Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Warsaw, 1991

The mornings began with coughing.

It was always the first sound Josh heard — the ragged, wet sound coming from the other room, punctuated by the faint rattle of porcelain as his mother reached for her cup of water. The rest of the world still slept. The city, in these early hours, felt like a photograph — still, grainy, tinted blue by the cold light leaking through thin curtains.

He opened his eyes to the ceiling with its faint water stains and a spiderweb of cracks. The apartment was small — two rooms and a narrow kitchen, third floor of a decaying block built in the seventies. Outside, the tram lines hissed faintly, wheels biting into frost. Somewhere below, a stray dog barked. The radiator had stopped working again, and the air in his room had the same bite as the breath he exhaled into it.

He swung his legs out of bed, feet landing on the cold parquet. The sweater he pulled on smelled faintly of detergent and smoke. His mother's cough continued.
"I'm up," he muttered, though no one had called for him.

The kitchen light buzzed when he flicked it on. It was a yellow, sickly kind of light, making everything — the chipped plates, the grey linoleum, the half-empty jar of instant coffee — look older than it was. A small radio sat on the windowsill beside a dying spider plant, its plastic case cracked at the corner. He twisted the knob until he found a frequency that didn't dissolve into static. The host's voice came in after, low and calm, talking about reforms, inflation, the zloty, something about the new American fast-food restaurant opening downtown. The future, apparently, had arrived in Warsaw — only it hadn't made it to their part of the city yet.

From the next room, his mother called out, voice weak:
"Josh?"

He filled the kettle with water from the tap. The pipes gurgled and spat before settling into a dull, steady stream.
"I'm making tea," he called back. "With honey."

"We're out of honey," she said.

He frowned, glanced at the nearly empty cupboard, then found the jar — crystalized sugar at the bottom. "There's enough."

She coughed again, the sound sharp and hollow. He poured hot water into her cup, added a spoonful, and carried it carefully to her room.

His mother sat propped against two pillows, her hair thin and streaked with grey. The smell of medicine clung to the air — medication and menthol ointment, the faint bitterness of disinfectant. A newspaper was folded beside her, unread. The open window let in a draft, carrying the metallic scent of snow and exhaust. On the nightstand, between a small lamp and a bottle of cough syrup, stood a photograph: Josh at ten, grinning, missing a tooth, standing beside a man with strong shoulders and kind eyes. His father was gone five years now — not dead, exactly, just gone, like so many men had gone in those years. The factory had closed; there were rumors of work in Germany, or maybe he'd simply had enough of trying.

Josh had long stopped wondering which version was true.

He handed her the tea. "Careful, it's hot."

"Thank you." Her fingers trembled around the cup. "You're up before the sun again."

"Can't sleep when the pipes make that noise," Josh murmured.

"Mm. You're just restless these days."
She coughed again, turning away to hide it, though he saw the small tremor in her hand.
"Did you eat yesterday?" she asked.

"I grabbed something," he lied.

She eyed him. "Something that wasn't coffee or cigarettes?"

"Maybe," he said with a faint smile.

It wasn't that they didn't talk—they did, every day—but the words were always practical, orbiting around pills, groceries, electricity bills. They both knew what was happening to her body, and neither had the strength to name it out loud anymore. The oncologist had said there was a wait for radiotherapy. Two months, maybe more. In this economy, you learned to live with waiting.

He reached for the window latch and cracked it open a little. The winter air pushed in, sharp and metallic, carrying the sound of a tram clattering somewhere down the street.

"I'll be at the store until four," he said. "Do you need anything?"

"Milk. Maybe bread if it's fresh."

"I'll check." He hesitated. "Do you want me to call that nurse again? The one from the clinic?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't need strangers fussing over me. You do enough of that."

He didn't argue. She'd always been proud — even now, when pride cost her more than she had to give. He straightened the blanket on her lap and brushed away a bit of lint that didn't need brushing away.

"I'll be fine," she said, softer this time. "Don't worry so much."

"I'm not," he lied again.

She smiled at that — a faint curve of her lips, almost ghostlike.

Outside, the city was still waking. The sky had that heavy, low-hanging gray that never really became day, just a duller shade of night. The streets were slick with old snow, compacted into gray ice at the edges of the sidewalks. Trams screeched along their tracks, buses exhaled exhaust into the cold. On the corner, an old woman sold cigarettes and matches from a folding table, her breath clouding the air as she arranged the packs in neat rows.

Josh adjusted the collar of his coat—frayed wool, once navy, now something between blue and gray—and crossed the street toward the store. He passed the bakery, its window fogged with steam and the smell of rye bread, and the newspaper kiosk plastered with headlines about the latest strikes, about reform, about something called privatization that everyone said would make things better, eventually. He didn't really believe it.

His hands were numb by the time he reached Convenience Store Nowak & Son, though the "& Son" part had long been painted over. The sign above the door was missing two letters, and the glass window was taped where it had cracked last winter. Inside, a flickering fluorescent bulb gave everything a faint green tint.

Mr. Nowak was already there, hunched behind the counter, counting zlotys into a worn ledger. He looked up when Josh came in. "You're late."

Josh glanced at the clock. "It's seven fifty-five."

"Exactly. You start at seven fifty." Nowak snapped the ledger shut and tucked it under the counter. "Bread delivery's late again. Probably stuck behind that damn tramline. Stack the shelves when it comes. Cigarettes too."

Josh nodded, slipping on his apron—a faded blue thing with a small tear near the pocket—and started arranging tins of sardines and jars of pickles on the shelf. He didn't mind the work. It was simple, repetitive, and didn't ask anything of him except time. Besides, there was something calming about the sound of the register opening and closing, the soft crinkle of paper bags, the steady rhythm of coins being counted.

By eight-thirty, the first customers began to drift in: pensioners buying sugar and tea, young mothers with children bundled in scarves, a factory worker with a grease-stained jacket asking for cheap vodka. The air grew warmer with breath and chatter, and the smell of bread finally arrived when the delivery boy pushed through the door with two crates balanced on his shoulder.

"Traffic's a nightmare," the boy muttered. "Car stalled near the Palace."

"Mm," Josh said, taking one of the crates and setting it down behind the counter. "You think it'll snow again?"

"Always does."

He smiled faintly at that and went back to arranging loaves on the shelf. Through the window, he could see people hurrying down the street — gray coats, bowed heads, faces blurred by frost on the glass. He sometimes thought the city itself was tired, like everyone had been holding their breath since the Wall came down and still hadn't exhaled.

The bell over the door rang again, a sharp metallic sound that cut through the murmur of the radio. Two men came in, both wearing heavy jackets, both laughing too loudly for this early in the day. They smelled of cigarettes and cheap beer. Josh glanced up, instinctively tensing — but they just bought matches and left, still laughing as the door banged shut behind them.

He exhaled slowly and returned to the counter. The radio had switched from news to music — a soft, melancholy pop song from an artist he didn't recognize. He liked the melody, though; something in it reminded him of the tapes he sometimes recorded late at night in his apartment, whispering chords into an old cassette deck so his mother wouldn't wake.
He thought about that — about the pile of tapes he'd never let anyone hear, the way he always stopped himself halfway through a song because it felt useless. What did it matter if he wrote something beautiful when no one was listening? When no one could listen?

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and forced himself back to the present.

A customer cleared her throat. He rang up her groceries, counted out her change, and watched her disappear into the snow. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the faint smell of cold air and wool scarves.

For a brief moment, he let himself lean against the counter and stare out the window.
The city was still moving — cars crawling along, trams shrieking in the distance, a stray dog nosing at a pile of trash near the curb. Somewhere, a man in a leather jacket shouted at someone across the street, the sound carried faintly through the glass. Josh couldn't make out the words, but the tone was familiar — that hard, reckless anger that seemed to live just beneath the surface of every man in this city.

For now, there was only the hum of the fluorescent light above him, the faint music from the radio, and the endless shuffle of customers moving in and out of the cold.

It was going to be another long day.
They all were.

Chapter Text

The walls were thin.
Too thin to keep anything private.

Tyler had learned that early — how every sound carried, how even a sigh could be heard through peeling plaster. The apartment was on the third floor of a grey, post-war block, one of dozens identical to it. Each corridor smelled of boiled potatoes, cigarette smoke, and something metallic, like wet iron. The stairwell light buzzed with flies that never seemed to die. On the ground floor, someone had scrawled "Fuck The Police" in marker across the mailboxes, and no one had bothered to clean it off.

Inside the apartment, the air was heavy with the stale sweetness of cheap vodka and frying oil. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, yellow and bare, swaying slightly whenever someone slammed a door. The wallpaper was an old floral pattern, once white, now the color of old newspapers. Every few minutes, the pipes rattled like they were choking.

Tyler sat at the small table in the kitchen, elbows resting on a stained tablecloth patterned with faded cherries, hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee. The vinyl covering stuck to his forearms when he moved. The table itself wobbled slightly — one leg shorter than the others, propped up with a folded newpaper from last year.

There was no breakfast waiting for him. There never was.

The counter held a loaf of stale bread, a jar of mustard with a rusting lid, and a bottle of Żubrówka half empty beside a cracked glass. A cigarette butt floated in the glass — his father's, probably.

The refrigerator hummed, a tired, uneven sound, and the light inside had burned out months ago. When he opened it earlier, there'd been little more than a jar of pickles, some margarine, and a slice of luncheon meat gone grey at the edges.

He wasn't hungry anyway.

His father was on the couch, watching a football rerun on the old TV, the screen a dull rectangle of static green and grey. The antenna was held together with electrical tape, bent like a broken insect. Every few minutes the image flickered, and the man cursed under his breath.

Tyler's younger brother, sat cross-legged on the floor near the radiator, flipping through a battered comic book, pretending not to exist. 

"Piece of junk," his father muttered now, slapping the side of the set.

The man wore only an undershirt stretched tight over his belly and a pair of wool socks. His face was heavy, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw shadowed with a day-old beard. His thick fingers twitched with each cigarette drag, his lips moving around curses half-spoken. The ashtray beside him was full, a small mountain of grey.

His mother came in then, barefoot, hair messy and eyes swollen. She looked older than she was — probably not even forty, but the years had carved deep lines into her face. She wore a pink bathrobe over a faded nightgown, cinched loosely at the waist. "Maybe turn it down, love."

His father ignored her.

Tyler picked at a crack in the table. The plastic peeled up, revealing the wood underneath — dark, soft, water-damaged. He felt the familiar tension start to build in his jaw. Every sound in this apartment felt too close. Too sharp. Like there was no space to breathe.

He'd been up since dawn, unable to sleep. He'd dreamed of falling again — the same dream that came every few nights: running through the stairwell, falling from the fifth floor, waking with his heart punching against his ribs. It wasn't fear that lingered after — it was the strange calm that came right before the ground hit.

He thought about that feeling now, as the TV blared and his father's voice filled the room.

"You still running around with those morons from the block?" the man said suddenly, not looking away from the screen.

Tyler didn't answer.

His father's eyes shifted to him, small and sharp. "You think I don't know what you're doing? Standing around the kiosk all day, pretending you're some big man."

He said it like he was spitting something bitter out of his mouth.

Tyler stared down at his hands — long fingers, veins showing beneath the skin, a small scar across his knuckle from a fight two months ago. He flexed them, felt the anger coil in his stomach.

He wanted to say something. To tell the old bastard that it wasn't like he had a choice — that there weren't jobs left for boys like him anymore. The factory down the road had closed last spring. The post office hired only women now. Every ad in the paper required something he didn't have — experience, education, patience.

But he didn't say it. What was the point?

He watched the clock tick toward noon and felt the tension in his jaw tighten. He scraped the chair back with a loud screech and stood up.

"Where are you going?" his mother asked without turning around. Her voice was soft but strained, the way it always was when she was trying to sound calm.

"Out," Tyler said.

"Out where?"

"Just out."

His father snorted without looking up. "Out," he repeated mockingly, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Always out. Maybe if you spent less time running around with those idiots and more time finding a job, we wouldn't have to—"

Tyler cut him off. "I had a job."

"Had," his father snapped. "And you lost it because you can't keep your mouth shut. You think anyone wants to hire some punk who thinks he's smarter than the boss?"

Tyler's hands curled into fists. He stared at the table instead of at the man. The linoleum was bubbled and scarred from years of cigarette burns. Near the corner, someone—probably his little brother—had scratched a small drawing into it, a crude stick figure with wings.

His mother turned from the window. "Please. Not now."

But his father was already leaning forward, eyes glassy. "He needs to learn. You think life gives a damn about your feelings? You think it's easy, boy? You don't even know what hard is."

Tyler said nothing. He'd learned that silence was sometimes safer, though it burned. He tugged the sleeve of his tracksuit up to his elbow — the fabric slick and shiny, blue with white stripes down the arms. It was the kind of thing all the neighborhood boys wore: cheap Adidas knockoffs from the open-air market, elastic cuffs stretched out from too many washes. The only pair of pants he owned without holes.

His father stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray already overflowing. "You look like a damn hooligan," he muttered. "You think you're tough? You're nothing. Just noise."

Tyler forced a laugh that didn't sound like one. "Better than being fucking drunk at noon."

The slap came fast. It always did.

The sound cracked through the kitchen like a shot. His cheek stung, and his head snapped sideways, eyes watering, but he didn't give the man the satisfaction of flinching. His little brother looked up from his comic, face pale, and then down again, pretending not to see. Their mother froze, one hand still on the wooden spoon, knuckles white.

"Enough!" she said, voice shaking. "For God's sake, stop it, both of you."

Tyler turned around, jaw tight, tasting metal. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and slung it over his shoulder. His father was still talking—something about respect, about sons these days—but the words were just noise now, blending into the hum of the refrigerator, the static of the radio, the endless clatter of pipes.

He slipped into the narrow hallway, heart pounding with leftover adrenaline. The air was colder here. A crucifix hung crookedly near the door, one arm of Christ broken off. His mother had tried to glue it once, but the piece fell again and was never found. Below it, an old wooden shoe rack leaned against the wall, cluttered with worn-out sneakers and one boot missing its sole.

He crouched, tied his laces tight, fingers shaking a little. His stomach felt hollow — not just from hunger, but from the constant push and pull of anger he didn't know what to do with. It was like a fever that never broke.

He thought about what his father had said. Lazy. Nothing. Hooligan.
The words stuck to him like cigarette smoke. No matter how far he walked, they'd follow.

He pulled the zipper of his jacket up to his chin and shoved his hands into the pockets. His lighter was there, and a few coins. Not enough for anything that mattered. Maybe a pack of cigarettes from the kiosk if he skipped lunch again.

From the kitchen, the sound of his father's voice rose again — shouting at someone else now, the same argument in a different shape. His mother's voice was low and pleading, impossible to make out.

He pressed his palm to the door handle, cool metal against warm skin, and hesitated. Just long enough to hear his father's harsh laughter from the other room.

Something inside him clenched.

Then he turned the handle and stepped out.

The stairwell air hit him like a slap — cold, dusty, faintly moldy. The fluorescent light above flickered. He stood for a moment, listening to the door click shut behind him.

The silence out here wasn't real silence — it was the muffled echo of other lives. A baby crying two floors down, a radio playing a folk song through thin walls, the distant bark of a dog from the courtyard. Someone's laundry hung limp on a line by the stairs — men's shirts, a pair of children's tights, a towel stiff with frost.

Tyler rubbed at his cheek absently, though the sting had already faded. He felt that familiar emptiness again — the space that anger left when it drained away.

He started down the stairs, his sneakers squeaking on the worn tiles. The air smelled of cigarettes, concrete dust, and the faint sweetness of something fried.

When he reached the ground floor, someone had propped open the entrance door with a brick. The metal frame was dented, graffiti scratched into it — names, slogans, curses. The outside light spilled in, pale and cold.

He stepped through it, out into the world, the cold air cutting into his lungs like a knife.

For the first time all morning, he could breathe.

Chapter Text

The cold didn't bother him at first.
It almost felt good — sharp, biting, something that reminded him he was still here.

He walked fast, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, head down. The wind off the river smelled faintly of coal and wet metal, the way it always did in winter. Cars passed slowly, coughing exhaust into the air. The puddles at the edge of the road were filmed with ice, reflecting the dull orange of the streetlights that hadn't yet turned off. The whole world seemed washed out — like an old photograph someone had left in the sun too long.

His sneakers scuffed against the pavement. He kicked at a stray bottle cap, watched it skip ahead of him, then vanish into a drain.

