... in a HOPELESS place

[Lyle Malarkey]

turn away 'cause i need you more
feel the heartbeat in my mind

If he waited until the rest of the class was gone, gave himself another minute, and left then, he had exactly seven minutes to cross the castle to get to his next hour. Seven minutes, which meant that he had to take the stairs two at a time, and jog around the final corridor. He’d have the full ten, but that meant pushing through several people to get out of the door. It meant crowded hallways and loud voices and too much touching, shoving, pushing, grazing, uncomfortable closeness.

So, he took his time, carefully repacking his bag, smoothing down the flaps and refastening the ties at least three more times before he settled the bag over his shoulder. Then he stood.up, gently pushing his chair in, tapping it once, twice, three times lightly. Flexing his fingers, he shoved them into his pockets and made his way to the door. He nudged it open, sticking his head out and glancing around. The corridor was significantly less crowded. He let out a breath, closing his eyes, before taking another and finally stepping out into the hallway.
He kept his head down, eyes on his shoes as he walked as quickly as possible to the main staircase. He managed to mostly dance around the other students so as to avoid them. He took the stairs two at a time – jumping over the missing, trick stairs, of course – before turning the corridor and going into the very, very end of his walk to his History of Magic class. He started to pick up the pace, knowing that he couldn’t be late again, when someone smacked right into him.

Correction. Someone had jumped in front of him, because Lyle would have seen them if they had just been standing there or walking in his direction or something – he would have. He always pays attention now, always, and he would have – he wouldn’t have –

“What’s the matter, f*ggot?” the guy asked him, crouching down low to get at Lyle’s face. The guy reached down and hauled him up, pushing him into the wall. Lyle squirmed, kicking out as hard as he could. He caught the guy’s leg, and he swore, dropping Lyle. He fell to a heap on the ground, grabbing his head in his hands. “I should fucking murder you for that one, you –“

Lyle couldn’t hear him anymore. Couldn’t see him. Could barely feel it when the guy kicked at his own legs. Didn’t notice when he kicked all of Lyle’s things across the hallway. There was a ringing in his ears and a cold feeling crawling in his stomach and this was – this was bad.

Bad, bad, bad – “I’m going to kill you.” – bad. Lyle made a soft noise, bringing his hands up and tugging at his hair. This was why he waited. Seven minutes. He was supposed to have seven minutes to get from Charms to History of Magic without this happening. He was supposed to have seven minutes, and he had only had five. Six. Now, it was seven, and he vaguely heard a door slam somewhere but that sounded like a gun, and Lyle knew better than this – he knew how bad things could go in the span of a second, how had he not factored in all of those thousands of seconds that occurred in seven minutes.
He needed his panic meds, but they were across the hall, in his bag, kicked far, far, far away and he could get up, he could, but that would be another minute, another sixty seconds, another sixty chances for something else to go wrong.
But maybe if he stayed here long enough, things would turn out okay.

--> stefan capper

[Stefan Capper]

Stefan was doing okay.

Finally, after months and months of being pale, barely eating, crying himself to sleep every night and nightmare after nightmare, he thought he was actually getting better. See, Stefan wasn’t sure if there was some sort of rulebook, some sort of guidelines that he had to follow in order to know how to deal with certain situations in his life. There certainly hadn’t been any guidelines when he’d gotten amnesia about his first three years at Hogwarts; he’d had to learn how to deal with that on his own. And he didn’t consider himself to have fully gotten over that, known how to deal with it, how to handle new people and old people and who to call his friends until the beginning of this year. At the beginning of this year, he’d been great. He’d known who he was, he’d known what he wanted, and he’d had good friends, close friends. It seemed like every good thing had to be taken away from him, though.

He wasn’t okay again.

