t a s t e my disaster || cal + teva

Teva wasn’t quite bedridden. If he was properly medicated (under the orders of Doctor fucking Tate), he could maneuver with ease as long as he handled his leg with care. Every six hours he was supposed to swallow pills. Since he was home and off work until he healed, it was easier to remember, yet somehow he always ended up forgetting until he was stubbornly sprawled out on his bed, eyes squeezed shut and body curled in an attempt to ignore the stinging. By then he was too lazy and too proud to simply walk to the bathroom and swallow some pills so he could “feel better”. He was a fucking gang member, he should’ve been able to endure this type of pain for as long as it lingered. But Tate, being Tate, had to go and ruin everything by playing doctor and mother simultaneously.

Teva had wanted to avoid having a chat about his inconvenient gunshot wound with Cal. No doubt Tate regurgitated the story through his stupid point of view, where Teva “started a shootout” and “almost got everyone killed.” That wasn’t how it fucking went down. He had seen – very clearly – the rival gang member reaching for the gun in his belt. Had he not acted, he would’ve withdrew it and shot any one of them, whether it be Tate, Tripp, or himself. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Who would sit there and watch their brothers take a fatal bullet? One of them would’ve died for sure, so he fired before anyone else could. Yes, it ignited an entire shootout that resulted in a wound sustained by Teva and Tate, but Tate’s wound was his own fucking fault. Who runs out into the open in the middle of a shootout just to draw someone’s attention?

A fucking idiot, that’s who.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. When the bullet struck Teva’s flesh it felt like a bee sting, but with enough added force to knock him on his ass. Obviously he couldn’t stand without risking agony, but he could still wriggle about and peer behind crates to aim his gun. It wasn’t until they returned home that the consequences turned miserable. Tripp had been forced to pin him to the table while Tate plucked bullet fragments out of bleeding flesh. It wasn’t his proudest moment, pants down and legs spread so Tate could have access to his upper thigh. Tate’s commentary also didn’t help dampen the humiliation of it. ”I never wanted to be this close to your dick, Teva.” And he said it in such a deadpan that he couldn’t argue.

After thirty minutes of raw screaming, biting cloth, and trying to break the counter with his hands, he had been good as new, limping around the house with sweat sticking to his forehead.

Of course everyone blamed him for the incident. That was always how it happened. Something was always his fault, and nobody was open to his perspective. He suffered twofold for every move he made. Granted, he probably should’ve known better than to “forget” about his medication. It was to keep himself sane, yet he defiantly continued to neglect them until recently. It was Tate’s fault again, of course – he had actually told Cal what happened and asked him to “take care of Teva” like he was a fucking five year old. Tate would even knock on his door with a fresh roll of bandages, like he couldn’t handle himself. It was his own damn leg, he was perfectly capable of changing some fucking wrappings.

Now whenever Cal crawled through his window late at night, Teva would end up having pills shoved down his throat. How could he say no? He was pretty sure Cal knew about the soft spot Teva had for him, he just didn’t know how soft.

The worst part was how bored out of his fucking mind he was. He would happily request nights off (the less time spent with Bouncer, the better), but with nobody home there wasn’t much to occupy himself with. He had already napped once today. Now it was late in the evening and he was curled up in his bed, waiting for Cal to appear in his window. He wasn’t due for a few hours, so maybe he could take another nap in the meantime. He wasn’t in pain, after all. He had actually remembered to take his pills this time.

He was halfway there when something thumped against the floorboards. The fact that Cal’s shift was far from over jumpstarted his heart, and his eyelids flew open. His knife was on the nightstand, his gun stored somewhere in his dresser drawer. He could hear breathing, so it was definitely a person. Who besides Cal would even bother coming in through his window? A robber would’ve been more graceful than that, and by now Teva would have a knife pressed against his own throat if the asshole knew what he was doing.

He turned and peered at the crumpled form on his floor, choosing instead to flick on his bedside lamp so he wouldn’t have to continue the guessing game. He abruptly sat up when he realized that it was Cal, except he looked very different. Disheveled, actually. His hair was a fucking mess, and that was unlike him. Under normal circumstances, it would probably look hot.

The purple ribbon around his throat wasn’t so hot.

”Holy shit,” he whispered, rushing to crouch in front of him. It didn’t take a genius to know what a bruise around the throat meant, especially because he had seen one on Feather before. Fortunately, she had been skilled enough to fight off her attacker and beat the ever loving shit out of him. But it had still left a bright ugly mark across her neck.

