Young Writers Society

psych

Marshall whines a lot, but he’s usually not very picky. Offer him the choice of dogs or cats, picture books or lengthy novels, Hamburgers or cheese burgers and he’ll usually grin and say either one’s okay. Well, except the Burgers. Then he’d probably go with Cheese.

But for the first time in his life, there was one choice he was firmly, obstinately against; and that was leaving his guardian, Kegan Earlson, who always smiled and scolded and rolled his chocolate eyes but took him out for dinner later, and moving into a hospital. Or rehabilitation center. Whatever the hell they called it, one thing was certain: Marshall was sure as hell not going to let them take him away from the only man who’d ever looked at him as something other then a problem, like an annoying bug that just won’t die, no matter how many times you swat it.

“Marshall, it’s not a big deal!”

“Not a big deal?” The blonde shrieked, glaring at the older man. “Shipping me off to a nut house isn’t a big fucking deal!”

Thwap. Marshall pouted, squinting up at Kegan and his rolled-up newspaper through water blue eyes. “Watch your language,” Kegan growled. Stress was wearing him down, and his usually kind disposition was taking a long stroll off a short cliff. “And it’s not a nut house, it’s sort of…a… group home.”

“Where they send all the screw ups,” Marshall supplied. Thwap

“That’s not it! It’s just for people who need—“

“—mental help—ow! Stop hitting me with that thing!”

“Stop being so loud!” Marshall shifted his gaze from his father figure-turned-epitome-of-evil-ness to the bringer of said evil-ness. Whacked with a newspaper. Like a dog, he thought dryly.

“It wasn’t my decision,” Kegan muttered, plopping down on the couch—still bearing die-hard magic marker stains of ‘Marshall Howland’ scrawled over the arms—and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Believe me, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t let them take you there,” he finished in a much softer tone.

Marshall stared at his name in faded black, mind suddenly blank, not having some rash thing to say for once. “…I don’t wanna go,” he mumbled.

“It won’t be that bad. There’s gonna be other kids your age there. You’ll only have to deal with counselors probably two or three times a week. And at least they might succeed in forcing something other then cup noodles down your throat,” he added, poking the blonde in the side with his newspaper. Marshall batted it away, still scowling.

“I still don’t wanna go.”

“I’ll visit you every chance I get.”

“There’s no cereal.”

Exasperated sigh. “Marshall, you can’t live on cereal.”

“Says you.”

“Says me, yes.”

Kegan’s eyes usually aren’t hard—

Only when he’s dealing with the stubborn seventh graders that he’s trying to forcing a bit of English into their skulls. Only when he’s really mad at Marshall. Only when Marshall’s been a bad boy and done something stupid or failed his test because he refused to study, or when he stole something and he has to go and apologize and insist, Marshall’s not really bad, he’s just…just… except he is, and there’s now way Kegan can make up enough explanations to cover. The brunette sighed yet again, rubbing a finger over the scar on the bridge of his nose. “Just make this easy, Marshall,” he nearly pleads.

Marshall Howland. Marshall Howland. Marshall Howland. Over and over and over, deep, dark stains that just won’t come out.

“You can make me, but I won’t like it,” Marshall muttered sullenly.

Kegan smiled weakly, thanking the gods that Marshall wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. “Tell you what. I’ll treat us to The Pizzeria tonight.”

“YEAH! You’re the coolest!”

“Ack! Marshall—can’t—breathe—!”

“Oops…”
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This is sort of a story of how Marshall Howland wound up laying sprawled over a messy bed in the Detroit Hospital, on the fifth floor, where all the doctors and therapists and nurses and interns try to crack your head open and read your brain.

Marshall hates hospitals. They’re too clean, too white, too dead, even if they’re supposed to make people get better. There’s no color in anything except the pale green uniform shirt he wears with his name on the front. It’s because he’s sure they’re watching your every move, like a hunter who’s caught a caged bird who slowly draws the bars together until there’s no more room for it to breathe. They’ve got cameras all over the place. Wire, machinery, all that other junk, filling up the dead air. He’s sure they’ve got a file on him too.

Marshall Howland, It’d say. Sixteen years old, but he acts like he’s five. He’s a short blonde kid with big blue eyes. He’s a problem child, because he has no real father and because his mother has no real name, only Fiara, because she’s a street whore involved with all the wrong people. Because Marshall doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act, so he goes out and does what his imagination, what Fiara’s lingering whispers tells him too. Because he pulls too many pranks and won’t say sorry, because he fails at everything he does and no one tells him to do better. Because he got caught stealing and shoplifting because he never had any money and all the other kids made fun of his ragged clothes. Because he sat alone at night and watched the city spark to life through cracked windows in their filthy apartment and wondered, Where’s mom? I’m scared. Because no one’s there for him, except his middle school teacher, who found out he lived practically alone when he was 12 and took him in. He’s stupid, loud, and complains too much, because Kegan’s job always makes him too tired and he’s only one man who just can’t handle a big problem like him.

Marshall Howland. He reads, he writes, he draws. He’s crazy. Everywhere he goes he leaves his name there, and when he has nothing else to do he rights it over and over and over until you’re sick of it and can’t look at it anymore. He writes his name over and over and over again, paints it in public places and scribbles it all over the walls, because he has nothing else to do, and he wants to make sure someone will notice.

Because if he didn’t, no one will ever know there was a blonde-haired kid with big blue eyes watching them through dirty windows.
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“What’s he here for?”

“Ask him yourself.”

“Oi, Shorty. What’d you do?”

“Who’re you calling short!” Marshall glared at the boy sitting across from him in the ring of plastic chairs their group leader had them pull up.

“You, punk. What’d you do to get landed in here?” Cameron crossed his arms over his chest, slouching in his chair. He smirked, a feral glint lighting up in his sharp eyes that told Marshall he was the type of guy that chose one victim and picked on them for as long as he could; bit and clawed at them like a wild animal until they collapsed into a raving senseless pile of goop, and then he’d laugh and find himself new prey.

“Cameron,” the counselor said in a warning tone, her slate grey eyes narrowing slightly, though she maintained her semi-pleasant expression.

Cameron rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“Stuff.” Marhsall muttered evasively. Wish Kegan was here…

“‘Stuff’ doesn’t answer the question, moron.”

“Cameron!”

“Takes one to know one!” Marshall shot back.

Kiba leapt to his feet, his hands balling into fists, knuckles clenched ivory white. “Sonuva—”

“Cameron! Language!”

“Fuck language,” the wild boy snarled, diverting his attention from the blonde to the leader, who let her cheerful “we’re all friends here” smile slip for a moment, and looked as if she would dearly love to beat him over the head with her clipboard.

“Sit down, Inuzuka,” Ponytail boy—Dave Jacobson, the jacket said—drawled, lounging in his chair. His pale face always looked perpetually drawn, though right now he just looked damned exasperated.

“Shut up, Jacobson, isn’t this too troublesome for you?”

