Baby Steps (Marcus)

[Viktor Rogers]

It was a nice day outside and it wasn't much of a surprise that the auditorium was almost completely void of life. Even though chairs surrounded the stage, there was an empty sort of feeling brought by the high ceiling, pale walls and lack of sound. Crimson curtains were pulled to the side of the stage and there were instruments lying along the sides of it, but the bright lights took away the performance feel that the auditorium would've otherwise had. There was one lonely individual sitting in the room, who had his eyes tightly shut and his head in his left hand while the other one rested on his lap. He was almost completely slouched over the piano while his hair hung down in front of his eyes, covering the scars along his face. He looked almost as if he were a statue, as the only sign of movement that came from him were the occasional shift in body position and the slight movements of his shoulders as he breathed in and out.

Now, if one knew this boy at all, it's likely that they might die in shock from seeing him sit there in front of an instrument willingly, at least without shouting or yelling at someone. Even Vik himself wasn't so sure what he was doing. However, he felt bound down to the spot, as if he couldn't leave out of something that could only be comparable to morbid curiosity - at least, that's what it was for him. The piano sat there, taunting him and teasing him as a reminder of his deafness and of his failure as a musician and Vik was, for some reason, determined to prove it wrong. In reality, though, Vik's fear held him back more than the piano or even his deafness did: the whole idea that he couldn't be a musician was in his head. Sure, he probably wouldn't be able to be apart of a band, but being a solo musician would've been fine. But, he didn't know that. He was too busy blaming himself for past mistakes to even think about resolving them.

Anger was building up inside of Vik as he sat there, but at the same time there was an extreme feeling of sorrow that was almost overwhelming. He reached out his hand experimentally, but he stopped just as his finger hovered above a key on the piano. Vik hadn't touched an instrument for what seemed like forever, and he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to change that now. He was stuck there, with his finger floating threateningly over one of the notes that he once had to memorize, A-22. He knew what it should sound like if he pressed it. Unwanted memories of playing came flowing back at the thought, although he'd never been the pianist of the band he was in. He'd only learned to play it because it was his mother's favourite instrument, but his band had had a much better piano player. That's why he'd taken up the drums. His eyes flickered over to the drums that were on the other side of the stage briefly, vaguely recognizing them as belonging to his roommate, Marcus. That didn't distract him for long, though, before his eyes were back on the key that his finger still hovered over.

It seemed like such a simple thing, really. All he had to do was release his muscles and allow his finger to fall onto the key. If he hit the note, he wouldn't hear anything anyways. It wouldn't change anything: he'd still be deaf and the piano would still be a piano. However, despite this, Vik felt like if he hit the note it'd symbolize something. He wasn't sure of what quite yet, but it would be some form of change and the ginger was scared of that. Already, sitting there in that room on his own and considering doing these things was significant, and he wasn't sure if he could take the next step and actually play. Of course, hitting one note is far from playing the instrument, but there was little to no difference between the two for the deaf boy. But, he still felt himself wanting to. He was drawn to it, and he couldn't lie about that forever. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by instruments and playing them, and denying their existence was unhealthy. So, despite himself, Vik pressed the key.

As he hit it, he felt the humming vibrations coming from the piano and he shuddered in response to it, fancying he could almost hear the note resonating through the room as he imagined it would. Warmth spread through him from his head to his toes as he imagined the full sound it probably made, filling the room with what could've been the beginning of a song if he had dared to play more. Vik even allowed himself a small smile: the rush of playing was something that he missed greatly. He held the key down for a few seconds, shutting his eyes tight and revelling in the memories that rushed through him.

Seconds later, the note ended abruptly as realized what he was doing. He yanked his hand away from the key as if he'd just touched a burning stove and his eyes snapped open. He was shaking a little, both from the previous excitement and pure hatred for both himself and the instrument. He sat there for a few moments with narrowed, untrusting eyes as he looked at the piano as if it was about to get up and bite him, before his gaze softened a little. He straightened his posture and brushed his hair back, slowly realizing that he had made far bigger of a deal of the whole situation than he had needed to. Surely, nothing would change. The idea that it would was irrational. No one had seen him, and he could pretend it had never happened: and he'd never have to touch an instrument again. That's when, in the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door. In an instant, Vik was on his feet and glaring, muscles tensed in defence. As he realized who it was, he felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him. "What the fuck do you want?"

[Marcus Finch]

It was a nice day outside which meant there were too many damn people crowding up Marcus’s beach. The gym was no better and the punk was running out of options for places to go. Frustration shivered up his neck and he clenched his fists tight in the pockets of his gym shorts. The look on the punk’s face parted seas of students as he prowled through the congested hallway. He wore his headphones clasped tight over his ears and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head to drown out the infuriating sounds of his peers. It didn’t help. The sound waves bounced and echoed between the metal lockers and tile floor of the school causing the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. The sheer force of sonic energy in the environment egged him on and built up in a cacophonic sort of pressure in his head. Although the headphones and the white noise playing through them deafened him to the audio, it could not save the sound manipulator from his other senses.

Ever since his fight with the silver-haired girl Marcus found that he could no longer ignore the sound waves. While he’d always felt their presence to some degree, the feeling had amplified until every sound seemed to buzz across his skin. At first it freaked him out. Whatever the girl had done to his brain must have triggered the ability, and there was no telling what else she might have done while screwing around in his head. But as time passed he didn’t notice any other symptoms besides a chronic headache and his new-found sensitivity to the sounds.

The punk tried to focus on taking measured breaths as he walked. Doing his best to ignore the uncomfortable prickling of the sound waves bouncing off his skin, he didn’t notice the girl until it was too late. A splintering pain shot through the shoulder of his left arm and he sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his good hand flew to console its aching companion. The girl laughed, a sound that vibrated over his chest in waves, as she turned to apologise only to fall silent at the look on Marcus’s face. Paling, the girl took a step back and stuttered something before dashing away to where her friends huddled together, whispering and flashing glances in Marcus’s direction. Without a word, the green-haired boy glared back until the group hustled away with their heads bent forward.

He let out a slow breath that hissed between his teeth. There were too many people and he needed out. Free from its sling, Marcus cradled his left arm against his chest as he walked. There wasn’t much to say about it. It was better, but it would never be the same. Between the stiffness and the pain he almost wish it had been amputated. Maybe that was being dramatic, after all, it still functioned for the most part even if its use was limited. He clung to the moment of optimism like a man dying of dehydration would cling to the last glass of water on Earth. It was in that same moment that he knew where to go.