Not after the attack at St. Mungo’s, not after the news of his parents’ sudden deaths, not for two months after that when his and Lyle’s relationship had been crumbling, and not even afterwards, when he’d been trying to figure out how to deal with everything that was going on in his life. But there were no guidelines. The guidelines he had were friends, what he knew of the world and what he’d experienced and heard of it. He could only follow certain rules, and only certain ideas of where to go and what to do, but he had to make up his own story; had to figure out a way to find the last page of that chapter of his life and turn it.

He’d found the page.

And he was doing okay again. Even though everything wasn’t perfect, and one out of four nights he still cried himself to sleep, and there were things he thought about that made him quiet for the rest of the hour, Stefan honestly felt like he could be himself again soon enough. Imogen had been his best friend. Constant, there, honest and open. Emme was being nicer and nicer to him; he was starting to see her like someone he could be friends with, if he wanted to. His grades were picking back up now that he didn’t want to curl up and die every time he had something to read. He’d met Isaac, properly, who had turned out to be funny, sweet, and someone he could spend time with and not think about all the things they knew about him; all the things they wondered and wanted to be careful around. Isaac wasn’t any of those. He was new, and it was refreshing.

Maybe all of this was like a breath of fresh air, and that’s why he was doing okay again. “Students, please stop writing and turn in your work.” Stefan looked up from where he’d been dozing off a little, straightening in his seat and watching as the essays they’d been working on were all summoned to Professor McGonagall’s desk. He’d done a good job on that. He knew what he was talking about. Smiling a little, Stefan glanced over at Imogen a couple seats away from him and winked, nodding. The bell rang soon afterwards, not before McGonagall gave them another chapter of their textbook to read, of course, and Stefan found himself gathering his things and walking out down the corridor to where he had History of Magic. Imogen had a class on the other side of the school, so he quickly waved her goodbye and headed off to the second floor, looking around and realizing he was kind of late, hurrying his steps up. He was a corridor away when he heard someone shouting ahead of him and caught the end of the—“f*g**t!”—before he froze in his steps, heart picking up speed immediately and eyes widening.

An older boy he didn’t recognize rounded the corner and Stefan stepped aside quickly, flattening himself against the wall and watching him walk off before his held breath left his lips in a puff. Heart still racing, he gathered his bearings when it struck him he must have been referring to someone, and took a couple running steps forward until he turned the corner—and stopped in his tracks again. “Fuck,” he breathed out. Lyle was crouched down against the corner of the corridor, hands gripping at his hair and shaking. The sight made Stefan’s insides churn and twist painfully, and it was like his heart was breaking all over again, wind picking up and flipping back the entire chapter until he was right where he started: hurt, terrified, heartbroken. He wanted to escape all this—he wanted to run away from the pain.

But it was Lyle.

Rushing forward instead, Stefan dropped his bag to a side and bit his lip, not knowing what to say. They hadn’t spoken since that day. Not a word. Not even a ‘hello’. They passed each other in the hallways and Stefan looked away. What was he supposed to say now? Somehow, hello didn’t seem appropriate—it didn’t matter, Lyle was terrified. “What did he do to you?

[/color]” were the first words that left his lips, and Stefan kneeled next to him, reaching over for Lyle’s bag on the other side of the floor and dragging it over, looking around at the now-empty school before turning to him. “Are you hurt?[/color]”

Because even if it hurt him to do this, he couldn’t stand the thought of Lyle being in pain like this. He could deal with his own later.

[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[Lyle Malarkey]

turn away 'cause i need you more
feel the heartbeat in my mind

This was bad, yes, but perhaps what had made it worse was that Lyle had been getting better. He was going to therapy twice a week. He was boxing every other day, sometimes with Gideon, sometimes without Gideon. He had Quidditch and Gabby and a wedding to plan and a new family to get used to and he had so much work to catch up on still that he was plenty distracted enough. So, maybe he wasn’t necessarily getting better, but perhaps learning to ignore what was wrong was just as okay. That is, he supposed at that moment, until those things caught up with you. Like now.His therapist was trying to teach him that these things weren’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that Danny had attacked him. Twice. It wasn’t his fault that he had been – had been – no, no matter how many sessions he had, Lyle still couldn’t quite say what exactly had happened to him. He tugged on his hair a little harder, shaking his head – he was fine, he was fine – he had to remember to breathe. In and out. Count to ten, count to nine, eight, seven –

