You're a Mean One, Mr. Finch (Marcus)

[Viktor Rogers]

If any random kid over the past three weeks had asked Vik why his face was bruised or why he flinched every time he breathed in, he would've given them some high-quality, concentrated bullshit. Maybe something like, 'I got in a fight with a shark and it punctured my lungs', or 'I punched a crazy kid'. Although it's possible that he'd admit to getting in a fight with his roommate, he would never confess that the 'fight' was more of a 'beat-the-ginger-up session!'. That was far too embarrassing. But, the truth was that he was pretty confident in saying that he didn't think he injured Marcus at all during the conflict. Then again, he wouldn't know; the last time he'd seen the puke-head was back in the auditorium where they'd fought. Regardless, in contrast to his next-to-uninjured roommate, Vik had gone to the nurse with a fractured rib, a purple jaw and bruises dotting his stomach like he was a mutated dalmatian. After that fun visit to the nurse, Vik had asked Zack to spend a few weeks in his room instead. After all, he was pretty confident that Marcus had tried to kill him and that wasn't something he wanted to go back to so soon. So, he hadn't been in his own room for weeks, and he was pretty sure he was pissing off Zack's roommate by staying there for so long.

That's one of the reasons he went to Freya, Marcus's... friend? Musical partner? Well, whatever the fuck she was, Vik went to her for some well-deserved answers. This was because, along with most of his anger, his bruises had faded and he was only left with confusion and a rib that still fucking hurt. He didn't specify exactly what had happened between the two of them, just that there was some fighting involved. There were two reasons behind that. First of all, he didn't want to ruin any relationship her and Marcus had. Telling her that her friend had tried to kill someone would likely fuck some stuff up, and it would be even worse as it neared Christmas. And, in reality, Vik didn't know if Marcus had had the intention of choking him so he didn't want to mess up his life just on an assumption. It was irrelevant how confident he was in it. Second of all, he didn't want to seem like a little wimp by whining to her about getting the shit beaten out of him. He'd done enough pussy-ing around that day in the auditorium. Anyways, when he did find Freya, Vik's priorities were to find out why Marcus had done it and for help on what he should do. It wasn't like Vik had expected her to give him an almighty solution that solved his problems, and she didn't say much on the 'why' department either. But, she did suggest to talk to Marcus. So, after mulling her words over a couple thousand times, he found himself standing outside Marcus's dorm. He was, without a doubt, pretty scared.

With a heavy sigh that sent a flicker of pain across his upper body, Vik shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The irony hit him - he had to knock on his own fucking door. He allowed himself a half-hearted chuckle, but all signs of a smile vanished soon afterwards. He wasn't sure what to expect when he did manage to knock, nor what he was hoping to fix. He knew he'd fucked up when trying to provoke his roommate, and he hadn't been thinking straight at the time. Maybe he had just been getting used to the green hair and needed that vibrance, but he'd almost missed the presence of puke-head. Whatever the reason was, it was enough to convince him to knock on the door. He did so three times before leaning back on his heels, eyes flickering to his feet. He could only hope it was loud enough for the punk to hear, but maybe he was blasting music. Vik wrinkled his nose. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't actually sure whether he actually wanted Marcus to come to the door. The punk had likely enjoyed the freedom from his deaf roommate, and didn't want to see him at all. Chewing on his lip, Vik stuffed his hands into his (well...Zack's) hoodie's pockets and prepared to turn around to leave, when the door swung open in the corner of his eyes. The deaf boy flinched and rubbed the back of his neck, rotating back to face puke-head for the first time in weeks. Well, this was fucking awkward.

"I...um, uh...hey," he paused, keeping his breaths shallow so he wouldn't wince,"it's been a while, eh?"

[Marcus Finch]

Three weeks. For three weeks there had been a distinct lack of puke-haired individuals roaming the hallowed halls of Ashford. For three weeks the school had been mercifully quiet. No fist fights, no destruction of private property, and not a single note of punk rock defiled the sanctity of the school. For three weeks the school had been too damn quiet. After the events that transpired in the auditorium three long weeks ago, Marcus seemed to vanish without a trace. The punk, with his obnoxious green hair and even more obnoxious attitude, was not one to lie low. And yet, not a single student, teacher, nor prefect could claim to have caught a glimpse of puke-coloured hair bobbing through the halls.

Lying in his dorm, Marcus wondered whether they knew it was him. He could imagine them all gathered together, heads bent low over cafeteria tables as rumours poured like fountain water from their mouths. Did you hear about what happened to Vik? said an excitable red-haired girl. Yeah! I heard his roommate tried to kill him! Can you believe that? the blonde tittered. I always knew that kid was dangerous. Poor Vik. He must be so brave! added the brunette. I hope they lock him away soon. I mean, it’s not safe to have a monster like that around, finished the ginger. For three weeks some variation of the same conversation scrolled through his head until he could hear it even in his dreams.

