.

leah’s gaze lifts as romy replies. her dark eyes scan his features, watching as his eyes drop and his fingers tap against his beer can. it’s strange, he almost looks sheepish. for a brief moment, it makes her feel guilty herself; this is why she should’ve just left after handing over the food, because making others feel better is hardly her forte. his fingers twist at the beer tab, and she can imagine the press of it against his skin so well can practically feel it herself. she knows the mark it leaves behind. she looks away. “why are you sorry?” she asks the cabinets. “i asked.” sure, she technically asked weeks ago, but she still asked. “and i knew what you meant, i didn’t think you liked suffering.” leah hadn’t been offended by romy saying that he enjoys fixing people, just jealous that she couldn’t be one of them. she hadn’t meant to scold him;  the only reason she said what she did was because she thought he might understand what she meant — that she’s been struggling.  truthfully, leah’s few words gesturing at the frequency of her pain and implying the long lasting effect are the most she has talked about her injury. she typically tends to sidestep it in conversation, a short answer that she hurt her back so she can’t dance, concern brushed off with practiced cool indifference, and promptly changing the subject to suggest the conversation’s over. even with her doctor and physical therapist, they speak strictly in technical terms, of where and how bad her pain is, and methods to ease it.  she hasn’t told anyone how frustrating it is to feel an ache creep in in the middle of the day, or how humiliating it is loose her independence so completely that she’s had to ask her parents for help getting off the couch on more than one occasion. she certainly hasn’t told anyone that most days she feels like her life is already over, now that she has nothing left to live for. and what good would saying any of that even do? clearly, romy wouldn’t understand it, so it would just be admitting to her inadequacy for no reason.  taking another sip of lemonade, leah steels herself against the self-pity creeping in, and looks at romy again. “i don’t want to talk about it.”

why is he sorry? he almost wants to laugh; wasn't it obvious? romy's sure she should have been able to pick something up from the list of reasons he should be apologizing, so he concludes that she's being overly nice because he isn't doing well. on one hand, there's a bit of relief there. that he doesn't have to further debase himself had she agreed his words were inappropriate— behave the way he does when his father gives him a stern talking to, head hung low, murmurs of assent dripping with shame. he doesn't have to, so why does he feel compelled to so badly? romy assumes it's a new fun side effect of this grief thing he's learning to grapple with; self punishment. maybe if he takes responsibility for all of his faults now, it'll make up for all of his failures that led him to this point. because he isn't stupid enough to pretend it isn't his own fault he's feeling this way. he had two years to change, after all "ah, just. you know. i tend to... just say things. without regard for other people." he's sure leah knows that to be true. he wants to continue that he thinks he doesn't think about other people enough at all, that he knows he needs to change, but he's already been too much. it's bordering on pathetic. "so we won't talk about it." he sort of feels like he's hiding a big secret, responding to leah so casually, like he hadn't wanted to talk about it almost every time they'd spoken. he doesn't mean it the way it would come across if she knew— like he was a gossip, someone who needed their nose in everyone's business. he just couldn't help it. he'd always pulled at stitches, picked at scabs, scratched mosquito bites until they bled. nothing was too delicate when it was being run through his mind, he just had to remind himself that it was supposed to stay there. no matter his curiosity, it just wasn't possible to dissect without harm. "did you know i'm one of those i could've gone pro guys?" he blurts. it's embarrassing, but it's an attempt to take that shameful feeling off of leah and throw it back onto himself. to show her that this isn't permanent— that being stuck in the past was a state of mind, a way of life that she was not suited for. that wrensted was a temporary stop for her. a reprieve. some people truly peaked already "swear to god. and nothing even happened to me. i just went to fuckin' med school." he laughs at himself, silent, head shaking as he turns the can tab over in his hands. "i think benji and i just say it 'cause it's nice to imagine things being different. everything is— was the same here, for a long time."