Then – oh, God, Stefan’s voice. He was hearing Stefan’s voice. He was so pathetic, that he was actually hearing Stefan’s voice. He pulled away a little, making a loud, startled sound, like he was trying to block him out, block out Stefan’s voice, block out the crazy. He wasn’t losing his mind. He wasn’t. He was a little frightened, but if he just kept counting, then everything would be fine. Six, five, four –

Then Stefan’s voice was talking again, and he flinched at the sound. He was hear, wasn’t he? Oh, God, Stefan was here, and he was watching Lyle fall apart, and this was just so fucking sad that he wanted to cry. Or scream. Or throw things. Or all three, except he couldn’t even move, couldn’t even breathe, so instead he just shook his head and curled up closer.

“Go away,” he said quietly, a whisper, “go away, go away, go away,” he kept repeating, but he still wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was he talking to the boy who had done this? To Stefan? To himself? “Go away,” he said again, firm, louder, more purposeful. He needed to be alone. He needed to get away. He needed to count – ten, nine, eight, “Go away,” five, four – “Go. Go. Go.”

And then, quiet, heartbreaking, he whimpered softly, wounded, and, remembering his manners, he managed to squeak out a simple: “Please?”

[Stefan Capper]

This? This was the product of what had happened at St. Mungo’s. This was the result of evil, of abuse, of terror on an innocent boy. This was Lyle losing it, and Stefan hadn’t had to deal with this in so long, it was like a splash of ice at his face, making his skin prickle with the startling realization that it didn’t matter that he and Lyle had broken up, that they weren’t friends, that they didn’t talk anymore, because he had to deal with it now. He had to take care of him now because he was in love with him, no matter how much he tried to deny it to himself, day after day, that he would get over him—well he hadn’t. Not yet, and not in the least. And Lyle was shaking back and forth, grappling at his hair and tugging and he looked like he was suffering, and somewhere in Stefan’s addled mind he managed to remember. Panic attack. Something like this had happened before; once, way back in January, maybe late December, he wasn’t sure, but it had happened. Lyle had been like this and he had to—Stefan jerked his hands a little when Lyle moved back, away from him, and started muttering for him to go away, louder, more clearly, and again and again until it seemed like it was all he could say, or do, to get him to leave.

Stefan didn’t even know if Lyle recognized who he was right now—it hurt to realize that it was probably better that he didn’t.

Panic attack, he reminded himself, and looked around, feeling for Lyle’s bag as he tried to remember what it was he was supposed to take—“Where are the meds?” he asked him in a whisper, throat tight and stomach still twisting as he opened his bag and started ruffling inside, moving through pieces of parchment, scattering them around the floor and dropping that Quick Notes Quill he always used—it wasn’t the time to get teary over it. Until his hand finally clasped around a small, glass vial, and he yanked it out. “Here, you’re supposed to--you’re supposed to take this,

[/color]” he stuttered, popping the cork out and reaching over, again, his hand trembling a little in a mixture of fear and nerves as he set it on Lyle’s shoulder, tugging at it a little. “Lyle.[/color]” The word was like sandpaper in his mouth, and he squeezed his shoulder again. “You have to take this.[/color]”

And Lyle’s little ‘please’ had broken him all over again, and it was like something was stabbing at his heart with each moment that passed, but Lyle was panicking and he had to take care of this. His voice was quiet, a whimper, and he was curled into the corner, still, as if he wanted to flatten himself right into the stone and disappear. The conviction with which he was sending him away was almost enough to break down Stefan’s last wall up, the one that had appeared with the adrenaline of the moment, the one that told him Lyle needed someone right now and he was supposed to do this, and was the only thing holding him up from not collapsing into desperate tears right now. So he shook his head; he had to, and denied him what he wanted, holding the vial up to his face, still covered by his hands.