The auditorium was a sonic sanctuary. Unlike the rest of the school it was designed with acoustics in mind which made it a haven for moody sound manipulators. Slinking down a side-corridor, Marcus found himself relaxing at the welcoming thought of the quiet room. Its oak paneling distributed and amplified the sounds from the stage so that every noise could be heard from anywhere in the room without losing its integrity. Marcus wasn’t one for science, but even he had to admit that such a design was near genius. If nothing else the room was a relief compared to the torture chamber of the hall.

Marcus made his way to the heavy wooden doors that marked the entrance to the room with a sigh. He reached out a hand and grasped the door's handle only to find it live with unheard sound. The vibration hummed through the handle to Marcus's fingers, up his arm and down his spine. Goose pimples shivered across his skin and a deep brass colour exploded through the forefront of his mind in time with the intensity of the note. Gasping, the punk jerked his hand away from the door. He didn't have to hear it to know someone was playing the piano in the room beyond. Or, at least, a single note on the piano. Puzzled, Marcus stared down at the door and rubbed at the palm of his hand while the sensation tingling down his back subsided. He knew Freya didn’t play like that, and he could think of no one else on the island that might be waiting for him on the other side of the door. Curiosity getting the better of him, Marcus tugged the sleeve of his shirt over his hand before pulling the door open.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Vik spat the words at the punk and his voice vibrated in the hinge of his jaw. Frowning, Marcus pulled the headphones to rest around his neck with an expression of mingled surprise and curiosity. “Sorry, what was that?” he asked, though he doubted he would like the answer. Meanwhile, Vik looked like his parents had just walked in on him watching porn. Marcus contained a smirk as his roommate’s face reddened. The thin scars that were usually invisible against the red-head’s pale skin stood out against his flushed cheeks and any humour Marcus may have once felt towards the situation snuffed itself out. Marcus’s eyes flickered from the boy to the piano and drew the simple conclusion that Vik was responsible for the sound. To say the punk was surprised would be an understatement. Vik loathed music and everything associated with it.

Marcus strolled down the middle aisle of the theatre with deliberate casualness. “Were you playing?” he asked the simple question as he approached the stage. He wished he was wearing his heavy boots rather than the lightweight running shoes. The satisfying way the boots thumped across the wooden floor would have made a familiar comfort in such a strange situation. Instead, an uncomfortable silence sprawled out between them that only seemed to intensify the closer Marcus got to the stage. It was as if he’d walked in on something deeply private to which he was not welcomed, but there was no going back now. Vik was playing the piano, and the significance of the moment was not lost on the green-haired punk.

Pausing a few feet before the stage, Marcus dropped his gaze to his shoes and rubbed the back of his neck for a moment before looking back up at the boy. “You know,” he said in a subdued voice, “I didn’t hear that note, but I did feel it. Do it again.” His heart beat felt loud in his chest and he crossed his arms in front of him as he waited for the backlash of such a request. Maintaining eye contact, Marcus raised a pierced eyebrow at the boy as if challenging him to protest. The day was shaping up to be much more interesting than Marcus ever would have expected.

[Viktor Rogers]

At first, there had been a small thrill when Vik had hit the note. Feeling the vibrations of it and remembering the past had been somewhat interesting, and doing something so against himself was almost exhilarating. Vik would never admit it to himself, but it was something that had struck his curiosity. A tiny little thought even popped up in his head, suggesting that maybe he did want to do it again. However, that idea vanished quickly with special thanks to the appearance of the green-haired punk. 

Never before had Vik felt himself at such unease, and solid proof of that was his heart threatening to beat it's way out of his chest. Marcus's demeanour as he approached the stage was eerily relaxed, contrasting greatly to Vik's state of mind. That was far from making the ginger feel any better, in contrast, it made him feel as if he were in an almost more vulnerable position - if that were possible. His shoulders were tensed, and with each step the green-haired boy took Vik grew more and more flushed. He took a large gulp, trying to straighten himself before speaking once more. "I-I asked, what the fuck do you want?" he repeated, voice strained and much more quiet than it had been before. Maybe, if he'd been in a different scenario, he would've made some quip about Marcus being more deaf than he was, but now was definitely not the time and Vik wasn't exactly feeling the whole 'friendly banter' thing.

Now, if Vik had been caught watching gay porn or something like that, the experience would be much more bearable. In that event, at least there would only have been minor embarrassment and awkwardness. But no, calling what he felt now 'embarrassment' would be a vast understatement. He was mortified, humiliated, and, worst of all, terrified. He'd made a point to ensure that everyone he'd met knew that instruments were intolerable and should be kept away from him, especially his musically inclined roommate. It wasn't as if Vik could pretend that when he'd pressed the piano key it had been an accident, not when he made his aversion to music so abundantly clear. What would become of him, now that he'd showed such hypocritical behaviour, he wasn't sure: especially since it was Marcus of all people who'd stumbled upon him.

Well, fuck. It was a fact that Vik made a mistake, and it was one that he feared wouldn't be forgotten so quickly. He was shaking, thanks to his weak knees, and it got increasingly more difficult to focus on one thing for long enough to catch everything that Marcus had said. He was envious of those with the power to simply vanish from sight: he deeply wished he could just leave and have his roommate forget about everything that happened. But, unfortunately, that wasn't likely and Vik bit his lip to try and think of a response. His heart was pounding heavily and with the lack of excuses his mind was coming up with it was almost as if he had a rock instead of a brain. "I, uh, it wasn't me," he tried, eyes wild while he fumbled around with his words. "I heard—" Shit. "I-I mean, I saw something move in here and, I, um, I came in to investigate." His eyes darted downwards and he flushed a brighter red, his voice uneven and filled with stutters. Damn, I get how Zack feels.

His eyes quickly returned upwards to be able to catch Marcus prodding Vik about playing the note, and Vik's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you play it, since you love the things so much? I—why, um, I would never touch an instrument, you should know that," he responded, cursing under his breath as he was still struggling to speak normally. Marcus looked far from convinced, and, if anything, he appeared to Vik to be almost smug about the whole thing. 

[Marcus Finch]

A muscle twitched in Marcus’s jaw as Vik spoke, and the punk raised his good hand to rub at the spot without thinking. “Hey, man, chill. I’m just trying to figure something out, alright?” he responded to the ginger’s hostile attitude. “Christ, you’d think I just kicked your puppy. And I don't do free concerts. I don’t give a shit if my audience is deaf.” Still rubbing at the hinge of his jaw, puke-head helped himself to a front-row seat. His shoulder twinged in protest at the sudden movement, but he did his best to ignore it. A moment later Vik started talking again and the pulsing in his jaw started up. “Fuckin’ dammit,” Marcus muttered under his breath. His body seemed determined to make him miserable. Distracted, the punk tried to force his attention away from the sound of Vik’s voice and onto the words themselves. He squinted up at the boy with a frown. Marcus was not impressed with the pure, unconcentrated bullshit spewing out of his roommate’s mouth.