Every step away from that apartment felt like peeling off a layer of suffocation. But the relief didn't last long. It never did. The noise from home — the shouting, the clinking bottles, his father's voice — it always followed him in his head, long after he'd closed the door.

He hated that place.
He hated how it smelled, how it sounded, how it looked — how it felt like everything in it was slowly rotting.
The wallpaper peeling, the couch sinking in the middle, the TV that had to be hit on the side to work. Even the light felt different there — thick, yellow, tired. Like it was just as sick of being trapped as he was.

Sometimes, he wondered if other families lived like that. He saw them sometimes on the bus — fathers in clean coats, mothers with makeup, kids with backpacks that didn't have holes in them. They'd talk quietly, laugh even. He couldn't imagine what that felt like — not needing to flinch when someone raised their hand too fast, not needing to listen for footsteps before you breathed.

He told himself he didn't care. That it didn't matter. That he was fine. But the truth was, it did matter.

It mattered so much it made him sick.

A gust of wind hit him as he crossed the street. He pulled his jacket tighter, lowering his head against it. A tram passed by, screeching along the tracks, windows fogged with faces he didn't know. He caught his reflection in one of them — buzzed hair, hard eyes, jaw clenched — and almost didn't recognize himself. He looked like every other angry kid in this town. Maybe that's all he was.

The streets were quiet at this hour.
A woman dragged a cart of groceries past him, the wheels rattling against the stones. An old man in a brown coat stood outside the kiosk, smoking. From an open window came the sound of a radio, the same kind of hollow pop song his mother used to hum under her breath before everything went sour. It was all so ordinary — and that was the worst of it. How ordinary the misery was. How everyone just accepted it.

He didn't want to accept it.

He wanted out. Out of the apartment, out of this block, out of this town that looked the same no matter which way you turned.

But there wasn't anywhere to go. Not really.

You could leave, sure — go to Cracow, maybe abroad — but it was all the same in the end. Just bigger streets, different drunks, colder eyes.

He thought about his brother for a moment — small, quiet, pretending to be invisible in the corner. He used to tell himself he stayed for him, to make sure the old man didn't go too far. But lately even that felt like a lie. You couldn't save someone else when you couldn't even save yourself.

The wind stung his face, made his eyes water. He told himself it was the cold.

He imagined walking until the streets ran out. Just keep going past the tram lines, the warehouses, the gray outskirts with the rusted fences and stray dogs. Past the train tracks, maybe. Keep walking until everything fell silent — no pipes, no shouting, no voices. Just silence.

There was a kind of peace in the idea.

Just... stopping. Being still for once.

He shoved the thought away before it could settle, like brushing snow off his shoulders. It didn't help. It never helped.

He walked faster.

Ahead, the buildings leaned in close, balconies sagging, laundry lines strung across narrow gaps. Posters flapped against the walls — concerts that had already happened, politicians promising change that never came. He passed a garage where someone was working on an old Fiat, the radio blasting football commentary. The man didn't look up as Tyler went by.

The city started to smell different by the river — metal and diesel and something half-dead under the ice.

The snow along the banks had turned to grey slush, trampled flat by boots and dogs. Empty bottles lay half-buried near the bridge pillars, labels peeling. Overhead, a tram rattled across the bridge, sparks flickering where the wire met the metal arm.

Tyler shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets and walked faster, his breath smoking in the air. His sneakers were soaked through already. The Vistula was wide and slow, dull silver under the clouds. A couple of gulls screamed above the water, circling the remains of someone's dumped Christmas tree floating downstream.

Mark and Chris were where they always were — sitting on the low wall by the water, legs swinging, passing a cigarette between them. They looked up when they heard his footsteps.

"Tyler! Finally," Mark called out. "We were about to start drinking the river."

"Looks cleaner than what you drink anyway," Tyler said. His breath fogged as he spoke.

Mark grinned, teeth small and sharp. "Always with the mouth, man."

Chris flicked ash off his sleeve. "He probably had to wait for Daddy to pass out first."

Tyler didn't bite. He just walked over, took the cigarette from Mark, and drew in a long drag before handing it back. The smoke steadied him, tasted of burnt paper and relief.

"Rough morning?" Mark asked, already knowing the answer.

"Same as always."

"Your old man?"

"Yeah."

Nobody said anything for a bit. The only sound was the wind pushing against the bridge and the slow groan of water under ice. It wasn't sympathy exactly — more like understanding. Everyone they knew had a version of the same story.

Mark kicked a chunk of ice into the river. "You hear about the game?"

Tyler shrugged. "What about it?"

"Whole Polonia crew's showing up tonight. Couple of them from Praga, even. You know what that means."

"Trouble," Chris said, and there was a small grin behind the word.

Mark's eyes lit up. "Exactly. We can't let those bastards walk through our area like they own it."

Tyler smirked. "You planning to stop them all by yourself?"

Mark spread his arms. "With the right fuel? Sure."

Chris laughed, rough and quiet. "You just want an excuse to swing at someone."

"Better than sitting at home doing nothing," Mark said. 

That got a small smile out of Tyler. He could respect that kind of honesty.

They fell into silence again, watching the river move. It was one of those afternoons when everything felt half-frozen — time, breath, even the light.

Chris leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You got any cash?"

"Couple zloty," Tyler said. "Why?"

Mark tilted his head, that familiar look that always meant he was about to volunteer someone for something. "We were talking about supplies for tonight."

Tyler groaned. "No."

"Yes."

"No, it's your turn. Last time I nearly got caught."

Mark's grin widened. "To get us something to drink. You're faster than both of us."

Tyler sighed, rubbing his face. "Where from?"

"Same place as last time," Mark said. "The little shop near the tram stop. Guy's half-blind anyway."

Tyler frowned. "You know he's not half-blind. He just—"

"Doesn't matter," Mark interrupted. "We just need a couple bottles. Something strong."

Tyler glanced across the river. The city stretched out behind the haze — grey buildings, tram wires, a few patches of color from old billboards. It looked tired, like everything else.

He thought of his father's voice echoing in the kitchen that morning, of the slap still burning faintly on his cheek. He thought of how quiet the apartment had been after he left.

But then Chris elbowed him. "Don't go all quiet on us, Ty. You're getting it, yeah?"

Tyler smirked and stood up, brushing off his pants. "Yeah, yeah. I'll get it. What do you want?"

"Anything strong," Mark said. "Vodka, maybe rum if they've got it."

"Rum?" Chris laughed. "What are we, fancy now?"

Mark shrugged. "I like rum."

Tyler shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Fine. Rum for the gentleman, vodka for the rest of us."

"Atta boy." Mark stood too, cracking his knuckles. "We'll meet you at the corner, by the tram stop. Fifteen minutes?"

"Make it ten," Tyler said. "Before the old man gets too suspicious."

They bumped fists, their breath fogging in the cold air.

Tyler turned and started walking toward the bridge. The wind picked up, stinging his eyes, but he didn't slow down. The water below moved like liquid lead, heavy and endless. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed and faded again.

The shop was small and smelled like old bread and bleach. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh against the frost outside. Tyler pushed the door open, the bell above it giving a half-hearted ring. Warm air hit his face—stale, recycled—and for a second, the noise of the street fell away behind him.

He'd been in this store before, once or twice. Never for long. It was the kind of corner shop that sold everything: milk, cigarettes, cheap vodka, knockoff chocolate bars wrapped in gold foil. Shelves leaned slightly, crooked under their weight. A radio murmured from somewhere behind the counter — a love song in English that nobody in here probably understood.

Tyler kept his hood up and walked straight to the counter, ignoring the pensioner sorting through coins near the door. His pulse was steady. He'd done this before. Always the same: look casual, don't talk too much, act bored.

Behind the counter stood a guy he didn't recognize. Younger than he expected.
Dark hair, tired eyes. A plain sweater with rolled-up sleeves, revealing a line of tattoos snaking along his forearm. He didn't look like the type to work here—too quiet, too self-contained—but maybe that was what this place did to people.

"Hey," Tyler said.

The guy looked up from arranging cigarette packs. "Yeah?"

Tyler leaned an elbow on the counter, glancing at the bottles behind him — rows of vodka, rum, and dusty beer bottles stacked on sagging shelves. "You got Żubrówka?"

"Yeah," the man said.

"And that rum — the brown one, behind the gin."

The man hesitated. "You got ID?"

Tyler huffed, letting his lips curl into something between a grin and a sneer. "Do I look sixteen to you?"

The guy didn't smile. His eyes—dark and steady—stayed on Tyler a moment too long before he turned and reached for the bottles. 

Tyler could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Come on, just grab them, walk out. Quick. He'd done this a dozen times, but his nerves still thrummed with the same electric rush.

The man set the bottles down gently on the counter — one vodka, one rum. His hands lingered for a moment before he straightened up. "That's fifty-three."

Tyler smiled thinly. "Right."

Tyler nodded as if reaching for his wallet. 

Then he moved.

He grabbed both bottles and turned fast. The motion was fluid, almost rehearsed. His pulse shot up as he made for the door. He was nearly there when the man's voice cut through the low hum of the radio.

"Hey!"

Not loud, but sharp. 

He didn't even hear the footsteps — only the sudden, violent impact.

The air punched out of him. His shoulder hit the doorframe, bottles clinking, and then there was weight — solid, human — driving him to the floor. The impact cracked through his back, the breath ripped from his chest as he hit the tiles. The sound of it—bodies colliding, glass rattling, the low grunt of effort—filled the tiny shop.

For a moment, it was chaos: limbs tangled, shoes scraping, breath hot against his neck. The other man landed on top of him, his hand catching the front of Tyler's jacket to stop him from rolling away. The floor was cold through the thin fabric of his tracksuit pants, the smell of dust and detergent sharp in his nostrils.

Tyler twisted under him, trying to get his arm free, but the grip only tightened. He could feel the guy's pulse against his sleeve — steady, stronger than he expected. The tattooed forearm pressed against his shoulder, the man's knee pinning his thigh, holding him still.

"I said put it down, bitch." The words came low, measured, but the strain in his voice cracked through them.

"Get off me!"

The words tore out of him, more desperate than he meant. He twisted, trying to slip out from under the stranger's arm, but that grip—that fucking grip—held like iron. Fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him back down. Their faces were inches apart now — he could see the man's breath fogging in the cold air, could smell something faintly bitter on him, like coffee and cigarettes.

Tyler's breath came fast, harsh. He shoved upward, his elbow connecting with something solid — a rib, maybe. The man hissed but didn't move. He was heavier, more controlled. There was a kind of calm in the way he held him down, not rage but certainty, and that only made Tyler's panic spike harder.

He bucked his hips, kicked, tried to roll to the side, but the man moved with him, adjusting his weight. Their chests slammed together again, sweat slicking the back of Tyler's neck. The vodka bottles clattered across the floor, one spinning away toward the shelves, the other trapped between them.

"Stop fighting me!" the man ordered, reaching for Tyler's wrist.

"Then stop touching me!"

Tyler snarled, wrenching his hand back. His shoulder ached. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

The bottle in his hand slipped; the neck knocked against the counter edge. It made a hollow thud that echoed through the cramped shop. It tumbled from his grip, hit the floor, and miraculously rolled instead of breaking. 

The man's eyes were fixed on him now — close enough for Tyler to see that they weren't cold, exactly, just unflinching. There was no real rage there, only a kind of resolve, something that made Tyler's blood boil even more.

They were breathing hard now, both of them. Their breaths came out in ragged bursts, mingling in the space between them. Tyler could smell sweat, tobacco, maybe a trace of aftershave that didn't quite hide the scent of long shifts and fatigue.

He twisted his arm violently, breaking the man's grip for a second. The fabric of his jacket tore near the seam. He felt the man's fingers drag over the rough cloth, then catch again near his shoulder. Tyler's elbow cracked against the ground, pain shooting up his arm. 

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. The hum of the flickering lights, the tinny echo of some pop song on the radio, the faint squeak of a sign swinging above the door — it all hung in the air like static.

Then it broke.

Tyler snarled and twisted again, trying to shove him off. The man reached for his wrist, pinning it to the floor. His other hand pressed against Tyler's shoulder, holding him down.

"Stop," the man said, his voice shaking now, breathless but still steady enough to make Tyler's stomach twist with irritation.

"Get the fuck off me!" Tyler growled, his words raw, throat tight.

Then he reacted on instinct.

He drew his knee up fast, driving it forward with every ounce of anger and panic flooding through him.

The impact was solid — a sharp, brutal thud against soft flesh. The man's breath burst out in a strangled sound, half a gasp, half a groan. His whole body tensed, muscles locking up. The force of it sent him back a little, his hand slipping from Tyler's arm. He folded slightly at the waist, clutching instinctively at his abdomen.

Tyler felt the change instantly — that moment of weakness, the sudden slack in the grip that had held him. He shoved upward with both hands, pushing at the man's chest.

The man stumbled back, catching himself on one arm against the counter. His face tightened — pain flashing across it, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for a second as he fought for air.

Tyler scrambled to his feet, the movement jerky and graceless. His knee throbbed where it had struck. He could hear both of them breathing — harsh, uneven, the kind of breath that sounds too loud in a quiet room.

"Shit," the man hissed under his breath, still bent over, one hand braced on the counter's edge.

Tyler didn't wait. He bent, grabbed the bottle from the floor—it was cold, slick, blessedly intact—and backed toward the door. The man straightened slightly, still wheezing, one hand pressed to his stomach, eyes following him, as Tyler stormed out.

Chapter Text

By the time Josh got home, the sky over Warsaw had already sunk into that heavy violet-gray that came before snow. The stairwell smelled like old plaster and boiled cabbage. The single bulb above the landing flickered, humming faintly, casting everything in a weak amber light.

He took the steps two at a time, his body aching in ways he didn't want to acknowledge. His stomach throbbed with each movement — a dull, spreading pain that pulsed beneath his ribs. He pressed his hand against it as he climbed, feeling the warmth radiating through the fabric of his sweater.

At the fourth floor, he paused in front of the chipped door. The metal handle was cold. He hesitated a moment, steadying his breath before turning the key and stepping inside.

From the kitchen came the sound of a pot simmering and a voice, warm but tired.
"Josh, is that you?"

"Yeah, Mom," he said, closing the door softly behind him. "It's me."

He kicked off his boots and hung his jacket on the hook. His mother, leaned against the counter in her worn cardigan, stirring soup with a wooden spoon. Her hair — once dark— was silver and thin now, pulled into a loose braid. The scarf around her neck hid the thinness of her collarbones, but not the exhaustion in her eyes.

"You're late again," she said gently.

"Long day," he murmured.

She turned off the stove and carried the pot to the table, motioning for him to sit. "They're working you too hard."

Josh gave a small smile and sank into the chair. The motion sent a sharp sting through his stomach, and he winced before he could stop himself.

His mother noticed. She always did.
"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Just tired, that's all."

"Josh." Her tone softened, but it carried weight — the kind of quiet authority that came from years of reading people without words. 

He sighed, picking at the edge of his sleeve. "It's nothing serious."

Her eyes stayed on him, waiting.

"There was... an incident at the store." He paused, searching for the right word. "Some kid tried to steal. I stopped him, that's all."

"A fight?"

"Not really," he said, half-smiling. "He just caught me off guard."

She frowned, worry drawing small lines at the corners of her mouth. "You shouldn't put yourself in danger for that job."

"It's fine, Mom. Really. I'm fine."

She studied him for another moment, then let it go, ladling soup into their bowls. The smell of dill and potatoes filled the kitchen, warm and familiar. They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the quiet clink of spoons against ceramic.

Josh kept his eyes on the table, trying not to think about the boy — the hard stare, the kick that had knocked the air from his lungs. It had happened so fast, yet it kept replaying in his mind in flashes. The sound of his breath. The tension in his arm when Josh grabbed him. The look in his eyes — not cruelty, exactly, but desperation. Something sharp and lost behind the anger.

He didn't tell his mother any of that. She'd worry too much.

After dinner, he cleared the table and helped her to the bed, making sure her blanket was tucked around her shoulders before she settled with her book. She smiled at him, tired but grateful.

"You're a good boy," she said softly, and that made his chest tighten in a way he didn't expect.

When she dozed off, he slipped quietly into the bathroom.

The mirror was small and warped slightly around the edges. The fluorescent light above it buzzed weakly. He lifted his sweater, careful not to make a sound.

The bruise was already forming — a dark blotch spreading across his abdomen, deep purple fading into red at the edges. He touched it gently, flinching at the pain. The skin felt hot beneath his fingertips.

