The next morning, I wake up to an empty spot beside me. It's the first time since we've been sleeping in the same bed that I didn't wake to Whittney holding me in his arms. I place my hand where he would have been sleeping. The spot is still warm, so he must have only just left.

    After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I grab my t-shirt off the floor and throw it on. My heart beats heavy in my chest as I walk through the hall and into the living room where Whittney is reclining on the couch. A cigarette hangs from his mouth before he takes in a puff of smoke, forcing it out through his nose when he exhales. He watches the tv intensely while flicking the butt of his cigarette, barely even glancing at me when I take a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

Mike's lounging chair is empty, so he must be at work or something. Whittney told me he even started picking up hours at a bar earlier this month since his hours at the car shop have been dwindling. I, for one, don't care where he is, as long as he isn't here.

"You weren't there when I woke up," I finally say, breaking the awkward silence.

Whittney sighs. "I'm not always going to be there when you wake up, Hare."

"So, um," I clear my throat. "How long have you known?"

He glances at me before reverting his attention back to the screen. He takes a long drag before answering. "Known what?"

"That you're gay." I look down at my hands after the words come out, but I feel Whittney's intense eyes boring into me. With hesitation, I meet his heavy gaze.

"I'm not a faggot." All emotion is wiped clean from his eyes, a complete 180 compared to how he was last night. Now, he's sober.

Heat rushes to my head and I clench my fists. "Well, you slept with a faggot, so what does that make you?"

Whittney's brows furrow, glare deepening. "I-. I'm not having this conversation with you." He puts out his cigarette and stands from his seat.

There's a bottle of cheap whiskey on the stand next to the tv, which he grabs before walking to the kitchen and I follow on his heels. When he starts pouring himself a drink, I grab his hand, stopping the bottle in mid-air. Whittney's eyes widen a little at the contact, but I don't let go.

"It's nine in the morning, Whitt."

"So?" He pulls from my grasp. "It's better than the alternative."

My eyes narrow. "I thought you were done with all that?"

"I don't shoot up anymore, Hare." His voice sounds sincere, but he scratches his forehead, which has always been his tell when he's lying to me.

"Let me see your arm then." I don't wait for permission and pull up his sleeve. When he tries yanking his arm away but my grip tightens when I see red scratch marks on his wrist. "Whitt-"

In my moment of weakness, he finds the strength to pull his arm from my grip and pulls his sleeve over his exposed wrists.

"It's not what you think," he sighs, rubbing his brow. "It's from withdrawals when I try to quit. Whenever I try to stop, I get agitated and scratch at my arms, then I chain smoke, drink about half a bottle of vodka, but in the end, I give in."

"So if I were to roll your sleeves up even more, I'd see the injection spots?"

Whittney closes his eyes in defeat but shakes his head. "I was telling the truth about shooting up. I really don't do that anymore."

My eyes narrow. "Then what do you do?"

"Other stuff." He clears his throat when his gaze finds mine. "None of the hard shit."

He looks down at the counter and I don't stop him from pouring himself a drink this time. He downs the whiskey in seconds, and I'm relieved when he doesn't pour himself a second round.

It's silent for a moment while Whittney stares at the empty glass in his hands. There's a huge part of me screaming at myself to say something, anything, but I stay silent in fear that if I further the subject he'll just shut down like he always does.

Finally, Whittney speaks. "When are you going home?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he says. There's a hint of panic, but he recovers quickly. "I mean, not at all. Actually, I was hoping you'd be able to stay."

A smile, a completely genuine, honest smile creeps on his face. There's an innocence to it that I'm not used to, but it's refreshing. It suits him more than his usual smirk and it's irritatingly contagious.

"Harry." His voice is now soft, but serious. "Please stay."

I nod without hesitation. "Of course."

He sighs, letting his shoulders sag, almost as if he's relieved by my answer.

"So, what's on the schedule for today, then?" I ask, noticing his reluctance to be the first to continue.

His face lights up. "I was just thinking that maybe we could just relax and watch a movie or something."

And that's exactly what we do. I give Whittney the choice of film to lift his spirits, who picks his favorite movie off the shelf: The Breakfast Club. I've already been forced to watch it many times before with him, but today, I'm not annoyed by having to sit through it for the hundredth time. The smile on his face when the first joke cracks makes it more than worth it.