“Yeah, okay, you didn’t play the note and I’m a fuckin' fairy princess,” he rolled his eyes, “cut the crap, mate.” Marcus leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him like he owned the place. “Trust me, you don’t want to piss me off today. Now, hit that note again or tell me what your fucking problem is.” The punk’s green eyes found his roommate’s odd yellow ones as he spoke. His voice rolled with sarcasm and not-so-suppressed aggression. Once again Marcus couldn’t help but notice the scars that stitched Vik’s face together like patchwork. It didn’t take a genius to connect the scars and the deafness to the boy’s hatred of music, but filling in the details proved more challenging.

Marcus was no stranger to conflict; some might even argue that he thrived on it. Everything about the boy screamed rebellion, though what he was rebelling against remained unclear. From his flourescent hair to the metal skewered through his face, Marcus rejected all conventional standards and invented his own. He welcomed criticism and his very presence begged for disapproval. Vik, by contrast, wore a casual arrangement of jeans and hoodies. The kind of clothes that became urban camouflage and made him look like every other teenager in the modern world. He was tall and beefy with ginger hair crowning his pointed face. Besides the scars, there was nothing outstanding about the boy. The muscle in Marcus’s jaw twitched once more, betraying his irritation.

“You know what I think your problem is?” drawled the punk, “I think you’re a coward.” Settling back in his seat, Marcus took note of the hornets stirring in his gut. They hummed with warning but Marcus was relentless “Yeah, I think that’s it. You’re afraid to move on. It’s not the instruments you hate, is it? It’s yourself. But you’re too afraid to admit it, so you just take it all out on me and anything else associated with music,” he spoke in a slow, condemning tone. The punk’s green eyes trailed around the room. He took in the instruments that lined the stage and the heavy velvet curtains pulled back on either side of the platform. The red upholstery of the seats matched the curtains, and even small noises sounded loud in the vast space. Marcus himself felt small, but that just meant there was more room to breathe.

His eyes snapped back to Vik. The hornets in his stomach began working themselves into a frenzy and he leaned forward to prop his elbow on one knee. “I suppose that’s all pretty damn obvious, though. The real question is: why music? Of all things to hate-- that’s what I don’t understand. You’re deaf. Alright, cool, whatever, maybe jealousy is part of it. But I don’t fancy myself an idiot. There’s more to it than that,” Marcus tilted his head to one side as he spoke. One part intrigued and two parts angry, the punk rubbed his jaw and struggled to put the pieces of his roommate together. “Man,” He smirked without humour, “you've got fuckin’ problems.” The punk's heel tapped with restless anxiety and he wished once again that he’d worn his boots. “You’re really pissing me off today.”

[Viktor Rogers]

The longer Vik stood on the stage, the more and more uncomfortable he got. His feet were rooted to the spot, as if he was hoping that Marcus might just leave if he stopped moving. Unfortunately, although his appearance could sometimes be deceiving, the green-haired punk wasn't some terrible monster that relied on movement for sight, which meant that Vik's attempts to fade into the background probably didn't do much more other than make him look like a half-statue. The only thing that betrayed this was his burning red face and sweating palms, but those were the least of his concerns. Suddenly, as Marcus began to move, his previously-narrow eyes widened and he grew hopeful, excited that an opportunity to leave might arise. It didn't take long for this dream to be crushed, though, as Marcus had decided to block his pathway by sitting in the first row. In response to this, Vik ground his teeth together and finally shifted, but it was only to cross his arms and frown.

Despite the inherent hugeness of the room, Vik felt almost claustrophobic - as if the walls were closing in on him inch by inch. Marcus was the one doing this to him, standing in the pathway of the exit and sitting there with a look that Vik, in his paranoia, perceived as disgustingly smug. Vik was panicking, and his brain was scrambling to latch onto something to help it regain its footing, but it felt as if a rug had been pulled from underneath the redhead and he was grasping for words. Whether or not Marcus was being truthful about just wanting to 'figure something out', it felt as if the musician was taunting Vik. Each word spoken was slow and enunciated, giving the musician an eerie calmness and prolonging the torture.

"I-I, uh, d-d-" That's not going to fucking work, shit-head. Vik swallowed, his inability to speak clearly causing him to feel more stressed and imprisoned within himself. He forced himself to stop, taking a slow breath in and and out to prepare himself to speak. He had to calm his racing thoughts if he hoped to communicate, as the panic he felt wouldn't easily be translated to words if Marcus couldn't understand squirrel chatter. "I d-don't owe anything t-to you," he responded, keeping his hand far, far away from the piano to further prove the point that he was not going to press the note again just because his 'scary' roommate told him to, nor was he going to explain himself.

The ground was back under his feet. With the help of slow, forced breaths, Vik managed to regain some control and understanding of the situation. He was far from being comfortable, but his thoughts were starting to lay themselves out again, and it helped a lot that Marcus had seemed to pause his relentless verbals attacks for a moment. Vik's panic, though, was replaced with a strong sense of dread and when Marcus spoke again, it hit him a lot harder. Despite his efforts to prevent them from affecting him, each word the green-haired boy spoke was like a punch to the stomach. They were spoken slowly, but that didn't cause them to lose their precision. Vik opened his mouth to speak, trying to stop the onslaught of words, but his throat had gone dry and he found himself unable to say anything. Instead, he was forced to sit and watch Marcus say the things Vik already knew were true but refused to acknowledge.

Now, Vik will never admit it, but his eyes watered a little just then. He blinked it away (hopefully before Marcus noticed), but he knew himself how much the words had impacted him. The teenager felt completely vulnerable under Marcus's scrutinizing gaze, and he was left almost completely wordless. No matter how many things he'd been told, no matter how many insults had been flung at him, nothing was more humiliating than this. He was stuck in front of this boy - this boy who, somehow, knew the exact things to say to hurt Vik most - and he couldn't move, speak, or defend himself. He was a deer in the headlights, but he did manage to utter a plea.

"Stop," he croaked, voice threatening to break, "n-none of this is-" the boy paused, taking a slow breath, "none of this is any of your business," he responded, pulling his arms away from his chest and allowing them to drop to his sides. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to lock out the world best he could, but even he knew that that serenity that could come from it wouldn't last long. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to calm himself completely, before opening his eyes and speaking once more. "What do you even want? Why do you care? Y-you got me, I hit the note, OK?" Although his voice was quiet, it was filled with resentment and hatred for Marcus. "I'm a hypocrite, a liar, a pretender, whatever. That's all there is to it," Vik finished, eyes flickering up from his feet to meet Marcus's eyes challengingly. He'd much prefer his roommate think he was all those horrible things twenty fold rather than have him realize the complete failure he was. Already, Marcus was able to push more buttons than Vik expected him to, and Vik didn't want him to go any further.