“Yeah, you’re making it troublesome.”

“C-Cam, please…”

Cameron growled lowly in his throat, flopping down in his chair.

“Cam doesn’t mean it the way he makes it sound, M-Marshall,” the girl who’d managed to put the boy down murmured softly, refusing to meet the blonde’s bright blue eyes. She fidgeted in her chair next to the leader, raking her fingers through dark hair nervously.

“Yeah, sure,” Cam muttered, glaring at Marshall.

“An-y-way,” the leader broke in, gritting her teeth, “Marshall. You’re new, aren’t you? I’m Dr. Yura; I’ll be your group discussion leader for as long as you’re here. This—” The ashy-eyed woman jerked her thumb at said girl sitting besides her, “—is Sharae Demom, who’s my temporary assistant. Sakura Izuka would be here, but she called in sick. Everyone else, you’ll have to find out on your own. The point’s to get you guys to talk. Now…Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

“Eh, okay. My name is Marshall Howland! I’m sixteen (“Short,” “Shut up!”) and my favorite food is..anything! I like playing basketball and—”

“So what the hell did you do?”

“Don’t interrupt him, Cameron.”

“I’m just asking a question, Dr.Yura,” Cameron drawled mockingly. “What if I want to get to know him better?” The docters’s eyebrow twitched, though the way she remained calm was a rather obvious sign she was used to Cameron’s behavior. She nodded and let it pass (though not without making several vicious slashes on her clipboard, which he assumed would be her going through the motions of determining what kind of punishment would make him suffer most).

“Stuff,” the blonde answered again, but as Cameron opened his mouth to make a rude comment he added, just to make him shut up, “Tagged all over the Pewabic Pottery.”

The dog boy clamped his jaws shut, looking just faintly impressed. So he not’s such a poser, after all, he mused bitterly, a thin smirk stretching his cheeks. “So you’re the one that wrote the shit all over it?”

“Yup!” Marshall answered, cheerfully, grinning to himself. He’d gotten into a crap load of trouble for it afterwards, and it was the main reason he’d landed up in here (probably because he had done it not once, but twice, too), but it had felt so good. Hanging from a rope off a almost priceless Building ,the only things in his hands cans of spray paint and the thin cord. No support. No safety. It made the blood in his veins sing and back then, and he had remembered the look in Fiara’s eyes as they dragged him away from the monument after pulling him up; the semblance of pride as she flipped back her fiery orange-red hair from the shadows and whispered gruffly, “You’ve got balls, kid,” and ruffled his hair.

There were other reasons he’d done it. Because then people would look at him, Fiara would look at him, whether they liked it or not. Because the firkin building was annoying and artsy in a ‘I’m more talented than you’ way. And then it was just so high—the air was clean, crisp, so close he felt he could touch the sky, and it was safe up there, cool and clear and nothing was hidden behind dirty looks or black lies or—

“…iot…”

“Ehh? What’d you say?” Marshall blinked and peered around the ring of chairs and their occupants, who had suddenly fallen silent. His eyes landed on the one farthest from him, who met his gaze with glacial black orbs.

“You’re a real idiot,” he repeated dully. His black eyes blended and hid behind raven bangs, only threads of his face peering through the ebony strands.

Marshall bristled, jumping to his feet in more or less the same fashion as Cameron. “What’d I do to piss you off?” He shouted, cerulean eyes snapping angrily.

“Be you, apparently.” Devan West, his shirt read. Clean, pressed, as if he’d only just put it on and hadn’t been sitting, silent, in the corner for the last two hours, watching everything go on through frozen eyes. The hint of a smirk beginning to edge its way on his face made Marshall grind his teeth together in frustration, already knowing I don’t like this asshole, as he pointed at the teen in question.

“Yeah! Well, you…you…”

“Hey! Don’t you dare talk to Devan like that!” One of the girls glared at Marshall, flipping her platinum blonde hair away from her face.

“Points, Amanda,” Dr. Yura said sharply. Amanda sat back down huffily, though not without sparing Marshall one last ‘touch-Devan -and-I’ll-make-sure-you-won’t-have-children’ glance. Points would get Amanda “good behavior” tickets, and tickets led to freedom. Or at least the ability to visit her precious Devan. The older woman’s eyes narrowed as she started writing down the apparently one-sided conversation Marshall was having with Devan in the meantime she’d snapped at the girl.

He’s not acting like himself. For the first time in awhile, the usually dull and most often silent group sparked her interest. He usually won’t take or give bait, when Cameron acts more or less the same…. No, Devan?

Why is he different?

“Hnn. You’re not worth the effort.” Devan closed the conversation on his end with that comment.

“‘Not worth the effort’? I’ll show you ‘not worth the effort’!”

Marshall Howland, the file would say. He’s crazy. He’s desperate. He’s loud and rude and brash and annoying. And no matter how long you turn your back on him, he won’t let you ignore him.

“Marshall—!”

With an infuriated battle cry, Marshall launched himself across the circle at Devan, swinging his fist at the cold bastard’s face with all his force. The room exploded into action, the others sitting relatively close to the West diving away as Marshall flew into the raven-haired teen, who blocked his punch as his chair tipped over. Yura yelled, Amanda screamed in rage, barely held back by two other kids, and Cameron cheered loudly.

Marshall glared at the boy under him, who still had his wrist in his hand. “What’s wrong, bastard?” He hissed, grinning crookedly as the black eyes narrowed. “Not worth your freakin’ time? Can’t fight?”

If Devan had felt anything, he sure as hell didn’t show it, opting to instead extend both legs at the same time and kick Marshall off over his head. That wouldn’t have fazed Marshall in the least if he hadn’t bothered to relinquish his hold on his arms. The two somersaulted together, Marshall’s back slamming into the ground as Devan pinned his legs with one his own.

“You’re alone in the world,” Fiara breathes, stroking his hair, raking crimson nails through the soft blonde spikes. “You’re alone. There is nobody you can depend on except yourself. No one you can trust, not even me. You fight for yourself, you survive on your own, you grow strong alone. Find your strongest enemy. Kill him. And find your next. Do you understand, Marshall? Do you?”

“—the fuck? Let-me-go—asshole!”

“What’s wrong, Marshall? Can’t fight?”

It occurred to Marshall then that Devan was far too close to be comfortable; starless midnight eyes were bare inches from his own, that infuriating smirk slowly spreading across the boy’s features. Marshall’s attempts to struggles were instantly crushed as Devan drew somehow closer, his cool breath ghosting over the smaller boy’s neck.

“Don’t get in my way…idiot.”

Then his weight was gone, the hot air on his neck evaporating and the soft click of the door closing in a silent room behind a certain Devan west.

“—did you see that!” Amanda screamed furiously, busily working herself into a rage. Dr. Yura stood up quickly, muttered something to Sharae and proceeded to lead Amanda away, who apparently had issues when her emotions spiked. The shy girl quietly relayed Yura’s order of dismissal to the rest of the group, then knelt next to Marshall as they moved out, who hadn’t moved except to prop himself up on one elbow.