In a last-ditch attempt, his throat tightening and his stomach twisting at the thought that it might not work anymore, he whispered, “Please.[/color]”

[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[Lyle Malarkey]

turn away 'cause i need you more
feel the heartbeat in my mind

Panic attacks, for Lyle, went into three stages.

There was the initial fear, the panic, the sinking feeling in his stomach that slowly churned into cold dread before it settled like a rock, sinking him further and further down until he was drowning in his own despair. That was what brought him to the second part.

That part, there was the further panicking – because his body had already succumbed to the fear, and his brain was catching up. Telling him things like it was his fault. That he was going to die. That he couldn’t breathe because he couldn’t remember to breathe and how could he be so stupid as to forget how to breathe? It made things like talking difficult, tongue heavy in his mouth, weighed down by the same thoughts and feelings and general wrongness of the situation. He was going to die because he was a f*ggot. That’s what f*ggots do. They die because they’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong –

And when the thoughts didn’t show up—because they couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t can’t stop – he gets the most dangerous part of his panic attacks, where he can’t breathe, he actually can’t breathe, and he sits there sucking in large gulps, but nothing seems to actually be happening. He doesn’t actually seem to be taking anything in. He just gasps, loud and wet and quaking. His hands fall from his hair and smack against the ground, and he pressed his head back against the wall. His eyes were shut, but he opened them after a minute. He blinked, because his vision was hazy, and he kept blinking until he was focusing on a face in front of him. There was a hand on his shoulder, someone was talking to him, but he just couldn’t breathe. He glanced down at the vial that was being presented to him, and he blinked again, gasping.

Somewhere, though, in the back of his mind, he remembered that he had medicine for this kind of thing. Medicine that calmed him down. That made everything bad go away. Go away for good, go away for now. He hadn’t been able to get it because that guy – “What’s the matter, f*ggot?” – had pushed his stuff away. On the other side of the hallway. Where he couldn’t get it. But someone had grabbed it for him, someone had known, and now he had it, and he had to take it. He had to take the medicine before he passed out – before things got worse, before he –

He reached out with shaking hands, taking the vial. Without thinking, he brought it to his lips and tossed his head back, swallowing it as quickly as he could. He could feel the calm washing over him in waves, slowly peeling away the anxiety. He took a large, gasping breath, actually breathing in this time. He closed his eyes and collapsed back against the wall, breathing heavily. He brought his hands back up and ran them through his hair another time, over and over, until they stopped shaking. He wiped at his face a bit, closing his eyes and leaning forward, pressing his face into his knees.

“Thank you,” he murmured at whoever had saved him, now far too tired to lift his head and see. He just took a deep breath and settled in further, whispering quietly, one more time, “Thank you.”

[Stefan Capper]

It worked, though.

Or at least, something had made Lyle react enough to take the vial from his hand, shaking and trembling while Stefan watched helplessly as he brought it to his lips and took gulps from it. He watched, forgetting about class and school and anything other than the fact that Lyle had been having a panic attack, and what would have happened if he hadn’t stumbled upon him to give him his medicine? He had seemed too shaken up to get up and take it for himself. The first time this had happened, months ago, they’d been in his room, and Lyle had had the presence of mind enough to tell him there was that vial he had in his bag that he was supposed to take; that potion that would calm down his mind and let him breathe again, that made it all better. It was good, Stefan knew, that Lyle had at least seen someone about what was happening to him—the thought that he might’ve been too stubborn to do so was scary. But he had, and he had medicine now, and even before his eyes, while Lyle’s throat bobbed as he took in the liquid, he could see him visibly calming down, the shaking slowing down, his hand stopped trembling and his chest became steadier and steadier as he took in breaths.