[Marcus Finch]

Vik spoke and the pulsing in Marcus’s jaw threatened to send him over the edge. Pushing himself to his feet, the punk prowled from one side of the room to the other in front of the stage. Restless energy radiated off his his tense shoulders and his hornets buzzed with unseen fury. At his sides, Marcus clenched his fists so tight they shook. He walked with stiff movements and his breathing escalated to a degree that made him seem almost deranged. Meanwhile, Vik stood frozen on the stage and begged him to stop. But Marcus was only just getting started.

“Man, you fuckin’ pissed me off,” he snarled without looking up at Vik. The punk paused with his back to his roommate. Rolling his neck from side to side, he tried to let out some of the tension. Things were getting bad and Marcus knew he needed to do something about it. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but then Vik spoke again and he lost it. “You,” he snarled, whipping around to face the boy, “are pathetic.” The word cracked through the air like lightning and ruffled Vik’s hair. Finding Vik’s amber eyes, the punk let out a breath that hissed between his teeth. Despite the red-head’s croaking voice there was a glint of defiance in his eye that only provoked Marcus further.

The constant buzzing of the florescent lights above them intensified and the lights flickered. “Fucking hell,” Marcus growled, “I told you not to piss me off today.” He slunk towards the stage and then stopped, forcing himself to take a step back. It took every scrap of self-control the punk possessed not to drag his roommate off the stage and beat the shit out of him. A shiver passed down his spine and Marcus knew he was reaching the point of no return. If he couldn’t calm down now he was liable to blow. He had to leave or find an outlet, but there was no where to go. The auditorium was his final sanctuary, and it had just become a prison.

“God dammit!” He barked and one of the lights shattered behind him. Glass and sparks rained down into the absent audience and left the room a shade darker. “I told you not to piss me off. I told you not to, but of-fucking-course you didn’t listen!” Marcus shouted. His breathing came in heavy pants and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He couldn’t escape, and the room that had seemed so vast just minutes ago was now suffocating. “What the hell is wrong with you? All you do is sit around and hassle me,” he shouted up at the figure on the stage. Putting on his best impression of Vik’s voice, puke-head cried out, “don’t play your music in here, Marcus. Don’t you fuckin’ dare touch that thing around me . . .” he trailed off. “Fuck you, man. You made it my fuckin’ problem, alright? Because you hate music no one should be allowed to enjoy it when you’re around. You set these rules, right? And now here you are. You don’t even live up to your own standards, but you fuckin’ expect me to? Fuck you. Fuck you.”

The last words punched towards Vik’s gut, intended to knock the wind out of him. “You know,” Marcus growled as he pulled himself onto the stage, “in ‘the business’ we’ve got a name for guys like you. You’re a fuckin’ poser.” Prowling up to the boy, Marcus shoved him hard in the chest. “D’you know what that means, Vik? It means you’re worse than a hypocrite. You see, hypocrites lie to other people; posers lie to themselves. You’ve convinced yourself that music is the problem, but it’s not. Your bitchy attitude is the problem, so stop fuckin’ projecting it onto me,” the punk’s voice came out tense, but calculated. Each word seemed carved out just for the situation, and Marcus spat them into his roommate’s face like venom. “It’s time to face the music, Vik. It’s time to grow up and be honest with yourself, because I refuse to be responsible for your problems any more.”

(This post has been brought to you by the letter "F") 

[Viktor Rogers]

The tension in the air was only growing thicker, just like the knot in Vik's stomach that only seemed to increase in size. As Marcus paced the room, Vik found himself fumbling with his hands as he tried to think of a way to get himself out of the mess. But, before Vik could come up with a decisive plan, Marcus stopped and whirled around to face him. Vik had spent enough time with his roommate to know that the other boy was at his point of explosion just from the savage look in his eyes. It almost reminded Vik of an animal. But when Marcus had reached that point before, Vik had felt like he was more in control. Even if Marcus had been unable to hold himself back, Vik had felt safe thanks to his own comfort with his side of the argument. Now, though, Vik was completely vulnerable and he had to admit to himself that his roommate was starting to seem a lot more intimidating.

"You are pathetic."

A shiver ran down Vik's spine. He'd told himself similar things before, but having the words actually manifest themselves in the form of his roommate's anger made it much more real. Vik had never quite expected that someone else would say it, either, and it was worse than when he scolded himself about his own inadequacy. But, the words themselves weren't only what caused Vik to flinch: as Marcus spoke, Vik's hair ruffled almost as if each hair on his head shifted in response to a violent breeze. He could only assume that it was a result of his roommate's powers. It was a nerve-wracking reminder that this other boy could send him flying into the nearest wall and there was nothing he could do about it. Vik was so used to being in a normal high-school where the biggest threat was just a punch to the gut, but here, at Ashford, he had no defences in a school of 'gifted' children. Vik could feel his legs beginning to shake, but he managed to dispel this by taking slow, deep breaths. He needed to keep his head, especially if Marcus couldn't.

"I d-" Vik began in a half-hearted effort to defend himself, but he'd not spoken with enough volume and he couldn't muster the strength to continue. Besides, he got distracted by the flickering lights. They didn't bade good fortune. All of the sudden, a light bulb burst and glass rained down upon the seats, darkening the once-peaceful room and covering the floor with shards. Vik's eyes shot up in surprise and he took a step back away from the green-haired boy, fear coursing through his veins. He had to drag his eyes back to be able to read Marcus's lips, although it was the last thing he wanted to see.

Vik had never expected himself to be in this situation, and the initial problem he'd had with pressing the key seemed very, very far away. It may have been the instigator, but Vik had achieved a sort of realization that it wasn't just that. It seemed that all of this tied back to that one night, so long ago, when he'd gotten in that crash. If he wasn't so jealous with musicians, none of this would've happened. But, what he'd done could mend itself. It could. No. Vik grimaced. It's got nothing to do with that. I'm not jealous, that's not it. I should've just acted as I normal - hitting the key was the mistake. I just made a mistake coming near the piano. It's not me. It's not me.