He leaned against the sink, breathing through his teeth. For a long moment, he just stared at it — that small, ugly mark.

He'd faced worse before, of course. Scrapes, accidents, the small brutalities of daily life. But this felt different somehow. Not because of the pain, but because of what lingered in his mind — the memory of that kid's face.

He exhaled slowly, lowering his sweater. The pain dulled a little, but the heaviness didn't leave.

In the other room, his mother stirred and coughed softly. Josh turned off the light and stood in the dark for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the city outside — cars passing, distant laughter, the creak of old pipes.

He didn't know why, but he kept seeing that boy's eyes. The way they looked at him before the kick landed. Not cruel. Just... cornered.

And for reasons he couldn't explain, that was what hurt the most.

The wind off the Vistula was sharp that night, the kind that cut through fabric and stung the skin. Tyler shoved his hands deep into his track jacket pockets as he walked down the street toward the tram stop. The bottle he'd stolen still clinked faintly against his hip, hidden under his jacket. He kept glancing behind him, half-expecting the guy from the shop to appear, though he knew that was stupid. No one cared enough to chase him across half the city.

The streetlights flickered in dull orange arcs along the wet pavement. A thin crust of snow melted into the gutters, turning the curbside slush grey and slick. The air smelled like exhaust, fried dough from a vendor a few blocks away, and the faint metallic scent of tram rails.

Mark was already there, leaning against the shelter with a cigarette between his lips, his bomber jacket zipped up to the chin. Chris stood next to him, his hair poking out under a cap that still bore the faint outline of the team's logo — faded red and white. Both turned when Tyler approached.

"There he is!" Mark grinned, flicking ash onto the pavement. "Took your time, man."

"Had to make a stop," Tyler said, pulling out the bottle from under his jacket like a magician revealing his trick.

Chris's eyebrows shot up. "No shit. You actually got it?"

Tyler held up the bottle, smirking. "One bottle. Could've been two, but the shop guy was faster than he looked."

Mark let out a low whistle. "You serious? He tried to stop you?"

"Yeah. Fucker jumped over the damn counter." Tyler shrugged like it was nothing, but he could still feel the ghost of that grip on his arm. "Caught me for a second, but I kicked him off."

Mark barked out a laugh and slapped his shoulder. "That's what I'm talking about! You don't let anyone mess with you."

Chris reached for the bottle. "Let's open it before we get to the stadium. Warm up, yeah?"

They huddled under the shelter as a tram screeched up, its brakes whining. The doors hissed open, releasing a puff of warm air that smelled like oil, sweat, and cheap cologne. They climbed aboard, joining the crush of people — mostly young men in scarves and track jackets, already shouting, already drinking from hidden bottles.

The tram jolted forward, rattling along the rails. Graffiti blurred past the windows. Someone at the back started chanting the team's name, and the sound rippled through the carriage, voices rising, rough and drunken and proud.

Tyler leaned against the window, watching the city slide by — rows of grey blocks, neon signs flickering, women with shopping bags hurrying home. It was Warsaw in winter, all concrete and steam and noise, beautiful in its ugliness.

Mark uncapped the bottle and took a long swig before passing it to Tyler. "To tonight," he said, voice already hoarse. "We're not letting those Widzew bastards walk out of our stadium breathing."

Tyler took the bottle, the alcohol stinging his throat. "To making them remember where they are."

Chris nodded, eyes gleaming. "Word is they're bringing a whole bus of fans. We'll be waiting. They step out, we show them what Warsaw pride looks like."

"Cunts," Tyler muttered, though he was grinning now too. He could feel the energy building, that familiar charge before chaos. It was stupid, all of it—football, pride, fighting strangers—but it gave him something. For a few hours, he didn't have to think about home, the shouting, the smell of beer-soaked floors. Out here, he was part of something at least.

The tram turned a corner, the skyline opening up ahead. The stadium loomed in the distance — a ring of floodlights and scaffolding glowing against the night sky, banners flapping in the wind. The closer they got, the louder everything became — whistles, drums, the thud of boots on pavement. A street vendor yelled something about sausages; somewhere, glass broke.

Mark finished what was left of the bottle and tossed it into a snowbank when they got off. 

Tyler inhaled deeply, crisp air filling his lungs. Across the river, fireworks burst — green and white — a pre-game ritual. The reflection trembled on the black water, scattered and broken.

"Looks good, huh?" Chris said. "Like the whole city's on fire."

"Maybe it should be," Tyler murmured, mostly to himself.

Chris didn't hear him. He was already on his feet, pacing, hyped for the night ahead.

The crowd flowed toward the gates — hundreds of them, packed tight, chanting and singing, waving scarves above their heads. Tyler followed, his pulse matching the beat of the drums echoing from the stadium. His breath fogged in the air; the air tasted of smoke and sweat and anticipation.

For a moment, he felt light — almost weightless. The noise swallowed everything: the cold, the fear, the hollow feeling that waited for him in silence. This was better. The heat of the crowd, the promise of adrenaline, the night thick with tension.

Mark elbowed him, grinning wide. "You good, Ty?"

"Yeah," he said, and for once, he almost meant it.

They pushed forward with the crowd, a chant rolling over them like thunder. And Tyler shouted too—voice rough, heart pounding—disappearing into the noise.

He barely even noticed when the match started.

The roar of the crowd rolled through the stands in heavy waves — thousands of voices rising and falling in unison, echoing through the cold air, bouncing off the concrete. It was deafening, constant. Every shout, every whistle, every metallic clang of drums and cans against railings felt like it was vibrating through his bones.

He sat wedged between Mark and Chris, both already on their feet, shouting something about the referee, fists raised. Around them, everyone moved as one — scarves twisting, bodies surging forward whenever the ball neared the goal. The floodlights painted everything in harsh white glare, bleaching faces, washing color out of the world until it was just movement and sound and smoke.

Tyler tried to shout too, at first. He even waved his scarf when Mark shoved it into his hand. But after a while, the noise stopped feeling like excitement. It was too much — too loud, too bright, too close. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, off rhythm with the chanting. The air felt heavy with alcohol breath and sweat and cold metal. Someone behind him spilled beer on his jacket, and the sharp scent made his stomach turn.

The alcohol in his system, warm and dull an hour ago, had turned sour. The world tilted slightly whenever he moved his head. His thoughts blurred together — flashes of light, movement, shouting. He couldn't even see the ball anymore, just colors shifting across the field like ghosts under the floodlights.

He tried to focus on something small. The railing in front of him. The condensation on the steel. The rough edge of the scarf against his neck.

In, out.
He breathed, or tried to.

Chris clapped him on the back, yelling something he couldn't make out. His mouth moved, but the sound drowned in the chaos. Tyler nodded anyway, pretending he heard, pretending he cared.

He didn't. Not really. He never had. The game was just an excuse — a reason to be here, to belong, to have noise fill the spaces in his head. But right now, it wasn't working. The noise wasn't a shield; it was a flood.

A flare went off a few rows down — red light erupting into the air, smoke billowing up in thick waves. The crowd screamed approval, arms raised in unison. Tyler flinched at the sudden brightness. His eyes watered; the smoke stung his throat.

The chant started again — louder now, angrier. Someone shoved into him from behind, another from the side. He stumbled, steadying himself on the railing. The metal felt cold under his palms, grounding for a second before the next surge hit.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

Behind his eyelids, everything pulsed — white light, red flares, the crowd's rhythm syncing with his heart until it all blended into static. He felt weightless and sick at once. His mouth was dry; his hands were clammy.

He opened his eyes again and focused on the edge of the pitch. The grass looked too green under the lights, too perfect. The players moved like shapes in a dream—running, stopping, colliding—and none of it made sense to him.

What am I even doing here?

The thought slipped through before he could stop it. He looked at Mark and Chris, still shouting, faces flushed and alive. They looked like they belonged here — like this noise fed them. He just felt hollow.

He wiped a hand over his face. His skin was cold and damp. Somewhere deep in the stands, drums started again — a low, relentless beat that made his stomach twist.

He tried to steady his breathing again, tried to focus on something real. The rough fabric of his jacket. The taste of smoke in his mouth. The sharp chill of the air each time he inhaled.

But the dizziness kept crawling up the back of his neck, and his chest felt tight, like something invisible had wrapped around it.

He looked toward the exits — the stairwell glowing under dim yellow light, the slow trickle of people slipping away early. For a second, he considered following them, just walking out and letting the noise fade behind him.

But he stayed. He didn't know why — maybe pride, maybe stubbornness, maybe fear of what he'd feel once it got quiet again.

Another flare went off. The red light washed over the crowd, over his face, over the scarf in his hands. His pulse stuttered in his throat.

He closed his eyes again and pressed his fingertips to the railing until the metal bit into his skin.

Just breathe.

In.
Out.

Eventually, the match had ended in a blur of chanting, curses, and the metallic taste of cold air. The stands had shaken with the rhythm of thousands of voices, the smoke from flares curling through the air like veins of fire. Tyler exited the stadium with the rest of them, shoulder to shoulder with Mark and Chris, feeling the whole world tilt and sway with every chant.

Now, the game was over. Legia had won — barely, a last-minute goal that sent the stands into chaos. The players disappeared into the tunnel, but the crowd didn't calm. It shifted, restless, like a beast that hadn't been fed enough.

The streets outside the stadium were chaos: vendors shouting, bottles rolling beneath tram tracks, the hiss of beer foam on the concrete. Floodlights still blazed, washing everything in pale gold, cutting sharp shadows across the puddles left from the melted snow.

Tyler walked fast, the cold biting at his fingers through the torn lining of his jacket. Mark was ahead of him, yelling over the noise, his scarf half-unraveled around his neck. Chris trailed beside him, grinning wide, eyes fever-bright.

"Come on!" Mark shouted, pointing down toward the underpass. "They're heading that way — I saw the bastards running!"

Tyler followed automatically, his pulse still hammering from the match and the cheap vodka. The air reeked of cigarette smoke, sweat, and gasoline. Around him, people were pouring into the streets, voices echoing off the concrete walls — Legia fans and Widzew fans, indistinguishable in the dark except for flashes of red and green scarves.

"Fucking animals," Chris muttered, laughing. "They can't even lose like men."

"They'll learn," Mark said. 

Tyler didn't answer. His mouth was dry; his head ached. But the noise around him—the chants, the clatter of footsteps, the electricity of it all—it lit something inside him, something sharp and wordless.

The first sound of breaking glass came from somewhere near the tram stop. Then came the shouting — rough, guttural, half in anger, half in excitement. Tyler saw movement: figures in scarves, hands clutching bottles, arms swinging. It happened fast. It always did.

He didn't think. None of them did.

Mark lunged first, charging forward like a storm. Chris followed. Tyler ran too, because that was what you did — you ran, you hit, you shouted, you disappeared into the swarm. It wasn't personal; it was pure instinct.

The world turned into flashes of motion — fists, shouts, boots scraping on the wet pavement. Someone shoved him hard from behind; he swung back and missed. A bottle shattered near his feet. The air was full of the smell of cheap alcohol and adrenaline.

Then he saw a shape in front of him — someone running. Tyler caught the back of a jacket, yanked, and they both went down. The impact knocked the breath out of him; his palms scraped against the rough ground.

The boy beneath him gasped, twisting, trying to shove him off. Tyler's knee pressed into his ribs, his hands gripping the fabric of the other's coat. And then—for a moment—the world stopped moving.

The kid's face came into focus: pale, scared, blood running in a thin line down one cheek. His scarf—red, bright against the dark—was too clean, too new. His eyes were wide, full of fear that didn't belong here.

Tyler froze. His breath came short, visible in the cold air. The sounds around them blurred — muffled shouting, sirens somewhere far away, the thud of running feet. He could smell iron and smoke.

The boy's hand trembled where it clutched his sleeve. He looked barely fifteen. Maybe not even that.

And suddenly, Tyler couldn't move. He wasn't in the street anymore. He was somewhere else — back in that cramped apartment, the one that smelled like cigarettes and vodka, his father's shadow filling the doorway. The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears.

He blinked, and the boy was still there. Just a kid. Just scared.

"Tyler!"

Mark's voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Tyler looked up, dazed. Mark stood a few meters away, face flushed, blood smeared across his knuckles, eyes blazing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mark shouted.

Tyler blinked again, voice hoarse. "He's just—"

"Just what?" Mark spat, stepping closer. "A Widzew rat, that's what! Get his ass!"

The kid whimpered — a sound that didn't belong here, too small for the violence around them. He tried to twist away. Tyler's hands loosened without meaning to. The kid's breathing hitched, his eyes darting toward the side street like a trapped animal.

"Jesus Christ, Tyler!" Mark's voice was raw with fury now. 

Tyler didn't respond. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears. The boy—that terrified, bleeding boy—pushed himself up and ran, disappearing into the smoke and shouts. His red scarf flickered once under the streetlight, then was gone.

Mark grabbed Tyler by the front of his jacket, yanking him up. "You go soft now? Huh?"

Tyler stumbled to his feet, boots slipping on the wet concrete. "He's just a kid, man."

"So what?" Mark shoved him hard, his breath hot and bitter. "You think anyone cares? You think they'd stop if it were you down there?"

He cursed under his breath and turned away, throwing a punch at someone who brushed too close. Chris grabbed his arm, tugging him toward the side street. "Cops, man! Let's move!"

Tyler didn't move. Not yet. He stood there, breathing hard, the world around him muffled like he was underwater. The sirens were getting closer now, their echo bouncing off the walls of the underpass.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. His stomach twisted, a dull ache under his ribs — maybe from the fight, maybe from something else.

"Tyler!" Mark again, further now, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Move your ass!"

Tyler stumbled, his body heavy with exhaustion and drink, the sting of adrenaline starting to wear off. His ears still rang from the noise, his head pulsing with the memory of the kid's terrified face. He swallowed hard and ran after them, boots slipping on the slick pavement.

Behind him, the sound of pursuit—the pounding of boots, someone shouting in a rough, angry voice—police or rival fans, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Just keep moving.

Mark and Chris were a few meters ahead now, cutting down a narrow alley where the light from the streetlamps didn't reach. Tyler turned the corner after them, heart hammering. The smell of garbage and damp brick filled his lungs.

Then, out of nowhere — a blur of movement to his left.

Something slammed into him, a body—no, a hand—grabbing his jacket, spinning him half around. He didn't even see the knife, only felt it: a sudden, sharp heat that sliced through his side like fire. His breath caught in his throat.

For a second, everything froze. The air went still.

Then came the pain.

It spread from his ribs outward, hot and nauseating, like someone had poured boiling water into his veins. Tyler's hand flew to his side instinctively, coming away slick with blood. He staggered back, eyes wide, gasping. The figure in front of him—a man, face half-hidden by a scarf—was gone before he could even curse, disappearing into the crowd and smoke.

"Tyler!"

Mark's voice — faint, distant, almost lost in the noise. Tyler looked up, disoriented. The world swayed. His vision blurred at the edges, the lights smearing into streaks.

"Wait," Chris hissed, grabbing Mark's arm as they both turned and saw him. 

Tyler's knees buckled, and he pressed himself against the wall to stay upright. The cold brick bit into his back. He could feel the warm wetness spreading under his jacket, the fabric clinging to his skin.

"Shit—," he said — or tried to. His voice came out thin, almost a whisper.

For a heartbeat, Mark didn't move. His eyes flicked from Tyler's side to the end of the alley where blue light flashed against the buildings.

"Fuck," Mark breathed. His face twisted, torn between instinct and fear.

"Mark—" Tyler managed, reaching out.

But Mark stepped back. Just one step, but it felt like the world shifted with it.

"Ty, we gotta go," Chris said, eyes darting toward the approaching noise — the shouting, the pounding boots. "They're almost here, man. If they catch us—"

Tyler's breath hitched. "Don't—"

But Mark was already moving, pulling Chris with him.

"Sorry, man!" Mark's voice cracked, swallowed by the noise. "We'll come back — I swear!"

And then they were gone.

Tyler stared after them, his arm still half-extended, his fingers shaking. The sirens screamed louder now, bouncing off the buildings, ricocheting through his skull. The pain flared again, sharper this time. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold ground, his head spinning.

The blood was spreading fast. He pressed both hands against his side, trying to slow it, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The metallic tang filled the air, thick and sickening. His vision kept flickering — dark, then light, then dark again.

Around the corner, he could hear the chaos thinning — the shouting fading as people scattered. The only sound left was the wail of sirens and the distant thud of boots on wet pavement.