Justice's stomach sank to what felt like the core of the earth when it dawned on them just who the two people passing were. They're tempted to look away, but then they hear the two talking. Seemed like Romy needed an excuse to escape his dad, and the least she could do was play along. Awkwardly, she waved at Romy. "A friend", yeah. Very friendly. As Romy nears, Justice faces forward again, pen tapping against a notebook rapidly. Good, good; confrontation in the morning. That's actually the second most nutritious breakfast, or so they heard. It was better than seeing Liza, that was for sure, but this was bad in a way that made them feel like each micromovement they made was going to be reported back to the Important People, the Ones That Matter, when they so clearly never did. Until two days ago, of course. It wasn't lost on them, of course, that they seemed absolutely out of their mind. Justice had cozied up to Liza, had a moment with Romy where their roles were reversed, had gotten into Amelia's party thanks to Romy's archnemesis or whatever those two were to each other these days. And then they went online and claimed to have forged a friendship with someone that had never even considered kindness toward them, at least that Romy (who knew her well) would know of. "It's clearly the terrible weather we've been having," Justice said drily, eyes flicking from Romy to the refreshing morning sky, something that probably would have cheered them both up had they not been sitting together in this moment. She decided she wasn't going to say anything. That was his own playbook, right? Pretend nothing ever happened. Confess nothing. Everything is normal, no one has done something socially unacceptable here. Justice opened up her blue notebook to the first page, where they had written up a list of things that they could rotate into their daily schedule to bypass their parents' worry. At the top of the page, a cursive header that read: Normal Person Shit To Do. In neat, tight print: 1. Cook dinner for everyone (especially if J comes over) 2. Offer to walk dog for J 3. Leave house and be able to tell them what you were doing when you come back 4. Put old writing projects into new notebooks so they think you've been writing again 5. Bake something with one of mom's recipes "I know these are a little specific," they said, showing Romy their handiwork, "but we can probably come up with enough to pass for coping well."

it wasn't like he expected them to grovel or anything, but commiseration is completely out of left field. he only reads the first two points before his eyes flick back up to justice, narrowed in not anger, but confusion. he wonders briefly what the hell she has to pretend for; no matter what eliza had told him about the podcast, he refuses to believe justice was also grieving a friend. so then there's the other option, that liza was just one of the people calling justice's bullshit. he hadn't been in the loop, mostly just focusing on school, and had not a clue what gossip was looking at nowadays. if the way they acted at the party was any indicator, justice has to be going through it with no one at their side. which is funny, he thinks, because shouldn't they be used to it? but what does romy know? he'd never had the pleasure of being a social pariah. eyes trail back downward, scanning the rest of the words. he wants to tell her that this is all pointless, that his parents always know, but that's giving her an in. he needs to remember now that justice is not the person he wants to get even a whiff of vulnerability from him— and that isn't even because of the way they'd reveled in it last time. it's because she's more of a chameleon than he'd thought, and he's not sure she won't wear his pain as if it were hers for sympathy later down the line. he decides to play dumb instead, pushes the notebook back and folds his arms on the table, resting his head on them "writing one won't work if they're seriously worried." he would know. he'd spent the better part of high school spilling his guts to a mandated reporter, after all "they're just gonna read one of the notebooks to check in on you when you're not paying attention." he doesn't let her get a word in before adding "what do you have to cope with?"

“no, it’s fine.” she answers immediately. even if she doesn’t think she has anything to apologize for — she doesn’t regret going to the party with benji, and she’s positive he didn’t bring the shirt — and she hardly wants to throw herself into the castros’ drama when they’re likely in a terrible state, there’s a part of her that’s sure it will get back to her parents if she doesn’t deliver it herself. besides, leah’s a big girl. she doesn’t need to run away from things that are difficult, and she certainly doesn’t need romy to swoop in and save her.  her chin lifts slightly at romy’s reaction to her request, but she fights the self-satisfied smile until he’s out the door. there’s a part of her, that she’s willing to dismiss as hereditary, that is tempted to poke around in their kitchen for something revealing. she quells the feeling, obediently staying put and distracting herself by watching romy through the window over the sink. her brow furrows as he ducks into the shed, and his return doesn’t clear any confusion; he’s carrying a bag not a beer. she presses up on her toes, eyes following him as he…. feeds the fish? immediately, she drops her heels again, jerking her gaze away from the window. it’s weird to see romy in that light. while logically, she knows he has to be responsible to get through med school, she wouldn’t have expected to see him take care of things on top of that. she doesn’t look towards the window again until she hears the glass door slide open.  leah opens her mouth to tell him she was just kidding about the beer, but the can is cracked open before she can get the words out. she’s still making peace with having to finish a beer in the middle of the afternoon when two glasses clink against the island. she assumes the lemonade is for romy, but then he opens his own beer. she opts for the lemonade.  she’s taking a sip when he speaks. setting the glass down, she nods at him to continue, curious about where he’s going with this. she’s certainly not expecting him to say he loves injury. her gaze drops, focusing on the beer despite the way her hands stick to the glass of lemonade, fingers tracing lines in the condensation. her gut churns as he continues, pointing out how gross injuries are and how he likes that pain isn’t permanent. she lets out a huff of harsh laughter at that, desperately wishing the world he lived in was her reality. but leah’s irreparably broken; there’s nothing he, nor anyone else, could do to change that now. she’s left to live forever with the pain of her injury, the grief of her loss. “that hasn’t been my experience,” she says softly. “my timeline’s indefinite.”

