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He doesn’t know what happened, he’s not sure, but god he remembers the blood, and Emily yelling at him that he’s a nutcase and she’s right, of course. Mike’s not dead, he’s standing right next to her and his stomach is churning as he tries to gather his thoughts. He thinks maybe he’s hallucinating again because blood is still pouring out of Mike’s eyes, so he turns, their eyes burning his back, and he brushes off Beth’s hand as she reaches for his arm. Hannah won’t look at him and he can’t blame her, not then, not ever.
The music’s too loud, and his head hurts and he’s carding shaky fingers through dark curls, digging at his scalp, then his face. His heart falls and he bites his lip, hating himself for skipping his meds again. But fuck, fuck, he can’t stand how they make him feel; likes he’s a zombie or in a coma. He stumbles, fumbling with a doorknob, letting his feet carry him to solace.
The pain doesn’t subside though. Everything's white and blinding, and his head feels like it's going to fucking split in half and—and then there's Sam. He can hear a door shut behind her, hear her calling to him, and he feels her pull his arms down and somehow the aching in his head eases a little. Sam, Sammy, Samantha, his sister's friend in her ridiculously perfect costume and her bright eyes. Sometimes he thinks he sees stars there, glittering in a field of green, green grass.
She sees him then—truly sees him—and all the bits of him that he tried to hide away. All the bravado, the flirtation, the jokey big brother figure he's forced himself into; the image he'd always tried to project slips away and fuck it hadn't taken much, had it?
He wants to laugh. Maybe cry too.
“Josh—Josh, hey,” Her voice cracks, his name leaving her lips in more of a croak than the whisper she intends.
He won’t look at her; can’t look at her. His throat’s on fire, the back of his neck burning, a scream caught inside him that he’s too scared to let out. It makes him want to claw at his throat, maybe it’ll stop if he does. But he settles for balling his fists into his jeans, counting his labored breaths. Four, five, six. He makes it to eleven when he hears her sigh.
Her hands are on him then, cold, and a little clammy. Her fingers brush over his forehead, tracing down the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, bathing in her touch. Confusion stresses his features, makes a wrinkle between his eyebrows and he swears he hears her laugh. A brush of skin over his eyelids, then his cheeks. Her hands, warmer now than they were before, settle on each side of his neck and only then does he caution a look at her.
A weight settles like lead in his stomach at the sight of her. Red suits her, especially when it's painting her cheeks and the tips of her ears. But then, he always knew that. Red like the blood under his nails, like her tongue as she drags it across her lips, visibly swallowing. Like her favorite skirt, and the scarf she wears during the winter. She sticks out like a sore thumb walking across their yard with Hannah, snowflakes in their hair and laughter blowing through the air. Josh is sure, somehow, he'll always remember them like that and, god, he's been staring longer than he meant to, and he's making her nervous, he thinks, so he looks away from the heat of her gaze, focusing on her neck, shoulder, arms. She smiles and her tiny hands are burning his neck, or maybe it's the other way around, and he wants her to touch his cheeks again, or maybe his lips because he feels like he’s drowning and he wants to forget the way everyone's eyes fell on him and he can't think of a better way to do that than getting lost in her and all the vibrant colors she brings with her.
“I'm here,” Sam's voice is soft, like her touch. “And I'll stay here,” The heat leaves his neck, and her fingers are sliding down his arms. A brush of fingers that sets him on fire again and he shivers, trembles, swallows. She finds his hands, balled in the denim fabric of his jeans and he unfurls them so she can give them a proper squeeze. It's almost too much and he kind of wants to vomit. “However long you need me to, Josh... but, please, talk to me. Let me in.” And, fuck, he does. She rubs small circles into his back as he heaves up god-knows-what from the past twenty four hours. He's not sure if he's puking in the toilet or in the garbage bin or on the floor, but he doesn't give a shit, so long as it's not on her. Alcohol, too much fucking alcohol, he muses. And probably the chips she'd offered him too.
