stand on his tiptoes not to choke.

Eustace laughed. "You never were very creative, were you? It's not hard to pick on the weak ones, Dave. Is Crybaby Pole really the best you can do?"

"That's funny, cause I'm pretty sure I can knock you down just fine."

"Does it count if I get back up?"

Davy sneered. "Do you want to stop getting back up?"

"Why? What are you afraid I'll say?"

Something deadly cracked in Davy's eyes, a purity of childish rage and hatred he'd never before seen so perfectly distilled. For a moment he saw nothing but the six year old boy who'd cried when Eustace beat him at checkers, who threatened to hit him if he didn't cede the match, the boy he'd so quickly learned to keep happy at any cost, only to find now that it had never mattered at all.

His heart pounded violently in the long, hollow silence, as if the hall itself were holding its breath, and Eustace almost spoke again before Davy's hand flashed up, snatched a handful of his hair, and slammed his face straight down into the stainless steel water fountain jutting out from the wall.

Blinding white light flashed for a split second as the world spun, spots dancing in the blur, fingers searching for purchase to support his weight against the cold metal surface.

"What's going on over there?" a hall monitor's bark cut through the ringing in his head.

"Scrubb tripped," said Davy flatly, and a strong fist clamped around his upper arm, hauling him back up to his feet with a crushing squeeze before letting go, the murmur of the hall rushing in around him again in a sickening haze.

Eustace gripped the edge of a locker with one hand and brought the other up to his face, hot blood dripping over his fingers as he cupped his nose and lips.

Eleanor's tittering giggle wafted as if from a mile away, the flow of traffic trickling once more toward the lunch room, and the gang's voices drifted away with it.

He blinked to clear his vision, the burning shock of impact masking the pain so that he couldn't even identify the source of the blood, and his stomach turned at the coppery warmth spreading over his tongue.

His eyes wandered to his vest, dark liquid dripping steadily from his hand onto the thick material, and tentatively, he raised his free hand.

The hall monitor sighed. "Go on, if you must."

He turned and hurried down the hall, the world still spinning so that he had to steady himself against the concrete wall for several moments once he'd escaped the eyes of his classmates.

He let out a shallow breath, making his way down a side corridor and past an office to the door of the staff bathroom, grabbing the handle and turning.

It didn't budge.

He turned it again.

Locked.

"Pole?" His voice came out slightly muffled, as if he were battling a thick cold.

Eustace knocked sharply on the solid wood door and winced as the noise ricocheted through his tender skull, blood dribbling down his wrist where he still cupped his face.

"Pole, I know you're in there."

Still no reply.

"Let me in, I know you're just sulking."

A laugh like a bitter sob answered him, Pole's voice echoing in the small space. "Oh, go away!"

"I can't," he snapped, and glanced over his shoulder with another sharp wince at the motion. "You know this is the only door that locks from the inside, I think he's going to kill me."

"Well," she scoffed thickly, "you should've thought of that before you were so beastly to me, shouldn't you?" Her breath caught as it hitched, choking on another sob. "He can go ahead and kill you for all I care!"

Eustace banged harder and sent pain like a knife straight through his brain.

He steadied himself, leaning with one hand on the door frame as the world blurred and then slowly came back into focus, heartbeat pounding in his temples, absently watching his own blood drip—drip—drip onto the tiled floor as Pole's muffled, echoing sobs hitched on.

At last, he closed his eyes and sighed, steeling himself as a leaden weight settled in his core.

"Fine, I'm sorry! Is that what you want to hear?"

The sobs softened to a faint sniffling.

Still, though, nothing seemed to happen.

He scoffed, blinking the world back into focus and glancing over his shoulder again. But before he could think of any other way to plead with the stubborn girl, there came a soft click, and the door cracked open a hair.

He shoved his way inside at once to an indignant yelp of surprise, catching himself against the linoleum countertop as the door slammed shut behind him with a punctuated click.

"What are you— oh!"

Pole cut her own question off with a stifled gasp, perhaps clapping a hand over her mouth, though Eustace barley noticed.

He turned on the tap, dunking both hands under the water with an alarming burst of red in the white basin, splashed his face, and snatched a handful of flimsy paper towels from the dispenser, clutching them against his mouth and nose.

"What did you—"

Again, Pole cut herself off, and in the periphery of his vision Eustace caught her retreating back to the far corner of the tiled white room, sinking to the floor with her knees tucked up to her chest.

For several long moments he leaned against the counter, waiting for his heart rate to calm as the throbbing pain slowly crept in through the shock, until he dared at last to glance into the mirror, pulling the blood-soaked paper away from his face.

A bright red trickle dripped from his nose to a split in his lower lip, an ugly mess of watered down orange-ish blood running over his chin and streaking in rivulets down his neck to soak his collar.

He breathed a deep sigh, swore under his breath, and snatched a fresh wad of paper.

At least his nose didn't seem to be broken. Not badly, in any case.

What was the word?

Hairline fracture.

He could probably get away with that.

The lip, on the other hand, he definitely wouldn't be able to hide.

"Scrubb tripped," echoed his alibi in Davy's voice.