he never knew what he wanted from leah. he moved like he did, sure; he asked her to attend events, he went out of his way to speak to her, he claimed they were friends despite all of her protests. but, there were these little things that always stumped him. expectations he didn't know he had until they floated to the surface, new sensitivities she could unlock with a roll of her eyes. a second ago, had he been asked, romy would probably say that he'd be honored to make leah laugh, whether that was with him or at him. he'd say that he preferred it to her indifference, to her coldness. if he was going to be a nuisance, he'd rather it be entertaining. so, he doesn't know why it lands differently this time. why the sound of her laugh makes him cast his eyes downward, tap his fingers nervously against the side of the beer can. he feels sort of like he shouldn't have opened up at all. everything had some sort of end. it was that finality that haunted him recently. he wasn't naive enough to not think of death. in his field, he thought about it every day. he wondered how best he could comfort a family, how he could undo all of his programming to be good and helpful. he wondered if, by the time he became a doctor, he'd know death intimately enough to not speak of it with such fear, and exhilaration, on his face. right now, he wondered if he'd have the right words for leah by the time he was a doctor. he can't tell her that he's thought about her injury at length, that he considers her timeline every time she crosses his mind, that some deluded part of him thinks she will be okay eventually. thinking otherwise would be like learning about supernovas all over again. he twists the can tab until the metal gives and it's separate from the can, presses his thumb against its smooth edge and watches the imprint it makes in his skin. anything not to look at her right now "i think that all came out wrong. i don't— like suffering. and i know sometimes people live with pain forever. i guess it just— used to be comforting to me that. i don't know, there's an end in sight? that we're mortal?" he sets the can down on the counter, still turning the tab over in his fingers, and exhales "that was morbid, though. i shouldn't have said that. i'm really sorry." the last thing he needs right now is for anyone to think he'd be following in amelia's footsteps. it wasn't like that, he'd just been thinking too much "and i'm sorry that you're in pain. you don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." big words from the person who was most eager to hear every last detail of her injury and healing process, but he had to remember who he wanted to be, not who he was.

“no, fuck you,” tristan protested, but her tone betrayed her. more whine than malice. “i’m not staying where i’m not wanted.” but she ran her thumb over the fabric that had been given to her as she watched romy walk away. there was no denying the set was soft. “yeah.” she caved. something she’d blame on the alcohol later. “thanks.” she followed romy’s lead from earlier, turning her back to him before she got changed. even though he was pre-occupied. immediately, he was right about it being more comfortable. which almost made her feel a little bad for fighting him on it. “do i still get to sleep in the bed?” not that she really slept the other times she had been over.

he glances up at her once she's changed, pushing the plate forward on the counter "yeah. i can sleep on the couch if you want, too. i don't care." romy assesses the fit of the pajamas on tris, the way the bottom of the pants drags, before he's rummaging around in drawers and producing safety pins "fun night?" he questions as he kneels down, rolling and pinning the pants legs