It's odd how people will sometimes lash out at anything else just to avoid hurting themselves. Inner conflicts become outer ones, but the individual at fault will refuse to admit that they caused it all. If people didn't like them for who they are, it's not their problem, right? However, even though Vik did push the thought away, the fact remained that he'd had a small moment of clarity. He did know, somewhere inside of his head, that it wasn't Marcus's fault. But, his thoughts scattered again as he felt a sudden blow to his stomach. He stumbled back from both the force and out of pure shock, losing almost all control he had over his breathing. One thing led to another, and as Marcus joined him on the stage Vik had almost lost all calmness he had managed to gather. Any hope for logic was gone.

With his heart now pumping faster and adrenaline beginning to flow into his veins, Vik found it difficult to focus. Marcus was spitting words in his face, yes, but Vik wasn't sure what they meant. If he managed to watch Marcus's exact lip movements, what he said had no meaning: Vik's brain refused to register it. But, if he focused on actual comprehension, he didn't have enough energy to keep up with Marcus's fast-moving lips, as he'd be stuck on a word that the other boy had said a sentence ago. It was like trying to play Tetris and only being able to see either the block falling down or the mound of blocks you already had, but never both. If nothing else, it was infuriating and created only more disarray and panic in Vik's mind. It helped very little when Marcus shoved him, as it was only a reminder of how dangerous the other boy could be. Vik was completely lost.

Marcus had paused, but it took Vik a few moments to realize. His mind was still whirling to decode the puzzle of Marcus's rant. When he caught up, though, his initial response was only that of fear. Vik didn't know what to say or what to do, and he sure as hell didn't know how to calm the other guy down. Anything he did could end badly, especially since his scattered thoughts didn't offer much aid. Marcus's words had caught him completely off balance, and there was way too much going on his head. Vik took a shaky breath. "Calm down," Oh, good job, you fucking idiot. That'll get him to shut up, why don't you tell him he's a bitch while you're at it? Oh yeah, and ask him to burst your head like he did to that lightbulb. I'm sure that will make everything better. "I-I mean, no, I-" He paused, struggling to regain confidence. Marcus's words had hit him hard. "I'm not lying to anyone, and I don't need to grow up. I just...hate that stuff, OK? I need it to stay away. It's...better that way. A-and we can forget this happened: no instruments near me, nothing. Can j-just walk away." Like his thoughts, Vik's words came out unsure and fragile even though they started off relatively strong. He shuddered. "I won't come in here again."

[Marcus Finch]

Vik’s eyes stretched wide as Marcus loomed over him. The larger boy cowered, becoming a smaller version of himself under puke-head’s glare. Marcus swelled with the violence of his anger and snatched the front of Vik’s shirt as the boy tried to stumble away. Pop, a second light blew behind the punk and glass fell to the stage with a sound that tingled across the back of Marcus’s hands. A shudder passed down his spine and turned his stomach. Grunting, Marcus loosened his fist and turned away from his roommate. For a moment he stood rigid, forcing deep breaths in and out of his nose. "Calm down," Vik’s voice called across the stage to where the punk stood. Teeth clenched, the green-haired boy squeezed his eyes shut as his roommate spoke. The muscle in his jaw twitched and each word stretched him tighter.

“Shut up,” Marcus growled with his back to the boy, “Shut up, Vik. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” The deaf boy was oblivious to his roommate’s words and babbled relentlessly on. Snap. The musician’s eyes popped open as his hands curled at his sides. “I said,” Marcus spun on his heel to face the boy, “shut up.” The fist arced towards Vik’s face before Marcus could make the conscious decision to punch him. Throwing his body weight behind the blow, it struck with a knuckle-popping smack. Pain erupted through the punk’s hand, but his body buzzed with adrenaline. Heart pounding, blood rushing, his brain was torrented by a stream of racing thoughts.

“Man,” he backed up a few steps, “man, you fucked up. Tch.” He gave a snort of humourless laughter. “I didn’t want to do this, mate. Gave you every goddamned chance, but now. . .” stepping forward, Marcus reached out his left hand and grabbed the front of his roommate’s shirt. A grimace drew up one corner of the punk’s mouth as the injured shoulder stretched to meet his command. “It’s too late.” He surrendered to the anger, submerging himself in the thrill of it. The hornets tap danced their pleasure in his gut and swarmed his head with a fury of their own. He pulled back his arm to hit the boy again and again until his knuckles felt numb. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his breaths came in heaving pants, but a grin stretched across the punk’s face in spite of it all.

The pleasure of letting go tasted sweet in his mouth as he gave in to those deep, sadistic urges. Everything from the boy’s horrified expression to the richness of the stage’s curtains stood out crisp in his eyes. Shoving Vik with enough force to send him to the ground, Marcus ran his hand through his hair. The blood from his knuckles caused the hair to stick up at odd angles, but Marcus was too busy watching his roommate to notice. “No,” he sneered, “that’s not good enough.” Prowling closer to the boy, Marcus continued, “you’re not coming in here again, and you’re not telling me where I can play my music any more. You’re not telling me a goddamned thing, and I’m not gonna roll over like a little bitch and let you have your way. That’s your job now. Roll over, Vik.” The punk aimed a kick to the boy’s rib cage. “Did you hear me? No? I said roll over, you fucking poser. Roll over like a good little bitch.”

[Viktor Rogers]

When Vik had finished speaking, the last thing he'd expected was to get a violent reaction out of his roommate. He'd never seen Marcus actually hurt anyone before, so he hadn't completely believed it would happen to him. It didn't help that he'd only been able to see Marcus's back when he'd finally snapped, meaning that he couldn't see the gritted teeth or his vicious scowls and Vik had thought he'd been doing alright. After all, he'd received no interruptions when he was speaking, and so he had assumed that Marcus had calmed down. He was pretty damn wrong, but he only found this out when Marcus spun around and threw out his fist. Vik was completely unprepared and let out a small yelp. Sudden, excruciating pain split through his head from his upper jawline and his neck snapped back, causing his vision to fog and become dotted with black. He almost felt detached from his body for a moment as he lost all sense of balance he'd had just a moment before and he stumbled a bit to the side, but he could still feel the pain resonating throughout his head. Time felt like it went in slow motion as he shut down, leaving the deaf boy staring at the ground for a couple seconds as he tried to regain focus. His jaw continued to pulse with relentless force and he fancied he could even taste blood and his inner cheek hurt, but the pain reduced to a dull ache and a rush of adrenaline replaced it. Without thinking, Vik held up his hand to his tingling cheek and turned back to face his roommate with a frown.