He didn’t know the extent of Cal’s condition. As gently as possible, he hooked his arms beneath Cal’s armpits and tried to hoist him to his knees. Up close, he could see the purple splotch on his face. It made his blood boil dangerously, but his aching heart competed. He couldn’t figure out which one to focus on. His eyes narrowed on the bruise, and he finally broke his silence with a quiet ”What happened?” Without thinking, he touched the bruise with one hand and cupped the back of his head with the other. He felt something warm and wet. Blood. What else would it be?

”Who the fuck did this?”

Cal’s blood was smeared across his palm. He reacted strongly to Teva’s touch, skin slick with sweat like he was on death’s doorstep. Teva instantly regretted his actions. He hadn’t meant to hurt Cal, but he didn’t know the extent of his damage. Judging by how harsh and low his voice was, there was something else wrong too, probably an injury to his torso. It could be anything, really; a blow to his back, to his chest, to his stomach – perhaps a broken rib or two? He didn’t want to lift Cal’s shirt and check without his permission. He could just ask about it later, when he inevitably offered him some morphling pills to erase his aches.

Cal’s supporting arm weakened and caved under pain’s pressure. He collapsed ungracefully into Teva’s lap, where the blood from his skull seeped into the fabric of his pajamas. Teva wiped the blood from his palm there too. He didn’t care about the fabric. Bloodstains were a bitch to wash out, but he was used to it. There were more pressing concerns to focus on – like the fucking customer he would have to hunt down. The neck he would have to wring and the face he would have to bash in. What the fuck was wrong with people? He couldn’t dive into the mindset of some sick bastard and explain how or why anyone would try to hurt this poor face. Even hammered, Teva didn’t imagine violent, irrational things like that.

”He’s not going to like it when I shove my fist down his fucking throat,” he countered, because fuck whoever that selfish asshole was. No way was he going to escape punishment. Cal was already drowning in misery, he didn’t deserve to feel agony like this. That prison of a nightclub was enough of a hellhole without the sprinkle of violence; who wanted to crush the bird’s hollow bones while it was fluttering in its cage? He intended to find out, whether Cal approved of his vengeance or not. If this had happened to a gang member, that asshole would get his throat slit and his corpse burned.

Anybody who made Cal cry deserved to suffer.

Teva’s defenses were off-kilter. His heart felt like glass, fragile and fragmented the moment Cal broke down in his lap. He closed his eyes and tried to think rationally. There was a burning in the back of his eyes that he tried to shove into the forgotten corners of his mind. It wasn’t easy to make Cal cry, and the implications behind his bruises and his explanation drew a gruesome picture of what probably happened. It was enough to make Teva’s hands tremble, but he quickly steadied them with anger instead of despair. They gingerly cradled Cal’s face, helpless and unable to heal.

That was the worst part, being helpless. There was no way for Teva to protect him from bullshit like this. It would’ve happened no matter what, and he hated it. He loathed everything about that fucking job.

He smoothed the hair back from Cal’s forehead, careful to avoid disturbing the wound on the back of his skull. When they were kids, mama had her way of soothing troubled hearts. When Teva cried she would sit him in her lap and coo his name over and over again until he calmed himself down, but those were innocent times. Teva cried for stupid reasons back then, so it had been simple to calm him. This wasn’t so simple. He couldn’t heal Cal’s insides with words or promises. He couldn’t say “It’s okay” or “It’s going to be okay” because it wasn’t and it wouldn’t be. He would have to return to that place and remain their slave until the contract expired.

”I don’t understand why this fucking happened,” he whispered with a scowl, combing his fingers through Cal’s disheveled hair. He didn’t mean it in the way he said it; he knew why it happened, he knew the circumstances and the cruelty of people, but why did it happen to him? Why Calcifer? Of all people, why was this beautiful boy being torn to fucking shreds? It seemed like life had some twisted sense of humor, punishing the innocent in order to watch them and their loved ones squirm. Meanwhile, the psychopaths and assholes dominated. Teva wanted to wipe them all out. He could be an asshole too, but he was only a thief. He killed the ones who proved themselves too malicious to be kept alive – the ones who tried to slit his throat when he was only trying to make a living through the only methods he could. The gang itself was a trap, after all. Once you’re in, you’re not out until your heart stops beating.

