I were thrilled when Cece asked to help with cooking but as they chop carrots for the stir fry, I have to keep checking that he isn't going to stab himself.

He must notice my constant glances because when I do it again, they meet me with a hardened "what the fuck do you want?" expression. It curls at the edges until it wavers and their glare slumps to the cutting board.

'Am I doing it wrong?'

'What? No! You can't chop carrots wrong.'

Their momentary fear stretches into a smirk that reveals the elongated steel canines of their grillz. Their new dimple piercings dig into their cheeks. 'That a challenge?'

I exhale a laugh as I stir the onions, only for my attention to snap back to Cece when I process the trapdoor behind his words. 'Please don't cut off your fingers to prove me wrong.'

Though I know they're watching, my focus flicks to the knife again.

Rolling his eyes, Cece rotates it with a lazy wrist and starts a joke only to cut themself off. Even they know it's too soon. I can still see the blade jutting out of their thigh if I try and that were nearly two years ago.

They chop the rest of the carrots and scoop them into the bowl with the rest of the veggies they've already cut. Usually I'd just use a frozen mix but Cece wanted to cook together. I'm always skint but one fresh broccoli is not gonna bankrupt me.

'So how are things with Quinn?' I ask uncertainly. Will they prefer me to show interest in their friends or does it come across as an interrogation?

'Well they're fucking insufferable and make me watch shit musicals all the time so I might actually scoop my eyeballs out and stuff em in my ears, but mint.'

Cece bends over Esther who has been roused from her nap by the scent of food. He scratches her well aggressively behind the ears. Whoever were her owner before she ended up at Oak Shaw cropped them but they still flop around when he wrestles her head from side to side.

'There are more queer people at my school than I thought, considering it's fuck-all nowhere Somerset. I loathe ninety per cent of them,' he rushes to add so I don't even think about thinking about the possibility that they might actually be enjoying themself. 'But there are a few sound people around.'

Cece straightens up and Esther announces her displeasure, nudging their hands with her snout. He scratches the top of her head, absentmindedly this time.

'I told Quinn about the... you know, me. They were well nice about it.'

I reach a hand toward him only to tuck it to my side before they notice. 'That's good.'

They nod.

'You can press the garlic if you want,' I say, grateful for the simmering onions for providing me with an excuse for the mist gathering over my eyes.

Still, I dare a proud smile when they aren't looking; they told someone. Willingly. And not only after the damage happened. Maybe he's practising talking about himself too.

Cece washes their hands and dries them on their trousers rather than the kitchen towel right in front of him. 'Also, I, uh... I re-applied to some of those art programmes.'

I stomp my excitement into summat that won't raise his defences. 'That's mint, Cece.'

They scratch the corner of their eye, realise, and wash their hands again. 'Yeah, well, they said that I could if I worked on the behaviour stuff...' Their spine jerks and they convulse though barely pay attention to it. 'Dunno, though. I'm already doing an extra year of school. I should probably just hack it through the A-levels at this point.'

He struggles to peel the garlic and I show him how to crush the cloves with the edge of a blade so the skin falls off with ease. I can't help it: I fixate on the knife in his hand again, my body gaining a sheen of sweat that's got nowt to do with the steam from the frying pan or the pot where the noodles are cooking.

'If that's what you want,' I say after an unnatural pause. 'But there's no timeline for you to do this stuff on. And you don't need A-levels if it really is torturous for you. Alternatives exist for a reason.'

'What happened to "don't get arrested, graduate college"?'

'Maybe I've changed my mind. Definitely not about the arrested part. But I won't force you to stay in school.' I try to shrug it off. They don't buy it for a second.

I'm the person who always insisted they graduate college at the very least, and I did always think they should. Nobody likes school. Just last year I didn't understand why they had to complain about it so much—surely, they spent more time complaining about school than the time they'd need to just get their work done.

But I've realised since then—Joe has helped me realise on our practice dates or practice therapy sessions or practice whatever they are—that at least a part of that insistence were my own bitterness. I gave up so much of my own time, of my interests, of my life to do well in school and maybe I subconsciously wanted Cece to suffer that too. If I did it, then why can't he?

But I don't want that for him.

'If going to college really is like pulling teeth then... you don't have to.'

Cece dodges my glance.

We prepare the rest of the stir fry without talking about more than the instructions. It don't take long for the scent to fill the kitchen. I idly stir the tofu and veggies as I watch Esther puzzle through her enrichment feeding toy, Cece speeding through sudokus on their phone.

'Can you check if the noodles are ready?' I say while I mix the sauce. 

Stepping over to the hob, Cece reaches a hand to the boiling surface. My heart jolts. I'm a second late; when I seize his wrist his index finger and thumb are already in the water to fish out a noodle.

Cece drops it onto the counter when I yank him to the tap, running the cold water and shoving his hand under it. 'Why would you do that?' Fear has my voice shrill.

Cece's is dull. 'You told me to try one.'

'So use a fork!'

We turn simultaneously to watch the water run over their fingers. Their skin is a furious red. The pads of their fingers are covered in too much scar tissue to burn again.

I let go of their wrist. 'Does it hurt?'

Cece's gaze stutters to mine. There's a furrow in their brow, plagued only by mild confusion in juxtaposition with my knee-weakening panic. Their focus drifts over my shoulder and halts, still blunt, on the kitchen doorway.

