I hoist my gym bag up my shoulder as I wriggle on the doorstep. Situated amid acres of farmland, Oak Shaw Group Home for Troubled Teens has no shelter from the wind and I weren't quite prepared for the way it slices through to the bone. Manchester's spring is equally cold but it's different, an all-encompassing chill that finds a way to seep in through the smallest cracks, but it's dull. Here, the cold attacks in deliberate strikes.

Just as I reach to ring the bell again, the door opens. The girl behind it must be immune to the weather, judging by her miniskirt and cropped button-up that leave more milky skin exposed than not.

'Uh, hiya. I'm Nicolás...'

Her face lights up. 'Cece's brother? Why did they never tell me you're so fit?' She scans me over, curling a brown lock of hair between her fingers, and I think I'd rather have braced the cold for a while longer if it meant someone else would've opened the door. 'I'm Yan.'

'How old are you, Yan?'

The seductive act is discarded with a huff and Yan rolls her eyes. Spinning around in her bunny slippers, she stalks back into the house but leaves the door open. Though for a moment I hesitate to enter the house without invitation, another scythe of wind ushers me into the warmth and yellow light. I immediately understand why it took so long for someone to open the door; there's so much noise that I doubt most people even heard the bell ring. At least three arguments stack from different reaches of the house.

Still, Cece's voice isolates from the rest even as a low rasp. 'They don't want me to.'

'I understand that. But you're in control, Cecilio.'

Easing off my trainers and hanging up my coat, I follow the voice to a dining room with a wooden table large enough to seat fourteen people. All but two of the chairs are vacant. Cece and Bobbi sit with the corner between them, a plate in front of him and the fork shaking in his hold.

He looks up as I push through the ajar door and lights up even as tears roll down established tracks on their cheeks, only wrinkles of eyeliner left around reddened eyes.

'What are you doing here?' They're too relieved to remember to tack on the "not that I give a fuck" at the end.

I smile. This is far from the condition I hoped to find them in but at least they're not bearing their teeth and growling at the sight of me. 'I were in London for Caleb's Drag Expo and Bobbi said I could come by for a few days.'

They round the table to get to me, wiping their cheeks on the sleeve of their hoodie. It smears the makeup across his skin. Esther, who I hadn't seen behind the table, is dutifully at their heels. He don't hug me, grabbing my bag to carry it by way of greeting instead. But Bobbi stops them.

'Cecilio, you have to finish eating first.'

His excitement drains in one surge. They edge around to face Bobbi and his plate. The tremble in their spine is well-masked but I notice it, feel it more than see it.

When did it get to this?

I wrap an arm around their shoulders and they stop shivering. Though Cece looks like they're about to walk into their own execution, he allows me to guide him back to the chair and the plate full of food. It looks like they've been to a buffet and wanted to taste everything from a kale salad to nuggets though I suspect it's Bobbi who has wanted to give them as many options as possible.

I pull up the chair beside Cece and in the time it takes for me to sit, they've broken down into a cluster of rattling bones and whimpers.

They've always been suspicious of food—when they moved in with me, I didn't see them eat for weeks. They'd smuggle it to their room and scarf it down like a dog, pick up every crumb and lick oil from their fingers. It took months for them to trust any food I made to not come with ulterior motives or poison. But it were never this, rising to a fever from the mere thought of chewing.

'I don't want anyone to die.'

'No one is going to die.' Where Cece's voice is a rough whisper, Bobbi's is calm, patient but somehow authoritative too. 'And if someone does, the blame falls on me for asking you to do this. You're in control, Cecilio, not your hallucinations, not your intrusive thoughts, not your compulsions. You.'

It's a torturous process, watching him eat. I don't understand how Bobbi can handle this every day, with a minimum of five kids in her care at any given time and twice as many dogs. He has to wrestle with the urge to spit out every bite. Esther keeps her head on their thigh.

When the first quarter of the plate has been cleared, Cece slows down and Bobbi speaks again. 'Where are you, one to ten?'

'Like... six, now.'

He leans into me and though it catches me off guard I open into the touch. I kiss his temple and pull him against me, brushing baby hair off his clammy forehead. As Cece forces themself through the rest of the plate, I show them videos from London and Caleb's act, how everyone laughed at his reading of Aqua and cried when he performed a ballad he wrote himself. I tell them how my jade plant has started to grow a new branch so maybe we're about to win the lottery. Every time they choke, I tell them how much I love them.

            Like his room at home used to be, Cece's walls here are covered with drawings. These ones could hardly be called sketches, though. They've clearly learnt new techniques now that they're actually taking art as an A-level and have access to supplies beyond a few cans of spray paint and a ballpoint pen.