Marcus rolled onto his side and pulled his pillow over his head in a feeble attempt to block out the conversation. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to think of anything besides the afternoon in the auditorium, but all he found behind his eyelids was Vik’s brutalised face. Eyes stretched wide in horror, Marcus pictured the boy’s bruised and bloodied face. Around Vik’s throat were his own hands with the skin stretched white across the knuckles and purple bruises swelling between them. Sucking in a sharp breath, Marcus’s eyes snapped open and he tossed the pillow to the floor. He sat up and held his right hand in his lap. The scabs itched like hell, but at least the swelling had gone down and the bruises faded to an old-newspaper shade of yellow.

The punk pushed the blankets off of himself and made his way to the closet-sized bathroom he and Vik shared. He turned on the faucet and let it run until the water steamed. Then, shoving his hands into the water, he scrubbed his knuckles until the scabs came loose and they started bleeding all over again. Grimacing, Marcus focused all of his energy on the scrubbing and almost didn’t hear the knock on the door. “Fuck,” he jumped back into the wall as his heart thundered in his chest. Breathing thick, he cradled his bleeding hand close to his stomach and reached out with the other to turn off the tap. For a moment he stood hunched in the bathroom, his mind running wild as he tried to imagine who could be behind the door.

Don’t answer it, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. Were they coming for him at last? He pictured a whole mob of prefects waiting to break down the door and drag him out. Frozen, he waited until his legs went numb, but nothing happened. The punk’s eyes flickered up and for just a moment he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink. Dark bags hung below his eyes and there was a yellow, waxy tinge to his skin. His green hair sat limp like wilted lettuce on his head and his eyes betrayed a deep and feral sense of paranoia. Whoever waited for him behind the door couldn’t be worse than the person in the mirror.

Holding his breath, Marcus slipped out of the bathroom and up to the door. The handle felt cold and smooth beneath his hand and he wrenched it open before he could change his mind.


"I...um, uh...hey. It's been awhile, eh?"

Well, this was fucking awkward. Marcus blinked at his roommate’s puffy face in surprise. Then, leaning around the door frame he squinted down the hall in both directions. “You’re alone?” he verified to himself, his voice dry and cracked after weeks of disuse. Once he felt satisfied that the boy really was alone, Marcus nodded to himself and let out a slow breath before taking a step back into the dorm. “C’mon,” he turned to sit on the edge of his bed, directing his eyes on the ground so that he wouldn’t have to look at Vik’s bruised face. “Three weeks is a long time not to change your underwear.” From the corner of his eye he could see the hunched way Vik stood and his stomach churned.

[Viktor Rogers]

The moment Vik's eyes fell upon his roommate, they widened. The guy must've not slept in weeks. Bags of purple hung beneath his sunken eyes and his face was tinted yellow, almost as if he'd worn some shitty makeup for Halloween that had left a stain. And yet, his skin was repulsive in more than just the colour: it clung to every sharp bone. It made his cheeks look like they were hollowed with a spoon and like his half-closed eyes were pushed in by a giant. Vik tried to avert his gaze from it, glancing up to look at what remained of Marcus's pride instead - his hair. It too, was affected. It drooped down in front of his eyes with a plagued, sickly look, lacking the volume it usually had and instead clinging to his face. And, yet, locks of it still protruded from random spots in resistance to the disease that had ravaged it. But, the green had a faint brown discolouration near the roots, too, that made it appear even more ill and unhealthy. He must not have touched it since they'd had their fight. But, despite all of this, the most unnerving thing were still his bloodshot eyes. See, on the average day, Marcus's green hues were likely the most expressive part about him. They gave off how he felt when nothing else did. But, now, they were unseeing; vacant. Sure, they flickered around (with a franticness one might only expect from Bambi), but it was as if they didn't register anything they landed upon. Vik didn't look through them and see Marcus: He only saw emotionless orbs of green.

At first, the distraught demeanour of his roommate unsettled him. When he opened the door, Marcus seemed to have been searching around like a madman might for witnesses. He only seemed satisfied when he'd confirmed that Vik was, in fact, alone. A tremble ran down the ginger's spine and his rib throbbed in reminder. The last time the roommates had not been in public, after all, Vik had gotten the shit beaten out of him. But, then, as Marcus's eyes fell back upon him, he saw a flicker of... something else. It wasn't the hatred or savagery Vik had expected - no. Perhaps it was unease, or, if he dared say it, maybe even a glimmer of fear. It was almost like he was scared to just see the ginger's face. It began to dawn upon Vik that Marcus's frantic search hadn't been a search for 'witnesses' of a new crime, but, in fact, had been an act of self-preservation. He didn't want to get taken in. Vik's eyebrows arched.

Soon, Marcus invited him into his own dorm with the graciousness of a cow. He stumbled about, likely stubbing his toe on fifteen things, before arriving on the bed and falling into a seated position and staring at the ground. Must be thrilling, the life of a puke-head. Vik hesitated, before taking a few apprehensive steps behind the musician. With what he imagined was a creak and a gentle 'bang', he pulled the door shut behind him. Just that slight twist of his upper body sent a shock across his chest and he flinched. To draw attention away from it, Vik brushed his hair back and tugged down on his burgundy hoodie. With a shallow breath, he gathered himself and inched closer to his roommate until he was a few feet away. He leaned on the wall nearest Marcus and curved his back for comfort, hands stuck in his jeans' pockets.