I glance behind me as if I don't know I'll find it empty.

'Cece?' My hand instinctively reaches for him again before I retract it. 'Are you seeing things?'

Even the question takes several breaths to be processed. They shake their head. 'Don't worry about it.' He doesn't specify which question the answer is for.

Turning off the tap, they pick up the dropped noodle. 'Maybe one more minute.'

I'm too rattled to trust my knees to support my weight without the counter to lean on and Cece has set the table by the time I push off it.

It don't necessarily mean owt. He might've just had a mental lapse. Even perfectly healthy people have those. Trolley Problem: Oh no! You're approaching a track where your brother might be having an episode. You can either ignore it OR pull a lever and address it at the risk that it is your very suspicion that triggers an episode.

Fucking catch twenty-two, innit?

Taking a deep breath, I choose to ignore it, by which I mean look out for signs as covertly as I can. Hey Google: How do I watch someone without provoking their paranoia about of watched?

As we eat, I ask him more about art and school, trying my best to make my questions conversational. Their portfolio were already, in my arrogant opinion, the best portfolio in the world last year and now they've got a whole term with a proper arts teacher's worth of masterpieces to add to it. And they're doing loads better in terms of behaviour. I think they'll get in everywhere they applied.

And if they get into a school they've applied to in Manchester, they might move back here. I lock my ankles around the legs of my chair so I don't levitate to the ceiling at the thought.

'Aren't ya eating more?' I ask when Cece hasn't touched his fork for several questions. They only had half a bowl and a few veggies still lie in the dregs of sauce.

'I kept eating while cutting.'

I don't remember seeing him do that–

I drive the train of thought into a brick wall. As Bobbi says, "Trust them. Like a dog, they feel your anxiety and they'll replicate it twice as potently." I have to stop sowing warnings where there were none. Maybe I'm the paranoid one.

'In that case–' I stand up and Cece's eyes widen. No surprises, no sudden movements. I should know that by now. 'I got you a gift.'

'A gift?' 

'Yeah.' I replace their bowl with it.

Cece tucks his hands into his hoodie pocket and stares at the matte black paper (which were a right chore to find during Christmas season; I had to order it online). The rhythmic clicking of their lighter cap makes their anxiety unmissable.

'What's this for?'

'I'm proud of ya, aren't I?'

I return to my seat opposite him where I can't impulsively hug him. Having Caleb as a best friend has spoilt me with physical affection and my body seems unable to learn that Cece still reacts to it intuitively as a threat.

Turns out, the gift alone is enough to set off alarms. Their leg starts to bounce, fingernails finding their way between their teeth. Not for a second, does their focus leave the box as though it's a bomb that'll explode the moment he blinks.

'It's just a gift, Cece,' I reassure. 'I can tell you what it is if you like.'

Cece's black eyes glaive to mine. They excavate the soil, digging for ulterior motives, and I let them search until they're satisfied.

Their hands venture to the box and ease one piece of tape open. At first, I reckon they're still expecting it to explode but then realise that no, he just opens gifts like they're summat fragile, like wrapping paper itself is worth as much as the content. Once every piece of tape has been peeled off, they unfold the paper to find the phone.

'It's obviously not the best or the newest model available but it's got a much better camera than the one you've got now. You can take better pictures of your art for your Instagram.'

He continues to stare at me, mute, and I wring my hands.

'Thank you.'

'That's alright.'

'I...' Cece's words are smothered by the thumbnail between his teeth 'actually made ya summat too. I ain't got money so...' They fidget a moment before exiting the kitchen. Their bag is still in the entrance and the zipper opens, they rummage through, pages fold.

Cece returns, holding a sheet of cardboard that has been carefully cut out of his sketchbook. After another moment of hesitation, he hands it to me.

I gape at the drawing. His style is always easy to recognise, the lines bold and the colours vibrant, but rather than the cobalt blue and vermillion his art tends to be dominated with, this portrait is proudly green—and not sickly swamp green or neon green either, but a natural shade that uplifts the brown skin.

My brown skin. Because even if they don't draw with a realistic style, the portrait is instantly recognisable as me. Me, smiling, with a crown of calathea saplings, ivy pleated into my locs. Two monstera leaves rise behind me though only a fraction of them is visible within the frame, positioned where wings would be. That's all I can take in before the details blur behind tears.

I barely glance at him before he's already snarling. 'I'm practising different styles, it ain't got nowt to do with ya. I don't like you. I'm not being nice.' His bite barely grazes me before he curls into himself. 'Sorry. That's not true. I did– I did make it for you. I do– I don't... not like you. Dunno why I said that.'

'This is beautiful, Cece. Thank you.'

Their stare is glued to their black socks as they shuffle on the spot. 'Is it okay if we hug?'

I have to clench all my muscles to stop myself from bursting with glee. My voice betrays me, rising like a soap bubble. 'Yeah.'

I spring off my chair but don't step any closer, waiting instead for Cece to edge over the distance. When they're close enough, they fall forward into my chest, feeling out the embrace for several seconds before wrapping their arms around me. My hand roots into his hair, my other arm pulling him close and Cece lets me.

See? There's nowt wrong. I'm just being paranoid. 

Notes

College: Years 12 and 13 of school (junior and senior grade of American high school), not university. (It can also refer to colleges within a university, like Oxford and Cambridge, but it won't be used like that in this book so I don't worry about it.)