"Mm sorry, Sammy," His words are a little slurred and though he tries to gather them, to sound coherent and genuine, it comes out sloppy like his entire goddamn existence and he resists the urge to laugh at how pathetic he sounds; at how pathetic he is. Sam doesn't mind though. She keeps rubbing his back; brings him a cool cloth and dabs at his forehead, then his mouth. She's not smiling anymore, but he feels just a little better. He wants to say thank you, or tell her that she looks really beautiful but he just slumps back onto the floor and moans. Her hands follow him down, and then, she does too.
-
His surroundings come back to him and he feels like he’s resurfaced, floating in the calm that she brings. They're on her bathroom floor, the one next to the laundry room downstairs in her basement, backs pressed against the wall (he's amazed with himself for not tripping down them when he barreled past everyone). The party is still going, faint voices and music humming in a world they’re hiding from. Their knees are touching and he can’t bring his eyes away from the scars and scabs that litter them and her slim legs. He measures his words as he counts them, and for just a minute he forgets he's totally fucked up even as the proof of it's spilling out of his mouth like vomit had only forty minutes ago. He's too scared to look at her, too scared to think that maybe this is changing everything—what she thinks of him; of them. He doesn’t tell her the worst of it; the episodes and all the therapists. But he tells her sometimes he wants to die, and the look of complete understanding that washes over her face kind of scares him. “I feel lost and completely useless, but… Hannah and Beth keep me grounded,” he mumbles it; buries his cheek into the palm of his hand, resisting the urge to claw at his face again. “I don't know what I'd do without them,” Josh wants to tell her that she keeps him there too, in her own way. She brings a normality into his household that's been harder to achieve since his dad started working so much, since he became more of a problem and less of a son.
“Yeah.” He catches that smile forming on her lips again out of the corner of his eye and he lifts his head to look at her, cool eyes widening in wonder. “You guys really have something special. I'm a little jealous, sometimes.” The way she says it—nervously with a ring of laughter trailing after it, makes him want to kiss her. But his mouth is still bitter and she's still Hannah's numero uno (who would throttle him if he ever got tangled up with the adventurous blonde; and she's too good for him, anyway, like an angel or some other symbolic drivel) and she's gained a place in his life. An icy panic clutches at his chest when he thinks about losing that or fucking it up. So Josh grins and pokes her arm.
"Does little Sammy-wammy wish she had a big brother?"
"Josh, don't touch me with your barf fingers." It's maybe a serious threat, but she's laughing again despite that and he drags his tongue up his index finger and waves it at her. "That's disgusting, and-no, don't you dare!"
In the tussle that ensues, Sam wins, pinning him to the floor with ease. Slim fingers are wrapped around his wrist, holding the contaminated hand in place. Josh blames the loss on his weakened and likely (definitely) dehydrated state but a triumphant (cute) guffaw escapes her and he can't help but grin. "Fine, fine, you get this one. 30 Love, since you watched me barf my brains out, too."
"Ha ha, victory is mine," her eyes are sparkling. "And anytime, Josh. Just keep your barf covered hands to yourself." He wiggles the fingers on his trapped hand at her again and she shakes her head, small giggles shaking her and causing strands of blonde hair to fall loose from behind her ear. They tickle his eyelids and lips and this is definitely too much now. Christ. "You know, you should smile more-ah-" His free arm circles around her waist and he wonders if she's always been this small yet strong. Josh pulls her close, closer than he should and he curls fingers into her hair. Her heart's beating a mile a minute and he can feel it, pounding violently right next to his. He's struck then, by just how real she is. God, maybe the realest thing he's ever known.
"Thank you, Sam."
Laughter breaks out upstairs and a song he doesn’t know comes on as Sam dips her head. In a look, wait we are not fine. A breath catches in his throat and he lets his eyes slip close when he feels her breath ease over his cheek. Her lips brush the tip of his ear and he inhales sharply. Wait, you are not mine.
And so the girl with stars in her eyes, his sister's best friend, with the kind heart and scabbed knees whispers, with a reverent warmth, that he'll always have a place with her.
-
He's alone, aching, and hungry when soft laughter reaches his ears and he remembers the gentle touch of lips and happiness lost in a snowstorm of red, red, red.