For some reason, it didn't feel that it would be right to sit on the bed opposite of the puke-head. It may have been his own, but the territory of 'The Dorm' had been claimed by Marcus and it didn't feel like Vik belonged anymore. A grimace tugged at the corner of his lips and a crease formed between his eyebrows. Soon, though, it vanished as the silence settled between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but it took a moment for him to muster the strength to produce a sound. "It sure is. Only reason I came back," he tried, giving his roommate a half-hearted smile. It vanished within seconds. Regardless, Vik wasn't too worried about getting a grin out of his roommate, as that seemed like it hadn't happened in a long time. He was more concerned about finding the right words to say, or even just the right place to start. The imaginary conversation he'd ran through in his head had not included Marcus looking as bad as he did. "Uh, a-are you OK?" he tried, although his voice lacked sympathy and quivered with each word. He only had what little air his shallow breaths offered. "You, um, don't look so good," he added, tone a little more quiet as it threatened to break. As Vik surveyed the other boy, his eyes flickered down to the red stain forming on Marcus's shirt. It came from the cradled fist, and Vik pursed his lips. As if out of instinct, he pulled a hand out of his jeans and felt for the yellow bruise on his jaw. ". . . I guess I probably don't, either."

[Marcus Finch]

From the corner of his eye, Marcus never lost track of his roommate. He noted every awkward movement and pained grimace made by the boy, and a dull pang of guilt echoed through the cavity of his chest. He sat with his shoulders slouched forward like a rag doll. Vik’s attempt at banter didn’t seem to register with the punk and he stared at the floor in front of him. A sudden flicker of movement from Vik caused him to flinch, only to recover a moment later to see the boy rubbing at a bruise on his jaw. For the first time since the incident, puke-head forced himself to get a proper look at his victim. Yellow bruises mottled his face and there was an unusual nervousness about him. His eyes kept flickering between Marcus and the door, but behind the anxiety was something else. The boy’s eyebrows knitted together and he looked at Marcus with something that could only be mistaken for concern.

“Yeah,” the punk responded at last, glancing away. He moved to run a hand through his hair, a motion that went uncompleted as the muscles in his shoulder pulled too tight. Grimacing, he dropped the hand back to the mattress. The fabric of his t-shirt felt clammy against his stomach as blood from his knuckles seeped through. “I s’pose neither of us look too pretty.” Five fist-sized holes were punched into the sheetrock of the wall beside Vik, and if he examined the dresser closely he would find dimples beaten into its smooth wood. Marcus let out a slow breath and shook his head. “You didn’t tell anyone?” he swallowed and peeled his hand away from his shirt to inspect it.

The bleeding had stopped, but the knuckles were in no better shape than the rest of him. Marcus sighed and chewed at his bottom lip. “Man, you’ve got some balls to come back here,” he muttered. “I mean, yeah. Everything’s kinda fucked up, huh? I just,” he swallowed again, “why are you here?” Staring at the gray toes of his socks, the punk seemed to take a great deal of interest in the carpet. Blue and rough it stretched from wall to wall. Mysterious stains, discarded clothes, and the occasional crumpled wrapper formed independent islands that interrupted its endless blue. Bits of glass from the shattered ceiling light poked out from the carpet, though most of the bigger chunks had been picked up. Even the dorm was suffering in the wake of everything.

[Viktor Rogers]

Marcus’s sudden flinch as Vik rubbed at his unshaven jaw did not go unnoticed. The ginger raised his eyebrows and lowered his hand back to his side, although there wasn’t a position of his body that didn’t feel awkward. Maybe the other felt similar, as when puke-head pulled his arm upwards out of habit, Vik caught his shoulder’s reluctance to move. The ginger’s gaze loosened, and his eyebrows knitted together in a look of unmistakable concern. However, Vik’s train of thought skidded to a halt as Marcus asked if he’d told anyone. The deaf teen shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his eyebrows twitched into another frown. Despite this, Vik let the musician finish speaking, hesitating as Marcus peeled the skin of his hand away from the shirt. “No, I didn’t,” he murmured when he grew sure that Marcus had finished, “tell anyone, that is. I mean, kinda, but not really. See, I talked to Zack and Freya but, well I only told ‘em we had a fight.” Vik gritted his teeth, although it sent a flicker of pain across his face, “I didn’t say...exactly what happened.” He flinched and his shoulders tightened, his weight shifting from his heels to the tips of his toes. His face even went a little red.