“A-are you alr-right ,Marshall?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, fine!” Marshall laughed sheepishly, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck.

The way it felt…

‘Don’t get in my way…idiot.’

…idiot?

“GOD DAMNIT! DEVAN, YOU BASTARD!”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

People in Detroit wonder why Marshall’s up there with the lot that’s worst off. He doesn’t seem that bad. His mind isn’t governed by the classic ‘I hate the world, nobody understands me’ sort of mentality. He’s not exactly stupid, he just doesn’t like studying and thus never tries. He doesn’t loudly protect at everything last thing then take his anger out on some unfortunate victim, like Cameron, and he doesn’t have dangerous mood swings, like Amanda. From the outside, he’s more or less average. He’s cheerful, he smiles a lot (like a little kid, too), and he’s willing to help out. They heard he’s stolen and he’s vandalized and stuff like that, but that’s nothing compared to some of the shit people have pulled in here.

Marshall’s not good at hiding his emotions. He wears his heart on his sleeve, after all.

One day you look at crystal blue eyes, and he’s obstinately concentrating over a chess board, even though Dave’s got him beat and any move he’ll make will fail. Dave sighs, and says, “Marshall, it’s your turn.”

Another day, and they’re obsessively happy over bothering Cameron, pushing the dog boy to his limits, especially poking fun at Camerons’s low complaints on how he wants Charlie (who is, indeed a dog. But don’t tell Cam, he couldn’t tell the difference anyway)back. Cameron grumbles, and says, “Marshall, I’m gonna wipe the floor with your face.”

If Amanda’s involved, they’re dull, deep blue, dilated and filled with nervous fear, trying to silently inch away from the girl as she rants, breaks really solid objects with her bare hands, and glares. Amanda grins, and says, “Marshall, where are you going?”

They’re cloudy, confused, when Sharae stammers and can’t meet his eyes, flinching when he comes close and finding the oddest excuses to leave the room. Sharae turns, and says, “Marshall, s-sorry, I h-have to go!”

His eyes turn into a fierce summer sky when Devan’s around, bantering with the silent boy with every chance he gets, picking a fight and trying to prove he’s better, no matter what, because he can’t stand the stupid prick looking all superior. Devan smirks, and says, “Idiot.”

But Marshall’s happy with his weird companions. Not really weird, they’re just different. Like him. Except Devan. He’s a special case.

But then there’s his eyes when he wakes up sweating in the middle of the night, padding from his bed, across the rows of cots of sleeping people who share this big room, across chilly tiles to draw aside the curtains. Dave mutters in his sleep and covers his face with his pillow from the moonlight, until Marshall steps in the way and his shadow covers his bed. He stands and stares out to the city for a long time, silent for once, and if he noticed someone with dark eyes watching him from the corner by the doorway he’s never said a word. The wind rustles through the metal grating on the window, just to remind him why he’s there, and he wonders-Where’s mom?

I’m here, Fiara whispers, and her clawed fingers stroke his cheek, but it’s really just the scratchy curtain material, but she bends down and kisses the top of his head, and whispers, remember, Marshall? You can’t trust anyone. Not even me. You ruined my life, she reminds him tauntingly, her long arms encircling his body and holding him tight. I might come visit you some time…kill you someday.

Will you be ready?

This is the time his eyes shine deepest, with a color that isn’t sky blue.
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Wow, she’s pretty.

One wouldn’t believe Marshall is a bit more observant then the average person. But he does, after all, have so little to call his own he remembers every last living detail of anyone who gives him so much as a little more then a sideways glance. It wasn’t particularly hard for him to notice that Yura’s second aide was indeed, very pretty, with soft copper hair tied back neatly with a headband -wide mint-green eyes and a kind smile. It also didn’t take much to notice that she and Amanda apparently knew each other, and Amanda was on less then speaking terms with her as she glowered at the girl from her chair.

“Ohayo,” Dr. Yura mumbles, rubbing her eyes. Morning groups are not her thing; she’d rather be sharing a drag with her boyfriend or doing something else then dealing with a bunch of juvenile delinquents. “Marshall. This is Sakura; she and Sharae are visiting from the local high school for awhile as part of the GIFTT program.”

“Ehh? GIFTT?”

“Good Influence For Troubled Teens,” Sharae murmurs softly, fidgeting in her chair.

Cameron snorts, slinging an arm over the shoulder of Sharaes’s chair as he leans back and crosses his legs, either not noticing or ignoring it as Sharae flinches, blushes, and looks down. “’Good influence’ my ass. They’re just here to get extra credit. Goody two shoes,” he aims at Sakura, who doesn’t stop smiling.

“Cameron, behave.”

Marshall tunes out the rest of the rest of the conversation. (“I don’t think that’s possible,” “Shut up!”) He has better things to think about, after all. Like how he’s noticed Sakura making eyes at Devan, who’s joined Dave in staring out the window. Marshall sees the infatuation in the copper-haired girl’s eyes, and the only parts of the conversations he hears is Sakura trying to get each kid to talk about their dreams in turn; then focusing almost obsessively on Devan, grudgingly moving onto the brunette next to him when he only gives her his familiar “Don’t-talk-to-me” look.

Asshole. Marshall glares at him from two seats down, his fists gripping the underside of his chair, the old flame of jealously burning in his heart. She’s not good enough for you either, huh? Stupid ice bastard, I bet he’s—

Then Devan turns his head a fraction of an inch and he’s suddenly falling into black ice, falling forever, and he can’t break away, and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning, and then he’s suddenly as free as if he was in Lake Michigan again, because Devan looks away a second later, and for the rest of the session he won’t look at him again.

…the hell was that…?

“SAKURA, YOU BITCH! STOP FLIRTING WITH MY DEVAN!”

“Wha—GET OFF ME!”

Dr. Yura looks almost desperately forlorn as she rises and pries Amanda off Sakura, pulling the fiery blonde away from the other girl, who’s clawing at her viciously, screaming death threats at the top of her voice. Dave sighs and stands up, grabbing Amanda by the forearm and helps Yura take her to the “chill out” room.

Cameron whoops loudly, chucking to himself. “Nothing like watching a bitch fight…So what’s up with you two?” The emerald-eyed girl sighs, hauling herself to her feet and dusting off her skirt primly.

“We used to be best friends,” Sakura smiles ruefully. “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you anything else, though. Are you okay, Devan?” She adds hopefully, touching her hair subconsciously.

“Hnn.”

“Can’t you at least pretend you care, asshole?” Marshall mutters under his breath.

Sakura glares, thinking, Pretend? He does care, bitch!

“Why would I?”

Sakura, both Inner and Outer parts, falls silent. Marshall opens his mouth to piece together whatever comeback he can think of, but then Devan’s looking at him like that, staring, really, and again he can’t say anything to those onyx-cored depths, freezing up even as his mind is raging, trying to force the words out of his throat. Then it shifts to Sakura for longer then he’s bothered to look at him, and then Devan stands up and walks off.