He scoffed, eyes flicking involuntarily to Pole in the mirror before looking sharply away again.

Instead, he scrutinized his own disheveled reflection, sandy bangs hanging loose over his forehead, shrewd grey eyes piercing through heavy lids and pale blond eyelashes, rimmed with thick freckles.

And all at once, the boy looking back felt like a stranger.

"Did you take a punch for me?" asked Pole abruptly. The question burst out as if she'd only just failed to suppress it, her voice cracked and thick from a swollen throat.

"No," said Eustace. "I took a punch because I hate Davy Ellis."

Only the rush of the tap filled the silence that followed, and then not even that as he turned it off with a squeak.

He avoided her eyes in the mirror, though now he felt them prickling on the back of his neck, too.

Pole sniffled, breath still hitching at odd moments, wiping her eyes continually on her sleeves as if they were sticky faucets that never quite stopped leaking completely.

"Are you actually sorry?" she snapped through the tears when the silence had finally built to a suffocating peak. "Or did you just say that to get in here?"

Eustace glanced down into the sink basin, as if the obvious answer might lay there with the watery pink droplets streaking down into the drain.

"Because you're worse than them, you know." Pole's voice trembled with an edge of disdain. "Everything you said was a lot worse."

A fiery retort should have leapt up in his chest with a righteous fury, but it didn't. Only a strange, sickening weight settled in his stomach, some unholy amalgamation of satisfaction and remorse. And his voice came out quiet and toneless when at last he spoke.

"I know."

Still he avoided her eyes, but he turned away from the counter and sank down to the cold floor with a sigh, propping his elbows on his knees with a wad of paper towels pressed hard to his lip to wait out the bleeding.

The single room was small enough that if they'd both extended their legs, the soles of their shoes would have touched, sitting opposite each other in the renewed silence as Pole's breath hitched sporadically.

Of all the moments he could never have imagined two months ago, this one had to top the list.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a peppermint, intending only to lodge it in the side of his mouth out of habit, but Pole drew a small, sharp breath, and he glanced up to catch a flicker of surprise in her eyes, as if a piece of candy were some shocking or unusual sight.

Then again, perhaps it was, for her.

He held it out to her between two fingers, and she stiffened, turning her teary-eyed glower up to him.

"What's that supposed to be?"

He shrugged. "Peppermint."

"I know that, I mean— why?"

He retracted his hand and turned the candy over again. "Well, if you don't want it—"

Pole scoffed, and almost hiccuped. "I don't get it, do you hate me or not? I thought I was pathetic, or— something."

"You are."

"I—"

"And I hate it when you cry."

"Wh—"

"It's grating, really. So grating. I truly don't know how you live with yourself. And if I'm going to keep up the will to live for the rest of the day, I'm gonna need you to shut up."

If her cheeks flushed, he couldn't tell through their already raw and rosy hue, but her glare intensified, lips forming a thin line.

She held out her hand.

Eustace suppressed a smirk and flung the candy at her before pulling a second out for himself.

Pole's tiny, pale fingers unwrapped the peppermint as if it were a priceless treasure, hesitating before putting it in her mouth, and falling silent for a long moment as Eustace sucked on his own and her sporadic sniffles quieted.

Perhaps peppermint really did have calming properties.

He would have to look it up in the library.

Pole wiped her eyes on her sleeves, playing with the wax paper and smoothing it out into a flat square.

And slowly, though he barely noticed what she was doing at first, her square of crinkly brown paper turned with every careful crease into the shape of a butterfly.

She placed it on her index finger, fully formed, as if it had just alighted there out of the air, almost lifelike, shuddering on the faint tremble of her hand.

"Is that the only thing you know how to make?"

She dropped it back into her palm. "Shut up."

"I'm serious. Don't you know cranes or anything? Butterflies aren't very complicated."

"I like them," she spat, voice still tight, though her tears had stopped. "And how am I supposed to make a crane out of this, anyway?"

Eustace smoothed out his own wrapper against his thigh, using his free hand to crease it lengthwise, sideways, then diagonally, muscle memory guiding him more than thought as the little brown crane took shape with only a few small corrections where he'd skipped a step.

He tossed it to her, and she caught it, turning it over and then eyeing him reluctantly.

"Is that what rich kids spend all their time on?"

"Only the bored ones."

She pursed her lips, but for a moment he thought she'd almost smiled.

Silence descended again between them, though this time it didn't crush his lungs with unbearable pressure, and he watched distantly as Pole balanced his crane on her pointer finger, big brown eyes studying every tiny detail, until at last he sighed.

"And I am. Actually sorry."

Pole looked up with a flicker of disarmingly vulnerable surprise.

He looked away, shrugging as if he could cast off the strangely transparent feeling that came over him, but her eyes never moved.

"I may also be concussed, so you might want to take that into account."

Pole scoffed a breathy hiccup of laughter, and he glanced back up to her in bemusement as she shook her head, battling a confusing jumble of expressions beneath scattered bangs.

But the tiny, tearful smile broke through them all.

And Eustace smirked back in spite of himself.