He tilted his head back against the wall, staring up at the sky — that washed-out Warsaw gray, bruised with smoke and city light. It looked so far away, like something he'd never reach again.

For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing through the pain. His heart pounded unevenly.

He thought of his father, sitting in that smoke-stained kitchen, bottle in hand. Thought of his mother, quiet and invisible. 

Thought of that boy he'd let go — the one who'd looked at him like he was something terrible.

Chapter Text

The street had emptied out hours ago. The last chants had turned to echoes, the sirens had faded, and the only sound left was the uneven rhythm of his boots dragging across the sidewalk. The cold was much deeper now. It had a weight to it, pressing into his ribs, into the gash on his side that still oozed warmth through his jacket.

Tyler didn't know where he was anymore. The streets all looked the same now — same cracked asphalt, same gray walls, same flickering yellow lamps buzzing with flies. Somewhere far off, the last tram rattled past, the light inside flickering through the fog like a dying firefly.

He pressed his hand harder against his side. He could feel the sticky weight of blood soaking into his shirt, seeping through the waistband of his track pants. The adrenaline was gone now; what replaced it was a strange, heavy calm. When he exhaled, it came out white and trembling.

He thought, briefly, about home. His mother might be sitting at the kitchen table, smoking another cigarette she swore she'd quit. His father — no, he didn't want to think about him. Not tonight. If he showed up like this, his old man would start shouting before the door even closed. Maybe hit him for "being stupid," for "getting them all in trouble." For existing wrong. Tyler could already hear it — that gravelly voice soaked in cheap vodka, the words slurred but sharp.

He couldn't go there. He wouldn't.

And the hospital? No chance. There'd be cops everywhere tonight, writing down names, taking statements. They'd look at his jacket, at the color of his scarf, at the blood on his hands. It would be enough. They'd know. And he'd be done for.

So he kept walking.

The city felt like it had turned its back on him. The neon signs were dying one by one, streetlights buzzing weakly like they wanted to give up too. The shopfronts were dark, shuttered, the windows reflecting his shadow back at him — some gaunt shape with blood on its sleeve and eyes too tired to keep open.

His body was starting to feel far away, like he wasn't inside it anymore. His side burned, then dulled, then started to fade completely. Every step sent a dull jolt up his spine, but it was slow now, distant.

He stopped by a puddle in the street, glanced down, and for a moment, he didn't recognize his own face. Pale, hollow, sweat dripping down his forehead. He looked older. Or maybe just empty.

Something twisted in his chest. A memory, maybe. His little brother once asked him if getting punched in the face hurt as much as it looked. He'd laughed then — told him it didn't hurt if you didn't care. That was years ago. His brother had stopped asking questions like that. Stopped looking at him altogether.

He wondered if anyone would even notice if he didn't make it home tonight.

His boots scraped on the sidewalk. He turned onto a smaller street, one lined with old tenement blocks and peeling paint. The kind of street where the lamps buzzed and the stray cats vanished the second you looked at them. There was a store up ahead, the shutters were down, the sign above faintly glowing from an old lightbulb that hummed in protest.

He reached it and stopped.

His knees gave a small shake. His body wanted to fold, to rest. But he didn't want to just drop there in the street — or maybe, just for a moment. He leaned against the wall, pressed his hand to his wound again, and tried to breathe through the pain.

His vision pulsed at the edges. The world blurred and came back in slow waves. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and everything inside him went still.

He thought, This might be it.

And for the first time, that thought didn't make him afraid. 

He let it unfold slowly in his head — what it would mean. To stop fighting. To stop pretending he was tougher than he was. No more fists, no more shouting, no more pretending to care about stupid matches or loyalty or being the loudest one in the crowd.

He wondered if anyone ever really noticed how tired he was. Mark would just call him dramatic. Chris would laugh, say something about getting more sleep. His dad would sneer and tell him to man up. His mother would look down at the table and light another cigarette.

He slid down the wall, the rough brick scraping his jacket. His legs bent under him, the weight finally giving up. He half-sat, half-collapsed on the cold concrete, the motion sent a white-hot flash through his side, stealing the air from his lungs.

His fingers slipped from the wound. The blood had stopped flowing fast — just a slow, warm trickle now. He stared at it, detached. It didn't even feel real.

He sat like that for a while, head bowed, chest rising shallowly. The world around him seemed far away — the streetlight above flickered, buzzing like a dying fly; the faint hum of the city came and went in waves. Every sound felt distant, muffled, as if the air had thickened.

He looked at the pool of red spreading slowly below him on the sidewalk. It didn't look real, not like something from him. It could've been oil, or water stained by the light. He watched it shimmer. He felt nothing.

His head tipped back against the wall, eyes tracing the uneven bricks, the frost gathering in the cracks. Cold, he thought, but the word had no weight.

Then the shaking started — first in his knees, then in his hands. His whole body shivered, but not from cold. He couldn't tell what from anymore.

Don't fall asleep.
The thought came like a whisper, weak and far away.

He blinked hard, but the light from the lamp smeared across his vision. Yellow streaks, doubling, trembling. The street seemed to breathe in and out.

He tried to focus on something — the sign above the store, the shape of the window grate, the chipped paint on the door — but his eyes kept slipping.

"Shit..." he muttered, though he didn't even know why.

His pulse thudded slow and heavy in his ears. Every beat felt too far apart, as if his body was considering whether to bother with the next one.

He thought about home again. The dark apartment. His father's shadow in the hallway, the way the floorboards always creaked before the shouting started. The smell of vodka and old smoke. The chipped mug on the kitchen counter.

He could see it all so clearly that for a second he thought maybe he was home — sitting on the floor again after some argument, too tired to move. But when he looked down, it wasn't the worn carpet beneath him. Just cold concrete and gray snow.

He thought about Mark. About how he'd laughed when Tyler froze. About how he'd looked back once, then disappeared into the crowd. No one had come back for him.

Maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

He tilted his head, his breath catching when he saw how much darker his blood looked now. Almost black in the half-light. He'd always wondered how people knew when they were dying — whether there was a sign, something obvious. Now he thought maybe it was this. The quiet. The strange calm that settles in when you realize there's nothing left to fight.

His mind drifted. To the river. The lights reflected on the water earlier that evening. The smell of smoke from the food stalls. The sound of laughter, echoing off the bridges. He'd thought, for a moment, that maybe that was the closest he'd get to peace — sitting there with his friends, pretending everything meant something.

Then, unexpectedly, another face flickered in his mind. The dark-haired guy from the shop. The look on his face when Tyler had grabbed the bottle — not fear exactly, not even anger. Just surprise. Calm eyes. Clean hands. 

Tyler wondered if he'd think about that tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

His vision was going now, edges darkening, colors bleeding into one another. He blinked, tried to force them back into focus, but it only made it worse.

Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe this is how it happens.

Not in some blaze of glory. Not in a stadium or a fight. Just on a quiet street, under a flickering light, next to some closed-down shop.

He imagined someone finding him in the morning — some old lady on her way to work, clutching her bag, looking down at him like a piece of trash. He wanted to laugh at the thought, but his chest hurt too much.

The cold had crept all the way up now. His fingers had gone numb. His legs were heavy, his eyelids heavier.

Don't fall asleep.
The thought came again, softer this time. Then: What's the point?

He felt the wind stir against his face. It smelled faintly of rain and exhaust and something sweet — maybe from the bakery two streets over. He hadn't eaten since morning. Funny, how hunger disappeared when pain took over.

The silence grew thicker.

He thought about his mother, just for a second — her voice from years ago, humming something while washing dishes, before the shouting started to fill the house every night. He couldn't remember the tune. Just the warmth of it.

His head slipped to the side. The world blurred to a smear of light and shadow.

At least it's quiet now.
The words drifted through his mind, soft, almost tender. Finally quiet.

His last thought before everything went dark was simple — not fear, not regret.
Just a strange, detached calm.

He thought, Maybe this is fine.

Maybe it was easier to just stop here, in the quiet. No one yelling. No one expecting anything. Just cold air, heavy eyelids, and the faint pulse of his heartbeat slowing down.

He tilted his head back against the wall and stared up at the flickering light. Each blink of it was slower than the last.

I could sleep here, he thought. Just a bit. Just until morning.

His body was trembling now, but his mind was softening, sinking into something that felt almost peaceful. For once, there was no fear, no noise, no anger clawing at the inside of his ribs. Just quiet.

He let his eyes close.

The last thing he felt was the rough edge of the wall against his back, the faint hum of the city breathing around him — and the thought, clear and simple, like a whisper:

If this is dying, it's not so bad.

His hand fell from his side, blood cooling on his skin. The empty bottle rolled from his jacket pocket, spinning once before coming to rest against the curb with a hollow clink.

But Tyler didn't hear it.

The streets still belonged to the night when Josh left the apartment.
A faint blue bruised the horizon, not yet sunrise, just that gray hour before life stirred — before trams began to clang, before voices filled stairwells, before radios clicked on behind closed windows. The air was sharp enough to sting his lungs, damp with the leftover chill of autumn. Warsaw was still asleep, the city holding its breath.

He pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked, his boots tapping softly against the cracked pavement. The streetlights hummed overhead, buzzing faintly. A newspaper skittered across the road, brushing past his shoe. The smell of wet concrete and distant coal smoke hung in the air.

He passed the same people he always did on these early mornings — a milkman unloading crates from a van, a woman sweeping the steps of her bakery. She didn't look up when he passed. Nobody really did at that hour. The city moved quietly, eyes down.

Josh turned the corner onto the narrow street where the convenience store stood wedged between an old tailor's shop and a run-down apartment block. The sign above the entrance still missed its middle letter; he kept meaning to mention it to the owner, but somehow never did.

He reached for his keys, ready to unlock the shutter — and then froze.

There was someone sitting—no, slumped—by the door.

The figure was curled into itself, head bowed, one arm tucked awkwardly under the ribs. For a second Josh thought it was just another drunk or homeless man sleeping it off. It happened sometimes, especially on weekends. 

He took a cautious step closer, squinting in the dim light. The man's clothes didn't look like a vagrant's, though. Too new. A dark tracksuit, streaked with dirt but not worn thin. Clean sneakers.

Josh's breath puffed white in the cold. Something prickled in his chest — a small, uneasy recognition that he couldn't quite place. He crouched, resting one hand on his knee, and leaned in.

The streetlight flickered once, casting the man's face into view.

The buzzed head. The jaw. The faint bruise under one eye.

Josh's stomach dropped.

It was him.

The kid from yesterday — the one who'd tried to run off with booze and nearly gotten him fired in the process.

He stared for a moment, dumbstruck. What the hell was he doing here?

He looked half-dead — pale, lips cracked, breaths shallow but steady. Josh could see the condensation of his breath fogging faintly in the cold air. He hesitated, then reached out, fingers trembling just slightly, and touched the side of his neck.

Warm. Pulse faint but there.

"Christ," Josh muttered under his breath. "You've got to be kidding me."

He rocked back on his heels, scanning the street. It was still empty, save for the slow drift of fog near the curb. He thought about just calling someone—the police, maybe an ambulance—but something made him stop. The kid looked like trouble, and trouble had a way of circling back on anyone who tried to fix it.

Still... he couldn't leave him there.

"Hey," Josh said quietly, giving the boy's shoulder a shake. "Hey, wake up."

No response.

He tried again, harder this time. "Come on. You can't sleep here."

A low groan escaped the boy's throat. He shifted slightly, his head lolling to the side before his eyes cracked open — dark, glazed, unfocused. For a moment, he just stared up at Josh, disoriented. Then his jaw tightened.

"Get off me," he rasped, slapping Josh's hand away. His voice was rough, broken.

Josh pulled back a little, startled. "You were— you were out cold. I thought you were—"

"I'm fine."

He wasn't. Josh could see the tremor in his hand when he tried to push himself up. He fell back against the wall, breathing hard.

It was then that Josh noticed the blood.

Not much at first — just a smear on the guy's palm. Then, when he shifted, the faint, dried patch on the concrete beneath him. The color so dark it was almost black in the half-light.

"Shit," Josh whispered. "You're hurt."

"I said I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

The guy looked down, as if seeing it for the first time. His mouth tightened. "Whatever."

Josh blinked, trying to make sense of it. "Did someone jump you?"

"No." The answer came too fast, too hard. He tried to stand again, bracing one hand against the wall, but his knees buckled. Josh caught him before he hit the ground, an arm hooking under his shoulders and lowering him back onto the ground. The weight of him was heavier than it should've been, limp and warm.

"Hey— hey, stop moving, you're gonna fall."

"Don't—" The boy's hand gripped Josh's sleeve, surprisingly strong. "Don't call anyone. No cops."

Josh stared at him, baffled. "You need a doctor."

"I said no." His voice cracked, but the look in his eyes was sharp now, desperate. "Please."

Josh hesitated, glancing at the dark smear spreading across the boy's side. He couldn't see where the wound started; the fabric was too dark, too torn. The smell of metal hung faintly in the air.

The guy tried to push himself up again, but his body betrayed him. His legs folded, sending him crashing against the wall again. Josh caught him instinctively, his hands closing around the fabric of his jacket. 

"Jesus, take it easy—"

"Let me go," he gasped, trying to shove him off.

"Yeah, sure, and what then?" Josh said through gritted teeth. "You gonna crawl to the next corner and die there?"

For a moment, they stared at each other — two strangers locked in a standoff that neither understood. Josh could see the fear in his eyes now, buried under that tough, angry shell. 

He exhaled slowly. "Okay. No hospital. Fine. But you're not staying here."

The boy blinked, dazed. "What?"

"Come on." Josh shifted his grip under the boy's arm. 

He expected resistance, but the boy was too tired to fight anymore. He leaned into Josh's shoulder, half-conscious, his breath ragged against the collar of Josh's coat. Together they stumbled down the street, each step uneven and slow.

The sky was paling to gray now. A tram rattled somewhere nearby. The city was waking up.

Josh kept his eyes ahead, focused on the rhythm of their steps. He could feel the other boy's weight sag against him, the damp warmth of his blood seeping faintly through the fabric where their sides touched.

Chapter Text

For a second, Tyler couldn't tell if the faint ringing in his ears was from the cold or from the silence pressing in on the apartment. The apartment was small, or maybe it only felt that way because of the silence. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the world outside was gone: no sirens, no trams, no city hum. Just a heavy, muffled stillness.

It smelled faintly of soap, tea, and something chemical underneath — medicine maybe, or antiseptic. Warm air pressed close against Tyler's face, thick enough that he could almost taste the dust in it. After the freezing street, it felt suffocating and soft all at once. His head spun from the change.

His knees nearly buckled when he crossed the threshold. His vision doubled — the walls shifted and rippled like they were underwater. The guy caught him again, a firm hand gripping his arm.

"Hey— careful," he whispered. "Quiet, okay? My mom's asleep."

Tyler nodded, or thought he did. The motion made the world lurch sideways for a moment. His blood felt heavy in his veins, slow and thick, pulsing in his side like something trying to claw its way out. He could smell himself — sweat, metal, dirt, the sour tang of adrenaline.

He wanted to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

They moved down a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with fading photographs and a crooked picture of Black Madonna. The wallpaper peeled in places, curling away at the corners. Everything looked lived-in but clean — the kind of order that comes from someone trying very hard to keep chaos at bay.

He was half-dragged, half-led. His sneakers scuffed against the floor. His breath came shallow and thin.

As they passed a doorway, a dim light spilled out — weak, warm, coming from a bedside lamp left on all night. Tyler turned his head, and what he saw made his throat tighten.

There was a bed inside. Tubes, a stand with hanging bags, bottles lined on a small table. The air seemed heavier there, full of that faint chemical smell. A sound came from the room — slow, rhythmic breathing.

He looked away immediately. The guy must've noticed, because his hand on Tyler's arm tightened slightly — not harsh, but enough to say don't ask. Tyler didn't.

They stopped at another door, and the guy nudged it open with his shoulder.

"Here," he said. "Sit down."

Tyler obeyed. He didn't really have a choice. He sank onto the edge of a narrow bed, legs trembling. The mattress sagged under his weight, soft but worn thin. 

The room was small but well lived-in. There were posters on the walls, corners curled from heat and time. A guitar leaned against the desk, strings worn-out, body scratched but cared for. The desk itself was a mess — half-open notebooks, a chipped mug with dried coffee at the bottom, a stack of cassette tapes.

Tyler blinked slowly, trying to take it all in. His vision wouldn't focus properly. Everything came in fragments: the dull blue of the blanket, the faint buzz of the lightbulb overhead, the way his blood felt hot and sticky against his ribs.

