Chapter Text
Kian’s mind was playing the past several minutes- minutes? Hours? She wasn’t even sure, everything was blurring together- on repeat as he ran. It was a nauseating mess of Rand’s episode, him snapping, the yelling and anger and accusations, Rand’s blood on his hand as he punched him, they’d punched him.
A door slammed shut behind her, the sound louder than it ever should have been, echoing inside his mind. His heart was beating out of his chest, their breathing shallow and erratic- he could vaguely recognize the signs of a panic attack. He should have slowed down, should have stopped and focused on her breathing to help himself calm down, but they couldn’t.
Slowing down meant death, focusing on anything other than getting away and surviving meant getting caught and that meant getting beaten and assaulted and threatened and killed and he didn’t want to die, not again, not again, but she could never defend himself, could never stop it from happening. He was too weak, too powerless, to vulnerable, too weak.
They just kept moving, the running closer to stumbling at this point, their legs too weak to carry him properly and his vision too blurry with both tears and lightheadedness to make sense of where she was going. He couldn’t hear footsteps behind her, but she knew that they must have been there, they always were, they always fucking were. They needed to get away before they could catch up, but it was no use.
He collapsed onto the ground, their knees hitting the cold tile of the bathroom floor underneath her, tears falling onto the floor as he struggled to get in air. He couldn’t keep going, their body was frozen in place, she didn’t want to die here, she didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop the violence that would soon reach them, the lips pressing against theirs, the stinger going down his throat and slowly melting him from the inside-
They barely managed to get to the toilet as the nausea got too much, her stomach expelling what little was inside it with an all too familiar sensation of burning. Tears continued to leak out of his eyes as he gagged, acid and spit spilling into the water with a disgusting splashing sound.
The adrenaline that had been pushing her to keep going until now was getting vomited up with everything else, all the fight and energy leaking out of him as they continued to gag. All that remained was the fear, the exhaustion, the pain as she struggled to breathe, struggled to stay even sitting upright.
He was helpless, vulnerable, he couldn’t do anything to protect themself. He couldn’t protect himself, and nobody else was going to protect her either, and he was going to die here, he was-
No, that- that wasn’t right. Dying wasn’t what he should be worried about right now. She forced his head up, trying to listen for the sounds of footsteps, of yelling, just anything. All he got was the sound of a door closing somewhere down the hall.
Fuck, they needed- they had to calm down. She wasn’t dying, he wasn’t going to die, that was the least of his fucking worries right now. He didn’t need to be scared of Rand or Rolan killing her, they… they wouldn’t do that. But he’d thought the same of Becky- this wasn’t like that. This was different.
He pushed himself off the toilet bowl, collapsing against the wall behind him as they did so. Fuck, what had he done? A weak sob tore out of her throat as he sat there, their own actions finally fully hitting him. Everything, everything finally catching up to her.
She’d punched Rand. He’d hurt him, one of the only people in the entire fucking world that had shown him kindness, that had maybe actually cared about them at some point, he’d punched him. And for what? For Rand calling him out, calling out Kian’s lies, exposing all the worst parts of her that he’d so desperately tried to keep hidden from them.
Because she’d known that they’d hate him if they knew, that they wouldn’t want anything to do with them anymore, why would they, why would anyone? But Rand knew. He knew what he’d been hiding, knew fucking all of it. How? How did he fucking know, how could he tell- did it even matter? Did it fucking matter how he knew, when he did, and Kian could never convince him otherwise?
It didn’t matter how, Rand knew, and he was probably fucking telling Rolan about all of it now as well so he’d know and… fuck. Fuck. Things weren’t supposed to go like this, they weren’t supposed to fucking find out about any of this. They weren’t… they weren’t supposed to know what a fuck-up Kian really was.
But they did. They knew, and they… they’d fucking hate her. And she deserved it. Deserved their hatred, their disgust, their anger, deserved all of it. He’d lied to them, had purposefully kept things from them because they’d known this would happen if they found out the truth. He’d known this would happen if they found out. And she’d lied to them to try and avoid that, and fuck, they deserved whatever the consequences for that would be.
He’d fucking punched Rand to try and avoid facing those consequences. What kind of person did something like that? What kind of person would fucking do that to someone, anyone, let alone someone they loved?
Their parents had been right, hadn’t they? And so were Becky’s parents, so were Rolan’s, so was everyone. He was nothing but a fucked up, horrible, disgusting monster. A filthy queer, a demon in disguise, whatever the fuck they wanted to call her, they were all right. ‘Her’, even just that was more than enough proof of that. He was a fucking abomination.