a  few  hours  without  an  answer  and  clementine’s  mind is  as  good  as  lost  (  not  that  it  was  ever  found  to  begin  with  ).  death  pushes  people  to  act  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  preserving  what’s  left  of  their  heart  however  they  can  —  it’s  only  natural.  what’s  natural  doesn’t  matter  to  her,  though;  isolation,  she  decides,  is  the  coping method she  hates  most.  stupid,  because  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  her.  anyone  with  eyes  should  be  able  to  tell  that  the  weird  cloud  hanging  over  the  people  of  wrensted  doesn’t involve her much at all …  but  the  restless  beast  that  starts  clawing  at  her  gut  when  the  first  signs  of  abandonment  appear  doesn’t  exactly  leave  room  for  reason.  that  beast  is  the  one  forcing  her  to  break  into  romy’s  poolhouse;  the  beast  is  the  one  that  puts  her  fingers  to  his  neck,  clinging  to  the  comfort  of  his  blood  drumming  against  soft  pads.  doesn’t  take  long  before  he  stirs.  can’t  a  girl  check  a guy's  pulse  in  peace?  “  yer  alive  …  but  are  y’livin’?  ”  is  it  strange  or  evil  that  his  state  of  aliveness  offends  her?  he’s  breathing,  he’s  able  to  move,  yet  he  chose  to  leave  her  calls  and  texts  unanswered.  apology  helps  to  sweeten  the  sour,  to  tame  her  snarl  —  if  only  a  little.  light  flicks  on,  revealing  his  disheveled  state,  a  look  of  concern  shooting  across  her  freckled  face.  “  wasn’t  scared  before  …  am  a  lil’  now,  man.  y’look  — ”  in  an  instant  his  cheeks  are  trapped  between  her  fingers,  smooshed.  she  tilts  it  from  side  to  side,  from  up  to  down.  “  yer  pretty, pretty  face.  ”

it's the thickness of his voice that gives it away, though, if not the shaking in his own fingers as he pries hers off of his face. he keeps their fingers intertwined, though, some consolation. a reassurance that he isn't pushing his friend away, he's just trying to figure out how to breathe under the weight of her care "y'know, flattery'll get you everywhere, man." he attempts to tease her, but quickly falls back to match her painful sincerity "i'm just a lil.. you know. um, are you sleepy?"

She wasn't out here by choice, if anyone were to ask. The red-rimmed, puffy eyes were to be expected of someone who just found out someone they knew their whole life was dead. When they were out on their bike the night Amelia was discovered, not returning home until four am, their parents assumed it was just coping. The erratic behavior, the podcast - albeit strange, was still in line with Justice's self-righteous standard. However, all of that and seeing their youngest child trap herself in her room was too much of a backtrack for the Dawsons to let it go; this morning they told her she had an hour to get out of the house or they were going to call someone. This threat, previously empty, seemed legitimate. Andrea had been discussing with Carson the day before what their options were, and through the ducts she heard her father say: "Well, there's the one thing we haven't tried." It was still early in the day, early enough that no crowds were showing up to Lake Lullaby for something like a picnic or afternoon swim. No one was feeling particularly up for swimming today in Wrenstead, believe it or not. Locking her bike to the picnic table furthest from the welcome sign, Justice pulled out a crisp brown journal, yet untouched, from her backpack. Another, a blue one with only one page written on, followed. They were about to pull out a pen when they could have sworn they heard something, but they'd been hearing a lot of things lately that they weren't sure they could trust. Their own voice, apparently, being one of them. Instead of checking to see what could have possibly made the noise that they were sure wasn't there, they grabbed their pen. And then - fuck, it was there again. Reluctantly, they turned their head. "Fuck me," they groaned to themself, rubbing their face.

he doesn't know why he sits. but he can't exactly get up now, so instead of awkwardly striking up a conversation, romy's vape is retrieved from the pocket of his shorts, and he watches justice expectantly while taking a hit. a forceful regaining of his audacity— she owed him an explanation.

i’m glad you’re here. leah almost laughs at that, immediately assuming that he’s only saying that out of some sort of polite obligation. she knows she’s not the person anyone would want around in a moment of…. emotional difficulty. a few years ago, when maris and demi went through the first of three brief breakups, she had called leah sobbing.  later that day, sat on mari’s couch and surrounded by takeout sushi containers, leah pointed out that the breakup really wasn’t even that big of a deal; they weren’t living together, mari was young enough that it probably wasn’t going to end in marriage anyway, and at least now no one would be leaving a wet towel in a ball on her bathroom floor. mari had looked at leah, eyes still filled with tears, and told her she’s just about the worst person to go through a breakup with; too practical by half and having never experienced a heartbreak of her own. it might’ve stung had fondness not seeped into her every word.  besides, it was as true then as it is now. she’s more of the crisis type; someone that can remain detached enough to act quickly and decisively, reliable enough not to crumble when things get intense. but in the fallout of the crisis? surely romy would much rather have someone gentler around, someone that at least liked amelia. she can’t help but wonder what exactly it would take to get romy to drop the bullshit, if this isn’t enough. but admittedly, leah would rather be here, standing awkwardly in the paez-coopers’ kitchen than head to her next destination of the afternoon. “the only think you’re keeping me from is the castros’, which is the last fucking place i want to be right now.” considering how things ended the last time she was there, the castros would likely return the sentiment. leah had pointed that out to her parents, but they only said this would be a great opportunity to make amends.  mentally pushing aside that conversation and choosing to focus on the present, leah’s eyes lift to romy. this time, he’s looking at her. “sure,” she says, her tone straddling the line between serious and sarcastic, “i’ll take a beer.”