Teva swiped tears away with the pad of his thumb, and relaxed his scowl. The expression that followed wasn’t much better, drooped with frowns and misery. ”You deserve to be treated like a fucking diamond, Calficer,” he said.

Pain existed to torment the strong and the weak alike. There were as many types of pain as there were people to inflict it, and Teva had endured a fair sum of it over the years. He had been shot in the leg, stabbed and sliced until his skin from head to toe had been mapped with uneven scars, punched until his head spun or his eyes blackened or his noise exploded, kicked until he couldn’t breathe anymore, and deprived of happiness that never should’ve been stolen from him, that never should’ve left him in the Square with fractured ribs in the first place. A loss meant more than any bruise or crack in his body. His mama and his littlest brother were scars that constantly bled, and there was no mending them with any amount of healing. Not even the passage of time.

But there was still agony that Teva had never experienced, the type that Tate and Tripp suffered. The type Cal was enduring right now. There was no mimicking somebody’s pain, or describing it in a way that could make anybody else understand it. Teva couldn’t ask what it felt like and expect a real answer. He couldn’t grasp it completely. If it was possible to wish Cal’s pain upon himself, he would accept it in a heartbeat. Not only to understand, but to relieve. Cal wasn’t meant to grow and live in a world half as bad as the Seraphim’s reality of violence and malice, yet here he was, living something just as ugly, perhaps worse. There was nothing anybody could do about it. Not Tate, not Teva, not Tripp, not Cal. Nobody.

Cal’s hands were always cold, but his touch was warm and wet with blood, and it smelled bitterly of iron. He didn’t care to wash the stains out of his clothes or wipe the scarlet away from his cheek. He was focused solely on Cal, on his tears and his flushed cheeks, on the hair Teva was trying to smooth down with his palm. There was no way to erase his suffering, but he would do everything in his power to dampen it. He was prepared to answer any request. Pills? He had plenty to spare. A shower? He was always welcome to it. Bandages? He had more than enough. Tea? Coffee? Food? Sleep? Anything.

It was quiet and hoarse, but Teva thought he heard a “Please,” slip out of Cal’s lips. He straightened himself up and tensed his muscles, allowing Cal to hoist himself up by his shoulders and steady himself upright. Teva rested his hands on either side of Cal’s waist, ready to catch him if he collapsed. He was wincing at every slight movement, and looked like he was going to pass out at any moment. Instead, he begged Teva. ”Kill me.”

The muscles in his face relaxed for as long as it took him to process the plea. He stared at Cal vacantly, having heard this request before from other people’s mouths. Sometimes he granted it, other times the victim was made to suffer, not by his own order. Teva could slit throats without turning a blind eye. He could stick a knife between somebody’s ribs without flinching. He could fire a bullet into a man’s skull without hesitation. He imagined Cal slipping a knife into his hand, guiding it to his heart. The blade slid inside without resistance, and blood seeped rapidly from the edges. Cal’s face screwed up in pain. His dark eyes flickered like any man’s did when he was fading.

Teva didn’t feel it in his eyes, but in his chest. There was an anchor in his heart, and it dragged his hopes and peace into oblivion. Tears decorated the corners of his eyes and he didn’t notice until his vision blurred and his voice cracked. ”No,” he muttered. He was Cal’s protector, not his killer. ”No.” He shook his head. ”No.” He had always rescued Cal when he needed it. The time he nearly snapped the bone in his arm, Teva had carried him all the way home because he complained and insisted.

”Cal, that’s-“

There was the night they had revealed their secrets to one another. Cal had nearly passed out on the concrete, and when Teva hoisted him up he felt like dead weight. He was heavier from muscle build-up, and his arms had melted to hot gelatin during the whole trip home. Fortunately, Teva had plenty of experience carrying his own injured men to safety.

Cal couldn’t know what he was asking of him, the permanence of it. Of course he was miserable, but misery didn’t last forever. Another few years and Cal would be free. He could use his education to his advantage. He could be happy.

”No.” He said it sternly, frantically wiping the tears away from his cheeks. ”That’s not an option.”

Anything but that.

”I can’t-“ He tried to breathe and it escaped as a pathetic hiccup. He couldn’t even look Cal in the eyes. ”I can’t do that.” It was impossible. Cal shouldn’t ask anyone to die. Cal shouldn’t ask to die at all. He should’ve asked for the nice things Teva could give him – medicine, warmth, food, water, care. His mother couldn’t see him like this. Shit, his mother. How heartbroken would she be if he died? She had already lost too much.