He wiped his tears on their sleeve, alongside the vomit that had stuck to her lip. Even that small movement felt impossible, their limbs were too heavy, the denim scratched at her skin and-
His eyes widened, her breath catching in his throat. He stared at his own arm, frozen in place, at the denim sleeve around it. Rand’s jacket, that still smelled like him, that felt so warm and soft and familiar against her skin. Rand’s jacket. That’s sleeve was now stained with his tears and vomit, clinging to it and seeping into the fabric. Staining it. Dirtying it, ruining it-
He pulled the jacket off of their body, shaking and nearly hyperventilating as he threw it further away from herself, scooting further against the wall in the opposite direction. He could do nothing but stare at it, frozen like a deer in headlights, looking at the crumpled up piece of fabric like it was a wild animal stalking him, preparing to attack at any moment.
No, more like he was the predator, desperately trying to fight off its nature to not harm what was in front of it. She felt tears spilling out of their eyes again as he hid his face in his knees, wrapping her arms around himself like it was going to fix anything.
They knew this would happen. She knew it, she should have known it. This always happened, it always did, he always ruined everything. His mere fucking precense was enough to stain and break things, it always was, it always was. And now he’d fucking ruined his relationship with his friends, and Rand’s jacket, and he hadn’t fucking meant to, but that didn’t matter. He’d ruined it. He’d ruined everything.
It happened with their parents’ lives, it happened with every place he lived in, with every job she’d ever held, his relationships, Rolan’s mug that they’d dropped, Rand’s glasses- because he wouldn’t have fucking broken them if Kian hadn’t been there, she knew that- and now with Rand’s jacket, it always happened to everything and everyone around her. The filth, the stains, the ruin followed her everywhere she went. Sometimes it took time, but it always happened sooner or later.
Maybe his mere fucking presence had been what had caused the shit in Galloway, too. She’d been with Rand the night Rachel went missing. He’d been around Rolan a lot before his death, he’d dated Becky, they’d seen Dickman before he became one of them. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that everything had fully gone to shit right when he’d come back. Maybe the horrors just followed her no matter what they did.
Not even just ‘maybe’, they did. He knew that. He’d known that for years, her being around ruined things. And yet she’d still allowed themself to stay near Rolan and Rand. She should have refused when they asked him to stay, should have told them the truth about everything so they would have realized they were better off without him, should have just stayed in Hollywood, in that fucking hell on earth that they deserved.
But he was selfish. Selfish and horrible and disgusting, too scared of being alone again, too self-absorbed to care about anyone else’s well-being over his own. They hadn’t wanted to be alone, hadn’t wanted to go back to LA and the horrible life she had there, he’d wanted this. A nice, safe house far from the sounds and lights of the central city. People who at least pretended to care about him, who didn’t just use him and then leave when they got what they wanted. Stability and warmth and everything that he could never deserve.
She didn’t deserve this. They weren’t made for this, he knew that, he knew she could never really deserve a life like this. A life with Rand and Rolan far from everything that had ever hurt him, in a fucking suburban house with a yard and polite neighbors who didn’t look at him with disgust. They weren’t made for this fucking life, but God, she’d wanted to be. He’d wanted to pretend that this could be anything other than temporary, anything other than a horrible idea, anything other than a mistake that would leave everyone worse off than they used to be.
They should have never fucking allowed that. This was always how it was going to end, with Rolan and Rand finally seeing what a fuck-up he was and hating him for hiding it from them, with his presence staining their life together, with her alone and them despising him for the rest of their lives.
He should have just refused to stay with them. Should have insisted that he wanted to just go back home, to his job, that he was happy with the life she had. Then they’d have never found out the truth. They’d have never been given a reason to hate them, and he could at least… he could at least still keep them in his life in some small ways. Calls on birthdays and holidays, maybe even visiting them sometimes.
But he could never be satisfied with what he had. She’d wanted more, more than they deserved, more than he could get, more than anyone would be willing to give. And instead he’d lost the little he had as well. It really was just a never ending theme in their life, huh? She wanted more than he could have, tried to get it, and then lost everything because he wouldn’t give up. It was always the same thing. Fuck, it was always the same fucking thing.
Rand hated him, and as soon as he’d get done telling Rolan about everything, Rolan would hate her as well. And then they’d kick him out and he’d be left with nothing and nobody again, even the things he’d managed to get in the past few years were all gone. No apartment, no job, no car, nothing. He’d probably end up back on the fucking streets again, and she’d deserve it.