He pressed his hand to his side. The warmth there wasn't comforting.

The guy crouched by a drawer, rummaging. Metal clinked softly.

"Hold on," he muttered, half to himself. "Just— sit tight."

Tyler almost laughed at that — sit tight, as if that didn't make the world tilt every time he moved. But it came out as a weak exhale instead.

When the guy turned back around, he had a small white tin in his hands — the kind of first-aid kit everyone's parents kept somewhere, filled mostly with old gauze and half-empty iodine bottles.

He looked nervous.

"This is all I have," he said. "We'll, uh... clean it. Maybe stitch it. I don't know."

Tyler frowned. "You don't know?"

"I've never done it before."

"That's comforting."

"Would you rather I take you to a hospital?"

That shut him up. His instinct said no before his mouth could even form the word.

He looked down at the floor. His sneakers were dirty now — caked with dried blood, mud, bits of gravel. The thought of a hospital—the cops, the questions—made his stomach turn.

"No hospital," he muttered.

The guy nodded, like he'd expected that. "Alright. Just— don't pass out."

Too late, Tyler thought, because the edges of the room already wavered. He swallowed hard, breathing through the dizziness. The guy pulled a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the box and unscrewed it. The sharp smell filled the air immediately. Tyler's eyes watered.

The guy glanced at him, expression caught somewhere between worry and determination. "Take off your jacket."

Tyler fumbled with the zipper, but his fingers weren't listening. The other man leaned in to help, gently pushing the fabric of his t-shirt aside. Cold air hit the wound, and Tyler flinched, hissing through his teeth. The cut was ugly — shallow enough not to kill him, but deep enough to make his stomach twist at the sight.

The guy's face paled slightly. "Jesus."

"Looks worse than it is," Tyler said, though his voice trembled.

He didn't believe it.

"This'll sting," the guy warned.

Tyler managed a small, humorless grin. "Do it."

The first touch of the alcohol made him flinch so hard he nearly fell off the bed. Fire shot up his side, bright and merciless. He bit down on his knuckle to keep from yelling. His body jerked involuntarily, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse.

"Shit— sorry," the guy said quickly. "Sorry. I— fuck, I told you it'd hurt."

Tyler didn't answer. His vision swam. Spots of light burst behind his eyes. The pain had a rhythm to it — fast, relentless, then slow again, fading into an ache that settled deep in his ribs. He could taste metal in his mouth.

The world narrowed to that burning, that slow drag of the rag against torn skin. He felt every inch of it — every sting, every tremor of the guy's nervous hands.

When the bottle clicked shut again, the guy sat back, exhaling hard. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused for a second, like he was forcing himself not to hesitate.

"Okay," he said quietly. "You'll need stitches."

Tyler gave a short, breathless laugh that sounded more like a cough. "You sure you're qualified?"

"I'm not."

"Great."

The guy's hands were shaking a little as he threaded the needle. The thin black string trembled in the lamplight. Tyler tried not to look, but his eyes kept drifting back anyway — that slow loop of thread, the small reflection on the metal tip, the way the guy bit his lower lip when he focused.

The air felt too warm, too still. The hum of the overhead bulb seemed deafening. Tyler could hear everything: the guy's breathing, shallow but steady, the faint rustle of fabric, the pulse pounding in his own ears.

When the guy leaned forward, the smell of him reached Tyler — faint detergent, something earthy underneath. He wasn't used to anyone hovering this close. The proximity made him uneasy — made his muscles tense even when he didn't want them to. The guy was kneeling just inches away, his head bent, his fingers brushing Tyler's side every few seconds.

"This is gonna hurt," the guy said.

Tyler gave a dry laugh that came out more like a cough. "Already does."

"Yeah," the guy muttered. His voice was soft, careful. "Just— hold still, okay? I'll be quick."

Tyler almost said that's what they always say, but he didn't have the breath for it. He pressed his hand flat against the wall behind him to keep steady. The wallpaper was rough, peeling under his palm. It gave him something to focus on.

He saw the needle dip into the bottle of alcohol, the shine of it catching the light.

"Okay," the guy whispered. "One... two—"

The needle went in before three.

Tyler's entire body seized up. The sensation wasn't sharp exactly — more like a dragging, burning pull that crawled under his skin. He could feel the thread sliding through him, tugging at the edges of torn flesh. His breath caught; his vision flashed white.

"Breathe," the guy said quietly.

"I am."

"No, you're not."

Tyler tried, but every breath scraped against something raw inside him. His chest felt too tight, like there wasn't enough air in the room. He focused on the lightbulb instead, the faint flicker of it, the slow sway of its shadow across the ceiling. Anything but the sound of that damned thread.

His thoughts started to fray — breaking apart into disjointed pieces.

He thought about the field — the noise, the crowd, the moment when everything went sideways. He could still hear Mark's voice yelling his name, still see the look in his eyes when he froze.

"Hey," the guy said again, voice closer now. "Still with me?"

Tyler blinked hard, forcing his eyes open. The guy's face came into focus — brown hair falling into his eyes, skin pale under the yellow light, a faint line between his brows from concentration. He looked too young to be doing this, too inexperienced.

"Yeah," Tyler croaked. "Still here."

"You're pale."

"I've been stabbed."

That made the guy pause. His hand froze mid-motion, the needle hanging in the air.

"So, how did that happen?" he asked carefully.

Tyler exhaled through his teeth. He didn't want to talk about it—not here, not now—but he couldn't sense judgement, just alarm. Still, he stayed quiet.

"Was it... like, a mugging or something?" the guy pressed, voice low. "Or— Jesus— were you in some kind of fight?"

Tyler let out a breathy, humorless sound that might've been a laugh. "Something like that."

"That's not an answer."

"I don't have one."

"You're bleeding in my room, man. You don't get to be vague."

The sharpness in his voice cut through Tyler's haze. He looked down at him—really looked—and saw the fear behind the frustration. The guy wasn't angry, not really. He was scared. Maybe for himself, maybe for Tyler, maybe both.

Tyler's throat felt dry. "It was after the game," he said finally, words slurring slightly. "There was a fight. Stupid shit. Someone had a knife."

The guy blinked, stunned. "A— fight? Like, at the stadium?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah," Tyler muttered again, his voice barely audible. "I tackled someone. Guess his friend didn't like that."

The guy stared for a long moment, needle still in hand. "And they just— stabbed you?"

"Pretty much."

"Is it—" He hesitated, eyes flicking to the door like he was listening for something. "Is someone gonna come looking for you? Because if you were in that fight—"

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because they left me there," Tyler said flatly.

That shut him up. The silence that followed felt heavy.

The guy swallowed, throat working. "You mean—"

"I mean what I said." Tyler's voice cracked on it, quiet but solid. "They ran."

The guy looked away for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to keep asking. Finally, he muttered, "That's... messed up."

"Yeah."

He went back to stitching, slower now, his movements gentler, like he didn't quite know what to do with that information. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then, almost quietly, he said, "You should've gone to the hospital."

"Didn't seem like an option."

"You'd rather bleed out on some street?"

Tyler didn't answer. He stared at the posters again, at the smudge of light on the wall.

After a moment, the guy exhaled through his nose. "You're lucky I was the one opening."

Tyler almost smiled. "Yeah," he murmured. "Guess I am."

The stitches went on, uneven but determined. Each one came with a small, controlled exhale from the stranger, like he was forcing himself to keep calm. Tyler caught flashes of movement — the glint of the needle, the tremor of fingers, the quick tightening of a knot.

He tried to stay awake, but his body wasn't cooperating. The warmth in the room pressed heavy against him, thick and slow. His blood felt sluggish in his veins. His hands were cold.

When the guy finally spoke again, his tone had changed, his voice for barely above a whisper. "That's it. All closed up."

Tyler looked down. The stitches were crooked, uneven, but they held. The skin around them was red and swollen, but at least the bleeding had stopped. He exhales slowly, slumping against the wall. His hands shake as he wipes at his forehead. His whole body feels like it's humming from the inside out — adrenaline and pain mixing into something dizzying.

The guy moved quietly now. He opened the tin again, pulling out gauze and tape. He dabbed away the last traces of blood with a damp cloth, murmuring something Tyler can't quite catch. 

When the cold pad of gauze pressed against his side, Tyler flinched out of instinct.

"Sorry," the guy said again. His voice was low, almost guilty. "Almost done."

He taped the edges down carefully. His fingers brushed against Tyler's skin, light but warm. Tyler was too tired to react, too dazed to move. He just breathed through the weight in his chest.

He watched the guy's face while he worked — the tight line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes. There was a small scar on his cheek, faint but noticeable. Tyler wondered, vaguely, how he got it. When the bandage was finally secure, the guy sat back on his heels, exhaling. His shoulders dropped, the tension leaving his body all at once.

"That should hold you for a while," he said quietly. "Don't pull at it."

Tyler nodded, even though his head felt like it was full of sand.

He looked down at the white gauze, already faintly stained through with red. His hand drifted toward it, but the guy caught his wrist before he could touch it.

"Don't," he said softly. "You'll reopen it."

For a moment, Tyler just stared at him — at the hand holding his wrist, at the quiet steadiness in his voice. There was something strange about it. But no trace of pity or fear.

"Thanks," Tyler muttered, voice barely audible.

The guy didn't answer right away. He just let go, slowly, his fingers brushing against Tyler's skin as he did. Then he stood, moved to the desk, and started cleaning up the bloodied tools. He wiped his hands on a towel with a long exhale. His breathing was uneven too.

"How bad does it hurt?" he asked.

Tyler huffed a laugh. "On a scale of one to ten?"

"Sure."

"About a twelve."

That got a real smile out of him this time. "I'll take it."

Tyler leaned his head back again, the wall cool against his neck. His pulse still hammered in his ears, but slower now. The nausea came in waves.

"You need water," the guy said, starting to stand.

"Don't—" Tyler reached out without thinking, his fingers catching the guy's wrist. His hand was cold and trembling. "Don't call anyone."

The guy froze, looking down at him. "I wasn't going to."

Tyler held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any flicker of deceit. There wasn't one. Just tired eyes, steady and calm.

Slowly, he let go.

The guy nodded once, quietly, then left the room. Tyler listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway — soft, careful, like he was used to moving quietly in this house.

When he came back, he handed over a glass of water. Tyler drank half of it in one go, the coolness hitting his stomach like ice.

Silence settled for a while. Only their breathing filled the space.

Finally, Tyler said, "You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"So why'd you?"

A pause. The guy shrugged. "Because no one else was gonna."

Tyler's eyes flicked toward him, unsure how to respond. He watched the movement of the guy's hands — long fingers, calloused, still faintly trembling from the stitches. He realized he still didn't know his name.

"What do I call you?" he asked.

The guy blinked, almost surprised. "Josh."

Tyler nodded, trying to hold the sound in his foggy mind. "Josh," he repeated slowly. "Alright."

Josh tilted his head. "And you?"

"Tyler."

Josh nodded once, as though that was enough, like he'd been waiting for the name to fit the shape of the person in front of him. "Alright, Tyler."

For a long moment neither of them said anything. The air between them hung heavy, humming faintly with the smell of alcohol and dust. Somewhere beyond the thin wall, the old clock in the kitchen ticked unevenly. Tyler counted the seconds without meaning to, each one slower than the last.

Josh was the first to move. He rubbed his hands down his pants, stood, and paced a short line between the bed and the desk, as if remembering suddenly that the world outside the room still existed. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, not hesitant, but thoughtful — the sound of someone caught between instincts.

"I have to go," he said, glancing toward the window. The light leaking in through the curtains was that dull, washed-out grey of very early morning — a cold, colorless hour when the city still felt half-asleep. "I'm already late for opening."

Tyler blinked, groggy. "Opening?"

"The store."

Tyler blinked at him, sluggish. "The same one I—"

"Yeah," Josh cut in quickly, tugging on his jacket. "That one."

That explained the smell of cigarettes and cleaning fluid still clinging to Josh's jacket. The same jacket he'd worn the day Tyler had ran out the door with stolen vodka in his hands.

For a moment, they just looked at each other — Josh's brow furrowed with thought, Tyler barely holding onto consciousness. Then Josh sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps in the narrow room.

"I don't know what to do with you," he admitted after a pause, almost under his breath. "You shouldn't walk anywhere yet. You're still bleeding a little. But I can't exactly... stay here and watch you, either."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. 

"No, I have to—" Tyler started, his voice hoarse, but Josh cut him off gently.

"No. You need to rest. If you start walking around, you'll tear the stitches."

Tyler wanted to argue—say that he didn't need looking after, that he wasn't some stray dog to be left in someone else's room—but the words didn't come. He didn't have the strength, and part of him knew Josh was right. The pain in his side pulsed with every breath.

Josh must've seen that flicker of resistance anyway, because he softened a little. "Look," he said, quieter now, "you can stay here for a few hours. Just... don't touch anything, alright?"

"Yeah," Tyler muttered, nodding quickly.

Josh gave a small huff of air — not quite a laugh, but close. Then his expression shifted, almost apologetic. "I'm gonna lock the door, though."

Tyler blinked, the words slow to reach him. "What?"

"Just while I'm gone," Josh clarified quickly. "It's nothing personal. I just— I don't know you. And I can't leave a stranger alone in here. My mom's in the other room, and..." He trailed off, glancing toward the hallway. His jaw tensed slightly. "I can't risk anything happening."

There was a flicker of shame in his voice at the end — like he hated himself for saying it but couldn't take it back.

Tyler stared at him for a few seconds, trying to decide if he should feel offended. He didn't. If anything, he respected it. It was the first thing all morning that made sense.

He nodded faintly. "Yeah. I get it."

Josh looked surprised by how easily he accepted it. "You sure?"

"Wouldn't trust me either," Tyler said, voice thin but steady. 

Josh held his gaze for a moment longer, like he wasn't sure what to make of him. Then he gave a small, reluctant nod, as if to say fair enough.

He moved to the desk, grabbing a few things he threw on it in a rush before — keys, his wallet, his jacket. His movements were quick now, but still careful not to make too much noise. He kept glancing toward the hallway, always listening, like he could sense the fragile sleep of his mother through the walls.

Tyler watched him through half-lidded eyes. Every sound—the soft clink of keys, the faint rasp of the zipper—seemed magnified by the quiet.

When Josh finally turned back toward him, he hesitated again by the doorway. "There's water next to you," he said, nodding toward the glass on the nightstand. "And, uh, some painkillers in the nightstand. Don't take too many. They're prescription."

Tyler nodded, though he wasn't sure he'd remember that later.

Josh shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly torn between leaving and checking once more that Tyler wouldn't collapse in his absence. Finally, he said, "I'll be back around noon. Just— sleep. Don't move too much."

Tyler was silent for a moment, then said, almost quietly, "Hey."

Josh stopped in the doorway, turning slightly.

"About the bottle," Tyler said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. "The one I took. I'm... really sorry."

The words hung in the air for a second, almost strange in their softness. Tyler hadn't planned to say them; they just slipped out. His tone was honest in a way that surprised even him.

Josh blinked, caught off guard. "You're apologizing?"

Tyler gave a tired half-smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess I owe you one."

Josh looked at him for a long second, expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, his face softened — the corners of his mouth twitching like he didn't quite know whether to smile or not. Then, in a tone that balanced somewhere between teasing and serious, he said, "Yeah. You do."

He shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "You can pay me back when you're not bleeding all over my bed."

Tyler huffed something that was almost a laugh. "I will."

Josh's mouth twitched — the ghost of a smile that he didn't let linger. He stepped out into the hall, and for a brief second, the light from the kitchen spilled across him, turning the dust in the air to faint gold.

"Locking it now," he said, voice soft but firm.

"Go ahead."

The door clicked shut, followed by the slow, careful turn of a key in the lock.

Chapter Text

When the door closed behind Josh, the sound echoed for what felt like forever.

Tyler sat there on the edge of the narrow bed, half-dazed, half-numb, staring at the wooden floorboards that were so clean he could see the faint reflection of his sneakers in them. For a long while, he didn't move. He just sat, breathing through the dull ache in his ribs, listening to the muffled stillness that filled the apartment.

The quiet unnerved him. It wasn't a peaceful kind of silence — it was dense, heavy, full of things unsaid. He wasn't used to it. Back home, the air never held still like this. It was always alive with sound — the buzz of the TV, the mutter of his father's voice, the shrill laughter of neighbors through the walls, someone arguing down the stairwell, a slammed door, a curse, another slammed door. Noise had always filled the cracks. Noise was what kept him from thinking too much.