It took a moment of thought to understand what Marcus had tried to ask afterwards. Vik had gotten a couple context clues, but Marcus’s head had been angled towards the carpet. That meant that the syllables were more difficult to differentiate, and it didn’t help that Marcus was hesitating a lot in his speech. Now, Vik didn’t blame him, but that didn’t mean it made it any easier for the deaf boy. He rubbed at his shoulder, before a combination of words finally clicked and his frown dissipated. Instead, unease settled in his stomach. Despite his inherent dislike of the question, Vik wanted to avoid talking about telling Zack and Freya. So, he didn’t waste any time thinking before he started speaking again. “I’m here ‘cause, uh…” he hesitated, the words escaping him. He tried again. “It’s been three weeks, and I guess I’m not pissed at you anymore. I just…don’t know what happened.” The ginger hesitated, his hand dropping back to his side and hanging there. He was trying to kill you, that’s what happened. Vik’s gaze wavered, and soon he found himself staring at the blue carpet under his shoes.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s just brain damage talking,” Vik offered a half-hearted smirk to indicate the joke, but it soon faded as he leaned back into the wall and looked back up at the musician, “but I guess I’m here ‘cause I wanna give this whole roommate thing another go, y’know? Without anything like…that happening.” Vik waved his hand around for a moment before dropping it back at his side, sighing. His ribs panged. “So, is it alright if I ask, well, what did happen? Er, you just kind of…” he trailed off, voice shuddering. He even winced a little, as if his muscles had tensed in response to just the thought. “blew up.” A grimace tugged at the corner of his lips.

[Marcus Finch]

Vik was scared and it was obvious. From his defensive posture to the hesitant way he spoke, Marcus could feel the discomfort rolling off the boy. The punk kept his gaze focused on the floor as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the conversation, but from the corner of his eye he kept tabs on every shift and grimace Vik made. He held his breath as he awaited Vik’s answer, the tension mounting in his gut with every passing second. His roommate may have come alone, but that didn’t mean Marcus was in the clear just yet.

When Vik answered his first question the punk responded with a curt nod. A muscle in his hand twitched at the mention of Freya, but Marcus kept quiet. The tension in his stomach eased slightly at Vik's confirmation. Although the ginger’s embarrassment went unnoticed, Marcus felt a brief flash of gratitude towards his roommate. He allowed his eyes to drift shut and let out a slow breath of relief. Safe.

For now.

As Vik spoke again, the punk’s eyes fluttered open and found his face. Expressionless, he listened to the boy stutter through his explanation. When he finished, Marcus sat silent for a long minute. What had happened in the auditorium? That was a question more complicated than Vik realised. “Err,” he shifted his weight on the mattress. The tension was back and puke-head weighed his options. The truth was an ugly, complicated mass of personal crises and thinly related grudges. But he owed the boy something, and seeing the way he winced with even the smallest movements sent the guilt squirming in the punk’s stomach.

“Look,” Marcus sighed, “it’s not easy to explain and I’m not really good at explaining things.” Passing a hand over his tired face, he shook his head. Where would he even start? “When I told you, y’know, don’t piss me off, I wasn’t just trying to seem intimidating or what-the-fuck-ever. I meant it. Don’t piss me off. Ever. Because if you do we’re both gonna be in trouble. Understand?” He spread his palms on his knees and ran his tongue over his cracked lips. It wasn’t the answer Vik was looking for, and Marcus knew it. Dropping his gaze, his mind fumbled for an explanation.

“I blew up, yeah. That-- that happens sometimes. I know it’s like, wrong and stuff, and I’m, err, working on it.” The punk rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It’s just. . . really hard. I dunno how to explain it because you’re probably thinking it’s not that hard to, like, not go off on psychotic rampages and whatever. But I just get angry sometimes, and it’s like that rational part of my brain that tells you to, y’know, wear clothes in public and respect people and don’t strangle your roommate and whatever, it goes away. I don’t really understand what happens or how it works. My shrink’s explained it, but I don’t really get it. So yeah.” Visibly uncomfortable, a shiver ran through the punk’s body. A crease formed between his brows.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be roommates. I," he swallowed, "I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.”

[Viktor Rogers]

At first, Marcus seemed to have been unable to drag his gaze away from the carpet. When he had been looking at it, Vik hadn’t realized how relaxing it was to act without expressionless eyes on him. Only now that the punk was facing him did he understand how terrifying it was to have the sunken eyes on him. The ginger couldn’t stop a shudder from rippling across his back, and the deaf teen hesitated under Marcus's gaze. His eyes soon flickered downwards in shame. He couldn't bring himself to look into the dreary, empty orbs of what remained of his roommate. However, when he inspected the carpet below his feet he realized it wasn’t quite the 'get-away' from the situation that he’d desired. Shards of light dotted the blue, and, after just a moment of thought, Vik’s eyebrows raised. He glanced up at the ceiling to see the broken lightbulb, and dread rose in his the pit of his stomach. He shrunk a little into the wall behind him, before he took a shaky breath to recover himself. Marcus wasn’t angry now, so Vik couldn’t be irrational about this. He dragged his gaze back up to keep a watchful eye on the boy’s lips which soon began to move. Vik’s toes curled as he spoke.