Fuck, he felt sick. They wanted to just break down, go to her friends- ex-friends, more like, he didn’t deserve to call them his friends anymore- and beg them for forgiveness. Beg for them to not cut him off for good, to just give him one more chance, but she knew they’d never get that. She didn’t deserve their forgiveness, and he wouldn’t get it, either.
He’d lied to them about everything. And he could make excuses for it all he wanted, that it was to protect them from the truth they couldn’t handle, or that they just hadn’t know how to tell them the truth, but it was all bullshit. She’d just been scared. Scared, and selfish, and so desperate for the small bits of care from them that they got. It was all nothing but pure selfishness, and Rolan and Rand were the ones paying for that, and fuck.
He was supposed to be better than this. They were supposed to be better than this. She was supposed to be Kian Stone, a rockstar, selfless and loved and kind and talented and everything he wasn’t. He was nothing. Worse than nothing, she was a fucking monster. A horrible, selfish, disgusting, sinful monster that deserved nothing except pain. That deserved cuts on its arms and thighs, burns on its skin, bruises on every possible surface.
…the pain never worked, it never did what it was supposed to. It never fixed her thoughts or feelings, it never caused anything other than itself, it’s why they’d given up on it. It wasn’t worth it, the cuts weren’t worth it, all they did was push people away and make them look at him in disgust. It wasn’t worth it when they still had to use make-up and long sleeves to hide the scars on her wrists from that one night of weakness nearly twenty years ago.
It wasn’t worth it to ruin his body, the only good part of herself, with cuts and burns and scars. Not when smoking and drinking herself to an early grave worked just as well, when the needles and pills didn’t leave a mark and could work either as an escape or a punishment equally as well. It just wasn’t worth it.
But it didn’t matter anymore, did it? Who’d fucking look twice at scars on their thighs or arms when there was the giant fucking one from her stomach to her throat? It didn’t matter what he did to her body, it didn’t matter how fucked up she got, because he was already ruined. Ruined in a way that could never be fixed.
He was shaking, her entire body protesting as they began to stand up. Moving hurt, and more than that, it was exhausting. Just trying to keep themself upright was enough to leave him winded, like it so fucking often was these days, but he ignored it. Or at least tried to, tried to ignore how difficult standing was, how light-headed she felt, how difficult even just breathing got after a few seconds.
He was already fucked up, it really didn’t matter if things got even worse. They held onto anything he could while he walked- stumbled, more like- out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, scanning the room for- there. She got over to the leopard print suitcase near the bedroom door.
At least he had been right about unpacking being a waste of time. She just hadn’t really thought he’d have to leave quite this soon, some stupid, hopeful part of them had thought it would at least be a month or two. But no, she’d lasted less than a week after their move. It was better this way, it was better that he hadn’t had time to get settled, to get too comfortable with the thought of staying for longer, to get so attached. It was better that this happened sooner rather than later, and he knew that, but it didn’t fucking make her feel any better.
They kneeled on the floor next to the suitcase, opening it with shaking hands, pushing past the records and CDs until his fingers got scratched on the edge of a cardboard box. She pulled it out of the suitcase, his breathing and heartbeat both faster than usual as he opened it. The contents were the same as always. A stack of unsent letters, an empty bottle of pills that brought up a lot of memories of that one horrible night almost six years ago, and the razor.
The same one he’d stolen from the medicine cabinet when they were around twelve, with red stains that could never be washed out, and a small bit of rust at the edge. Why he’d kept the same razor for twenty years, he didn’t really know. There wasn’t a good explanation for it, or at least not a logical one. Throwing it out just sounded wrong. Just like throwing out the suicide notes or the empty pill bottle felt wrong. She’d just always been horrible about letting things go.
They grabbed the razor and set the box back inside the suitcase, pushing the records back on top of it-
When a door opened down the hall. He froze completely, their breath catching in her throat as footsteps started moving towards her room. Fuck, fuck. He was an animal caught in a trap, unable to do anything to get away, just listening as they got closer and closer, pausing in front of his door.
There wasn’t a lock on it- and even if there was, he knew they could pick it if they tried. Kian might have been their go-to for lockpicking when they were younger, but she’d made sure to show them the basics of it. Which meant that they could come in at any moment and Kian couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t stop them, couldn’t-
But after a short pause, the footsteps began going again again. Away from his door, further down the hall, towards the living room and the kitchen. Why? What the fuck- why? Why weren’t they just coming to her to get this shit over with, why would they just fucking leave him be when them leaving the room must have meant that Rolan now knew the truth as well and Kian was fucked? Why?