Stefan reached out immediately to take the small glass bottle from his hand when he collapsed back, so it wouldn’t fall to the floor and crash. He plucked in the cork again and reached over to Lyle’s bag, placing it inside carefully and staring at the array of items he’d scattered around while he looked for it a few moments ago. Next to him, Lyle had slumped back against the wall and he was running his hands over his face and hair, and Stefan had to look away from the sight. It made him want to reach out and run his fingers through his hair for him; he could almost feel the way his curls felt around his hand.

He couldn’t afford to think that way right now.

Dropping his eyes, he briefly registered Lyle hiding his face into his knees before he tugged his bag closer and started to pick up the rest of his belongings. The parchment, sliding it in neatly alongside some textbook so it wouldn’t wrinkle or rip, and his quill, some ink bottles, and took deep breaths to steady his own chest as he packed everything up neatly for him once more. They were so late for class and it didn’t even matter. Stefan pressed his lips together and was thinking about what to do now when Lyle thanked him quietly, and again, and he closed the bag softly, buckling it and setting it next to Lyle against the wall. He sat back on his knees and stared at him for a while. He could see the slope of his nose from here, and his mouth, and the curve of his forehead pressed into his knees.

It hurt.

With another swallow, Stefan cleared his throat a little and nodded, licking his lips and rubbing his hands over his own thighs, looking around and then realizing Lyle couldn’t’ see him. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispered in return, glancing at him once more before moving to stand up, then pausing. Would he just leave him like this? It felt…wrong. Another deep breath and he bit his lip. “You should get to class soon…

[/color]”


[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[Lyle Malarkey]

turn away 'cause i need you more
feel the heartbeat in my mind

In the back of his mind, Lyle had figured maybe it had been Gabby who had come to his aid. Gideon had also discovered Lyle’s secret, having witnessed a panic attack one time while they had been boxing. Watching Gideon pound into the bag over and over before he had gotten the chance to had triggered something in Lyle’s brain. Gideon was so much bigger, so much stronger than him. He could break bones – ribs and noses and – he swallowed, thickly, shaking his head. He didn’t want to think about those kinds of things, for fear of just triggering another one.

Still, he hadn’t expected that voice. He hadn’t expected him to be the one who saved him. He hadn’t talked to Stefan since the day it had happened. He hadn’t thought about him in – well, it had been at least a full hour since he had last thought of him. He went out of his way to avoid him. He stopped looking for him in the hallways. Stopped scanning the Great Hall for a glimpse of his face. He had certainly stopped searching for him in the stands during his Quidditch games. So, to hear his voice, to know that he is this close, that he has helped Lyle is just – it’s strange. It hurt. It –

He glanced up from his knees, watching as Stefan stood up to his full height. He glanced around, found his bag neatly packed back up, found the vial had been tucked away somewhere. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, reaching up to wipe at his face again. He could do this, couldn’t he? He was an actor; he should know how to be polite to someone who was once his best friend.

God, he missed that.

He let out another breath, pulling his hand away. He laughed a little awkwardly when Stefan suggested he go to class; he shook his head, pushing himself up a little shakily. He stumbled when he first righted himself, but caught a hand against the wall to steady himself. “I – there’s no way I’ll be able to sit through a class,” he said quietly. He shook a little, trying to relax his body again, before letting out a breath. “I’m -- I’m g-going to – to h-have to – g-go b-b-b-back to the c-common… room.” He winced a little at his stutter, frowning a bit. He cleared his throat once, twice, before sighing.

“I’m –g-going to – to g-go,” he said again, gesturing back toward the way he had been coming. He shuffled a little on his feet again, wanting to say something, anything – ask how he was, ask how his classes were going, ask him to come with him. Frowning a little, he shuffled his feet again. He took a deep breath and offered Stefan the best, least shaky smile that he could – which was still a little pathetic.

“Thanks,” he whispered quietly, shouldering his bag a little more firmly. “J-just –“ he cleared his throat again, shaking his head. With another sigh, he nodded, and turned to walk away.