But here, the quiet pressed in from all sides, steady and inescapable.

His gaze wandered around the room. It wasn't big, but it was tidy — the sort of tidy that spoke of habit, maybe even compulsion. A single bed pushed against the wall. A desk beneath the window with a small cassette player, a cup full of pencils, and a scatter of papers covered in tight, slanted handwriting.

The smell of the room hit him next — clean, faintly soapy, with something warmer underneath. Paper, maybe. Ink. Dust. There were traces of something else too, something faintly human — the scent of another person's life.

His stomach twisted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a place that felt like a home.

It made him feel like an intruder.

He let out a slow breath and rubbed his face with both hands, the roughness of dried blood and dirt scraping against his palms. His side throbbed steadily. The bandage Josh had wrapped was pressing into his skin tightly. His body felt wrong, like it wasn't his anymore — heavy, uncoordinated, buzzing faintly under the skin. The adrenaline from the night before had burned out long ago, leaving him hollow.

He knew he should stay awake. The bleeding wasn't bad, but sleep could be dangerous. He'd seen enough fights to know how fast someone could slip away just because they "rested a bit." But his limbs were lead, and the silence kept pulling him down.

He sighed. The sound felt too loud in the still air.

Slowly, he unzipped his jacket and peeled it off. The fabric was stiff from dried blood. He dropped it onto the floor beside the bed. The movement made the wound tug, and he hissed through his teeth.

The shirt was next. It clung stubbornly, half-dried blood making the fabric stick to his side. He yanked it free, biting back another curse as pain flared along the gash. He looked down at his torso — bruises along his ribs, yellow and purple fading into blue. The bandage gleamed pale against his skin.

For a moment he just stared at himself, detached, like he was looking at a stranger's body. You really fucked up this time, he thought.

He pushed himself up, unsteady, and stripped off his track pants too — they were soaked through near the hip, stiff with dirt and dried blood. He kicked them into a pile with the rest of his clothes. Only his underwear was clean enough to keep on, and even that was questionable.

He stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly, eyes closed, breathing slow. The air on his bare skin was cool, almost soothing.

The bed was simple — narrow but clean, the sheets still smelling faintly of laundry powder. The pillow was thin, the blanket tucked neatly. He hesitated before touching anything, like he might ruin it. It was stupid, really. He'd crashed on several questionable surfaces before — benches, stairwells, friends' couches after nights gone wrong. But this felt entirely different. Unfamiliar. Too soft for someone like him.

He sat down gingerly, careful not to let the bandage rub. The springs creaked beneath his weight. The mattress dipped, molding to him. It was warm where his skin met the blanket. He leaned back slowly until he was lying down, head resting against the pillow. His body sank deeper with each breath, muscles unclenching one by one.

It felt wrong to close his eyes. He didn't trust it. Didn't trust the quiet. Because in his world, quiet was never peace — it was the pause before shouting started again. It was violent. It was the moment before someone came through the door.

He curled onto his side, facing the wall. The sheet was cool beneath his cheek, and the smell of soap rose around him again. The warmth seeped in gradually, like something foreign that he didn't want to admit he needed. 

He let the warmth pull him under.

The faint hum of the radiator was the last thing he heard before sleep took him completely — heavy, dreamless, and still.

When Tyler woke, the afternoon light was already spilling through the thin curtains — that washed-out, early sort of gold that made everything look softer than it was. The air in the room was warm, dust motes floating lazily where the sun touched the floorboards. The faint hum of pipes and the distant rhythm of traffic seeped through the walls.

For a moment he didn't move. He just lay there, half-sunk into the mattress, caught in that fragile in-between space where memory hadn't yet settled into clarity. The sheets beneath him didn't belong to him. None of this did.

He blinked hard, vision swimming for a moment before the shapes around him steadied. A narrow room. A desk cluttered with paper and pencils. A cassette player, buttons worn down from use. A chair with a sweater draped over the back. His own bloodied clothes in a heap by the bed.

His first thought was confusion.
The second was pain.
The third was guilt.

He turned his head and stared at the ceiling, where the sunlight had drawn thin bars of gold. The plaster was cracked near the edge, spiderwebbing outward in delicate lines. His body felt like it had been dragged through gravel — every muscle stiff, his side throbbing where the bandage pressed into his skin.

It took him a long minute to remember.

The fight.
The knife.
The street.
The cold.
And then — him.

Josh.

The memory flickered like a film reel: the store's dim lights, the sharp words exchanged over the counter, his own anger, that stupid desperate kick. And then, hours later, the same kid crouched over him in the cold, checking if he was still breathing. The same kid who could've called the cops, who could've walked away, who instead had dragged him here — to this quiet little place with sunlight and clean sheets and a sick woman asleep behind a closed door.

Tyler turned onto his back with a slow, painful motion, staring up at nothing. His heart thudded somewhere deep in his chest, uneven, like it didn't know what to do with itself.

He didn't understand.

Why would anyone—especially him—do that?

He could almost hear his father's voice in his head, sharp and slurred:
People don't help for free, boy. Nobody does anything unless they get something out of it.

And maybe that was true. Maybe Josh was just stupid. Or lonely. Or both.

But the way he'd looked at him last night—with a trace of fear for Tyler's life—that look had been something entirely new. 

It made Tyler's stomach twist.

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning softly. His palm came away clammy, and when he turned it over, he could see faint specks of dried blood around the edges of his fingernails. His side burned under the bandage. His throat ached with thirst.

He exhaled shakily, the breath catching halfway through.

He should leave. He wanted to leave. That was the smart thing — get dressed, slip out, vanish. The kid would probably be relieved not to deal with him anymore. The only thing stopping him was the locked door.

He closed his eyes again, letting his head sink into the pillow. The sheets were soft against his skin. Softer than anything he'd slept on in years. The warmth pressed against him, seeping into his bones.

And that's when it hit him — the weight of it, all at once.

He shouldn't be here.
He shouldn't be anywhere decent.

Not after the things he'd done. The people he'd hurt. The way he'd lived — like a cornered dog, snarling before anyone could touch him. He didn't deserve clean sheets or warmth or kindness. And he sure as hell didn't deserve Josh's help.

His chest constricted painfully.

He turned his face into the pillow, biting down hard on his lower lip, trying to push the feeling away. It came anyway, rising like a tide. His throat burned. His eyes stung.

He hadn't cried in years. Not since he was a kid — not since the most memorable time his father had said crying was for cowards, for pussies. But now, lying in someone else's bed with a stranger's soft blanket pulled over him, he felt something breaking loose inside, splintering quietly.

The sunlight shifted on the wall. He swallowed the sound that tried to escape his throat.

He kept seeing Josh's face.
No anger in it. Just gentleness.

He wanted to hate him. He really did. It would've been easier.

But all he felt was this aching confusion — guilt, gratitude, shame, all tangled up until he didn't know which was which anymore.

He turned onto his side again, clutching the blanket as if it could hold him together. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

Outside, the sounds of the city filtered through the window — a tram bell, someone laughing distantly, the clatter of heels on pavement. Normal life going on, uncaring. Tyler stared at the sunlight spilling over the floorboards, the soft movement of dust in the air. His throat tightened again.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to say thank you.
He wanted to apologize properly—not the way he had hours ago, awkward and half-joking—but honestly. To say that he was sorry for the bottle, for the kick, for being the kind of person people were right to lock doors around.

But the words stuck somewhere deep inside, too heavy to lift.

At first he tried to fall back asleep, but the sunlight was too sharp, the silence too thick. The room seemed to breathe around him — the soft hum of a fridge somewhere, the muffled sound of voices through the wall, maybe a radio from another apartment. 

Eventually, the stillness got unbearable.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing when his side pulled tight beneath the bandage. His bare feet touched the floor, cold wood against his skin. He sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass. 

You can walk, he told himself. You'll have to, once the guy gets back.

Josh had been kind, sure — but that didn't mean anything. People had moods. Maybe he would come back and change his mind. Maybe he'd call the cops after all. Better not to rely on anyone. Better to be ready.

He ran a hand over his face, over the stubble on his jaw, then pushed himself up slowly. His legs trembled a bit, and his vision swam for a moment, but he stayed upright. The movement pulled at his side, and he hissed quietly, lifting the edge of the bandage to peek at the wound. It wasn't pretty—angry red skin, the faint outline of dried blood seeping through—but it looked better than last night. He figured he could make it home if he took it slow.

Home.
That word didn't feel like much. Four walls, a father's temper, cigarette smoke thick enough to taste. Still, it was familiar. Predictable in its misery.

He took a slow lap around the room, partly to keep his balance, partly to get a sense of the space. Josh's room wasn't big, but it was neat, soft somehow, and that alone made it foreign to him. The window was small, its glass a little warped, but sunlight still managed to pour through, hitting the patterned rug in long golden stripes. The air smelled faintly of soap, old wood, and the sharpness of boiled coffee lingering from somewhere beyond the closed door.

Everything looked secondhand — furniture from another decade, maybe another family. The wallpaper was peeling a little near the radiator, and the lace curtains had lost their whiteness years ago. Yet nothing felt neglected. Every object, every surface, bore the mark of someone who cared.

That alone made Tyler's chest feel tight.

On the nightstand, next to an old clock radio and a small reading lamp, he found a glass of water and a blister pack of painkillers, the foil already pushed in on half of them. Tyler hesitated for a moment—old habits, distrust—before finally taking one out and swallowing it down with a mouthful of water. It stung a little going down, his throat raw, but the relief was almost immediate, subtle but steady.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced around again.

His eyes fell on the desk. He stepped closer, curiosity outweighing manners.

It was cluttered in an organized way—neat piles of paper, a couple of notebooks with torn covers, a chipped mug holding pencils, pens, and a few broken drumsticks. A cheap desk lamp with a crooked neck leaned over the mess.

The pages caught his attention first. They were covered in handwriting — rows and rows of it, small, cramped, deliberate. Lines crossed out so heavily they tore through the paper, words rewritten underneath in a more patient hand.

He leaned down and started to read.

Haven't you taken enough from me?
Won't you torture someone else's sleep?

He read the line twice, then a third time. The rhythm was off, but it hit something deep.

The next page had more scribbles, the ink smudged in places where a hand had rested too long. He could tell Josh was the type to think too much before he spoke, maybe even before he felt.

Tyler flipped to another sheet, this one with notes instead of words — tiny dots and lines on staves that might as well have been a secret code. He squinted at it, frustrated that he couldn't read it, couldn't make sense of what someone else's head could turn into music.

A sigh escaped him, unplanned. He'd always envied people like that — people who could take something ugly inside them and turn it into something that sounded beautiful.

He moved on to a corkboard hanging above the desk — a patchwork of papers, notes, and photographs tacked in uneven rows. 

Pinned among the photos were scraps of more lyrics and reminders: "Call doctor Monday," "Don't forget the meds," "Finish bridge — C minor?"
Little fragments of a life held together by handwriting.

Some of the photos were old, faded to the soft tones of the late eighties — Josh was maybe eight or nine, grinning with the unfiltered confidence only kids had, a toy drum set in front of him. Behind him stood a woman with the same soft eyes. The room in the picture looked a lot like this one: modest, warm, lived-in. There was a faded tapestry on the wall, a potted plant drooping near the window, tinsel strung unevenly across a mirror.

A cheap Christmas celebration. Unfamiliar in a way that twisted something deep in his chest.

Another photo — Josh older, a teenager this time, maybe sixteen. On a makeshift stage in what looked like a school gymnasium, head down, drumsticks in hand. The crowd was a blur in the background, but he could almost hear the noise, the tinny speakers, the applause.

Tyler stared at that photo longer than he meant to.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at him with pride. Couldn't remember anyone clapping for him, not for anything real. The only thing anyone ever cheered him for was a good punch or a goal scored in a drunken match that ended in bruises.

He fixed the photo carefully, lining it up with the others.

From here, he could see more of the room in the morning light. The walls were a dull cream, faded with time, one corner patched with a bit of mismatched paint. On a shelf above the bed sat a few books. Camus. Orwell. A collection of poems. A small cassette player sat on top of the shelf with headphones neatly coiled beside it.

Everything in here spoke of effort. Of someone trying to keep life tidy even when it wasn't.

It was such a far cry from the world Tyler came from — the cracked linoleum floors of his family's apartment, the smell of cigarettes and vodka soaked into the curtains, the constant TV noise to drown out silence. There, everything was chaos, decay that no one cared enough to fix. Here, there was a life — one made of small, careful things. A steady world, fragile but whole. 

Tyler felt something twist in his stomach. 

He found himself tracing the edge of the desk with his fingertips, then caught himself doing it and stepped back quickly, as if he'd touched something private.

He barely heard the key in the door until the lock clicked.

His heart jumped. He turned sharply, almost losing his balance.

Josh stood in the doorway, a gust of cold air following him in. His scarf hung loosely around his neck, hair flattened from a beanie, cheeks flushed pink from the late November chill. His hand still rested on the knob, as though he hadn't decided whether to step in or shut the door again. His eyes—dark, steady, startled—found Tyler immediately.

And in that second, Tyler felt naked, caught like a thief in a stranger's life. Which, he supposed, wasn't far from the truth.

For a full heartbeat, nobody said a word.

 Tyler's first thought was shit. His second was move. He lunged for the floor, grabbing at the heap of blood-stained clothes. His stomach burned from the effort, but he ignored it, yanking the shirt over his head so fast he almost tore a seam. "Shit—" he muttered, voice coming out rough and defensive. "I was just— I didn't—"

Josh blinked, words caught halfway between surprise and something else. "What the hell are you doing?"

Tyler pulled the shirt down his body clumsily, wincing as the fabric brushed his bandaged side. He managed to get it halfway on before realizing it was inside out, muttered a curse, then left it that way. "Didn't wanna get your bed dirty," he said, breathless, the words tumbling out too fast. "Blood, I mean. Didn't— I wasn't—"

Josh just stared at him. His face had gone faintly pink, whether from the cold or from walking into this scene, Tyler couldn't tell. His gaze flicked once, quickly, down and away—to Tyler's bare stomach where the hem of the shirt didn't quite meet the waistband of his underwear—before snapping back up to his face.

He blinked, still frozen by the door. "Right," he said finally, his voice thin and uncertain. His eyes darted down, then away again, the tips of his ears reddening. "Sure. Of course. That makes sense."

Tyler's eyes tracked every movement — the way Josh shut the door carefully behind him, the way he rubbed his hands together for warmth, the way his shoulders stayed tense even when his voice was calm. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who scared easy, but there was something nervous in his body now, like he wasn't sure how close to stand, what to say next.

He had kind eyes, Tyler noticed reluctantly. They didn't match the rest of him — the bruised shadows under them, the posture of someone used to staying quiet to avoid trouble.

Josh set down the bag he'd been carrying, the sound of glass and groceries shifting inside. "I hope you're feeling better now," he said after a moment.

Tyler pulled the shirt down properly and crossed his arms, as if that could erase the moment. "Yeah. Thanks for... you know. The bed and all. I really should go now."

Josh frowned. "You shouldn't be moving around like that. You'll tear the stitches open."

Tyler shrugged, reaching for his ruined jacket on the floor. "I'll manage."

"It's covered in blood."

"I said I'll manage."

Josh sighed, turning his gaze. He opened a wardrobe quietly. The wooden doors creaked faintly as he pulled out a folded pair of old sweatpants and a soft, dark-blue T-shirt. He turned back toward Tyler, who stood stiffly beside the bed, one hand absently pressed to the side of his ribs where the bandages were hidden under his shirt.

"They might be a bit loose," Josh said, holding the clothes out.

Tyler eyed them like they were something foreign, suspicious. "I don't need—"

"Your clothes are so stiff with blood you could kill with them," Josh interrupted quietly. "Those are clean. You'll feel better."

Tyler frowned, his gaze flicking from the clothes to Josh's face. There was no pity in Josh's tone — just quiet insistence, one Tyler found hard to argue with. After a long second, Tyler reached out and took them. His hands were still shaking slightly.

"Fine," he muttered, looking away. "Thanks."

Josh nodded, a little awkward. "I'll, uh... be in the kitchen. You can change here."

He left the room, his footsteps soft against the old parquet floor. Tyler waited until he heard the faint clink of a kettle being set down before exhaling slowly. The tension in his shoulders didn't go away, but it loosened a fraction.