It strikes him then, suddenly, that he so wasn’t sure who he was angry at anymore.
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“Kegan! You came! AND YOU BROUGHT FOOD!”

“Hello, Marshall.” Kegan smiled knowingly as Marshall dropped the hand he was about to play, rolling over and away from the poker game he’d been playing with Cameron, Sharae, and Dave in the rec room, to bounce over to his father figure, sniffing the chicken scent eagerly. It figures, the brunette thought dryly, relinquishing the bag of noodles lest Marshall run him over to get at them. Food, food, food… food first, all else later.

“ ‘m missed you,” Marshall said around a mouthful, already having ripped into the take-out bowls that Kegan can’t stand eating since Collage.

Kegan smiled, snagging one of the bowls for himself (“‘ey!” Thwap.) and sitting at the table. “Glad to see you, Marshall. So, it’s not so bad here, eh?”

The blonde shrugged. “I’ve been to worse.”

Kegan munched on his noodles silently, eyes scanning the room. What was I expecting? It IS a hospital… he’d visited Detroit many times before, but it’d never failed to sadden him the sheer amounts of unbelievably young kids and teens hanging in the corners, eyes clouded, silently tormenting themselves and snapping at anyone who tried to offer them a consoling touch—like an animal caught in a trap. Like how you found Marshall, no? “Erm…so… how’s it been here?”

“Pretty cool. The food’s actually not that bad and Dave and Cameron are pretty cool once you get past the laziness and bastard-ness (At this, Cameron chucked the deck of cards at Marshall’s head and missed, though half of it landed in his food) and Dr. Yura doesn’t really force you to talk…except the “chill out” room thingy, that sucks.”

“Huh?”

“I get sent there a lot,” Marshall stated almost thoughtfully, not noticing as Kegan choked and began hacking, attempting to clear his throat.

“What! Marshall, I thought we discussed th—” The older man slammed his fork down.

“It’s not my faaaaault!” The blonde whined, pausing to fish the soggy cards out of his bowl and fling them back at Cam. “The worse I did was mess around with Dr. Yura’s pen and made the spring blow all the ink up in her face…”

Kegan gave a long-suffering sigh. “Then what’d you do the other times?”

“Oi, it was Cameron and West that picked those fights, not me!” Marshall muttered defensively. Kegan looked up, suddenly interested.

“West? Devan West?”

“Yeah! Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know…someone told me about him…”


The blonde settled down, still raving about black-haired bastards. “So? So? Tell meeee!” He demanded, waving his arms impatiently.

“I know someone from…er…work (Marshall noted the faint tinge of pink on his former guardian’s cheeks, filing it away to bother Kegan with later)… a long time ago. Devan…” Kegan tapped his fork against the side of his bowl thoughtfully. “Apparently, West’s been here longer then anyone else,” He said, stabbing a fish cake. “Since he was eight or so. Don’t ask me why—I don’t know—but that’s what I heard.”

Marshall blinked. “That…that’s…THAT WAS USELESS! I already know he’s crazy!”

“So why do you want to know, anyway?”

“…Dunno.” Marshall shrugged, snagging his third bowl and ripping off the cover, inhaling the delicious scent that wafted into the stale rec room air and attacked the noodles voraciously. “He’s weird. When you first sent me here, he ignores everybody, and now suddenly it feels like something’s watching me all the time. Hey, if you aren’t gonna finish that…”

Kegan sighed and pushed his bowl at Marshall, he dumped the remaining contents into his own. “Really? Devan doesn’t seem to be the type to do that,” he remarked, digging into his memory reserves of the few times he’d seen the raven-haired boy.

“You wouldn’t believe what a bastard he is,” Marshall said in—what he thought of—a helpful fashion. Thwap “Ow! See, you still haven’t dropped your abusive habits!”

“Shut up and eat your noodles.” Kegan rolled his eyes but let himself chuckle as Marshall made a face and resumed wolfing down the food. “I guess he really doesn’t like you.”

“Guess? He friggin’—” Thwap “Okay! Okay! Jesus…”

“Remember, Marshall,” Kegan sighed, “Be good and they’ll let you out sooner. My break time’s almost over, I need to get back to the school…behave, okay? I’ll visit next chance I get.”

“Aww…Okay. And bring more ramen!” Marshall hugged Kegan, then whirled around and bounced back across the room at Cameron’s victory yell, protesting that they should’ve stopped the game and mock-punched Cam when the other boy razzed him.

The chocolate-haired teacher sighed, gathering the mess Marshall left in his wake and dumping it back in the plastic bag as he watched the blonde engage in a wrestling match with the dog boy. It didn’t escape him, either, that the Dark Haired boy sitting in the corner of the rec room was solidly ignoring Sakura, who sat besides him, eyes instead trained intently on Marshall.

“…on the other hand,” Kegan voiced to himself, “Maybe he really likes you.”
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Devan isn’t supposed to be sitting on the roof of the Detroit Hospital and Rehabilitation center. Devan isn’t supposed to be hiding from the all-too-loving gropey nurses and that crazy Amanda chick. Devan isn’t supposed to be ditching group discussion (Yura would, again, wonder why the hell this was her job when she dealt with his groupies) and skiving off somewhere.

Then again, Devan isn’t supposed to be a lot of things.

Devan, for one, wasn’t supposed to be dark, sullen, and the definition of angsty. He isn’t supposed to be lurking in the shadows because the sun bothers his eyes for a reason that has nothing to do with sensitive nerves and he isn’t supposed to be wallowing in hate when all around him is unconditional, if a tad shallow, love.

Devan isn’t supposed to be alive, either.

Devan used to be a happy little kid. Kinda like Marshall, though he’ll kill you before he ever admits that. Bright, outgoing, everybody’s favorite little boy to pat on the mussy-raven-haired head and hand him a lollipop. Try and do that now, and he’ll bite your hand off. Marshall used to be very friendly, in fact. When he came home from grade school he’d yell “I’m home!” loudly in his small voice and run to hug his mother and Adam.

Adam

Devan used to be a lot of things before Adam.

Have you ever smelled blood? It’s thick, almost tangible. It clogs the air and breeds clouds of heavy, metallic perfume, just a tint of salty coagulated taste floating in the scent. It’s noxious and bold and once it stings your senses it poisons it forever, and you can never stop thinking about it, and never stop seeing it, never stop tasting it…

“Hello-Devan.”

“…A-Adam? What…wha…”

Adam smiles eerily, lifting his gaze from his mother’s severed head. His eyes are spinning into a blend of rusted crimson, too similar in color to the liquid staining his hands and clothes. “Hello,” he repeats, dragging the blade he hold along his sleeve, reviving the thin slash of gray into shining silver.