His explanation made some sense to the ginger, but he couldn’t help but struggle with the concept. He’d never dealt with an uncontrollable violence and he couldn’t imagine what it was like just to be unable to hold himself back. It seemed frustrating and likely was the reason Marcus had been so firm about not pissing him off. Too bad that the ginger had missed the memo. Vik frowned while the green-haired boy explained further and his lips pursed together. He didn’t know what to say. His roommate was an uncomfortable mess, trembling under Vik’s gaze. Then, he suggested they no longer be roommates, and Vik’s eyes widened and his brows raised.

“That seems, uh, extreme. We were…’alright’, before. I mean,“ he paused, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I think I get it and, I-I’ll try not to piss you off,” he croaked, goose bumps running along his skin. “Besides, we can, like, come up with a word or something. If you say it, whatever ‘it’ is, I’ll drop everything and leave. But, y’know, you have to make sure you, um, face me, so I can see it.” The ginger’s shoulders hunched into his aching chest and his stomach tightened. He paused for a moment, regarding Marcus’s green eyes for a few seconds. His gaze faltered and he soon found himself staring at his shoes. “Y’know,” Vik hesitated, “t-the whole thing was kinda my fault, too, I guess. I shouldn’t have done…that, or really said what I did,” he murmured, growing agitated at the thought of what he had done to initiate it all. However, his brief moment of frustration soon faded and left him fumbling with his hands and chewing on his lip. If he just hadn’t gone into the auditorium that day, the whole mess would’ve never happened. He should never have listened to those urges. His heart pounded in his chest and his face grew hot at his own stammered apology. “That is, uh, sorry.”

[Marcus Finch]

There was a familiar hollowness in Marcus’s chest, a cavernous emptiness that yawned vast enough to consume galaxies. If his anger presented as hornets then guilt came as maggots, and over the last three weeks the maggots had bled him dry. Even now he could picture them squirming in the softer tissues of his brain and guts. Their translucent bodies writhed, and sharp tongues carved latticed networks through muscle, flesh, and bone. Marcus felt himself rotting from the inside out, decaying into a putrid slime that threatened to spew from every orifice of his being. There was a joke in it somewhere. Something about dying musicians and decomposing.

The more he spoke the less aware he seemed to be of what he was saying. His eyes flickered up to meet Vik’s, only to witness his roommate glance away. Repelled like the wrong end of a magnet. As he finished his explanation, Marcus forced himself slowly to his feet. He turned his back to his roommate and hobbled to the small window at the back wall of the room. His aching muscles screamed in protest, but the punk made it to the window and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. It was a long way down, but not long enough. Perhaps the roof. . .?

Vik’s voice cut through his thoughts and he looked up. “That seems, uh, extreme. We were…’alright’, before. I mean . . . I think I get it and, I-I’ll try not to piss you off.” Something heavy lodged itself in the punk’s throat and he swallowed hard. “Besides, we can, like, come up with a word or something. If you say it, whatever ‘it’ is, I’ll drop everything and leave. But, y’know, you have to make sure you, um, face me, so I can see it.” Pressing his lips together, Marcus glanced away and blinked furiously for a few seconds before looking back up with reddened eyes. Somewhere behind the emotionless green something flickered, and for just a moment he was looking at Vik rather than through him.

“That,” he choked out, “is the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me. And--” Marcus faltered and buried his face in his palm for a moment. He sucked in a sharp breath and rubbed at his eyes. Exhaling, he pulled himself together enough to drag his hand away from his face. “I don’t get it, man. You should hate me. But you’re apologising to me. You’re apologising to me.” He snorted and threw his hands up in defeat. “Look at you. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Vik, you’re a mess and I did it to you. Don’t you fuckin’ apologise to me. I don’t deserve the shit off your boots.” He took a deep breath and the seams began to split. The hate began to leak, and once it started it would flow like water from a busted dam.

[Viktor Rogers]

Vik’s wary eyes followed the punk as he stumbled over to the window. The thickness of the air made it hard to breath, but Vik knew he’d have to respond to Marcus’s explanation. And yet, the deaf boy grasped at any distraction from the conversation. He regarded the panels of light projected on the walls of the room with fake interest. He watched the shoulders of his roommate shake as they rose and fell. He observed Marcus’s breath as it fogged the glass more and more with each shivering exhale. His eyes even finally fell upon the dents in the wooden dresser. And, despite his attempts to distract himself, his stomach sank to his feet. The calm world outside their room seemed so far away.

The deaf boy’s voice didn’t display confidence. Vik didn’t have to hear it to be able to know that, with the way it trembled and quivered in his throat. Marcus’s pained eyes weren’t encouraging either, and the ginger felt as if each word he spoke had to be coughed out. The moment he finished, his muscles relaxed and he shifted his weight into his heels. The tense air of the conversation was Marcus’s responsibility now. However, that relief was brief, as his roommate soon turned his face away from the ginger. Panic sprung up in his stomach, remembering when his roommate had turned away before throwing the first punch just a few weeks ago. His knees tensed, until Marcus looked back up at him with bloodshot eyes. Was he…? Vik hesitated, throat dry. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t comfort his roommate. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to, as Marcus’s lips had begun to move again. Vik leaned into the wall behind him, watching his roommate with knitted brows. His fists clenched at the response, but his irritation soon dissipated as his roommate hid his face behind his hands. With his dreary eyes, sickly hair, and trembling arms… he seemed so vulnerable. He’d endured enough without any snappy comments from the ginger, so Vik relaxed his gaze and kept quiet. Although it was far from a moment of tranquility, it gave the deaf boy a chance to breath.