This display of 'toughness' vanished the moment Vik saw the look on Marcus's face. His eyebrows were knit together and every muscle in his face looked tensed in unison, but the most terrifying part was likely his snort of laughter. Marcus was gone. Vik couldn't fight the boy, either, as he couldn't help but remember the shattered bulbs that occurred as a result of the boy's powers. He had nothing to defend himself against that. Vik's shirt was soon grabbed and he felt himself yanked closer, dread and fear settling in his stomach. He had no control over what this boy would do to him, and not even the adrenaline pumping through his veins gave him the confidence to sputter out a smart response. It's not as if he had the chance, anyways, as soon afterwards Marcus began to spit words into his face with such resentment that it was not lost even to the deaf boy. He struggled to pull himself away from Marcus's grip by shoving at his shoulders and yanking his body away, but it was to no avail. He found himself pleading.

"Marcus, please, just liste—" Vik started, but a gasp of his own interrupted him as he felt a blow to his stomach. His eyes clenched shut and all of the air got knocked out of him. As a replacement for this, his body filled up with agony with every punch to the stomach. He wasn't sure of exactly what was happening but he knew he felt like throwing up. Each breath took five times more effort than the last, and, as a result, he began to panic. He gulped for air and met only more torture as Marcus punched him again and again, but he soon tensed his abdominal muscles out of instinct to try and best defend himself. Luckily for him, he was a gym rat and this tensing did help to lessen the pain, but he was still left with no air and it felt like there was no way he'd get it back. Worst of all, Vik couldn't do anything but try to reduce the impacts of the punches since he knew that retaliating would only lead to worse. But, he didn't think much more as he grew very dizzy and struggled for air.

Vik soon found himself on the cold, hard floor. He was on his back, but he couldn't say why. However, there was a certain sense of weightlessness that accompanied it that felt almost pleasant and he took a moment to relish in it. The taste of iron in his mouth was distracting, and he found himself paying more attention to it than he likely should've. Was he at the dentist? It would explain his numb jaw, but his head was pounding too and he felt very tired. His eyes cracked open as he tried to remember, but instead a green blur floating above greeted him. Trying to focus, he struggled to identify what it was but the area around him seemed as if it were threatening to explode into incomprehensible colours. After a few seconds, his thoughts began to rearrange themselves and the real world welcomed him back with an intense pain pulsing from his stomach and a sadistic grin on what-used-to-be-a-green-blob's face. Well, he remembered now, and he grimaced. The real world sucked.

Unfortunately, unconsciousness was now little more than a distant dream and as his eyes refocused on Marcus's lips the words and the threats behind them scared him into almost total submission. The last thing he had in mind was his dignity, so obeying any commands Marcus had for him didn't sound too bad. "S-sure, yes," he tried, but his voice was quiet and it turned into more of a squeak as his jaw resisted and he flinched. He shifted his hands to help himself 'roll over' as the other boy had instructed, but he stopped as he received a sudden blow to his ribs. Agony split through his chest and lungs, and he released an involuntary cry of pain. He shifted his hands over to where the kick had made contact, eyes squeezed shut as he lay on his side and panted. If breathing had been impossible before, it was now a whole new level of torture. Every single sharp, uneven breath felt like a knife inserting itself inside of his chest and twisting around. It was unbearable.

The pain refused to subside, and it overrode almost all of Vik's emotions. Being passive hadn't seemed to work and his confused mind tried to find another way out of the whole scenario. While his logical thoughts were distracted, though, his anger and desire for vengeance became much more prominent. He'd been trying his best not to get Marcus to continue the torture: he'd pleaded, he'd gotten beaten up without retaliation, and he'd been willing to give away all of his pride to make it all stop, but now he was sick of it. The rational side of him warned that saying something would just anger Marcus further, but that thought dispelled itself in the hope that, maybe, if Marcus did get more upset, Vik would pass out. At least then he wouldn't hurt.

Although everything in his body cried out in reluctance, Vik pushed himself off of his side to a sitting position with a pained hiss, and he cracked open his eyes to glare up at his roommate. The slight smirk on the other boy's face egged Vik on, as he despised the idea that his pain was giving Marcus such satisfaction. Hoping the flow of adrenaline would help get rid of the sting, he tried to speak. "Fuck you," he coughed, sending another shot across his jaw and ribs, "Fuck you. I can't believe you're enjoying this, you sadistic shit," he wheezed, trying to seem confident although his voice was quiet and didn't have the same volume he'd thought it would. Not that he knew that, though. "You can't make me do shit, and you need fucking mental help if you think I'll roll over like a dog. Just fucking knock me out and be done with it." After he'd finished trying to provoke Marcus, Vik's narrowed eyes met his roommate's and he prepared for the worst, shaking. He couldn't help but feel fear, although his hunched posture and nervous trembles gave more indication to this than his words that faked confidence. However, a warm calmness had settled over him as he clung to the pathetic hope that the boy would allow him the release of unconsciousness. He wasn't sure how much longer his small strike of rebellion would last, either, until he did whatever Marcus said, so he just hoped he'd be out before then.

(I'm sorry it's long, I didn't realize until it was too late :c)

[Marcus Finch]

A yelp of pain from his victim rewarded the first blow. Vik’s jaw dropped in surprise and he stood, swaying, with an expression of confused horror. His eyes flickered between the ground and Marcus’s face as his mind struggled to make sense of the situation. Marcus shook out his bruising knuckles and watched as Vik’s lip started to swell. Blood from the split lip stained the boy’s teeth red, and the punk tipped his head to one side as he studied his handiwork from a distance. Unsatisfied, he took a step forward and grabbed his roommate’s shirt. Vik lashed out at the punk and pleaded with him, shoving against his chest and shoulders. The muscle in Marcus’s jaw twitched and an ugly grimace twisted his face as his roommate made contact with his injured shoulder. Without a word, the punk pulled Vik into him and buried his fist in the softness of the boy’s gut. That shut him up.

Again and again, Marcus hit the boy as if Vik was responsible for every offence the world had committed against him. Even when the deaf boy remembered to tense the muscles in his stomach, Marcus refused to stop. It felt more like punching a hard-cover dictionary than a person, but there wasn’t a scrap of rationality left in puke-head’s puke head to stop him. Vik gasped in pain, a strangled sort of noise that gurgled in his throat as Marcus forced the air from his lungs. Sweat dripped down the punk's face and he panted as he dropped his roommate to the stage. His wrist ached and his split knuckles stung while blood ran down his fingers in rivers. He screamed at the boy squirming on the ground at his feet. The words erupted from his throat, violent and steaming like vomit raining down on the boy.

