CRIMSON PAINTED OVER THE IVOERY WHITE SKIN OF TROYE'S FINGERS, slipping behind the shield of his licorice coat to hide the guilt away from prying eyes is all Hector can think of. He lies awake, the bedsheet a crumbled mess beneath him-much like his mental state-raw unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling with only one thought in his mind.

Murad's dead.

And Troye killed him.

Every time Hector closes his eyes he sees the same image, stuck in his head like a broken vhs tape, tattooed behind his lids to remind him every second of Murad's body dumped beside the lake. His arm twisted in a way that his elbow's bone poked out from his muddied blood-soaked skin. His one eye stared into nothingness while the other seemed like it had been blinded, and his clothes unrecognizable and painted in a dark red, which almost seemed black, that perhaps oozed out of the wound carved in his chest.

Needless to say, he didn't bat his eyes the entire night. Not after the police escorted him home after he puked thrice and nearly passed away, not after he'd sat under the shower with his clothes on because he couldn't find the strength to stand up against the sink, not when he lied awake without moving a muscle, not even when he heard Troye coming home, his light footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Hector had imagined how this would've gone. A part of him knew this would've happened but a bigger part of him pushed the thought away and sulked into the warm arms of denial. It was sweet while it lasted.

He thought after he learned Murad's dead, he would've marched up to his brother and throw a few punches before yelling at his face that why did he do it while his look-a-like would simply break into a morbid grin, blood dripping from his nose and soaking his teeth. But oh, had he underestimated it.

He is fucking miserable. He can't move. He can't breathe. No. He doesn't want to breathe because how is it fair that his lungs hold air while Murads' has been brutally punctured by the boy who's sleeping soundly just across the hall from him.

He can imagine the whole thing in his head even though he wasn't there. He knows he was scared. Hell he can even hear him begging for his life, crying when the pain struck in and screaming for help when he knew he wasn't being let out of this and stopping when he knew help wasn't coming.

With every cold unwilling breath leaving his chapped lips he feels the life being slowly sucked out of him. Painful enough to make his lungs burn but not enough to leave him dead.

And oh did he wish he were dead right now.

What right does he have to live? When Murad's isn't because of him. If only had he done something instead of miserably drowning straight alcohol down his throat maybe Murad wouldn't have been gruesomely killed, maybe he wouldn't have had to rot against the shore of the lake, his carved, splat and butchered body wouldn't have been poked and splat further to find traces left of the killer.

The Killer he thinks. The killer lives under the roof as him and yet again he's doing nothing of help but losing himself further into miserable spiraling dead ended thoughts.

Hector gathers whatever strength he has in his sore limbs and sits straight. He gets up but stumbles a little, his vision going dark. He doesn't remember sleeping the last few days. Or eating. But he doesn't bother to.

***

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER HECTOR marches with a mission down the empty hallway of the St. Dartons, his long heavy strides radiating the fury he feels scalding beneath the layers of his skin.

He turns a corner and stops before a white door. He turns the handle.

Every head turns to look at the intruder disrupting the lecture. "I need a moment with Troye Vincent." He announces.

His eyes find him just as the words leave his mouth. There the boy sits, aside the window letting in cruel rays of sunshine, daring to be so bright on such a mournful day, simply mocking the grieving boy's sorrow, lightening the glowing features of the youthful boy sitting with his arm loosely draped over the back of his chair, nonchalance written over his every move as if the events of last night never happened, as if he wasn't responsible for it himself, looking as fresh as ever-if not more-like the blood had somehow made him younger.

Meeting his brother's eyes, a small tug of his lips stretches his skin as little as possible, almost invisible to the eyes of the oblivious, which nearly makes Hector twitch an eye.

"Can it not wait till after the class?"

"It's urgent." Hector doesn't take his eyes off Troye.

Troye gets up and saunters out of the room and Hector follows.

"Jesus, whoever knew you'd ever come of help," Troye pats his brother on the arm, "thanks for getting me out of that shithole, that hag was fucking with my head with-"

"We need to talk."

"Yes that's what I was doing," Troye frowns, "before you rudely interrupted me. Did no one ever tell you it's rude to interrupt?"

Hector clenches his jaw. "It's important."

Troye leans his broad shoulder against the sage metal of the lockers, and flashes a sincere smile, reluctantly mocking Hector's sternness. "I'm all ears."

Hector tries his best not hit him. But Troye isn't making it any easier for him and knowing the slick blade of his knife sits in his waistline makes it all the more tempting. No one's watching. It'd be so quick.

"Not here."

"Here's fine." Troye insists.

Hector's glare drills a hole at his smug face.

"Oh don't tell," Troye says, moving away from the locker, nearing Hector, "is it a... secret?" he whispers.

Hector doesn't meet Troye's eyes. He stares behind his head toward the empty hallway not wanting to see the amusement lightening his face and the sadistic grin not wanting to wipe off his lips.

"Tell me," he leans in, "are you here to tell me about another one of your crushes?" he tuts. "Moved on from Mu-"

Hector shoves him hard against the locker before he can finish and presses his neck with his forearm.

He doesn't get to say his name. Not after he killed him.

Troye grunts.

"What did you do?" Hector spits, not bothering to move his arm from his neck even even his face goes red.

To his surprise Troye grunts out a snort (brave coming from someone who's being strangled). "What?" he wheezes, "you're really gonna stab me?"

Hector frowns. The peculiar statement throws him off, not knowing what he means when he suddenly feels the weight of something heavy in his clammy grip. He looks down to see himself holding the polished blade of his knife against Troye's torso.

Stunned he drops his arm.

Troye pushes him and he staggers back still in shock.

He can't think for a second that he'd gone as close to stabbing his brother on broad daylight, in demand of answers to questions he has little hope of finding. But how could he have lost his mind completely to the point he entirely lost control of his consciousness? How could ever he claim his brother to be a monster when he was so close to doing something so reckless?

"Is this how you did it?"

"What?" Hector attention snaps back to him.

Troye's black pupils tear through Hector's soul searching for God knows what. But Hector can't read the look on his stone cold face, his eyes red and teary for being chocked and yet he seems as invincible and intimidating as ever and Hector tries not to shiver under his bone chilling gaze.

"Did what?" Hector tries once again. But a deep fear settles heavy in his chest when Troye's brows dip ever so slightly.

No fucking way.

"Mr Vincent?"

The boys snap their heads at the intruding voice, reverberating through the tensed air. Hector's heartbeat picks up at sight of Headmaster Wheeler. Had he heard everything?

"Can I see you in my office for a moment please?"

**

surprise bitches