He set the borrowed clothes on the bed and peeled off his blood-stiffened T-shirt. The movement tugged at his side, a dull ache flaring under the bandage. The air in the room was cool, smelling faintly of detergent and the faint sweetness of whatever soap Josh used.

He pulled on the new shirt. It was soft and loose, the cotton cool against his skin. The sweatpants hung a little low on his hips, but they were comfortable. He looked down at himself for a second, feeling oddly out of place — like he didn't belong in clothes that weren't ripped, weren't stolen, weren't his.

He crouched to pull his old sneakers back on, wincing a bit as the motion stretched his ribs.

When he stepped into the narrow hallway, the apartment smelled faintly of tea and disinfectant—probably from all the medical equipment he'd seen earlier. The hum of an old refrigerator mixed with the distant sounds of the street outside.

The kitchen was small, the kind that had seen decades of use — enamel pots stacked neatly, a pot on the stove, faded tiles with tiny floral patterns. The window over the sink was fogged with condensation, letting in a slanted beam of pale afternoon light. Josh stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan that smelled like onions and butter. He turned when he heard Tyler's footsteps.

"Hey," he said. "You feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Tyler replied, too fast, his eyes darting toward the door. "I should go."

Josh frowned. "At least have something to eat before you do."

"No." The word came sharper than Tyler intended. He adjusted the strap of his jacket awkwardly. "You've done enough already. I'm not—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "I don't need charity."

Josh nodded once, not pushing it. "Alright. Then just... take this."

He poured tea into a mug and handed it to him. Steam curled up in soft ribbons, the smell strong and herbal. Tyler hesitated, but his fingers were cold, and the warmth was tempting. He took it carefully, mumbling, "Thanks."

"Sugar's on the table if you want it."

"I'm good."

Josh turned back to the counter, starting to slice some bread and vegetables. The two of them were silent for a while. The only sounds were the faint scrape of a knife and the clink of dishes. Tyler sat down at the small kitchen table, sipping at the tea, his fingers wrapped tightly around the mug as if to anchor himself there.

He watched Josh's back in silence for a bit, then finally said, "I saw the stuff in your room."

Josh paused mid-motion. "Stuff?"

"The lyrics. On the desk."

Josh's shoulders tensed, but only a little. "Right. You went through my things."

"Yeah," Tyler said bluntly. "Sorry. I was bored."

Josh gave a quiet huff of a laugh. "Guess that's what I get for basically imprisoning you."

"They were good," Tyler said, after a pause. "The lyrics. I liked them."

Josh turned his head slightly, surprised. "You read them?"

"Not all of them. Just a few lines." He took another sip of tea. "It kind of sounded like things taken straight out of my head."

There was an honesty in his tone that caught Josh off guard. He didn't quite know what to say, so he just nodded. "Thanks."

Tyler stared into the steam rising from his mug. "I used to write, too."

That made Josh look over properly this time. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tyler said, half-smiling. "Got a keyboard for Christmas once. One of those fancy ones with all the demo buttons. Used to mess around on it for hours. Wrote a few songs. Thought I was gonna be a musician or something."

"What happened?" Josh asked softly.

"My parents happened." Tyler's tone flattened. "They'd wake up hungover and yell that the noise was giving them a headache. So I stopped. Put it away and never touched it again."

Josh's expression softened. "That's rough."

Tyler shrugged like it didn't matter, though something in his jaw tightened. "Yeah, well... You get used to it."

Josh nodded slowly, the quiet stretching between them again. He broke it a moment later. "You still have them?"

"What?"

"The songs."

"Oh." Tyler hesitated. "Somewhere, maybe. In a box or something. Could show you next time I—" He cut himself off. The words hung there, fragile and strange. He laughed it off quickly, shaking his head. "Sorry. I didn't mean... Never mind."

Josh's voice stayed quiet. "I wouldn't mind."

Tyler's eyes flicked up, searching his face. Josh wasn't teasing. He looked sincere. Tyler swallowed hard, uncomfortable with the warmth rising in his chest. He looked away, muttering "Anyway. I, uh... thanks. For letting me crash. And the tea. And, you know... not calling the cops or anything."

Josh smiled faintly. "It's fine. You needed help."

"Yeah." Tyler nodded, then frowned slightly. "People don't usually... do that."

Josh leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "They should."

Tyler gave a short laugh that wasn't quite a laugh. "You'd think."

The air between them felt strange — light and heavy at the same time. Tyler didn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them into his pockets. He wanted to say something else, but every word that came to mind felt wrong. Too much.

He settled for, "Alright, I'll get out of your way."

Josh hesitated, like he wanted to say something, but he just nodded instead. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Tyler nodded back. "You too."

He opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. When the door clicked shut behind him, he stood there for a moment, just staring at the peeling paint on the wall. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with the wound.

Chapter Text

The walk back home felt longer than it should have.

The streets were gray and wet from a morning drizzle, the tramlines slick with reflection. Tyler kept his hands buried in his jacket pockets, head down, the sound of his shoes slapping the pavement loud against the quiet.

He didn't want to leave Josh's place so quickly.

He could still smell it — that faint mix of detergent, dust, and something warm from the kitchen. It clung to him, to the shirt Josh had lent him, clean but too big at the shoulders. The bandage around his ribs itched slightly where it rubbed against the fabric, and he thought again of Josh's careful hands wrapping it, the gentleness that didn't make sense.

He didn't understand it.
Kindness, from someone he'd stolen from. Someone he'd kicked.

It didn't add up.

He'd replayed it in his mind all morning — the quiet way Josh had spoken, the way he hadn't asked too many questions, hadn't looked at him like everyone else did. There was something unsettling about it. Something that made Tyler want to both stay far away and go back immediately.

He'd said thank you, but it wasn't enough.

He'd even thought about how he could pay him back — maybe money, though he didn't have any. Maybe a bottle, the right way this time. Maybe he'd just stop by and help him fix something, say it was nothing, pretend it wasn't an excuse to see him again.

But he knew how it sounded — desperate and pathetic.

He walked faster, like he could outpace the thoughts.

The city stretched ahead of him in muted colors — gray sidewalks, damp brick walls, the sharp smell of exhaust. A tram rattled past, windows fogged, faces turned inward. He could feel eyes on him even when there weren't any.

He reached the courtyard of his block, that familiar cracked pavement where weeds grew between the slabs. The same old mattress lay slumped against the wall by the dumpsters, darkened with rain. 

By the time he climbed the floor of his apartment and reached the door, his pulse had picked up again. Not from the climb, but from what waited inside. He turned the key quietly, out of habit. The lock stuck like always; he had to give it a hard shove. The sound made the hallway echo.

Inside, the air hit him immediately — warm but stale, thick with the faint sourness of vodka, sweat, and old cooking oil. The blinds were half-closed, the light dim and brown. He could hear the TV from the living room, low, muttering the news.

Tyler slipped off his shoes and went straight for his room, his movements automatic. The floor creaked under his weight, the same two boards that always did. The door to his room stuck slightly — it always swelled when the humidity changed. He pushed it open and stopped just past the threshold.

The room somehow felt smaller than ever before. Barely any light came in through the curtains, just a weak gray glow that stretched across the floor. Everything was where it always was: the bed pushed against the wall, the rickety chair, the half-torn football poster over the bed. His jacket hung from the radiator, his old shoes tossed under it.

His gaze drifted to the wardrobe. The thought had started forming on the walk home — small and shapeless at first, then clearer as he got closer.

The keyboard.

He hadn't thought about it in years. But when he saw Josh's instruments—the guitar, the cassettes, the papers scrawled with lyrics—something in him had lit up. A small, dangerous spark of what if.

What if he still had his?
What if he could fix it up, clean it, and show Josh something in return?

That was the excuse he told himself anyway — that it was about paying Josh back, not about needing a reason to see him again.

He crossed the room quickly and dropped to his knees by the wardrobe, pulling open the doors. The hinges squeaked.

Inside was a mess — old clothes shoved in uneven piles, a deflated football, a shoebox full of old notebooks, tangled wires. He dug through it all, pushing things aside, the dust rising in soft gray clouds.

"Come on..." he muttered, half to himself.

He remembered exactly where it used to sit — bottom shelf, in the corner, under spare bedsheets. The keys had yellowed a little, but it had still worked.

But now...

Nothing.

He frowned, shoved the piles around harder. Checked again. Pulled out the boxes.

Still nothing.

A flicker of unease ran through him. He checked under the bed next — only dust and a crushed can. The corner behind the radiator: empty. He stood up too quickly, wincing as the pain in his ribs bit sharp under the bandage. He ignored it, scanning the room again. There wasn't anywhere else it could be.

His pulse started to climb.

He opened the wardrobe again, as if the thing might've reappeared. He pushed aside the clothes, dug down to the bare wood. He tore through the drawers next, knocking over a lamp, pulling out shirts, old notebooks, a broken photo frame. Each drawer that came up empty made the panic rise higher, like floodwater in his chest.

By the time he stopped, the room looked wrecked — his bed shoved aside, clothes everywhere, his hands shaking.

He'd come home expecting... not much, but something. Something from the past that was still his. A piece of himself that hadn't been ruined yet.

And now it was gone. 

The longer he stood there, the louder the TV from the other room seemed to get. His father's low voice rumbled now and then, a word here and there drowned by the sound of the commentator.

Tyler's hands clenched at his sides.

He knew he shouldn't — shouldn't poke the bear, shouldn't start something when he was still weak, still dizzy. But the thought of the keyboard being gone burned too hot in his chest.

That thing had been the one good memory he'd had from childhood. His mother smiling faintly as he unwrapped it. The way she'd told him, "Don't play too late, you'll wake him," but there'd been laughter in her voice, not fear.

It was the only gift that had ever felt like it belonged to him.

He stormed out of the room before he could talk himself out of it, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, each step heavier than the last.

"Dad!" he shouted, making his way into the living room.

The TV flickered against the nicotine-stained walls, a football game replaying from earlier in the day. The sound was too loud — the shouts of the commentators sharp enough to make Tyler's teeth clench. His father sat where he always sat: sunk deep into the old armchair by the window, legs spread, one slipper half off his foot, a beer can balanced between his knees. A cigarette drooped from his lips, the ash long enough to fall any second. His gaze was fixed on the screen, but Tyler could tell he wasn't really watching — just staring, letting the noise fill the room.

Tyler stood in the doorway, his pulse still hammering from tearing apart his room. "Where's my keyboard?" he said, his voice flat at first.

No answer.

The TV commentator shouted something about a goal. His father blinked slowly, like he hadn't even heard.

Tyler took a step closer. "Hey! Did you hear me? Where's my keyboard?"

The man turned his head lazily, eyes squinting through the smoke. "What keyboard?"

Tyler's jaw tightened. "The one I used to have. Black and silver. The one I got for Christmas. It was in my closet."

Recognition flickered across his father's face, faint and brief. He gave a shrug, took a drag from his cigarette, and said, "Oh. That thing."

Something in Tyler's stomach dropped. His voice came out quieter now. "Yeah. That thing. What about it?"

"I pawned it," his father said flatly, turning back to the TV. "It was just collecting dust anyway."

For a second, the room went quiet — so quiet Tyler could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

"You what?"

His father didn't even flinch. "Needed money. The bill came in high. You weren't using the damn thing."

Tyler took a step forward, fists clenching. "It wasn't yours to sell."

"It's my house, my rules." The man's tone was sharp now, defensive. "Everything in here's mine. You'd do well to remember that. You want something of your own, get a job and move out."

"It was mine!" Tyler shouted. "You didn't buy it — Grandma did! You pawned something that wasn't even yours!"

His father's mouth twisted into that familiar half-sneer, half-smirk that always made Tyler's stomach turn. "Maybe if you'd done something useful with it, I wouldn't have."

That did it. The heat that had been building in Tyler's chest burst.

He lunged forward, knocking over the ashtray, cigarettes spilling across the carpet. His voice broke as he shouted, "You took the only thing I had that wasn't ruined!"

His father stood too, squaring his shoulders, his own anger rising. "Watch your tone."

"Why?" Tyler spat. "So you can feel like you're still the man of the house?"

"Enough!"

They stood inches apart. The room seemed to shrink around them — the flickering TV light, the buzzing refrigerator in the kitchen, the stench of smoke and bitterness.

For one dizzy second, Tyler thought he might actually hit him. He wanted to. Every muscle in his body screamed for release — to make something hurt the way he did. But the thought terrified him too. Because if he started, he didn't know if he'd stop.

So instead, he shoved the table — hard. The bottle tipped, beer spilling onto the floor, rolling away. His father cursed, shouting something about respect, but Tyler didn't listen.

He stormed out of the main room towards the front door, chest heaving, when a soft sound came from the hallway behind him — a door opening.

He froze, shoulders tensing.

"Tyler?"

His mother's voice.

He turned his head slowly. She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one hand on the frame to steady herself. She was still in her nightgown, a thin, faded thing with tiny blue flowers. Her hair was pinned up, messy and streaked with gray. The cigarette smoke from the living room drifted toward her, and she waved it away absently, her face drawn and pale. She looked like she hadn't slept. In reality she probably slept too long. The living room light hit her face, showing the dark circles beneath her eyes, the deep lines around her mouth.

"I heard you shouting," she said quietly, her eyes flicking between him and his father. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," his father muttered, already turning back toward the TV. "Go back to bed."

She ignored him. Her gaze went back to Tyler. "Your friends called this morning," she said. "Said they hadn't seen you since yesterday. They sounded... worried."

Tyler blinked, the words not sinking in right away. He hadn't even thought about Mark or Chris since last night — since the river of shouting faces, the knife, the blood. He swallowed hard.

"They called here?" he asked.

She nodded. "Said you disappeared after the game."

Her voice trembled a little as she said that. Then her eyes dropped to his jacket, and he saw the exact moment she noticed the dried blood. Her face paled.

"Tyler." She took a slow step forward. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, too quickly.

"That's blood."

"It's not mine," he lied, but even as the words left his mouth, they felt hollow.

"Tyler." Her voice sharpened — quiet, but firm in a way that startled him. "Were you a part of what happened at the stadium?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't look at her.

"I heard what happened," she said, voice shaking now. "They said there was a fight."

He clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the floor. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"Please tell me you didn't—"

"I said it's fine!" he snapped, louder than he meant to.

She flinched, but she didn't step back.

Her eyes were glassy now, wide and frightened. "Tyler, please—"

"I said it's fine!" he shouted again, voice cracking. "Just—drop it, alright?"

His father made a noise of disgust from the couch. "Told you, woman. He's out there with those thugs every damn day. Let him learn his lesson the hard way."

"Shut up," Tyler hissed without looking at him.

"Don't you—"

"I said shut up!" Tyler turned on him so fast the cigarette fell from his father's mouth. "You don't get to say shit to me!"

"Tyler, please—" his mother said again, reaching out, but he pulled away.

Her hand caught his sleeve for just a second — long enough for her to feel how stiff and sticky it was with blood. She gasped.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Tyler, what did you do?"

He yanked his arm free, eyes burning. "Nothing, alright? Just—nothing!"

He turned toward the door, shaking. He could feel both their eyes on him—his father's cold, his mother's desperate—and he couldn't stand it.

She tried one last time, voice breaking now. "Whatever happened, you have to go to the police, or the hospital—"

He spun around, his voice raw. "I can't!"

The room fell silent.

He took a step toward the door to his bedroom, his chest tight, breath coming fast. "You don't get it."

"Then explain it to me," she pleaded. "Tell me what happened."

He hesitated. For half a second, something in her voice almost reached him. But then his father scoffed, muttering something about "stupid kids and their games," and the fragile thread between them snapped.

Tyler's throat felt like sandpaper. "Forget it," he said. "It doesn't matter."

He stepped past her without another word. She didn't try to stop him this time — just stood there in the hallway, her hand half-raised, her face drawn and frightened.

He went into his room and shut the door behind him.

The chair he'd knocked over earlier still lay on its side, one leg cracked. The open closet gaped back at him. He knelt by the bed and pulled out an old backpack, faded black, one strap frayed near the seam. It had been his school bag once. He hadn't used it in years.

He shoved in what little he had: a change of clothes, a worn hoodie, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. He hesitated at the desk, staring at the mess of papers scattered across it — torn pages, old lyrics scribbled in pencil, words half-finished and angry.

For a moment, he almost left them.

Then he stopped.