Huffing, Marcus watched as Vik squared his shoulders to roll over. He squeaked out something that puke-head couldn't understand, but the sound raked across Marcus's skin like claws. The punk writhed and pulled back his leg before delivering a hard kick to Vik's ribs. As foot met body, Vik cried out. Marcus drew a shuddering breath of relief as the sound washed the clawing sensation from his skin. He pulled back his foot to kick the boy a second time, but a voice interrupted him before he could have the pleasure. Frowning, he watched his roommate push himself into a sitting position. The muscle ticked in his jaw, clacking like an antique typewriter, but he forced himself to focus on the meaning of the sounds.

When Vik finished, Marcus squatted down next to the boy with a snort. With his good hand he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Vik's short, ginger hair near the crown of his head. He jerked the boy's head back until Vik was forced to look him in the eye. “Enjoying it?” he repeated, his voice rising in hysteria. “Do you hear yourself? You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything,” the punk screamed into the boy’s face. “I don’t need help. I need you to shut the fuck up before I fuckin’ kill you.” All over again, Marcus’s hornets surged through his head. “J-just look at me. Look at me and tell me that I fucking enjoy this,” he held his roommate’s head in place. “You deserve it. I warned you. I’ve been warning you since day fucking one: don’t piss me off. Do you understand? Don’t Piss. Me. Off.”

[Viktor Rogers]

Vik had expected another punch or a kick from Marcus as a result of his own angry retort. He took an uneven breath and tensed his muscles as Marcus squatted down, but he wasn't met with any pain. Almost a bit disappointed, his eyebrows twitched into a slight frown but he kept a scrutinizing eye on his roommate. He'd expected much more of a retaliation to his words and he feared that the boy would refuse to knock him out. The constant throbbing from his ribs didn't seem to be dulling and he wanted nothing more than for it to stop whining, but he was starting to think that wouldn't happen. Not long after Marcus had got on Vik's level, though, his hand shot out to grip onto Vik's hair and yank upwards. At first, Vik's jaw lagged behind as if almost disconnected, but soon it followed with a jerk that sent another jolt of pain across Vik's face. He flinched, struggling to keep himself from making another noise. He didn't want to give Marcus that satisfaction.

As his yellow-y amber eyes were forced to meet green ones, a new kind of discomfort settled in the pit of his stomach. Already he very rarely made eye-to-eye contact, but doing it with the green-haired boy when he was in such a state was almost terrifying. As Marcus's lips began to move, Vik took the opportunity to break the eye-contact but he found himself struggling to keep up again. It's hard to tell what someone is saying when they're yelling and screaming. What he did catch, though, caused his skin to crawl with pure disgust and his nose wrinkled. He reminded himself of his anger at his roommate to give himself confidence, and focused on his goal of getting rid of the pain by provoking the other boy. It was a bit of an odd concept and it could very well just make it worse, but he didn't have many other options. Unless he wanted to obey him like a bitch, but that definitely didn't sound ideal. Vik took a shaky breath and tried to ignore the pain it sent across his chest, speaking with resolve, "I'm deaf, not blind. I could see that smile on your face. Admit it: you're a fucking sadist, maybe even a psychopath." Vik's eyes narrowed once more, both as a result of his protesting body and Marcus's words. Even just seeing Marcus suggest that he was not enjoying it sent a shudder of disgust through him. Vik felt that the evidence was stacked up against that statement, and therefore the audacity required to even say such a thing was beyond Vik's comprehension.

In response to this newfound revulsion to his roommate, Vik decided he needed a more noticeable way to prove his point. He didn't have the strength to try and respond by fighting, and he didn't want to start any true conflict anyways since he was already hurt, so he decided on a more disrespectful approach. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone: get knocked out and fuck with his roommate. He didn't have much concern for getting hurt as a result of it, considering he already felt like shit and he figured it couldn't get much worse. Leaning in as much as Marcus's hold on his hair would allow, Vik gathered a mixture of saliva and blood in his mouth and tried to spit it on Marcus's face. That was the easiest way of disrespecting the boy he could think of. If successful, a smug smirk would tug at the corners of his lips. Raising one of the hands that was helping support him, he wiped the blood off of his swollen lips. "I'm not tiptoeing around you because of your fucking problems," he grunted, trying to ignore his jaw and ribs that protested against his more confident method of speech. That wasn't easy, but he wanted his point to get across more than his chest wanted to screw him over. "You're even more fucked up than I thought if you think that's how things will work, even after this."

[Marcus Finch]

Dead-faced, Marcus glared at his roommate with enough hatred to kill a man. He listened as Vik spoke and slowly tightened his grip on the boy’s hair. “You’re wrong,” he spoke low, his voice quivering with danger. “You’re wrong; I’m not a sadist. I’m not-I’m not evil. You pissed me off. That's all there is to--” before he could finish, something wet splashed onto his cheek. He knew what it was, but for a moment, perhaps out of some unconscious desire to spare his roommate’s life, his brain refused to process it. Moving like a man underwater, Marcus raised his hand to wipe the glob of bloodied spit from his face. His eyes shifted to where it glistened on the back of his hand and he stared with slack-jawed disbelief. The racing tide of his thoughts swept through his skull, leaving his brain as useless as a rowboat in a hurricane.

"I'm not tiptoeing around you because of your fucking problems."

"You're even more fucked up than I thought if you think that's how things will work, even after this."

Marcus’s hand hovered towards Vik’s exposed throat. The pulsing in his jaw was unbearable and he flinched as each word brushed across the skin of his face. It had to end. The intolerable sound was too much and the punk’s brain latched onto the only goal that made sense: make it stop. His fingers, rough and strong from years of plucking steel guitar strings, found their way around the boy’s neck. Much to the punk’s delight, the skin was warm and soft, almost pliable beneath his fingers. Shifting his weight, Marcus maneuvered himself until he was sitting on top of Vik, pinning the boy to the floor on his back. Marcus’s right hand released his roommate’s hair and joined its companion around the deaf boy’s throat. The more pressure he applied, the quieter the boy became. But the struggle only grew harder.

Vik squirmed like a trapped animal as Marcus leaned his weight forward into the hands around the boy’s throat. The deaf boy clawed and pounded at the punk in his desperation to free himself, but Marcus felt solid in his position. He held his breath and his eyes focused on the backs of his hands as they hid Vik’s throat from view. Seconds crept into eternities and the tension in the punk’s muscles gave way to pins and needles under the strain of rooting himself in place. His brain was the electronic snowstorm of television static and the sound crinkled loud in his ears. Everything outside the punk’s peripheral vision faded into oblivion and all he could see were bloodied knuckles and pale skin. The world perverted itself around the moment and reality seemed to disconnect. Heart-pounding, static feedback ringing, blood smeared across the stage like a Shakespearean tragedy, Marcus became a prop in his own play. He was inanimate; a weight whose only purpose was to fall to gravity’s command. He sank deeper and deeper into the Earth, longing only to reach rock bottom and catch his breath. If only Vik wasn’t in his way.