Little Devan stumbles forward, his small fingers reaching out to his mother’s gauzy hair in some sick sense of morbid fascination, ebony eyes darting from the headless corpse, to Adam, to the head, to the blood, to the walls stained with all that blood, and his head spins and he trips and this time Devan isn’t going to help him up and tell him it’s okay, because it’s not and when the hell did everything go wrong? “ ‘chi…wh…why!”

And he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are enough. When he looks at Adam’s eyes they hypnotize him, telling him it’s all your fault that mother is dead, because you weren’t here to stop him, because you couldn’t stop him even if you were here. The mirror wheels in his eyes are excited, because he’s wanted that blood for so long, because he’s god damn sick of you and mother and he wants O-U-T, away from this stupid family that expects a lot and away from the little kid that loved him too much.

“See ya, kid,” He whispers simply, and his blade finds a new target.

Devan closes his eyes against the sun and stops trying to feel, because all that’s left is the heavy scent of blood.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Eurgh. They call this crap food?”

“Stop complaining. I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.”

“That’s not i—God damnit, Cam, stop stealing my friggin’ potatoes!” Marshall fended off Cameron’s latest attempt to pilfer his cafeteria tray with his fork. The dog boy rolled his eyes and turned to the pile of goop on his own plate, poking it gingerly, then shrugging and stuffing it in his mouth.

Dave sighed resignedly, deciding that it really wasn’t worth the effort, and pushed his tray at the two boys. “So troublesome…”

“Cool, thanks—Cam! I called the ‘pot roast’ crap—”

“Like hell you did!” The forks clashed again, followed by the extremely blunt knives that were incapable of cutting just about anything. Dave sighed and moved over a seat, nodding to Sharae as she approached.

“HAHA, I WIN! Hi, Sharae,” Marshall added, scraping off the apparent pot roast from Dave’s plate and shoving the rest at Cam.

“H-hello, M-Marshall, C-Cam.” Sharae blushed furiously, stumbling over Marshall’s name, and then some more at the predatory look Cameron shot her momentarily.

“Man, they feed us crap, and then they can’t even feed us enough,” Marshall complained loudly, crumpling his paper plate (no dishes, seeing as how Amanda previously used one to crack over a girl’s head who dared speak to her Devan) in his fist. Cameron snorted in agreement, stretching in his seat to dump out the few crumbs left on his tray.

“Y-you can have my l-lunch, if you like,” Sharae voiced quietly, holding out the bag she’d been carrying when she arrived. The boy’s eye’s gleamed simultaneously, and Dave sighed, rising to amble off to the corner, predicting a fight.

“Thanks, Sharae,” Marshall muttered through and sandwich, clearing his throat to finish, “for some edible food. I bet the cafeteria chicks are secretly trying to kill us wi—HEY!”

Cameron snickered, having wolfed down his half of Sharae’s would-be lunch at the speed of light, then took a bite out of the Sandwich he stole from Marshall. “Unattended food is communal property.”

“Unattended my ass! You bastard, gimme that—”

“Hey, get the fuck off! PUNK!”

“LIKE HELL I WILL! EAT SHIT, DOG BOY!” And Marshall, having been a very literal child all his life, grabbed a handful of potatoes off a girl’s—forgot her name already—tray and mashed it into Cameron’s face. The boy choked and then snarled viciously, shoving Marshall aside to grab the girl’s entire tray and slop it in the blonde’s face.

“HAHA—FOOD FIIIIGHT!”

Hospital food, after all, has to have some real use.

The next thing Marshall knew, the air was thick with flying bits of fish, potatoes, and rice, and the smaller half of the cafeteria with the few normal patients shrieked and ran for cover. The section of rehab kids and teens seized the chance, standing up almost in unison and chucking whatever they could grab a hold of. Marshall ducked as something brown whizzed by his head, letting out a victorious “HA, YOU MISSED ME!” at Cameron, then threw a carton of chocolate milk at him.

Cameron eeped, grabbed a tray and used it as a shield, smirking over it at Marshall as the contents of the carton dripped off the ends. “You throw like a girl!” He shouted challengingly, then wheeled around and picked up a cup of carrots as a return shot.

Marshall seethed, picking up his own tray as a barrier device, and grabbed a forgotten plate (the soggy paper crumbled in his hand, and judging by the greenish slop on it he could instantly see why it was abandoned) and chucked at Cameron. The other boy ducked, howling with laughter as it hit some unfortunate soul behind him in the back of the head, then kicked up another tray and sling shot a load of potatoes at the blonde.

Splat.

“HELL YEAH, BULLSE—oh…umm…well. Shit.”

Devan didn’t let his grimace show as he slowly lifted his hand and wiped the pale white mush off his face. Even Amanda, for once, was silent, and bemusedly interested in what her hero would do. His eyes slowly scanned the room, coming to rest on Cam’s only slightly guilty face (he got rather jealous of Devan’s groupies, whome he just couldn’t attract) and then darting to Marshall’s.

“What?” The blonde blurted out, shifting uncomfortably under the boy’s black gaze, though not looking away. “It wasn’t me this time! I swear!”

“Hnn.” The boy’s footsteps rang loudly against the tiles as he sidestepped a gravy puddle, slowly coming to a stop besides Marshall. Cameron arched an eyebrow and Marshall began inching away…until Devan’s arm came sliding around his waist, stole the food the blonde held and passed it to his right, ending with a ridiculously graceful throw at Cameron (which hit him in the face); all of which happened in about three seconds. Maybe less.

Cam spluttered, the unidentifiable mess stinging in his eyes, and Marshall would’ve broken out damned howling if Devan’s arm wasn’t still ghosting his waist.

“‘You throw like a girl’,” The raven-haired boy smirked, his comment apparently applying to both Marshall and Cam as he moved away. Marshall almost winced as cool air took place of the West’s warm arm, then realized what he said a moment later.

“H-hey! Bastard!”

“HEY! YOU!”

“Eh!”

“GARBAGE DETAIL!” Greg cheered, shoving a black plastic trash bag in the blonde’s hands enthusiastically. “COME! If we join forces, the task shall be completed far more quickly! Ah, the zest of youth…” Spandex-man trailed off, handing out more cleaning materials, then yell dramatically as Yura appeared, arched a lazy eyebrow, and immediately left.

“This is you guy’s fault,” Dave grumbled, plopping down on a bench as soon as Greg turned around, slinging his bag to the floor. “How troublesome.”

“Get up,” Marshall grumbled back, “And it’s Cameron’s fault.”

“Like hell it is! Auugh…that bitch Devan…”

Marshall gave up trying to pull the lazy genius into a upright position, dully surprised how one who never did anything (including eat, seeing as how lifting a fork was too much trouble) could be so heavy. “Shut up Cam, it’s not that bad. At least everyone’s helping.”

“Not really,” Dave drawled, watching Greg dance around from the corner of his eyes. “Devan got away.”

“WHAT!”