A sketchbook is open on the unmade bed and, as much as I know I shouldn't, I move over to it. Their drawings are almost too good. Too good, because every single page I turn to is either an image of whatever monsters his mind cooks up or him dead at various stages of decay. The portraits, if they can be called that rather than autopsy reports, disturb the leftovers Bobbi heated up for me once Cece had soldiered through theirs.

Their silhouette blocks the light from the corridor. My cheeks burn—caught red-handed. I should've asked for permission. But Cece don't comment on my snooping.

Esther jumps onto the bed, nestling right at its centre and Cece follows her, each step announced with the scuff of his heel against the wood. This is what pushes out the tears I've been trying to hold back since I arrived, though these are happy ones.

He feels safe here, safe enough to make noise.

I glance at the sketchbook. 'You're still having these then?' I can't bring myself to say owt more specific—"visions of yourself dying" would have me break down.

'Don't think they're going nowhere, them.'

Cece grabs the pad and dumps it on the floor, plugs in the mushroom-shaped nightlight so they can shut the door. Their face is washed and moisturised; their blotchy skin gleams in the glow until they climb into bed next to Esther.

My camp bed is a foot lower than his and I don't see them properly when I lie down but the silence is itchy and I know he ain't sleeping. One of the teens from another room is chanting the Hamilton soundtrack until the music abruptly stops mid-way through Washington on Your Side. Presumably, Bobbi has reminded them that the house goes quiet at eleven unless an exception has been agreed upon ahead of time. Then the silence is disturbed only by the occasional bark from the kennels.

'Did you split up with your girlfriend?'

'We weren't together.' Under my duvet, I rub my sternum. 'But yeah, I guess.'

'Do you want me to burn her house down?'

'She lives in an apartment building.'

'I don't see the problem.'

'Please don't commit arson.' Laughter eases the ache in my chest for a second or two but then it's back with a vengeance.

I really were so fucking stupid for doing all this with Joe. I've had my heart broken more times than I can count (though I'm sure Caleb has an Excel sheet recording each one with a timeline and scale of intensity); I knew it would hurt when it ended but nowt I did could've prepared me for this.

'Besides, I'm the one who did it.'

The silence is heavy enough now that I think they've fallen asleep, but then he speaks and the whisper fogs from his mouth like the cold. 'Cause of me.' It's not a question but a supplied answer.

'No,' I say but I've hesitated too long.

I roll onto my side and though I can only see the point of their nose and Esther's ears, I drill my stare where I assume his would be if I had x-ray vision. 'You're my first priority, Cece. Always. I want you to feel safe. And if me being in a relationship makes you feel threatened, then I won't be in one.'

Esther's ears move as she shifts her head onto Cece's chest, lifting her nose and the glint of her eyes into my line of sight. Cece scratches her.

'I can't feed my fears.'

They state it with such casual confidence that I'm too taken aback to even process the meaning for a moment. I reckon it's easier for them like this: in the dark with us not seeing each other.

'When I let it make the rules, that's how it gets control, that's what Bobbi says... You can't do that either. I know you're scared. You don't trust people not to ostracize you so you do it yourself, right?'

Because I can't see Cece, I stare at Esther. I didn't expect them to repeat my own words back to me, not because it's an easy tool to add a serrated edge to any knife, but with a compassionate humour. I thought he'd only find space between song lyrics and insults to remember things I've said in an acidic and bitter patch of soil. But maybe he does actually listen.

But they're wrong, aren't they? That's not what this is about. I trust Joe! ... Don't I?

Verdict: I'm a coward.

'I...Tha– I–' The words snag on their teeth until they finally manage to tug them free. 'I'm happy you're here.'

'I'm happy to be here.'

We don't say owt else and it don't take long for Cece's breaths to slow. Sleep don't come to me so easy. No matter what position I lie in, the pain radiating from my ribcage makes it uncomfortable and though I live on a council estate where there's rarely a quiet night, each bark jolts me back awake.

Just when I'm about to find my phone from where it's charging on the floor, spend the night doomscrolling, the flimsy mattress of my camp bed dips. Esther sniffs me before settling down, making up for the lack of space by lying partially on top of me. She rests her head on my chest the way I've seen her do countless times with Cece and somehow the weight eases my agony. Only a little, but it's enough for drowsiness to settle into the vacated edges of my mind.

I pet her and she watches me gently. 'You take good care of him. Thank you for that.'

I think she can understand. Esther blinks to say "you're welcome".

Notes

Council estate: Multiple council houses or flats, usually with amenities.

A 1-10 scale for OCD has people rate how much they are struggling to resist their compulsions at any given moment.