He took a few deep gulps of air and managed to calm his frantic breathing. There was no anger to replace the panic. ”I care about you more than I care about myself.”

If you die, I die with you.

There was always a chance that at any moment, any person could die – himself and his family included – but he couldn’t think of it that way with Cal. When he imagined Cal’s timeline, it stretched into forever. Down the line Cal was wearing a suit, sitting in a cozy office job with employees reporting to him. His wallet was bursting with cash, and the only stress in his life was meeting business deadlines. It was enough to keep his mother out of work. Teva didn’t see this dream as an exaggeration; once Cal’s contract expired, he would be out of school and ready to apply his skills to the real world. Teva didn’t know the first thing about business bullshit (had he never dropped out, perhaps he would), but he knew Cal was capable. He was a smart kid, a hardworking kid.

All Teva wanted was for him to be happy again. This dying business, he deserved no part of it. Cal couldn’t wish for such injustice. He couldn’t disappear. It would demolish the world around him. Selfishly, Teva thought of how much it would destroy him inside out, but he wasn’t the only one who would be left wounded in the aftermath. There was Cal’s mother, Tate, Tripp, and Teddy if he ever made it back home (there was still no word, no letters, nothing). Maybe it didn’t seem like a lot, but it was.

He fell against Teva with an apology, voice withered and rough like sand had been poured down his throat. Their foreheads touched and puffs of air dissipated against his cheek, ragged and tired, but still warm. They were so intimately close that Teva stopped breathing entirely. Now was not the time for the pink patches in his cheeks to glow instead of dim. They were already flushed from his emotional distress, burning hot like summer heat. He didn’t want to burn himself out, he wanted to simmer. They needed to reach equilibrium again, or as close to it as they could manage given the fucked up circumstances dragging Cal by his ankles into an abyss of unimaginable suffering.

Teva closed his eyes and focused on recovering his composure. It was an inappropriate time to think about how easy it would be to kiss him, even if he did manage to muster the courage. His lip was split and his body was broken. There were serious, realistic consequences to confront, like Cal’s warped image of himself. It was wrong. It wasn’t healthy, and it was fucking wrong, wrong, wrong.

”Too fucking late,” he said, voice grainy. He cleared his throat and swallowed his pain. ”I’ve cared about you way too much for a long time now. You can’t change my mind.”

He wiped the crystals off of his own cheeks, skin smeared with the blood he had never wanted to see. Cal’s head was resting on his shoulder now, apologizing. Reassuring him that he didn’t mean it. I trust you. Maybe he was too eager to trust, but it was Cal, his trust in him would never falter. If he said it, he meant it. He took every apology seriously, and nodded. It was a relief to hear him change his mind.

Comfort was the first step to recovery – or maybe it was bandaging him up, he didn’t know yet. But comfort had never been his strong point. He was all rough hands and jagged edges, sharp and blunt. Tate was the only one who knew how to treat somebody else’s pain, and their mom must’ve taught him that. Whenever Teva scraped his knee or cut himself open hopping fences as a little delinquent, Tate was the one who kissed the bruises before bringing him home to mom. If anyone was crying, Tate was the one who combed his fingers through their hair, muttering soothing comforts into their ear.

He thought about what his mom said, treating girls like diamonds. He only wanted to treat Cal that way, because he was special. He could treat women as equals and acknowledge that some could overpower him, but they were not his diamonds.

”I’m gonna take care of you,” he said, all tears ceased as he turned his head and kissed Cal’s forehead. The way you deserve to be taken care of. He remembered Cal asking him if he remembered his mom’s words about girls and diamonds, but sleep had conquered him before he could expand on the topic. Now it was all he could think about. Minutes ago he had told Cal that he deserved to be treated like one, and he kept true to his words. He believed it.

”When my mom said we should treat girls like diamonds, I don’t think she just meant girls,” he said, ”I think she meant someone we loved.”

He knew the implication behind his confession. For two years it was a knot wedged in his throat, choking him whenever his bravery reached its highest peak. The fear of rejection always dragged him three steps backward, and now that Tate had caught on to the ordeal it felt even worse to love someone and never speak a word of it. He had never imagined confessing under such grim circumstances, but Cal needed to know that he was not some heap of disposable trash. He was someone who was cared for, someone who stirred genuine love in the mind and body of another, whether it remained unrequited or not. He deserved to know that Teva wasn’t bullshitting around with his feelings. If his life was on the line, there were no more secrets.

