just to be here again / grady&naomi

The Keepers knock on your door early that morning. Beckerson lets them in, scurrying away quickly to put the kettle on, and your father calls everyone to the sitting room. They ask to talk to you privately, but of course, your family is your family. Your mother puts one hand on your shoulder and the other over her heart.

"Whatever he's done," She says, resigned like she's been waiting for the day, "We'd all like to hear it."

You can see Owen kick his feet up on the ottoman and stifle a smirk.

The head Keeper just sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "Your son's enrolled at Salvatore, yeah? We're conducting a few interviews with their students." He shifts his weight. "New body's turned up."

And you had heard the rumours about Cassius, felt the shockwaves that traveled through the student body and mourned the loss of your little typewriter when he was finally found. When they say Cleo's name you mother gasps but you don't even hear it. Owen's smirk gets wiped from his face and all the walls seem to close in on you.

That can't be right - because Cleo is Cleo. She's a perfectly manicured little cockroach that's impossible to get rid of. She's your girlfriend, your cover story, the queen to your king.

She was.

Your statement to the Keepers is a blur. It's an amalgamation of stressed nerves and a public breakdown and the oncoming symptoms of a migraine. When they finally leave, you practically throw yourself up the stairs and lock yourself in your room. There's a canvas tucked away in your closet that you pull out, one that you never fully finished, all wine-reds and dark purples, and you stare at it for a very, very long time.

There are bruises under your eyes when you leave, and your hair isn't done when you turn the street corner and head closer to the square. Your collar isn't even pressed let alone starched, and it makes you walk faster to the clinic, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist.

You had rehearsed what you were going to say to Naomi - practiced telling her off in the mirror, demanded your reflection to tell you why she was lying. But when you step in the room and see her face, you blanch. The whole hour of prep before this seems to fly out the window. She looks awful and it almost makes you crack.

Because it makes you think of the last time you properly talked to her, when you'd been cornered with Maverick in that music room and you'd said such horrible things to both of them.

You try to look confident when you cross the room and sit in the chair beside her bed, picking at a nail and watching her watch you.

"What is this, then." You bite out, because you remember making sock puppets with her in the garden and how good she was at making up little stories to play out. You remember later being so worried about the stories she'd tell people about you. "Is this another little act?"

"Do you think this is funny?" You ask her, and your voice breaks so badly that you have to focus on a spot over her shoulder instead of her face. You grip the armrests of the chair to stop your hands from shaking.

"I know you don't trust me." You say harshly, "But if this is a prank, just tell me. Because it's a pretty fucking shitty one."

You raise your chin and cross your ankles and clear your throat, trying not to stare at the mess of her mouth, "I won't spill, alright? Just tell me."