“THAT BITCH!”
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
It shouldn’t have taken Marshall half an hour to find the raven-haired boy when he was limited to only one floor, but when he did, he could grudgingly admit Devan had good taste in hiding places. It’d been hard enough for him to escape Greg’s watchful eye, especially as Drake , some kid from Sharae and Sakura’s school, turned up and joined in at inadvertently razzing the clean up crews.
“Oi, bastard! Up here?”

“Shut up. You’re too loud…idiot.” Marshall growled, whirling around to face Devan, who was leaning against the stairwell in the shade. The raven-haired boy didn’t bother shifting his eyes from the very tallest of the rustling emerald tree tops around them. Marshall took a deep breath, his fury slowly settling to a dull throb as the wind rushed through his hair.

“What makes you so special that you think you get to skip off clean-up?” The blonde grumbled anyway, scratching a cheek as he watched a pair of leaves dance by, carried by the warm breeze.

Devan shrugged minimally. “I wasn’t the idiot that started it.”

“Yeah, well, you had the last shot! Suck the fun out of everything,” Marshall added under his breath.

“Hnn.”

Marshall walked out to the edge of the roof, resting his elbows on the railing. Woah, it’s high.

“Buildings usually are, idiot.”

“Ehh?” He blinked, realizing he spoke aloud, then scowled darkly at the raven-haired boy (who smirked at him) and decided to let it pass. I should come up here, too, he mused. It’s boring but there’s no stupid Amanda trying to beat me up…or…or Cameron being stupid…or…damn, I need something to do. “How’d you get up here, anyway? I thought the roof was restricted.”

”You got through, didn’t you?”

”Yeah, but I had hella hard time…”

“Shut up.”

And, as were all talks with Devan, that was that. Marshall rolled his eyes, though he suspected the nurse’s constant fawning over the boy to be the primary reason he always got away. The blonde’s gaze drifted back out to the roof tops, sliding over the city.

It’s the top of a Mountain . You fought to get up here. Clawed up a almost vertical cliff, searching for every foothold you could find. Got to the top, where it was high and cool and clear, and air was clean and crisp and it felt like you were the king of the world. It’s clean and nobody else has the guts to come up here. It’s safe, it’s safe, and nobody can hurt you, and it’s safe.

People flowed along the sidewalks like lines of rushing ants. The muted beeps of car horns drifted up in the afternoon sun, muted by sheer height, though none of it reached his ears.

It’s high and you can see everything around you for miles. There’s nothing hidden. Laying out in neat rows, ordered by streets and avenues. Nothing hidden with lies and the games of pretend that weren’t really games at all and soft words and empty praise that nobody really means.

Devan frowned slightly to himself, watching Marshall rock back and forth on his heels, arms rested on the railing. Summer-blue eyes were glazed over, shielding the person within from the outside—like a child cradling his scraped knees to himself, lost somewhere in his mind, telling himself It’s okay, It’s okay, it’s. Not. So Bad. It’s okay.

It’s high and clean and clear. You’re free, finally free. It feels like you could stand on your toes and reach out and touch the sky, fluffy bits of clouds. Feels like you could break off the chains weighing you down and stand up tall and proud, reach up and grab a fistful of the sun. And you’re full of real warmth with that piece of the sun, bright and clear and shining bright in the palm of your hand, the same color as the streaks in Fiara’s hair, except when it tells you You’re safe, you are safe, it isn’t lying, and it means it. It means it. For real.

High and clear. No one else can climb this high. You’re alone, you’re okay, you’re safe—

“Marshall?”

Then why the hell is there a pale hand on your shoulder, cool wind in your ears? Raven feathers falling from the sky, shielding black moons from your tiny piece of the sun?

You’re alone, Fiara whispers, but even when she’s telling you the twisted reality, her ugly truth, she’s lying, she’s lying, because Fiara is your mother and you’re an unwanted, and you’re not safe after all, and the chains are back, tied down by midnight-winged angels with dark hair and flaming black eyes, angels who are yelling your name and trying to wake you up and drag you down, away from the sky, away from the top of the mountain, take you down and—

“—MARSH—“

The angels are falling with you, and the top of the Mountain is spinning away from you in dizzy spirals, and you’re falling, falling forever. You’re looking up and sun is looking down and you realize you’re losing the only thing you’ve ever had, and if you look hard it becomes Fiara’s chocolate-brown eyes, hollow and empty, like shooting stars that never had any wishes.

“—all?”

“…Sh…arae?”

“Ah. Y-you’re awake,” Sharae mumbled, almost to herself, nervously. Marshall blinked, sitting up swiftly, dizzy and confused as the room spun for a moment before settling into sweet normalcy.

“What happened?” the blonde blinked again, rapidly, kicking the white sheets—he was magically in his bed, he noticed—that tangled around his legs away. His head had stopped its momentary throbbing in protest to how fast he’d moved, though he couldn’t quite remember how the hell he had gotten here. But his wrist hurt like a royal bitch.

“You f-fell, Marshall,” the dark haired girl answered softly, gesturing meekly out the window.

“…Huh?”

“Devan came in h-holding you,” she stammered. “Apparently, you fell over the railing on the rooftop.”

“I fell!” The blonde groaned, flopping back. “Oh shit, Kegan’s gonna frikin’ kill m—”

“N-nobody else knows.”

“What?”

“Nobody else knows,” Sharae repeated, “Except Devan, you, and me. He just…appeared, with you in his a-arms, and asked m-me to look after you.”

“Woah. Never would’ve figured West-bastard would do that.” Marshall rubbed his temples, lapsing into thought. He remembered now; he’d fallen again—high and clear and cool—and Devan had come up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Just like Fiara.

He had freaked and smacked the other boy’s hand away, turning and tripping, flipping backwards over the black iron railing. Then he remembered falling, like the world was up close and gone for a moment and knowing, then, the tiny people would slowly grow big, if there hadn’t been a loud yell and jerk on his wrist, if there hadn’t been Devan’s lean body bent over, nearly slipping off himself, yelling something he couldn’t hear, fingers clenched in a vice group around his wrist, and then all he could remember was black.

Never thought you could…

…fall …

…Up…

“Aw shit!” The blonde groaned as the prospect finally smacked him upside the head. Asshole saved my life, he thought dully. I owe him one…

He could remember; looking down into the dizzying heights—and looking up into even more darkness, but they were twin voids staring down, twisted into a pale face that looked so wrong—

Wrong? Psh, like hell. Devan’s a perfect sonofabitch.

Then why did he look so…panicked? For the first time you’ve ever seen him? And why did it suddenly feel like you were flying high again when he looked at you like that, even though you were falling?

“God damn Marshall, don’t you ever shut up?” Cameron slammed the door to the sleeping ward as he strolled in, completely oblivious to the nervously-twitching Sharae and the apparently thinking Marshall.

“Shut up, Cam,” Marshall retorted mechanically, half-heartedly chucking his pillow at the boy, who caught it and threw it, except he hit the blonde in the face. Sharae shook her head and scooted her chair away as Cameron plopped in the other one, eyebrows arching quizzically.

