Jack snorts. "Awww. We love you too, man."
I feel myself blushing. It's almost too much. I press my face into Ethan's chest, hiding my expression against the cotton of his shirt, breathing him. His chin rests on top of my head.
Then: footsteps. Ethan checks his watch.
“Shit, Quiet Time is over.”
Ethan's arm loosens around me, and I feel the reluctance in it.
"Go," he whispers.
I don't want to. But I know the cost of getting caught.
I start to pull away, but Ethan catches my jaw with one hand, gentle, careful, and presses his lips to mine. It's brief, but his mouth is warm and slightly chapped and tastes like peppermint toothpaste that they give to us, and when he pulls back, my heart is slamming so hard I'm sure the approaching guard can hear it through the walls.
"Go, baby," he says again, softer this time.
I slide off his bed and cross to my own bunk, almost pouting.The guard unlocks the door, and we jump up, falling in line, hands behind our backs, eyes to the ground, but I feel okay.
¦
Of course, I ruin everything again.
The mashed potatoes look like grey mud today. They always look like that, but tonight they also smell like mud, and the texture against my tongue is the exact consistency of drywall paste mixed with tears. I chew, swallow, smile at something Jack says, chew again. I’m definitely…definitelynot thinking about the bathroom.
Ethan sits by my side. His bruises from Reed have faded to a dull yellow-green. He's eating his own food like a normal person, not like a sicko like me. But his eyes keep drifting to my tray. I hate that he notices. I hate that he's smart enough to notice. I want to apologize, but I also don't want to eat.
Ethan's jaw tightens. I see it, and I look away before he can catch me seeing it. We've been doing this dance for days now, him watching, me pretending, both of us knowing the other knows, neither of us saying it out loud. It's fucking exhausting.
"Gonna hit the bathroom," I announce, standing. Casual. Light. Sometimes I go without saying anything, sometimes I invent better excuses.
Miles doesn't look up. Jack waves a fork at me in acknowledgment. But Ethan goes very still, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, those green eyes pinning me to the spot.
“I gotta pee,” I add, as if it's an excuse.
I don't wait for him to say anything. I turn and walk, not too fast, not too slow, just the unhurried pace of a boy with absolutely nothing to hide. I also perfected that walk through years of getting in trouble.
I lock the stall door. My hands are shaking. The tile is coldunder my knees. I don't think. I just do.
My eyes water. My nose runs. My throat feels like I've swallowed a lit match. I do it again, and again, until there's nothing left but bile and the copper taste of blood from the lining of my esophagus, which is probably not great but also not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, so.
The relief is fucking immediate and total. For about three seconds, my brain goes quiet. No static, no spiraling thoughts. It feels so good. So fucking good. It's better than fucking drugs, at least for a moment. There's not even shame; I've gotten over it years ago.
I'm wiping my mouth with toilet paper when the bathroom door opens.
"Liam."
Ethan's voice hits me. I freeze, my hand still pressed to my mouth, eyes burning. There's no denying.
"This is the third time this week, baby. Open the door. I'm worried about you."
That breaks me.
My hand drops from my mouth. I stare at the locked stall door, at the gap beneath it where I can see his shoes, those stupid khaki-clad legs, those stupid clean sneakers.
I stand on trembling legs, wipe my face with my sleeve, and unlock the latch. The door swings inward, and there he is, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes so worried. It’s worse than if he were angry.
"I'm fine," I say.