Soon, though, Marcus finished. His response had been filled with swears and an exasperated hand-throw, leaving Vik with beads of sweat running down his neck. He didn’t know how to deal with the sudden increase in emotion. After all, last time he hadn’t been very successful. Vik took a step back along the wall, pausing. At the very least, he knew he wasn’t looking to argue with his roommate; that might escalate things. Adding another thing to his list of injuries didn’t seem optimal. What the hell could he even do to diffuse the anger, though?

It soon occurred to the boy that it wasn’t about him, but about Marcus. The punk was dealing with a huge internal conflict - that was the very real disease that had ravaged his body. Despite his quickening heart rate, Vik couldn’t leave him like that. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m always a mess, you just haven’t seen me in a while. You’ve forgotten,” he joked, offering a half-hearted smile. He sucked in air, ignoring the pain it brought. It was possible that his attempt would go unappreciated, so he paused to think.

“Look, uh, that day wasn’t good for either of us. I said a bunch of shitty stuff and you did some shitty stuff, but y’know, what’s done is done. I can’t blame you for that anymore, especially since I…kinda provoked you.” He spoke with a slow, calm voice. The smile had faded from his lips and, instead, fear tightened its grip on him. Because, well, whatever the hell he did last time did not work, and he didn’t want to repeat it. Vik pursed his lips together and looked up to meet Marcus’s gaze with quivering, but definite, confidence. “I, uh, I don’t hate you for it. I can’t say I fully understand, but just… you’ve beaten yourself up over it enough for the two of us.” Vik rubbed at the back of his neck with his trembling hands, struggling to keep his eyes on his roommate’s green ones. It was true that he’d expected a lot of arguments from living with Marcus, but he had never quite seen this colossal mess coming. Well, at least right now he looked a little better than the punk did.

[Marcus Finch]

Marcus couldn’t bring himself to crack a smile at Vik’s half-hearted attempt at a joke. The weight of his mistakes sat heavy on his shoulders and he had to lean against the window frame for support. Exhaustion and hatred staggered through his head in a sort of drunken waltz and he struggled to keep his hold on the conversation. Vik’s words swam through his ears and exploded like bullets in his brain. The anger that filled him to the brim threatened to spill over once again, rising like bitter bile in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.

To say the day hadn’t been good was the understatement of the century, and Marcus gave a snort of humourless laughter. “Yeah,” he muttered in agreement, “guess that’s one way to put it.” He raised a hand to rub at his tired eyes. They felt almost as heavy as the weight on his shoulders, but the punk blinked away the dryness and watched his roommate. He really was a mess. The bruises around his jaw bloomed the colour of rotten eggs. Every breath drew a pained grimace to the boy’s face, but something flickered in his yellow eyes. Marcus expected to find fear in Vik’s eyes, and he did, but there was a certain glint of confidence that held his attention. It drew the punk away from the seething crucible of his mind and the edge of the tension ebbed.

If Vik could be calm, Marcus could, too.

“I, uh, I don’t hate you for it. I can’t say I fully understand, but just… you’ve beaten yourself up over it enough for the two of us.”

He gave a slow nod and drew a breath that filled his lungs. “I can’t keep living like this,” he explained. “I know it’s hard to understand; I don’t think Freya understood, but I can’t do it anymore. Not after what I did to you.” A sharp twinge in his chest left him breathless for a moment, but he pulled himself together. He had to tell Vik about it. Someone needed to understand, and the deaf boy seemed to be the only one willing to listen.

“I’m not a sadist, I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to be angry and irrational and blow up at people over nothing all the time. It’s not something that can be fixed, but I try to manage it. I think I even manage it alright most of the time, but it only takes once. It only takes one bad day. One of these days I’m going to pick a fight with the wrong guy and he’s going to pull a knife on me. Or I’ll scream at my boss and throw his chair out a window. Or I’ll get picked up by the cops on some assault charge, or I’ll be that guy on the news who flipped out and killed his wife. It won’t matter how good I’ve been. It only takes once.”

He paused, green eyes growing distant as he stared at the carpet. “I don’t know what to do.” The words came out hushed, in a tone so soft that Vik might not have heard it even if he wasn’t deaf. Shoulders stooped forward, Marcus felt small and defeated. Everything in him wanted to curl up like a dead spider, long legs laced together over its vacant shell. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

[Viktor Rogers]

The fear that shook the deaf boy’s body began to ebb away as Marcus explained his situation in more detail. It made at least some sense to the ginger. However, each word Marcus spoke became an ingredient in a corrosive mixture of pity, regret, and unease that ate away at Vik’s gut. Even Marcus’s sallow skin and sunken eyes haunted the deaf boy, and it only reminded Vik of what he had said that day in the auditorium. The words echoed through his head without mercy. He stuffed his hands in his hoodie’s pocket and chewed on his lip, resisting the urge to avert his gaze from other boy. Perhaps it would help to focus on Marcus’s words, though nothing seemed to relieve the unease that scraped against his skin.

