*Trigger warning: physical abuse, self-harm. Take care of yourselves lovelies and read somewhere safe and cozy.*

{Cary}

There were cars in the curving drive of Cary's house. Cary slipped in the house through the garage entrance and stood in the boot room, listening. He heard the sound of cutlery tinkling and conversation punctuated by his father's voice. His parents were entertaining tonight. Probably he should have remembered that. He went into the kitchen through the door off the hallway to forage for food.

The caterer was there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, looking bored. Cary kept the man between himself and the doors that swung into the dining room. He had a plate full of roast beef scraps and scrapings from the mashed potato container when the doors slapped open.

His father saw him and his face flushed.

"More gravy sir?" The caterer lifted the gravy boat from Conall's hands.

Cary escaped to his room.

He spent the evening working on the drafting project, finishing the drawings with dark, sure strokes. He heard his mother running a bath while the conversation below rose and fell. The house didn't quiet until after eleven o'clock. Cary pulled off his headphones to listen. His father was treading up the stairs. The footsteps stopped outside of his room.

His father's hand swung the door wide and Cary held still, looking at him from the middle of the drawings spread on the floor. The smell of wine and pipe smoke wafted into the room. Conall's dark hair tumbled over one ear as if he had run his hand through it multiple times that evening.

"I told you we were hosting my students this evening." His father's voice was soft. "I expected you to understand that your presence was required."

Cary looked down at his drawings. He heard the words under the words and the back of his neck prickled.

"What is this." Conall swept up two of the drafts.

"It's a project—"

"More cartoons." Conall tore the pages down the middle, and Cary lost his breath. He scrambled away and put his shoulders on the wall as Conall shoveled up his work, Jon's work, and tore it all to pieces.

"My god you shamed me tonight slinking around in that piece of shit jacket like you came to rob the place."

Cary's hands curled on his knees. His father was right above him, and he could feel the weight of his gaze on his bent head.

"Stand up."

He got to his feet. There wasn't enough room for him; his shoulders bumped against the wall. This close, the smell of alcohol was like a physical presence between them. Cary took shallow breaths.

"Look at me." Conall's hand caught his face, tilting it up. Cary braced himself, his fists against the wall. The line of Cary's eyebrows mirrored Conall's own.

"Look at you. This face – my face." His father's fingers tightened, digging into Cary's cheek. Cary was on his toes, straining to relieve the pressure of his grip. Conall's mouth twisted. "All you have to do is walk in the room and my failure is written on you for anyone to read – here." He gave Cary's face a shake. "You don't have to say a word."

Cary bit his lips shut, shoving everything out of his head and locking the door. He was nothing. He felt nothing and nothing mattered except he must not make a sound.

Then his father's face caved in and his fingers loosened. He opened his hand on Cary's cheek, soft as a caress. "My son." His fingers rested in the corner of Cary's jaw, where Cary's pulse would have beat if his heart wasn't stopped. "I loved you. I tried." His father's voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

Cary shut his eyes, frozen. Tomorrow Conall wouldn't remember this moment, but he would. He leaned his throbbing cheek against his father's palm. "I'm sorry father," he whispered.

Conall let him go. He stumbled once, crossing the floor. He kicked the crumpled drawings out of his way. "Clean this up. It's lights out."

Cary stayed against the wall after the door shut, pinned there hearing his father's broken voice. I loved you. I tried. Finally he got to his knees, gathering up the drawings. They were so torn and crumpled there was no way he could hand them in tomorrow. He balled them up small and stuffed them into the wastebasket. Breathing hurt. There was a red-hot band wrapped around his chest. If he could cry, that might have relieved the pressure. He hadn't been able to cry since a time he couldn't remember.

He turned out the light. The moon made his window a bright square of silver. He had a wallet of razors wrapped in a hand towel in the drawer of his nightstand. Putting it in his pocket, he climbed out his window onto the roof.

This was his best hiding place. From his second floor gable, he could climb onto the sloping roof above and sit unseen, his feet braced against the slanting shingles. Cary laid his bare arm against his knees, opening and closing his hand. The band around his chest was so tight it felt like it would cut him in half. He had to cut to breathe again.

He did.

Blood to pay.

Blood to wash away.

His father's voice drowned in the sound of his own blood.

Cary fell back, arms spread against the rough shingles while the vast night sky swung over him, cold and black. He was a speck on a dot in an ocean of stars and no one knew him or cared.

He stayed on the roof until he was numb, then lowered himself back into the bowels of the house below. 

{Jon}

At bedtime, Jon's father leaned in the doorway. Pete had changed into a faded sweatshirt and jeans, and there was a smile on his face. "I missed hearing from you at supper son. How was your day?"

Jon laid aside the comic he'd been reading, avoiding his dad's eyes. "Um. Good." 

"Your mom said you had someone over from school to work on a project?"

Jon imagined she had said a few other things about Cary's army jacket and tough appearance. "Yeah. Cary's really good at that class so I'm lucky he said yes."

"Cary's a friend then?" Pete looked hopeful.

Jon let out his breath. "Not really, dad. I think I'm just on my own this year." He smiled like that wasn't a huge deal and his dad didn't need to worry.

Pete came into the room and settled on the edge of his bed. His dad's weight drew Jon down towards him. "Jon, look at me."

Unwillingly, Jon brought his eyes on his father's face.

"I know it's a big deal at school about who's cool and who's group you're in."

Jon's hands closed on the blankets and he looked to the side. He was not ready to have this conversation with his dad, as if Pete even had a clue.

Pete touched his knee. "Son, you already have the most important thing. You know how to be a friend. I saw you do it over and over in your old school. You had so many friends there because of the kind of friend you were to them – kind and loyal and good. I was really proud of you then, and I still am."

Jon blinked, ashamed and angry to find his eyes stinging with tears. "Nobody cares about that here dad," he said in a low voice. He slid down and tugged his blankets up to his shoulders, putting his face to the wall.

Pete hesitated, then put his hand on his shoulder. "Can I pray for you tonight?"

Jon shrugged the shoulder under his father's hand. He shut his eyes, listening to his father's prayer. He didn't have anything to say to God that he hadn't said already.

When Pete said "Amen" and "Love you son," Jon could feel where his father's hand had been after he left. It was the only good thing he could think of that had happened all day.

{Cary}

Cary's father came into his room in the middle of the night. Cary was awake and up, shoulders against the wall, before Conall was halfway across the carpet.

"I'm taking your mother to the hospital." Conall was a bulky shape in the darkness. "You can take care of yourself for a few days?"

"Yes." Cary saw the outline of his father's shoulder and bent head as Conall turned to go. He couldn't stay silent. "Is she alright? The baby?"

"The baby's coming. They'll be fine." Conall said, as if the strength of his will could make it so. Cary listened to the front door close and the car start. He had difficulty falling back asleep. 

1482 words.