[Viktor Rogers]

Relief overwhelmed Vik as Marcus's eyes flickered to the back of his own hand. He hadn't realized the extent of how uncomfortable Marcus's gaze had made him until now. It was also a small victory for Vik, as he was bruised and injured but now he had had at least some sort of retaliation. Well, that is, until it dawned upon him how actually pissed it had made puke-head. Sure, he'd tried to make Marcus a little more angry, but as the punk's hand reached for his neck he realized he might have gone overboard. Reacting out of instinct, Vik took a last painful breath of air before he was pushed to the ground and Marcus sat on top of him. Vik winced as weight shifted onto the bruises forming on his stomach, and he tried to shift under the green-haired boy to make it less painful. But, soon, that became the least of his concerns as he struggled for air.

The ginger's first reaction was to try and peel back Marcus's fingers and shove them backwards to break them, but they didn't budge. The musician used them too often for them to be forced around with such ease. Vik wriggled around, but soon found that to be no use, too, and it became just a waste of the precious air he had. His vision started to get blurry again, and he had to struggle even just to focus on the face above him. It soon hit him that Marcus didn't seem like he was going to stop. Is he... trying to kill me? At the realization that this was possible, panic slammed into the ginger, but it was different from the fear that had scattered his brain moments ago. Instead, it came with clarity that gave the boy a chance to develop a plan. Raising and bending his left knee that was behind Marcus, Vik planted it on the ground on the outside of Marcus's right leg, trapping it in place. Before Marcus could react, Vik moved. All in one instant motion, Vik twisted his left hip up and to the right, using his planted foot to help move the extra weight of Marcus's body. To help, he reached up with his arms and shoved on both the bend of Marcus's left arm and on his injured shoulder, forcing the two to roll over. The grip on his neck loosened and he gasped for air. He didn't linger on top of the other boy for long, though, as he pulled away and stumbled backwards onto his feet.

It had hurt like a living hell to twist his body, almost more painful than the initial kick that had caused his ribs to hurt in the first place. But, it'd worked, and just being able to breath again was rewarding. Well, except it felt like now there were multiple spears piercing his chest with each breath. At the very least, it was better than death. But, the boy knew he didn't have long before Marcus was on him again, so he struggled to recollect himself. Keeping a cautious eye on the green-haired boy, he backed up to the edge of the stage and slid off. His lower jaw slammed against his top row of teeth as he hit the ground, causing him to flinch, but he continued backing up. He was tempted to spit some retort back at Marcus, but he decided he didn't want to get blasted into a wall or something. The fact that this boy wanted to fucking kill him gave him the energy he needed to get the hell out of there. Giving Marcus one last bewildered glance, Vik ran out of the auditorium doors - finally getting the escape he'd desired since the beginning.

[Marcus Finch]

Marcus leaned over his pinned roommate, putting as much of his body weight into his hands as possible without toppling over. He focused all of his attention on those hands as he sank forward. Pop, another light blew, but Marcus was too far gone to notice. Red, white, green and blue; his knuckles bloomed before his eyes like fireworks in the dim lighting. Marcus admired them while he squeezed the boy’s throat just below his chin. Soft skin gave way to firmer structures that resisted as he dug in his fingertips. The boy’s defiance only encouraged Marcus to press harder even as he struggled like a bucking bull to free himself. Vik’s hands tugged at the fingers locked around his throat, but Marcus wouldn’t budge. The musician had hands like vises and no amount of desperate clawing could persuade him to let go.

Sweat trickled down his face and he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. Marcus didn’t notice Vik bending his leg behind him until he felt the weight of it pinning his own leg to the ground. Loosening his grip slightly, Marcus turned his neck in confusion at the sudden weight. A sharp pain erupted in his shoulder and the world rolled around him. Colours blurred and his body met the cool wooden surface of the stage. For a moment the punk turned onto his side, cradling the injured arm with a grunt of pain and an ugly grimace. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe until the pain began to fade. Pulling himself together, Marcus pushed himself into a sitting position only to watch as Vik dropped off the edge of the stage. The boy stumbled through the auditorium, pausing just once as he reached the door to catch a final glimpse of his roommate.

From his spot on the stage, puke-head watched the getaway. A shudder passed down his spine as his eyes met Vik’s just before the heavy door closed with a muffled, metallic click. Marcus leaned back and closed his eyes once more. His head pounded with the hornets still buzzing through it, encouraging him to chase after the boy, but his body refused to move. Everything ached and his hands shook with exhaustion. Broken glass littered the stage under his back, pressing into the fabric of his hoodie as the sound of his gasping breaths filled the silence. All around him the auditorium seemed to expand, the walls drifting wider like slow-moving tectonic plates. He imagined it swelling like a balloon, filling a little more with every breath. Marcus held the image in his mind and focused on it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The breaths were loud in his ears and he clung to them, allowing them to drown out the incessant buzzing in his head.

A familiar calmness settled over the punk as he pieced the shattered fragments of his sanity back together. A small part of him resisted the action, knowing what came next, but still he persisted. Time swept by until at long last he put his breathing back on auto-pilot and allowed his eyes to blink open. Uneven pools of light stretched across the stage. Marcus found his eyes drawn to the warped shadow of the piano, distorted beyond recognition. Flecks of blood painted the stage, crusting to a rusty brown that blended in with the wooden floor. Marcus wondered how long it would be before someone noticed them amongst the glass. He imagined the unfortunate student crouching down to scrape at the stains with a puzzled expression. They wondered what the hell happened in the once-peaceful room, and Marcus assured them he didn’t know.

It crossed his mind to clean up-- to dispose of the evidence before it could come back and haunt him-- but he doubted it would make any difference. Vik would tell. As sure as the sun rises, Marcus knew it was only a matter of time before they’d come knocking on his door. What then? Would he get kicked out of the school? Would he have to live in the forest with the crazies? Maybe they would throw him in the dungeon until graduation. Or, maybe, they wouldn’t do anything at all. Assault wasn’t uncommon at Ashford, but this was worse. Marcus’s palms began to sweat. You tried to kill him, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered back. Bullshit, you wanted him dead. Marcus shook his head and swallowed. “I wanted him to shut up. I just couldn’t take it.” You could have walked away, but instead you tried to throttle the kid. “I just. . .” There are no excuses, Mark. You’re out of control. You’re one bad day away from becoming a murderer. He drew a breath that threatened to tear his lungs apart. “I-I’m n-not--,” he stuttered. Don’t lie to yourself. You know that guilt is your pleasure.