Cal abruptly budged and twisted the fabric of his shirt, tugging him forward like the force of gravity. He hadn’t known what to expect, but naturally anticipated something unpleasant. A stone replaced the knot in his throat, dropping into his stomach to make him nauseous with dread. Cal was smacking his chest and calling him an asshole, and Teva hadn’t meant to hurt him like this. He hadn’t meant to provoke anger or tears. He didn’t want to be another burden in his life but perhaps he had just made himself one. He was immune to the word ’asshole’, even when it came from Cal’s mouth. It was true; he was an asshole to Tate, to Tripp, sometimes to Teddy. Everyone in the gang knew it. It wasn’t any different coming from Cal, but the context made him recoil.

He regretted his reveal, but wouldn’t withdraw it for a second chance. As much pain as it caused him, it was necessary.

There was a hesitation to touch him again. He didn’t want to offend Cal any more than he already had, and swallowed the molasses in his throat to clear it up and open his mouth for an apology. Cal cut him off before he started.

”I love you so fucking much.”

Nothing in Teva’s life was ever a surprise anymore, but this time he froze, shallow breath escaping in a gasp. The weight in his stomach lifted and migrated to his head, dizzying him into a state of awe. His jaw went slack and his eyes were dumbstruck. The words registered and settled; I. love. You. So. Fucking. Much. And he couldn’t smile. His heart was on fire and burned hotter than the afternoon sun and everything inside of him was smiling, but he couldn’t. The muscles in his stunned face wouldn’t cooperate.

”Oh,” he croaked.

What a dumb fucking thing to say.

Relief tickled him from head to toe. He leaned forward and slipped his hand around the base of Cal’s neck to pull him forward and kiss his cheek. He tasted like salt and sadness but he didn’t give two shits. ”Oh my god.” He frantically wiped the tears away from Cal’s cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He wasn’t even religious. ”I’ve been in love with you for two fucking years.” Appreciation was laced between every syllable. He still remembered the day he actually acknowledged his dormant feelings for Cal, standing in the doorway during their Ratmas get-together. And he remembered everything after; the lonesome moping in his room, the pitiful longing he felt, the frustrating moments of realization that he could never forget and move on.

He peppered Cal’s cheeks with tender kisses. His lip was split and he didn’t want to irritate any marked areas of skin, so he settled with this. Then he wrapped his arms around the bottom of Cal’s waist. ”I’m gonna pick you up, okay? So I can move you somewhere comfortable,” he said. Yeah, it was going to hurt. He imagined Cal was bruised from neck to hips, perhaps even further, and vowed to fucking maul the piece of shit who did this to him. That was for a later time. He hoisted Cal off of the floor with a good bit of effort, and set him down on the edge of the bed. ”I’ll bring you a glass of water and some pain pills,” he said.

He had promised to take care of him, after all.

Cal’s tears were a reminder of the night’s terrors. As much love and comfort as Teva could provide, there was no masking the horrors behind a veil. There was a purple ring around Cal’s neck and scattered bloodstains on Teva’s clothes and hands, a problem he would have to address with bandages if the wound didn’t stop bleeding soon. Luckily, the Seraphims were never short of healing supplies. Teva had gathered fourteen scars over the years, all of which had needed protective coverage. Others had needed stitches. Make that fifteen. He shifted on his right leg, the fresh gunshot wound practically a forgotten memory. It would leave a permanent mark for sure.

A shower had been part of Teva’s “how to take care of Cal” list, so the plead for it didn’t take him by surprise. ”Of course.” He kissed Cal’s temple and retreated to the bathroom. The bottle of morphling pills was stored in a cabinet with the rest of the healing supplies – save for a roll of bandages Teva had hidden in one of his drawers. His reflection seemed worn around the edges, eyes puffy from dried tears but still very much wide and awake. He might’ve been half-blind by panic, but his cheeks looked a few shades paler, like a ghost had passed through his body. Maybe one had. There was still no word about Teddy, and for all he knew they were living with his dead spirit, forever lost because no grave would be carved out for him.

He returned to Cal with two pills and a glass of water. ”Here,” he handed both to him, and rummaged through his closet for a warm pair of clothes. His efforts felt half-assed, like he was forgetting something important. He wanted to ensure Cal was as comfortable as possible in order to heal, but how long was that? Physically, he could estimate how long the healing process would take for the bruises and the gash on his head. He didn’t know about the rest. Scars could take on many forms, and Cal’s were invisible. He couldn’t see how many times someone had truly hurt him. There was no way to know for sure, even if he asked. He didn’t want to ask.