At first, Whittney keeps a comfortable distance, but my heart starts racing when the heat of his leg brushes mine. He doesn't move even when we make contact, and I sure as hell am not moving a muscle. I enjoy every second of our limited contact, as lame as it sounds. To think I'd be over the moon by a guy leaning his leg against mine. He doesn't stop there, his hand soon finds a resting place on my knee. My bare knee, since I'm still just in my boxers and a t-shirt. A voice in my head screams, 'Don't get a boner, idiot!'

Who knows how Sober Whittney would react if such a small thing could set me off, or that he turned me on just by touching me. Not to mention it would be incredibly embarrassing.

I try playing it cool, but my body does the opposite. It feels like I just stepped into a sauna and my palms sweat like crazy.

"You okay?" Whittney turns to me, eyes narrowing. His hand creeps up my leg just a little, but I don't think he realizes what he's doing. "You seem a little tense."

Of course, I'm tense, but I try not to give more of my unease away. I clear my throat, but my voice is just barely a squeak when I say, "I'm fine."

He nods as if to say he believes me, but his eyes don't agree. "If you say so."

Our attention reverted back to the screen, but I slowly start to drift as the movie continues. Darkness engulfs me when I can't keep my eyes open anymore. When I finally wake, the tv is off and Whittney is no longer at my side. At this angle, I would have been sleeping on his shoulder. For a moment, I fear this freaked him out and he bolted, but then I hear hushed voices.

A woman's voice is accompanied by Whittney's. They're in the kitchen, but I can still overhear every word.

"Come on, baby." Her voice is raspy and needy. "Why can't you just help me out?"

"Mom." A heavy sigh leaves him and I can just picture him scratching at his brow. "I'm not fighting Jay on this, and to be honest, I agree with him."

"Baby, please? I just need a little something. It doesn't even have to be-"

"No, fuck." There's the sound of a fist slamming on a counter or wall. "Jay said you're done, so you're fucking done. We care about you, so let us help."

The sound of a slap echoing through the kitchen gets my attention, but I force myself to stay out of it.

His mother continues after a heavy moment of silence. "Don't look at me like that. How dare you tell me no when you are still taking God knows what. You're a little shit, you know that?"

Whittney's chuckle sends shivers up my back. "You think hitting me will get you what you want? That might work for Jay, but you're not him. You don't scare me. Now get the fuck in bed, and work off the withdrawal before he comes home and deals with this his way."

There's a huff, followed by only silence, then a door slams down the hall. I finally find the courage to peek my head over the armrest of the couch to see Whittney leaning over the counter with his head in his hands. When I sit up, the couch squeaks just enough to get his attention.

"You hear all of that?" He asks, a nod my only reply.

With a sigh, he walks back toward the couch and takes a seat next to me. His shoulder brushes mine as he sits, the warmth of his skin brushing mine before he slowly lays his head down to rest on my lap. I so badly want to run my hand through his hair while holding his hand with the other to comfort him, but I don't in fear of him freaking out. Like he had just read my mind, Whittney grabs my left hand in his and gives as squeeze as if to say "I'm okay."

I smile down at him, brushing away his hair with my fingers only to see the redness in his cheek. It doesn't look painful, but what kind of a mother would slap their son?

The kind that's about to go through withdrawal and would do anything for their next fix, my mind replies to my stray thought.

We stay in this position for a while, a comfortable silence shrouding us in a bubble of serenity. He doesn't even pull away or freak out this time when I rub his back. In fact, he snuggles up against me and holds my hand tighter.

"Thank you for being here for me, Hare."

I can't keep the grin off my face when Whittney looks up at me with grateful eyes. "Anytime, Whitt."

***

Finally, another chapter posted. I know some of you were more awaiting the next chapter of Behind My Reputation, and trust me, that chapter is in the making. Needed to finish this chapter to get it out of the way before going into BMR's to wrap it up.

Sorry it was so short and that there wasn't much going on, but I think enough happened in the previous chapter, and enough WILL happen in the chapters coming up. Don't you worry, shit will be going down soon enough.

If you liked the chapter, please don't forget to like that little star to leave a vote, and maybe even leave a comment letting me know what you think down below! Always means a lot. (:

Until next time,

TheWriterD