“I just can’t do this anymore.” 

Vik’s stomach clenched and his hands tightened into fists. The punk was falling apart in front of him and he felt like he was stuck watching on the sidelines. He pursed his lips. Trying to think of ways to console him was hard enough: Vik couldn’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been for Marcus to actually go through it all himself. Vik had to at least try to help. “I… think I get it,” he finally said, accompanied with a slow nod. “I don’t have a fix, but I get it.” Vik pushed off the wall with a grimace, and sat on his own bed. It was near where Marcus perched along the window, and gave him a better view of the punk's expressions.

The ginger shut his eyes for a moment, regaining some strength, and opened them again to try to meet the gaze of his roommate. “You’re not a bad guy. I’m sure what you have to go through isn’t…easy.” A shaky sigh escaped Vik’s lips and his hands were cold and sweaty. And yet, he kept a calm, cool gaze on Marcus. He had to: he felt like he owed the boy something. “But, y’know, you’re you. Don’t… give up on that. As gay as it might sound, especially coming from me, you’re not so bad to be around.” The corners of his lips pulled into a kind smile. “Anyways, after all this you’ve just got one more person who at least kinda understands. That’s not so bad, right?” Vik gave a slight shrug, trying to provide some much-needed optimism. After only a moment of pause, though, his smile began to fade.

“I didn’t mean that… y’know,” he started, voice just above a whisper, “that you are a sadist or whatever. Er, well, I guess I kinda did at the time, but I also didn’t…know.” Vik’s gaze dropped to his feet and his stomach went with it. He couldn't help but feel guilty for it all. “I can guess that it must’ve been… rough for you, especially to be left with that thought for so long.” Vik glanced back at his roommate, surveying his expression. It was hard to; there didn’t seem to be much left of him. The deaf boy's chest panged.

[Marcus Finch]

Still staring vacantly at the carpet, the punk’s head nodded as if by its own accord. “I don’t expect you to fix it, man,” he replied in a quiet voice. “If there were an obvious fix this wouldn’t be happening right now,” Marcus gestured around them to the holes in the walls and the glass-littered carpet. Everything felt so heavy and he sank to the floor and sat with one knee pulled up to his chest. His body ached with the motion, but as he eased himself down he found himself fighting to stay awake.

“You said I’m not a bad guy,” he muttered, “I’m not sure I know what that means.” The punk leaned his head against the wall and for a moment his eyes drifted shut before he forced them open once more. “I hurt you and then I ran away. Hell, I almost killed you, and I still haven’t even apologised. You had to come to me because there was no bloody way I was going to you. I’m violent and a coward and I know it. Don’t pretend I’m not just to spare my feelings.”

“I am sorry, though. I’m sorry for yelling at you and hurting you and for letting things get to that point. I could have walked away so many times. I knew I was getting bad and that I needed to walk away. It was damn irresponsible of me to stay and I’m so, so sorry, Vik.” His tired eyes found the boy and looked through him once more. “None of it had to happen,” he said in a voice like a whisper. His vision blurred and he wiped the hot tears from his eyes before they could spill over.

“Thank you for not honestly thinking I’m that way. Thank you for understanding,” he managed. The moisture from his eyes stung his cracked knuckles but in a way that seemed to anchor him to the moment. At least the stinging felt more real than anything else. “No one ever wants to understand, you know. They just want to slap you with a label and prescribe you twenty drugs that keep you too sedated to care. But now you know.”

Marcus paused, chewing his lower lip for a moment. “When I said we shouldn’t be roommates anymore, err, I-I dunno. Like I said, I can’t promise I won’t flip out again,” he shook his head. “What I’m getting at is I can’t guarantee that you’ll be safe with me, but if you want to try. . .“ the punk trailed off and gave a soft shrug. “You’re my best mate on the island. It’s up to you.” His eyes began to drift shut again, and he rubbed at them before blinking back to his friend. What a mess.

[Viktor Rogers]

The ginger’s eyes did not leave the punk, even when prompted by his hand gestures to look around. He was too occupied watching even the slightest movements of the boy, who more resembled a broken doll than anything else. Unaided by his damaged rib, Vik struggled to breath as the air around them only seemed to thicken. Although he had come to the island expecting the worst, he hadn’t thought that the ‘worst’ would include such a rocky friendship with, most surprisingly, a musician. As Marcus sank to the floor, his once vibrant green eyes also grew red and teary, causing Vik’s stomach to flip. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He just wished they could both forget the day had happened, but that seemed unlikely. The confirmation that Marcus had tried to kill Vik didn’t help though, leaving the ginger’s hands to tremble. He stuffed them back in his pockets; that didn’t need to be addressed. Instead, Vik struggled to focus on the punk’s lips while also searching for a comforting phrase to respond with. But, in a world with an endless number of ways to thread words together, the ginger couldn’t find a single decent thing to say. Time was up; Marcus had finished talking. Fuck.