He picked them up, flipping through the pages — phrases he'd written as a teenager, back when he still believed he could turn feelings into something worth hearing. There were smudges on some lines, places where water or tears had bled the words into gray shapes. But when he looked at them now, he thought of Josh's face — that quiet, steady expression when he'd talked about his music, the way he'd listened like it actually mattered.

Tyler gathered the papers, smoothed them against his knee, and tucked them into the front pocket of the backpack. He told himself it didn't mean anything — just that they might as well not get thrown out with everything else. But a small part of him knew the truth.

He wanted to show them to Josh.

He wanted to see him again.

He zipped the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and stood in the middle of the room. His gaze lingered one last time on the empty spot in the wardrobe where his keyboard used to sit. The anger surged again for a second—sharp and hot—but this time it faded quickly, leaving behind something quieter. Not forgiveness. Just exhaustion.

He stepped back into the hallway. His mother was still standing there, by the door, her hands clasped tight against her chest.

"Tyler," she said, her voice trembling. "Where are you going?"

He didn't look at her as he reached for the handle. "Out."

"When will you be back?"

He hesitated, the words catching on his tongue. Then, without turning around, he muttered, "I don't know."

"Please," she said. "Just tell me you're safe."

"I'm fine," he said — though they both knew it was far from the truth.

The door clicked shut behind him, muffling whatever else she said.

Chapter Text

The city folded into evening — dull light retreating, windows flickering alive, the dirty orange of streetlamps pooling in gutters. 

Tyler moved through it with his shoulders hunched, one hand pressed to the bandage at his side as if that small pressure could steady the rest of him. Each step felt heavier than the last; the wound throbbed in time with his pulse, a stubborn reminder that he was still flesh, still breakable.

He cut across the tram route, past the bakery that still had its lights on and a woman in an apron sweeping rotten leaves into a groove by the curb. Children chased each other in the courtyard of a housing block, squealing and slipping on the slick cobbles. Men in paint-streaked jackets sat on a low wall, drinking from tins and talking in low, urgent voices. The smell of grilled sausages wafted from a kiosk and snagged at a corner of Tyler's hunger, though appetite was a complicated thing when the rest of you was aching.

His mind was a hard, bright thing that refused to soften. It ran through necessities: money, keyboard, repayment. The keyboard kept surfacing like the name of someone he'd loved and lost — a thing almost sacred because it had been his, because it had been a promise somebody else had broken. He thought of the pawnshop windows, the lines on his father's face, the way his mother had asked him to come home that night. He saw Josh's thin, careful fingers as they'd bandaged him, saw the way Josh had smiled when Tyler mumbled the apology about the bottle. That small human kindness sat in his chest like a flame he hadn't realized he'd been starving for.

He needed money, and he needed it fast. The word fast had teeth. He ran through options the way he always did: quick, efficient, without hope.

Get a job. No. He'd tried that — short bursts, temp work, being polite to bosses who'd call him lazy after a week. He wasn't employee material. They wanted someone reliable, someone who showed up sober, someone who could swallow pride and take orders. He had been raised on a different curriculum: quick exits, quick fists, quick habits. The grind of a legitimate wage would take too long — too much time for the thing he wanted to fix right now.

Steal. Maybe. He could pick pockets, lift a wallet, loose change from a coat. But the idea of that felt cheap and risky. Besides, his hands were still shaking; getting close to people meant getting noticed.

Sell himself—in the way some boys did for quick cash—was a thought he hated to harbor, and he shoved it away hard. 

Rob a stall. There were market stalls around the central square that left crates and boxes at night. Some were easy to crack. A crate of cigarettes could sell fast; a bottle of decent vodka meant fewer questions. 

Beg. He spit the thought out mentally. He hadn't begged since he was a child. There was dignity in it, maybe, but it felt like an endgame he wasn't ready for.

He mentally summarized the shape of possible choices: grab and run, trade what he could for money with the right person, do someone else's dirty work for pay. Each carried its own danger, each its own shame. But shame had been a companion for years; it crouched in the corners of his family apartment, slept on the couch, chewed at the edges of his patience. Survival had always meant doing things that were not pretty.

He thought of Josh again and the promise to pay back the stolen bottle. That small, ridiculous vow tightened his jaw. The idea of Josh worrying, of Josh being further inconvenienced by the same man who'd previously robbed and assaulted him, gnawed at him. He wanted to make it right not because Josh would ask it of him, but because the look in Josh's face the night before had been quietly held. No demand, no pity — just simple care. The need to repay was partly pride, partly penance, partly something he could not name: the desire to keep that kindness uncorrupted. To earn it, to prove he was not utterly beyond counting on.

 The logistics blurred. What mattered was movement. Money, buy back the keyboard, repay Josh. The triangle drew itself across his mind like a map.

He felt no moral superiority about any of it. He knew the slippery slope of choices that started with a bruise and ended in something worse. He had friends who had gone down those paths and not come back clean. He had seen men hollowed by small compromises that had once seemed necessary. Still, the hunger for one small rectification—one small, honest righting of a wrong that mattered only to him—steered him forward.

He passed the tram stop where Mark and the rest usually hung out, a place already littered with the remains of the night's fervor: torn scarves, a smashed glass, a smear of something dark at the curb. It steadied him to see familiar signs in the anonymous city. Mark's block rose up ahead: the squat rectangle of concrete and brick, the stairwell light always burning, the graffiti on the mailboxes.

Tyler slowed as he reached the yard, listening to the small sounds that told him who was home and who was not — a television muttering, laughter from a window. He ducked down a narrow path between two buildings, the dampness here thicker, the air smelling of municipal smoke and a sharp tang of something burnt. 

The playground was just ahead — a cracked island of sand and rust under the weak orange glow of the streetlights. The slides were tagged with graffiti, the swings hung crooked, and the metal bars creaked whenever the wind pushed through. The city hummed faintly beyond — a tram clattering in the distance, muffled laughter spilling from a bar two streets over.

Tyler's steps were uneven, still a little stiff from the wound. He kept one hand pressed loosely against his side beneath his jacket, feeling the dull ache there like a warning. He'd stopped thinking about what he was doing hours ago. There was nowhere else to go. His family home had become unbearable — every word from his father laced with contempt, every silence heavier than the last.

He spotted them before they saw him. Mark and Chris, sprawled across the concrete ledge beside the sandbox, surrounded by a mess of cigarette butts, a crushed beer can, and an open bottle. They looked the same as always — worn sneakers, jackets zipped halfway, faces lit faintly by the dull glow of the streetlamp.

Tyler paused for a second, watching them, his throat tight. He didn't know what he expected — maybe disappointment, maybe anger. Instead, all he felt was the weight of exhaustion pressing into his bones.

He walked closer.

"Holy shit," Mark muttered when he noticed him, straightening up. "You're alive."

Chris gave a low whistle. "Thought you were done for, man. You look like a corpse."

Tyler shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to keep his voice steady. "Yeah, well, I would've been if I'd waited for you."

Mark's grin faltered. "Come on, don't be like that. It was chaos, Ty. People were running, cops everywhere. You dropped, and—"

"And you bailed," Tyler cut in. His tone wasn't loud, but it carried a quiet edge that made both of them glance away.

Chris flicked ash to the ground. "You'd have done the same."

"No," Tyler said simply. "I wouldn't."

Mark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, it's done. You're here, we're here. That's what matters."

Tyler looked at him for a long moment — then took the bottle from his hand, tilting it back. The beer was flat and lukewarm, but it was something to hold onto. He swallowed and sat down beside them, his ribs aching as he did.

For a few minutes, no one said anything. The silence stretched, filled only by the dull hum of the city and the occasional metallic squeak of the swings swaying in the wind.

"So," Mark said finally, breaking the quiet, "what now? You gonna lay low until this blows over?"

Tyler stared at the cracked ground between his shoes. "Can't. I'm done with that house."

Chris frowned. "Your old man again?"

Tyler didn't answer, just took another sip. His knuckles were white around the bottle.

Mark leaned back on his elbows. "So what, you're just gonna live on the street?"

Tyler shook his head. "I'll figure something out. But I need money."

That caught their attention.

Chris snorted. "You and every idiot in this city."

"I'm serious," Tyler said. "I need it fast. A few hundred, at least."

Mark studied him, his expression cautious now. "For what?"

Tyler hesitated — just for a moment — then said, "I want to get out. Maybe Germany, or something. Anywhere that's not here."

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. Gonna hitchhike there?"

Tyler ignored him. "I just need enough to start."

Mark's expression shifted slightly — not mocking, not pitying, just wary. "You thinking what I think you're thinking?"

Tyler met his eyes. "I am."

Mark frowned. "You don't want to get mixed up in his shit."

"Maybe I do," Tyler said flatly. "I don't care what it is — delivering, handling cash, whatever. I'll do it."

"Tyler—"

"I'm not asking for advice, Mark. I just need to talk to him."

Mark sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. "You don't know what you're asking for. Nick's not just selling weed to students anymore. He's in with guys you don't want to owe anything to."

"I already owe people things," Tyler said quietly.

That shut them up for a moment.

He looked away, eyes tracing the cracked asphalt beneath the swing set. He didn't want to tell them about the stupid keyboard, about how he'd gone home and found it gone. Or how he'd thought of Josh while standing there, rage burning through him, remembering the clean smell of his apartment and the quiet kindness in his eyes.

He wanted to pay Josh back. Wanted to prove he wasn't just another screw-up. And maybe—just maybe—buy back that piece of himself his father had sold.

"I just need the money," he said again. "You're his brother. Put in a word."

Mark gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah, because he listens to me. Look, I can ask, but don't come crying if it goes sideways."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They fell silent again. The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of rain. Tyler took another drag from the cigarette Mark handed him, watching the smoke drift into the dim orange glow of the streetlight.

Then the ache in his side reminded him of everything he was trying not to think about.

He shifted, grimacing. The bandage Josh had wrapped was seeping again — a small, dark stain blooming beneath his shirt. He pressed a hand against it discreetly.

Mark noticed anyway. "You should get that checked out."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look real fine," Chris said sarcastically.

Tyler didn't respond. His thoughts drifted — not to the fight, not to the blood, but to that quiet apartment with its soft light and clean air. The faint smell of soap. Josh's steady hands patching him up. The way he'd spoken — careful, a little nervous, but genuine.

No one had looked at him like that in years.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

After a moment, he said, "Can I crash at your place? Just for a night or two."

Mark looked unsure. "It's not really—"

"Just the couch," Tyler said quickly. "I'll be gone soon. I just need somewhere to stay for a bit."

Chris leaned back with a grin. "Come on, Mark. Let him. He looks like he's been through hell."

Mark sighed. "Fine. You can stay in Nick's old room. But you keep quiet. I don't need neighbors complaining again."

Tyler gave a faint smile — the first in days. "Deal."

Josh's fingers were still dirty — he noticed it as he rubbed his thumb across the back of his hand. No matter how many times he'd scrubbed that morning, there were still thin traces of dark brown crusted beneath his cuticles. Tyler's blood.

He shouldn't have been thinking about him here, not now — but he couldn't stop. The image kept flashing behind his eyes: the boy half-unconscious on the pavement, skin ashen, eyes darting with fear. The way he'd tensed when Josh touched him, as if kindness itself was something to brace against. And later, that look—tired, but grateful—when he'd been told to rest.

Josh didn't understand why it had stayed with him. Maybe because it was rare to meet someone who looked more cornered by life than he felt himself. Maybe because, for a few strange hours, he'd felt needed by someone other than his mother.

His gaze dropped again to his hands. The blood looked darker under the fluorescent lights. It wasn't much, really—barely there—but it carried a kind of weight. A reminder of everything broken in this city, everything that kept breaking no matter how much you tried to patch it up.

"Joshua?"

The sound of his name snapped him back. He blinked up, startled, to see the doctor—a heavyset man with thinning hair and kind eyes dulled by years of repetition—settling into the chair across the desk. His mother sat beside him, wrapped in her thick beige coat though the office was warm, her scarf still snug around her neck. She was smaller now, somehow. The illness had carved her down piece by piece.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, opened a file, and exhaled. "I've looked through the scan results." His tone was practiced, polite, but careful — the type people use when they know they're about to deliver something no one wants to hear.

Josh's stomach turned.

"The chemotherapy we began last year slowed the progression," the doctor went on. "But unfortunately, the recent scans show that the tumors in the right lung have increased in size." He paused, glancing briefly at Josh's mother before continuing. "And there are new lesions forming in the left lung as well."

The words fell heavily, like stones dropped into water. The room went still.

Josh's mother looked down at her hands folded in her lap. "So it's spreading," she said softly, matter-of-factly, like she'd already accepted it.

"Yes," the doctor said. "It's spreading."

Josh felt his throat tighten. "What does that mean for her treatment?"

"Well," the doctor began, folding his hands, "we'll need to start another cycle of chemotherapy as soon as possible. I've put her on the hospital's waiting list for the oncology department."

"Waiting list?" Josh repeated. His voice was low, but sharp.

The doctor nodded. "Unfortunately, demand is very high right now. There's a significant backlog." He glanced at the folder. "It could take three to four months before a slot opens."

Josh stared at him, his pulse starting to quicken. "Three to four months? So much can change for the worse in that time."

The doctor's expression softened, but there was resignation in it. "We'll do everything we can to move her up the list. But with current capacity—"

"There's nothing else?" Josh cut in.

The doctor hesitated — a tiny flicker that told Josh there was. "There are private clinics," he said carefully. "Some offer immediate treatment, with shorter cycles. The medication is the same, but the costs..."

Josh stared at the edge of the desk, tracing a scratch in the wood with his thumb. He looked at his mother — she was still sitting there, still quiet, her fingers trembling slightly where they gripped her scarf.

"That's..." Josh's voice faltered. "I'll see what I can do."

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "I don't know your situation. But if you can manage, it would be the best chance to slow the spread."

Josh swallowed hard. "And if we can't?"

"Then we wait," the doctor said gently. "And hope her body responds well when treatment begins."

Josh stared down at the floor tiles — gray, worn, faintly cracked. His ears buzzed. Beside him his mother coughed, a dry, ragged sound that seemed to echo through his ribs.

After a long silence, she spoke. "We'll wait," she said quietly.

"Mom—"

"No, Josh," she said, her voice calm but firm. "We can't afford it. You're already working too much."

He looked at her — at her pale face, her sunken cheeks, the way her eyes had dimmed. She was trying to sound strong for him, as she always did. But he could see through it. The illness was eating away at her, slow and merciless.

He clenched his fists in his lap, the faint lines of blood under his nails catching his eye again. It made him sick — not just because of what it was, but because of what it symbolized. Tyler bleeding on his floor, his mother dying in front of him — both of them victims of the same quiet, grinding cruelty that left people to fend for themselves.

He wanted to scream, but he didn't. He just nodded.

"I'll figure something out," he murmured.

The doctor gave him a look — one that said you won't, but I admire that you think you can.

When they left, the corridor felt colder than before. The smell of disinfectant lingered as they walked, his mother's footsteps shuffling softly beside him. Outside, the sky was dull and heavy, a thin drizzle falling onto cracked pavement.

They didn't speak on the way home. The bus was half-empty, rattling down gray streets lined with concrete buildings and faded billboards. He wanted to promise her something, but he couldn't bring himself to lie.

By the time they reached the apartment, night had fallen. The building was dark and quiet, the air in the stairwell stale with dust and old cooking smells. Josh helped his mother into bed, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She smiled faintly and told him not to worry — that everything would be fine. 

When she finally drifted off, Josh went to the kitchen.

The table was covered in papers — unpaid bills, hospital forms, prescription receipts. He sat down, the wooden chair creaking beneath him, and began sorting through them mechanically. Electricity overdue. Gas overdue. Pharmacy invoice for the new inhaler. Rent due in a week.

His hands shook as he turned over each envelope. The numbers swam in his vision — black ink, cruelly precise.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, exhaling shakily. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the old wall clock.

He thought about the doctor's voice again, steady and indifferent. 

The treatment would require more money than he'd ever seen at once. He thought of his hours at the store — the endless shifts, the aching feet, the meager pay that barely covered food and rent. He thought of all the things he'd already sold — his father's old watch, his bike, his camera. What else was left?

His gaze drifted toward the narrow hallway, where his guitar leaned against the wall, the one thing he hadn't let go of.

He rubbed his face, feeling the sting behind his eyes. He couldn't cry. Not now.

"I'll find a way, mom." he whispered to the quiet room, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

He looked down again at his fingers, at the faint traces of red still embedded under his nails.

He wondered if Tyler was somewhere thinking about him too.

He wondered if fate kept crossing their paths for a reason.