[Stefan Capper]

Stefan watched as Lyle stood up himself, taking a hesitant step back, not wanting to be uncomfortably close when he righted himself again; he didn’t have to deal with that, and jerked forward a little, automatically, when Lyle stumbled, ready to steady him before he did it himself. Besides, that wasn’t his place anymore, was it? He wasn’t supposed to be Lyle’s rock anymore, nor was Lyle supposed to be his. He’d only done this because—well, no, he’d helped him because it was the right thing to do. Because if someone was in trouble, he was going to help them. The fact that it was Lyle just made things more imminent, and he took a deep breath while Lyle explained that he was probably going to go to the common room because he couldn’t handle class—of course he couldn’t, he should have known that—and he was stuttering, over and over.

He used to kiss those stutters away.

But that wasn’t his place anymore. Stefan glanced down a little awkwardly and nodded at his words again. He used to live in that common room; in Lyle’s bed, keeping him company while he refused to come out, holding him and learning the shape of his lips against his while they explored the idea of them being together before everything came crashing down around him. He hadn’t been there since. “I—yeah,” he said, glancing up at him again and looking down the corridor where he pointed, his stomach twisting a little uncomfortably at the thought of him going already. They hadn’t spoken, touched, looked at each other in so long that doing this now, having touched him, having talked to him, having taken care of him, even, was making him ache in every place of his body. It wasn’t all forgotten, of course not. They were still not able to be together. They couldn’t, it was just—all that was in the past. It didn’t matter how he felt about it, about him; Lyle had wanted his own space, had wanted to be alone when Stefan had needed him the most and that was just—he couldn’t just forget about that. It was what Lyle had wanted and he’d just…made things easier. A ‘break’ would’ve been worse, it would’ve been holding onto that tiny little flicker of hope while Lyle wasn’t really there with him. It would’ve hurt them both worse.

Not that the actual break hadn’t hurt them both, either. Stefan hadn’t spoken to him, but he’d spoken to Gabby, and he’d spoken to Emme, and both of them thought Lyle had been having as bad a time about it as he had. It didn’t make him feel better; no, it made him feel more wretched, but there was nothing either of them could do now. No way to take that back. So Stefan only nodded and attempted to smile back, but it probably came out as weak as Lyle’s looked. “Don’t worry about it,

[/color]” he repeated quietly. “It was the least…[/color]” he trailed off and bit his lip again, looking around and shifting his stance, gripping his bag tight against his chest when Lyle began another sentence and cut himself off, turning to walk away.

He could’ve probably just stood there and let him leave. It was probably the smartest thing to do. After all, he was late to class already and he couldn’t just skip. He hadn’t skipped since those days. Not even after everything. Going to classes had distracted him; had been the only reason he wasn’t still holed up in his room crying over everything. Yeah, he should’ve just let him go.

“I’ll walk with you, my class is that way.[/color]”

But he didn’t.


[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[Lyle Malarkey]

turn away 'cause i need you more
feel the heartbeat in my mind

Lyle stopped, unsteadily, turning to look at Stefan after he spoke. Biting his lip, he nodded, shifting a little and readjusting his grip on his bag. He waited until Stefan caught up with him, then slowly made his way back to the common room. He knew Stefan was lying. They both had History of Magic this period. Lyle had literally been ten feet away from exactly where Stefan had needed to be, but Lyle also missed Stefan. He wasn’t about to point out what they both already knew, if Stefan was going to ignore it. He moved a little bit closer to him, just slightly, as subtle as he could possibly be, and started to slowly walk.

He wanted to say something, anything, really, because they haven’t talked, and Lyle has laid in his bed at night thinking of all the things he wanted to say, could say, if given the chance. Now he has it, and he’s at a complete loss for what to do. It struck him, then, that he didn’t know anything about what had been going on with Stefan recently. Doesn’t know how he’s been. What he’s been doing. Who he’s been talking to. Maybe he found someone else. Someone better. Lyle knew that wouldn’t be too hard. No one is quite as damaged as he is.