“So what the hell’d you get into? Looked like one those hospitals scenes in those shitty chick flicks they show us when I walked in.” Not that he was particularly happy about that, mind you. His sharp gaze flickered to Sharae with a tint of jealousy before focusing on Marshall’s blue eyes again.

“Nothing to do with you.” Marshall rolled over and off the bed, dusting off his crumpled uniform. “Oi, Sharae, where’s Devan? I bet he’s hiding, huh?” A sudden grin lit on his face. “Nobody should know perfect Devan had to strain himself to save Marshall! I bet he’s off somewhere cause he thought I was gonna come back and razz him in front of everyone.” Cameron groaned, got up, and left as the blonde muttered to himself. Marshall plowed on, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “In fact, he was right. I am gonna razz him.”

“I t-think he’s in the r-rec room,” Sharae offered timidly. Marshall grinned victoriously, striding to the doorway, new mission objective fresh in his mind. “But, M-Marshall…”

“Eh? What?”

“I don’t t-think I’ve ever seen D-devan l-like that,” She said softly, lifting her pearl gaze to his face.

Marshall resisted quirking an eyebrow, attempting to shake off the coming feeling of trepidation before it started. “’Course not, cause he’s an icy bastard—”

“T-that’s not what I mean!” Sharae looked embarrassed, as if speaking in a normal volume was beyond shouting in her standards, and quieted down. “I m-meant,” she finished, trying to fight down the heat in her cheeks as Marshall blinked and scratched his head cutely, “He still l-looked emotionless,” she mumbled, “…but I s-saw his eyes, and I t-think…”

“Ne? Whaaaat?”

“…he was w-worried. For you, Marshall.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Devan doesn’t like Marshall. Marshall doesn’t like Devan. The feelings are mutual, even if the reasons are different.

Marshall hates him because he acts like he’s all that, like he’s too good for the people who throw themselves at his feet. More so because he act’s like he’s better then everybody, even though he’s in on the rehab floor, too, and acts like he owns the place. Because he seems so perfectly sane, ice cool, calm and collected and all that bullshit but he’s taking up space that other people need more, because maybe Marshall’s just a bit jealous of him, because he doesn’t he have imaginary mothers—monsters—demons—crowding his mind up and leaving no room for real thoughts.

Devan hates Marshall because he’s too loud, too bright, too bold. He stirs up things, and with him and Cameron combined Lady Chaos grins and makes things too lively. Because Marshall reminds him too much of something like what he used to be, because Marshall makes him feel, and for God’s fucking sake, he doesn’t want that.

If he feels, he feels, and all his senses come raging to life when he’s so close to that stupid blonde idiot, and he all he can taste and hear and see is summer sunshine and bright blue eyes long after he’s gone, but as soon as he is all he tastes is that fucking blood again, strong and thick and metallic, taunting him with Adam’s cool gaze and his mother’s murky eyes from the corners of his mind.

If he feels, he wakes up, and all he wants is to be numb. He won’t pretend to be one of those angsty suicidal brats—he knows the price of death, and deep down he admits selfishly—I don’t want to die! But his mother still comes to him at night and scolds him for coming home late, and his father looks down his nose at him and complains that he’ll never be as good as Adam is, and then Adam’s eyes are that fucking color and you know he’s won for the last god damned time, because now you can’t even avenge the ones you lost, because the one you loved the most killed you dead in some other sense.

That’s how they found him, anyway. Starving, dehydrated; small, eight-year-old frame wracking in the frozen wind, cradling his mother’s rotting head in his lap, the taste of stainless steel and Adam’s fucking blood fresh on his lips.

He was sitting in his normal corner in the rec room, just like Sharae predicted. Marshall’s initial rapid pace had slowed considerably as the words turned over in his mind—he looked worried. For you, Marshall—and really, Sharae just about ruined his devious plot. But he’d have to thank the bastard, as much as he didn’t want to, because if he didn’t then he’d have to owe him one. Bastard.

“Hey, Devan-faggot”

“Marshall , don’t call Devan names,” Sakura looked up at him reproachfully.

“Nyeh. It’s true!” Marshall stuck out his tongue childishly, turning back to the impassive teen, missing the slight look of anger flitting over the soft-haired girl’s face. “Oi! Devaaaaaaaaaaan!”

“What, idiot?” He answered automatically, not bothering to look up from the magazine he was paging through. Not like he was looking through that either, though. Was his face not frozen into a expressionless mask he might’ve arched an eyebrow at the psychological bullshit written in it.

“You could at least pay attention when I’m trying to fucking say thanks, ass,” Marshall scowled, face instantly in Devan’s. The other boy didn’t allow himself to flinch, though by instinct (and lucid thought, too) he would’ve smacked the blonde in the face with his magazine.

“That’s a first. Since when did you have manners, idiot?” Devan drawled, not focusing on Marshall. If I feel…

“God damnit, you have to make this hard, don’t you!” Marshall snarled, one hand crunching into Devan’s magazine and ripping off shreds of it in his grasp.

“Make what?” He hissed back before he could restrain himself. Stupid, he berated himself. Don’t take the idiot’s bait—

“H-hey…”

“Fuck you, Devan,” Marshall growled shallowly. “I came here to say thanks for saving my fucking life and you have to act like someone stuck a fucking ten foot pole up your ass—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

…I feel. I don’t…

“Like hell! What the shit is wrong with you!” Marshall exploded. Besides Sakura, the room was nearly deserted by now, so only the girl’s head jerked up, fire burning in her emerald eyes. “Too good to admit you actually bent over and saved the lower life form’s head from cracking open? Is that fucking it?”

…want to. I don’t want to! I don’t need this, I don’t need this, I don’t…

“Delusional, Howland,” Devan said coolly, attempting to focus on the Marshall-covered magazine, as if he weren’t there.

“You’re calling me effin’ crazy?” Marshall almost laughed in disbelief.

“Yeah. I think I am.” His eyes rose up to meet Marshall’s for the first real time, black ice blazing with unchecked fire. “No wonder you’re stuck in here. You’re fucked up.”

…a stupid blonde idiot who’s too bright too loud too smiley reminding me I have feelings too I don’t need this, I don’t need a stupid blonde idiot who makes these fucking feelings…

Crunch.

“Devan!”

Marshall rubbed his bruised knuckles from where he punched Devan across the face, grinning almost insanely, knowing he’d leave a mark physically, if not mentally. “I hate you,” he breathed. “I really fucking hate you, you asshole.”

“Marshall, get the hell away from—”

Devan slowly turned back to the blonde, tossing his magazine aside and cracking his own knuckles. “Can’t shut up, can you?” He muttered dangerously, an almost identical smile stretching across his face eerily.

Not the kind Sakura dreamed of, she thought.

“Is that a challenge?”

“So you know basic English after all.” And Devan lunged.