It was a darker side of Cal’s life that they didn’t often discuss. It was a similar case for his own work. Cal had seen his scars and force fed him pills because of the throbbing wound in his leg, but that was only scratching the surface. They didn’t talk about how many people Teva had robbed, how many people he had killed. How many ribs he could break in one kick, how swiftly he could slit somebody’s throat. There were terrible crimes he never shared, and sufferings he wouldn’t admit. Cal's was a different kind of suffering, one he couldn’t reach. Impossible to understand completely.

He waited for Cal to swallow the pills and gathered up a pair of pajamas. ”I’ll walk you there,” he said, offering his arm. He figured it would be easier to move from the bed to the bathroom, but it was only a guess. He had managed to walk all the way here and climb the tree to his open window, and maybe he had spent his last ounce of energy heaving himself pver that ledge. Teva just wanted him to feel better somehow, and he would do anything to accomplish that.

God, I love him so much.

There was no God, just a clusterfuck of bullshit religions worshiping invisible entities to replace the hope they lost to the real world, but someone needed to know how painfully hard he had fallen for Calcifer and “God” was the only person supposedly listening. There was relief somewhere in his broken heart, wedged between cracks, telling him that because Cal loved him everything would be okay. Everything was not okay. This was so far from okay it left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he wanted badly to replace it with the coppery flavor of blood by biting the inside of his cheek until he pinched a vein. He wanted to plow his fist into a brick wall to feel something stronger than the pain in his chest (and avoid pissing Tate off by smashing a hole into their wall). He wanted a lot of things; a bottle of liquor, the high from that one dose of heroin, and Calcifer.

He had one of those things glued to his side right now, but he was hurting, practically leaning all of his weight into Teva so they could shuffle to the bathroom. The rest of the house was eerily quiet, the way it had been since Teddy was arrested. Nothing stirred, not even Tate. He probably wasn’t home and neither was Tripp. Maybe that was a good thing. He promised he would take care of Cal and he would, all by himself because he fucking could. There was no need to bombard him with worried triplets. One was enough. Teva was enough – or so he wanted to believe. Maybe he wasn’t the most trustworthy in bad situations, but he trusted himself enough to take care of Cal properly. It was the one thing he couldn’t fuck up.

”I’ll just be a few minutes,” Cal said, shutting the door between them. He looked so unhappy, so afraid, Teva didn’t even want to leave him alone in the fucking bathroom. He wanted to scoop Cal up into his arms and lay him on a bed of clouds, but all he had was a halfway decent bed in a room with random shirts strewn across the floor because he had no sense of organization. Cal deserved better. He sighed and pressed his forehead against the door, ignoring the irksome weight of silence until he heard the echo of running water. Then he hurried downstairs and nervously paced around the kitchen. He didn’t know what to do with himself in the meantime. He didn't want to think or feel. Was that too much to ask?

There was liquor around here somewhere, but his brain screamed bad idea so he grabbed the nearest edible thing and sank his teeth into it. He devoured it like a starving wolf, wishing he had grabbed something a little more filling than an apple, and tossed the core into the trash. Upstairs, he hurried toward his room to occupy himself in a more productive way. Instead, he paused when he heard Cal’s voice in the bathroom. Not speaking, just noises. He pressed his ear against the door and held his breath. He was sobbing.

”Cal?” He knocked softly. He shouldn’t have left him alone, but fuck, people needed their goddamn privacy. It was common sense. ”I’m coming in, Cal,” he added, knocking again in case he hadn’t heard him. The apple was setting badly in his stomach – or maybe it was nerves, knotting up inside of him because he didn’t want to invade Cal’s privacy or leave him in isolation to drown in tears. I promised I would take care of him. And he would do everything in his fucking power to keep that promise.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. ”Cal..” The mirror was coated in a layer of fog, and he felt feverish. He reached out for the curtain. ”I’m gonna open this, okay?” If there was any protest he would back off. He wasn’t about to barge in if Cal didn’t want to be bothered.

When he did open them, he found Cal on the floor with his knees against his chest. Teva crouched down to his level and frowned. ”Can you look at me?” he asked, because I’m right here, like I said I’d be.

”What do you need?”