“it means, like, shy or something. oliver haynes likes to use it when he’s hitting on guys. kept striking out, so i heard it a hundred times.” though she doubted romy actually cared for the explanation. she looked down at the set of clothes extended, a slight furrow to her brows. “what am i supposed to do with that?” get changed, obviously. “what’s wrong with my dress?” though his words are a rejection, his actions are something more tender. which, honestly, should make things worse. should make tristan want to leave twice as much. instead, a shrug of her shoulders followed the next question. “like, ever? yeah duh.” though that wasn’t what he was asking. deflection alone probably answered his question, but the confession followed shortly after. “not really tonight.”

"well, you're sort of striking out hard. so, fitting i guess." believe it or not, it's his way of being polite. acknowledging what he would so kindly describe as her drunken babbling "change. i don't know. you can't be comfortable. and i'm not—" he blows a breath out, like he was being forced to speak "i'm too tired to take you home and i'm not letting you go by yourself. so. pajamas." he insists, shoulders lifting in what should be a casual shrug but feeling heavy. he doesn't even wait for her to confess before he's placing the clothes into her hands and turning away, heading for the kitchenette and opening the fridge "yea, neither have i. sandwiches fine?"

“good eye,” leah drawls sardonically as she follows him further into his home. “the rectangular one wrapped in foil is banana bread. i don’t recommend eating it with stew.” her footsteps stop at one end of the large kitchen island, though her eyes keep moving, following romy as he rounds it to the fridge.  “yeah, well.” somehow, it feels wrong to be mean to romy now. however, the feeling doesn’t stem from pity due to his recent loss. instead, she’s stuck on the castros’ pantry. despite leah not being entirely honest with him, between discussing their parents, being forced to ask for help, and hearing how romy sees her, she feels as though something shifted between them that night. she certainly doesn’t consider them friends, but to agree with him feels like a betrayal of whatever tenuous truce they’d brokered in that moment. the one that led to him offering an airpod at the beach house cleanup. the one that likely led leah to his kitchen today. “you’re just frustrating,” she admits before quickly looking away from him, folding her arms over her chest as her eyes scan the glass containers on the marble counter. “and besides, my parents like you.” pursing her lips together, leah takes a moment to consider how much she wants to hide behind her parents. they’re worried about you, she could say, despite how you really should be over amelia by now. between your schedule and your grief, it’s probably easy to neglect taking care of yourself. feeling her face heat, she decides against any further admissions.

he's curiously waiting for whatever leah's version of sympathy is going to be. she's graceful enough that he's sure she'll manage something, but part of him is hoping for honesty. a full admittance that, yeah, she couldn't stand him most of the time. that he was overbearing, annoying, and too nosy for his own good. maybe he'd always hold onto the past. what you already know to be true couldn't surprise you. couldn't hurt you. romy leans against the fridge, body language copying hers as his arms come to fold over his chest, robe sleeves bunching where they meet. romy's eyes, turned downward, light up just barely as she speaks. he thinks about not long ago, when he was sure they were closer than ever to getting one another. to being friends. when he thought back on it, it was a lot simpler than his feelings made it seem at the time. he had followed her in, disrupted her moment alone. and what's worse, it was his parents that had made her hide in the first place. it was frustrating. he was frustrating. he was delusional. but he continues to be, because frustrating didn't mean the worst. and she hadn't confirmed his words. so maybe there's hope. of what, he isn't sure. he's not dealing in hope much nowadays. "right." once he's traced every line between each tile in his eyeline, he feels prepared to look at leah, almost relieved to find her eyes not on him. in the back of his mind he almost remembers to be insecure about the unsightly thing in front of her in worn crumpled pajamas. apathy wins out, pretty girl in his house or not, and that thought is pushed back where it came "well, i'm glad you're here. so. tell your parents i said thank you." there wasn't any other reason to be grateful for them liking him, as he had learned at the birthday party. "you can tell me if i'm keeping you, but i'm supposed to be a good host and shit when people... do you want something to drink?"