Fire, singing in his veins. Blood rushing to his head, making him alive, without all that shitty fucked-up blood clogging his senses. Just pure adrenaline, just him and a stupid blonde idiot that makes him feel without the stupid blood, just them moving together in a deadly dance, just his world spinning around a stupid blonde…

Just him. Without Sakura screaming in the background, without Sharae and Cameron rushing in and looking shocked, with Dr. Yura and Greg rushing in and pulling them apart…Just him, just him.

Without the blood.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marshall hates the “Cool-down room”. He hates it because it’s soft and padded all over, because there’s no chairs or windows or anything, just one light bulb in the center of the ceiling casting a soft yellow glow.

It’s like a cage. He doesn’t mind that part. It’s like his apartment all over again, and that wasn’t so bad.

It’s Fiara that makes it horrible. It’s his mother who comes melting out of the shadows with a dark smile on her face, comforting him because he’s not alone even though she promised he would be, because she whispers dark threats that are supposed to make him feel good, feeding the chaotic mess of his mind, trying to force the sanity away and let something evil grow strong and alone and always alone but you aren’t—

Fiara and her long flaming hair and sharp Nail, the same ones that carved the scars in his arms, comes crawling from the dark, and no soft walls and windowless rooms can stop her.

Marshall was proud—well, not really, but it’s a joke he shared once or twice with Dr. Yura—to say he slept like a log. Place a marching band and a tornado next to his bed and he’ll still be snoring even as he’s blowing away with a pair of cymbals clapping canon in D minor at his ears. Maybe it’s because it’s the tiny bit of shelter he can get, away from Fiara, who stays away in the corners of his dream, away from the hospital and trying to make Kegan proud even when he’s ashamed of himself, away from pretty girls and loud dog boys who sleep in the bed besides him.

So he couldn’t quite figure out why some sound woke him up in the middle of the night.

Sure, he woke up a lot—on the days Fiara was frustrated and took her anger out on him by pestering him in his sleep, he woke up. But it was never a sound, unless it was Kegan wielding his mighty newspaper and a pitcher of icy water.

“Muur…’lo?” Marshall yawned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to focus his vision. Repetitive, he noted, as he quietly called out again. It had a steady rhythm—kinda metallic, now that his ears were beginning to work—mutters. Someone mumbling…there was a faster rustle of sheets then normal over the quiet snoring of his roommates, coming from the corner of the ward by the doorway.

The blonde crept over, edging out from under the covers on his small bed, across the wide aisle towards the sound.

There was a figure thrashing at random in their bed—white sheets tangled around arms and legs, restraining the person as they fought to get free. The blue-eyed boy knew the feeling. And frankly, it sucked. And, well, since he was awake…

Marshall reached over and struggled with the sheets for a second, attempting to pull them away and failing miserably. Letting out a grunt of frustration, the blonde unconsciously shifted one knee onto the bed to pry the sheets away, maybe wake up the person from whatever nightmare tormented their sleep—

And got smacked across the face with enough force to send him flying, had gravity allowed that.

“OW—fuck!” He hissed under his breath, biting his bottom lip to muffle his sound. “Hey, you!—calm down! It’s okay, I swear, I’m not gonna friggin’ att—Oh for christ’s sake—” His eyes grew slightly wider as the headboard banged loudly into the wall. Marshall grumbled, wondering vaguely, How the hell do I get myself into these things?—and tried to pin the person down.

And then Devan West finally decided to wake up.

“Let—me—go—he’s still alive—he’s still fucking alive!”

“The hell?” Marshall’s grip lessened the lightest bit—“Devan! Calm the freak—ack!”

Devan slammed Marshall into the corner his bed was backed against, half awake, though his instincts supplied the actions his brain was too hazy to think about. He snarled deep in his throat, his eyes tinged a dark crimson far too reminiscent of a certain other pair for Marshall’s comfort.

“Devan, snap out of it, you asshole—” The black-haired boy’s hold on his collar relaxed slightly, though he still held him against the wall, blood-colored eyes fading back into onyx.

“…Marshall.” Flustered as he was, Devan still appeared calm, one hand moving away from Marshall’s neck to run through mussed hair. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Excuse me if I don’t wake up your sorry ass next time you have a nightmare,” Marshall scoffed, attempting to wriggle away. And, again, failing miserably, he noted angrily. Bad karma, he thought grimly, glaring up at Devan. “Never would’ve thought the great Devan had nightmares. What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” Devan answered in a clipped tone that said there was clearly something.

Marshall glared half-heartedly; it was getting light, he was getting tired, and getting held against a wall by an evil bastard—as pretty as he looks and as questionable as the position is—was beginning to wear on his nerves. “This is why I don’t like you,” he grumbled. “You act like you can’t trust anything. It’s not like we’re gonna stab you in the back.”

Devan laughed hollowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Seriously!” Marshall’s third attempt to struggle was squished, so he resorted to verbal assault. “I wake up and come over here to try and help you out and you act like I’m trying to fucking kill you! Jesus, bastard, what the hell is wrong with you—”

“You,” Devan snarled, his eyes flaming again, “You are. Stop acting like you know me, Marshall,” he hissed lowly.

“I don’t!” Marshall nearly yelled, frustration evident in his voice. “I just wanted to find out, you stupid sonofabitch. I thought maybe I could help, but no, it’s not good enough for perfect Devan!”

“You want to know why? You’re the fucking problem,” His eyes were dimming down again, his face cold and still and flat again. Why the hell was he so high-wired? He hadn’t been like this in years. He’d carefully trained himself against this—because acting up made him think and feel, and he didn’t like thinking or feeling, he didn’t—maybe it was the new meds they nurses forced on them—something for anger management, because of the fight they had earlier—why did his chest suddenly feel so tight, so—so—

“How the hell—?”

“Do you know what you do to me?” Devan asked tonelessly, fighting to keep those god damned feelings out of his voice. Marshall’s grip on his arm and shoulder when he had tried to escape clenched and tightened again.

—too god damn close—like sunshine in a summer storm— like—

“How would I?” He answered tightly. “‘Stop acting like you know me’—”

Fuck.

Devan West didn’t show emotion. Every Birthday he’s had here, he never smiled, never said thank you. During Christmas, when the rest of this fucked up place was mopping around, missing there home, or freedom. Whatever was before here, he said nothing. But he never cried. So why the fuck was he crying now? In front of this fucking idiot?

Marshall was shocked, was Devan crying? Instinctively, Marshall reached out, touching Devans hand. Flinching as the boy whipped his hand away.
“..Devan?”
Devan looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You know, before you came here, whatever it was, you hve to let it go. Its gonna kill you in the end.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Well you’re sure as hell in the right place to start!”
Devan smiled (really, as much as he could.)
“You know, Marshall, you sound like Sakura.

Marshall almost laughed, “You say I’m screwed up,” he muttered humorlessly. “But y’know, you’re just as fucked up as I am.”