Chapter Text
Keith slipped into the apartment, the clock already pushing past midnight. He moved quietly, hoping to make it to his room without drawing any attention. But, of course, Dax and Lo were still up, lounging in the living room.
He kept his head down, feigning exhaustion, and tried to slip past them.
"Holy fucking hell, dude!" Dax's voice cut through the quiet. "That girl you saw today devoured you, man! Your fucking lip is bleeding, and you're covered in hickies! And dude—your pants—"
Dax and Lo burst into laughter, their cackles filling the room.
Keith froze. His eyes darted to the hallway mirror.
Fuck.
His reflection screamed wrecked. Hair a mess, lips swollen and bruised, dark marks trailing down his neck. And his fucking pants—unbuttoned.
Shit.
Keith let out an awkward laugh, trying to fix his messy hair.
"Yeah, man, she was wild," he said, forcing a cocky smirk. "Best hookup of my life, I swear."
Dax and Lo kept laughing, throwing in a few whistles and teasing remarks, but Keith barely heard them. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. His stomach was upset. A wave of dizziness was creeping in.
He mumbled something about needing sleep and quickly retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone gripped tightly in his hand. He was going to delete it. He was going to delete it. His subby boy account, the JJboys app, the photos, the files—everything.
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he didn't press anything. Instead, he opened the app. Scrolled. Stared. His breathing grew shallow.
He switched to his messages. Andres contact. He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. His hands were trembling uncomfortably.
Fuck everything.
With a sudden, violent movement, he threw his phone against the wall. It hit with a sickening crack, the screen shattering on impact. A broken gasp left his lips.
He turned to his desk, to the neatly stacked textbooks, the notebooks filled with his handwriting, the things Andres had given him last Christmas, the stupid little trinkets Andres had bought him. His vision blurred.
Keith grabbed the textbooks and flung them out the window. Papers scattered, pages ripped as they hit the ground below. He swept his arm across the desk, sending pens, notebooks, and fragile glass crashing to the floor. Then he reached for the gifts.
He hurled them out too.
The clothes he was wearing that night. Out of the window as well.
His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, his body curling in on itself as a choked sob ripped from his throat. His hands fisted in his hair, tugging, pulling. His face twisted with frustration, anger, shame. He tried to stop it, tried to hold it back, but the tears came.
Angry. Ugly. Desperate.
Minutes passed—he didn’t know how many—before the sobs turned to shaky breaths. And then, without thinking, he stood up.
Barefoot, shirtless, he walked out of his room, down the stairs, and into the cold night air. He found his textbooks, his papers scattered across the pavement, Andres’ gifts lying in the dirt, his clothes.
One by one, he started picking them up.
He trudged back upstairs.
He dropped everything onto the desk, not bothering to sort it. Just another mess in a room full of them.
Keith didn’t care.
He barely made it to his bed before collapsing onto it, face-first into the sheets.
Exhausted, he let his eyes close.
When he opened them again Keith woke up to find his room filled with an eerie, unnatural fog. It looked like someone was smoking in there. All the window shutters were closed, with only a pale light seeping through the cracks. From somewhere, eerie music drifted in from the kitchen, a haunting melody that made his skin crawl.
Keith's ears picked up the steady ticking of an analog clock, a sound that shouldn't be there since they didn't own such a clock in the house. The usual noises of the night—cars passing by, students returning from late-night outings—were absent, replaced by an oppressive, unnatural silence.
His laptop was open on his desk, the screen glowing faintly. He stood up and tried to use it, but it lagged and began to show unsettling images:
Andres walking down a street,
Andres sitting at a café,
Andres on a bench,
Andres visible behind a half-open door, taking a shower.
Panic surged through Keith as he struggled to stop the images from appearing, but then the screen suddenly flashed red and shut off, plunging the room into deeper darkness.
His door was half open. Keith looked absentmindedly through the creak.
Something stood just outside, its silhouette barely visible in the gloom.
It... didn't look human.
Panic surged through him as he tried to scream, but he made no sound.
The figure began to move, slowly approaching. Keith's heart pounded in his chest, each step of the figure resonating like a drumbeat in his ears. He couldn't move a muscle.
The figure reached the opening of the door and stopped. In the silence, a voice spoke.
"You can lie to them. You can lie to yourself. But you can’t lie to me," the figure intoned.
Suddenly, a loud thunderclap shattered the silence, jolting Keith. He bolted upright, heart racing. It was 5 a.m., and the room was still dark.
Mustering all his strength, Keith willed himself to move and stumbled out of his room. As he approached the kitchen, the smell of something burning hit him, mingled with a metallic tang. Blood stains were everywhere, smeared across the floor and countertops. Chicken intestines were scattered on the tiles.
Outside the kitchen window, a storm raged silently, lightning flashing without a sound. The eerie quiet amplified the terror that gripped Keith’s heart.
To his shock, Andres was there, making breakfast. He was wearing nothing but an apron, and Keith's confusion deepened.
Andres was standing by the stove, his back turned to Keith. Keith could see everything in tantalising detail. The long, beautiful legs stretched out gracefully. The toned, slim back arching slightly. The delicate waist that begged to be held. And the perky ass, perfectly shaped and inviting.
"Why aren't you wearing any clothes?" Keith asked, his voice trembling.
Andres turned to him, a playful smile on his lips. His eyes were red and swollen, like he had been crying for hours. "Don't you remember what we did last night?"
Keith's mind raced, desperately trying to recall any memory of the previous night, but it was blank. "I... I don't remember," he stammered.
Andres' smile faded, replaced by a look of disappointment. "Do you remember anything else you did?" he asked, his tone accusatory.
A wave of guilt and anxiety washed over Keith. He tried to piece together the fragments of his memory but came up with nothing. The fog of fear and confusion clouded his mind.
Without warning, Andres turned, his face twisted in rage, and lunged at Keith with the kitchen knife.
Keith's eyes widened in horror as the blade pierced his stomach, the pain radiating through his body. He gasped, blood spilling from the wound, and looked into Andres' eyes, which were now cold and unrecognizable.
...
With a scream, Keith jolted awake, drenched in sweat and trembling uncontrollably. He looked around, disoriented, and realized he was still in his room, safe. The terror of the dream lingered, leaving him shaken to his core.
Keith sat up in bed. He had class in an hour.
Keith decided to check his One Drive. Everything was still there. He hid the photos better and updated his password.
He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed to the living room. “See you later,” he called to Dax and Lo, who were eating in front of the TV.
Lo looked up, a fork halfway to his mouth. “Want to eat something before you go?”
Keith shook his head. “No appetite, man. Thanks, though.”
He walked down the stairs and almost collided with Andres at the bottom. Keith’s breath caught in his throat. Andres looked dazzling, more beautiful and happy than ever. His hair was slicked back with small specks of glitter from the party.
Keith couldn't resist commenting. "Wow, you look like you had quite the night. Were you partying?"
Andres smiled slightly. "Yes. I feel... amazing."