He let out a sigh, readjusting his bag again as they made their way to the stairs in relative silence. He stopped at the top of the stairs for a long moment, blinking down at them, gripping the railing tightly. “Y-you – y-you d-don’t… d-don’t have to d-do this,” he said in a whisper, as quiet as he could manage. He swallowed thickly around the knot forming in his throat, and cleared it once in an attempt to get the blockage out. He was so tired of stuttering. “I – I c-can… c-can m-m-m –“ he broke off, frustrated, and made an aggravated noise. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at it lightly, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another, before nodding firmly to himself. “I c-can – m-m-make it. By – by m-m-myself.”

He let out another breath when he finished, gripping the railing even tighter. He licked his lips and chanced a glance at Stefan, biting his lip and turning away. He blushed a little, shifting his stance a bit, readjusting his bag another time. His fingers fidgeted for something more to do before he shoved them into his pants’ pockets. Taking another breath, he said, so quiet, like he was avoiding saying it as much as he could while still knowing it deserved to be said, “Y-you – y-you don’t have to – to – I d-don’t want – I p-promise I’m f-fine.”

[Stefan Capper]

The only real reason why Stefan noticed the way that Lyle inched closer to him when they started walking was because he was hyperaware of his every movement; of every shift of his arm and the direction of every step he took, and out of the corner of his eye, everywhere he looked and the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed. He hadn’t been this close to him in so long, it was little intoxicating, a little suffocating. It was kind of difficult to breathe, knowing he had him so close, and in the end, still so completely far away that it made his stomach twist and twist and get into tangled knots that hurt with every swallow. They moved across the corridor, reaching the end of the staircase, empty now that everybody else was in their own lessons—and yet, here they were, Lyle because he couldn’t handle it, Stefan because at some point he’d found a streak of impulsiveness in him, lately. Talking to people he didn’t trust, finding booze with Imogen and deciding to drink it, and now willingly spending more time with the boy who’d had his heart before it’d been broken.

And who still held some of the pieces tightly wound around the strings of his own heart, as much as Stefan would like to say he didn’t, that he’d taken it all back. But he hadn’t—he’d freely given his heart to him, and he didn’t have a receipt to reclaim it.

It ached to know this.

Lips pressed tightly together, Stefan followed Lyle to the stairs in silence, stretching out between them until it became almost uncomfortable, not like it used to be, and paused at the top before going down, when Lyle stopped. His throat felt tight and dry. Lyle wasn’t getting over the stutter; it was frustrating him as he gripped his hair and tugged, and steadied his breathing, which did little for it. Each time Lyle’s lips trembled with another cut-off word, Stefan’s pressed tighter together. He wanted to hold his hand. Take it. Caress it. Kiss it. Do all of those things to the rest of him. But how could he argue with that? He couldn’t say he didn’t think Lyle could make it on his own, but what other excuse could he give for staying with him? It wasn’t like they were friends again; this was… what was this?

“I know you can,” he finally settled for, quietly, gripping at the strap of his bag and looking up at the same time as Lyle did, their eyes meeting for a moment before they turned away. Burning. He couldn’t handle this. Stefan looked around because he had to, because if he kept watching Lyle’s face he was going to start crying. He didn’t see the way Lyle shifted around and steadied his breathing until he spoke again, and the small, soft words ‘I don’t want’ resonated harder than the others in his mind.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that Lyle might not want him around.

“Oh.

[/color]” His eyes were back up, roving over his face and clearing his throat, feeling it tight, so tight, and prickling. “I’m sorry, I—should’ve realized you—I can go,[/color]” he breathed out, his voice going up an octave towards the end, and he lifted a hand up to his face to rub at it hard, feeling his eyes start to tingle as tears welled up over them, glassy and fresh, like all he’d had to do was push the right buttons for the feelings to come back crashing over him like a wave, until he was drowning.

Another shaky breath and he barely glanced at Lyle as he moved away, inching back towards the other set of stairs, the ones going up to where his dorm would be; he didn’t think he could go to class like this. “I’ll…go. Bye.”



[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]