“Er, yeah, by ‘not a bad guy’… I meant, y’know.” Vik hesitated. “You…didn’t mean to do it, or, I hope you didn’t. And, I mean, it probably wasn’t easy to think about someone you hurt, uh, like that, not to mention confronting them. I can’t blame you for not trying to find me.” The ginger murmured, though he didn’t know if it’d done any good. He didn’t have too much of a positive outlook on it, and sighed. If he had been anyone else, maybe the two of them would be laughing it off by now. Maybe he'd have been able to make Marcus feel better. But, instead, the two were shrouded in a blanket of gloom.

However, Vik soon registered that Marcus had called him his ‘best mate on the island’. Now, the ginger wasn’t sure how many ‘mates’ Marcus had at Ashford anyways, but it still spread a sense of warmth in his stomach. It faded, though, as he reminded himself of the unfortunate situation surrounding the discussion. It wasn’t the time for such sentiments. Vik tugged on the collar of his shirt, searching for excuses to avoid responding right away. He didn’t have any. “Uh, of course I want to try,” he started, trying to convey confidence with a voice he couldn’t even hear, “I mean, I, uh, kinda know what’s going on now. I’ll fuck off if I’m worried I need to, and, well, avoid the auditorium.” At that, he frowned a little, but his expression soon neutralized. “Anyways, without you, who else would protect me from the other super-powered freaks?” The ginger gave a soft smile. Despite all of his previous attempts at making a light-hearted atmosphere having failed, he kept at it. Maybe it was just in his blood to make such comments.

The ginger soon leaned forward, rubbing at his eyes. The fatigue emanating from his roommate was starting to rub off on him, and the sudden loss of tension in the air only reminded him of how damn stressful the past twenty minutes of the day had been. Vik dropped his arms to rest on top of his legs, eyes cracking open to look at his disheveled roommate. He paused, confident he would soon regret the offer he was about to make. “Uh, y’know, I’ve been a bit, well, unfair and all. You can… play in the room when you want. That is, your instruments or whatever. I… I might leave or something, but I won’t say anything. I know I’ve been, uh, a bit of a douche about it, and it’s not only my room.” He grimaced. “That’s kinda what led to this whole mess anyways.” 

[Marcus Finch]

Marcus listened passively as Vik spoke. Fighting to stay awake, he couldn’t seem to find the words to argue. Instead he just nodded at The deaf boy's attempt to comfort him. The words patted against his cheeks like rain, and despite all his efforts his eyes fell shut. Somewhere on the edge of sleep he clung to the conversation, nodding every now and then to prove he was still conscious.

When Vik finished there was a long silence. The punk’s head lolled on his chest and from his soft breathing it was clear that he had nodded off at last. Propped in the the corner where the top of his bed met the wall, it could hardly be considered the most comfortable place to fall asleep. But after three weeks of restless anxiety, the stiff back wouldn’t matter. Vik didn’t hate him, no one was coming to throw him in the dungeon, and no one at the school knew what happened in the auditorium. There were still a lot of messes to clean up, but they would still be there in the morning. For now, all that mattered was sleep.

[Viktor Rogers]

Because of Vik’s intense focus on his response, the ginger hadn’t noticed that Marcus fell asleep. Instead, he found himself staring at the other’s lips in search for a response that would never come. When he finally scoured his roommate’s expression once more, he noted that the boy had slumped over against the wall even further, his eyes had fallen shut, and his jaw hung loose. The deaf boy paused. Despite the catastrophe that had occurred only a few weeks ago, the musician looked peaceful in his slumber. Any tension that remained in the air ebbed away, and fear released its grasp on Vik’s body. He got on his feet, swaying for a moment as he looked down at his roommate – and friend. (Also, the only person who had tried to kill him: he couldn’t help but admit that that felt a bit ridiculous.) He shook his head. Vik still knew he owed the other something; he pulled the cover off of Marcus’s bed and threw it on top of him. It wasn’t something he’d repeat, and if puke-head later asked, it was the magical blanket fairy that had been so kind.

Vik lingered there for a few more moments, concern tugging at his gut. The punk might sleep through lunch, and it definitely looked like he needed the food. Though he would never dream of admitting this, Vik decided to bring puke-head something back when he went down for food. He’d just say he took too much, which would keep it from being embarrassing for either of them. His eyes flickered back to his bed: he’d also have to move his stuff back in, but that could wait until the monster in the room woke up. He didn’t want to whack him with luggage or make a racket as he rummaged through the drawers. That kind of annoying behavior could be saved for later. The ginger fumbled in his pocket to search for the keys to their dorm, and hesitated as he approached the door. He glanced back over at the dozing punk.

Yeah, he smiled. We’ll be OK.