No, that- the why didn’t matter. He should just be glad that that’s how things were going- ignoring that stupid, horrible voice in his head that wanted to scream at the sounds of them going away, that didn’t get that that was good and only focused on the part where they were leaving him again- and do what he was supposed to do.
They stood back up slowly, careful to keep her movements as quiet as possible as he walked back to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door with a quiet click behind him. Even if the others could pick the lock, the door being locked would at least give him a bit of extra time if- or probably when- they changed their minds and came after him.
He collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold bathroom tile again, taking slow and heavy breaths in a weak attempt to calm himself down. He stared at the razor, still held between his fingers, struggling to focus on it with how much his vision was swimming. It was fine. It wasn’t like she needed to be able to see clearly for what they were about to do.
His hands were shaking, and his heart was beating far faster than it should have been. Where should they do it, even? On her wrists? Thighs? He didn’t want to risk people seeing the marks if it could be avoided… especially Rand and Rolan. They probably wouldn’t care. But what if they did? What if they thought it was some fucked up manipulation tactic? No, worse, what if they didn’t think that, and instead just felt guilty for it? What if they felt like they needed to help them despite everything? He couldn’t risk that, her thighs were definitely a safer option than-
…what about Rolan’s bug shit, though? His senses overall were better than they used to be, and that… that included his sense of smell. What if he could smell the blood on Kian? Would he say anything about it, would he just ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there? If he was still wearing Rand’s jacket, she could maybe blame it on that, but they couldn’t fucking go anywhere near it again. He couldn’t risk dirtying it even further. She should have never allowed himself to keep it even this long, they didn’t deserve the warmth and comfort it provided, he didn’t deserve to be anywhere near it.
But that meant he had nothing that could work as an excuse if Rolan could smell the blood. So what was she supposed to do? He needed to hurt himself, he deserved the pain, but he couldn’t risk anyone else suffering because of that. So what? What the fuck was he going to do?
He could always push things off until later. Until they were somewhere far away from them, back in LA or just anywhere other than here. Or she could just… do something else. Something that would hurt, but wouldn’t have as high of a risk of getting noticed. Like cutting himself, but not deep enough to draw blood, or burning himself with something, or… fuck, no, Rolan might have been able to smell the burns as well. And with how badly his hands were shaking, they might have ended up drawing blood even without meaning to.
This was too risky. Fucking all of this was too risky, anything he could think of carried the risk of getting caught and the others struggling because of that. He’d already fucking ruined their lives enough, they couldn’t put them through even more bullshit.
She’d… she’d just wait until all of this was over. Until he was alone, and then he’d actually get this shit over with. It wouldn’t take long, probably. A couple hours at most, while he got all of his shit out, and then they’d never have to see him again.
Then he’d never get to see them again. He’d known that this would happen, it always fucking did. People didn’t want to be around her for long, this was always going to happen. That fact didn’t make it hurt any less. They didn’t want to lose them, didn’t want to go back to how things used to be, but it was too fucking late for regrets now, wasn’t it? No matter how hard he might have tried, he could never deserve to be part of their lives for long. That just wasn’t how things worked.
…what was he supposed to do now, though? They hadn’t come to him, and she still couldn’t fucking figure out whether that was good or not. Maybe they were just too disgusted with them to even look at him. Or maybe they figured it was better to wait for him to come to them? Did that really even matter, when either way, he needed to fucking decide what to do?
He wanted to just leave, leave out of the window and never have to deal with any of this again. Use the cash he had to get back to LA, back to that hell on earth, and then struggle to survive while the others enjoyed their lives with him finally far from them. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t fucking do that. He didn’t deserve to just escape from the consequences of her own actions, from their hatred.
And… Rand and Rolan were good people. Better people than he was, far better. If he just disappeared without so much as a goodbye… even if they hated him, even if they must have hated her, they would have worried. And especially when Rachel’s body had just been found, Rand would absolutely be fucked up over it. Kian couldn’t do that to him, he couldn’t put him through that again.
So what? Was he supposed to just sit here and wait for them to get tired of waiting and come kick him out? How long would that even take, if they hadn’t wanted to come see her immediately… it could very fucking well be hours. He didn’t have the patience for that, they’d go crazy just waiting for them.
The last option, then. The most terrifying one, going up to them himself. What would he even say to them? What would they say to him? They’d be upset, fucking obviously, but would they demand explanations? An apology? Would they just tell him to leave and never come back? They… they could get violent, it didn’t sound likely, but especially after what Kian had done… it was a possibility.
…did it really matter what they did or wanted? It wouldn’t really change the end result. She’d go out there, apologize, take whatever they felt like giving to him- whether that was a punch back or just some yelling or anything else- and then they’d leave. He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness, wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t get difficult. He’d just let them do whatever they wanted and go with it. No matter how much it would hurt. She’d lost the right to complain about that long ago.
They forced himself to stand back up, stuffing the razor into his pocket as he did so. Her legs were still shaking, his vision swimming, fuck, he just really hoped he wouldn’t either pass out or throw up again. He grabbed hold of the sink to have at least some support- finally also remembering to flush the toilet before the smell of vomit got stuck to it for good- and forced herself to look into the mirror above it.
They looked like shit, there was really no other word for it. There was still a bit of vomit stuck to her lip- and shirt, and some was even in his hair, which was fucking disgusting- his makeup was all smudged from crying, and just… he looked awful. Disgusting. He always looked horrible these days, but right now… fuck, he didn’t want to even think about it. She looked like his fucking mom, especially with the outgrown roots and the way his cheeks were sunken in.
They really were just like his parents, huh? A druggie with no future, nobody who really cared about him, just going through life and taking advantage of the kindness of others to get by. No amount of hair dye or makeup or a different last name could really separate him from them, he was his parents’ child, whether he wanted to be or not.
She grabbed the makeup wipes from the counter next to the sink- his makeup and skin and hair products were pretty much the only things they’d bothered to unpack- and went through the familiar process of cleaning his face up. He washed his face and hair, for once not even caring about the water that fell onto her shirt as he did so. He didn’t look in the mirror once that was done, they knew all too well that Kian Stone wouldn’t be looking back at him. It would be his mother, or his dead corpse being puppeteered around, or, maybe the worst option of all, it would just be himself. Kian. The name sounded like an insult even inside his own mind.
He didn’t want to see whatever would be looking back at her, and so he turned around, looking absolutely anywhere else.
Should he re-apply his makeup? It wouldn’t really do anything, the others knew the truth, they knew what a mess he was, no amount of makeup or clean clothes was going to hide that. But she might as well try, right? Might as well try to keep up appearances, make the situation at least more bearable for them. Not put them through the pain of having to see Kian rather than Kian Stone.
Prettying himself up, even with his shaking hands, it was just second nature to her at this point. Putting on a performance of someone better so people might actually be able to look at her. Covering the scars on their wrists and chest, hiding the evidence of all of his damage to keep up the lies. Taking off the vomit and water covered shirt she wore, throwing it in the hamper like anyone was going to bother washing it. They looked in the mirror only for a second after that. It wasn’t Kian Stone who looked back at her- too tired, hair too brown and frizzy, scar still visible on his chest, makeup slightly uneven, bloodshot eyes- but it was close enough. It was the best he could do.
He hesitated before unlocking and opening the bathroom door, listening to make sure nobody was coming towards the bedroom right at that moment, before shutting it again. She walked over to one of the several boxes with his clothes in it with shaky and unstable steps. They grabbed whatever he first happened to touch- a simple black top, and a red leather jacket just to be sure his wrists wouldn’t be seen- and put them on.
That was really the best he could do to prepare. Now there was nothing left except just doing what she was supposed to, no matter how badly he didn’t want to do it.
He’d go and talk to them. Apologize for everything, even when she knew they wouldn’t be forgiving them. Promise to not bother them ever again. Lose his best friends forever, go back to Hollywood, spend the rest of her life sleeping around and getting high on whatever he could and struggling to survive because he was too much of a coward to take himself out. It wasn’t the life he wanted, but it was what they deserved.
And Rolan and Rand would stay here. With each other and Barc, somewhere safe and stable, and in a few months Kian Stone would be nothing but a bad memory to them, a piece of their childhood that was ruined by time and reality and the truth about what he really was like. They’d never have to deal with his shit again. And she’d never get to see them again. He’d never get to have them in his life again.
He blinked back the tears that were starting to rise in her eyes, it was better this way. It was going to be better for everyone else if Kian was far away and alone and miserable. It was what she deserved, it was how things were supposed to go. It was how things were always going to go. No matter how much he wanted something more, something better, he didn’t deserve that. He was never going to have anything good for long.
She walked- stumbled, shuffled, who cared about the specifics- to the bedroom door, took a deep breath that didn’t help with anything, and turned the handle. Just go out there, apologize, let them do and say whatever they want to. And then everything will go back to how it’s supposed to be. She’ll go back to the life he deserves, and everyone else will be better off for it.