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Ted feels weird.
But that’s always the case, isn’t it? He’s always the odd one out; he walks weird, talks weird, thinks weird. It takes him longer to understand ‘basic’ concepts. He’s always one step behind everyone else, something that gets him scolded time and time, and time again. Too much.
But at the end of the day, he deserves it. That’s what his dad, his teachers echo every time they take their reprimands too far. When he shuts down completely and makes them scream even harder, fingernails breaking skin in a fruitless effort to snap back to reality. When they leave him crying alone, curled up, hitting the palms of his hands against his head harshly. (The pain clears his head, impossibly-- it's the closest he ever gets to acting like a normal person. It seems the only time he does anything right is if he’s hit.)
And even that’s not enough; his dad slams doors, drinks heavily, threatens things Ted would get in trouble for even mentioning. His mom always told him to never repeat a word his dad said, that he was just stressed, never take it to heart.
But it only got worse after she died.
It was added onto the list of things that were most definitely Ted’s fault. And when Ted cries like a girl in the corner of his room, door locked (uselessly, his dad threatened to kick the door down next time he locked it), he wonders why he’s still here. Not in a suicidal way, he swears (though he struggles to keep those thoughts away too), but in an almost baffled way. He was the family f*ckup, the mistake. His dad says all families have them. But they can be fixed, sent away until they get their act together and can be loved. But nobody his dad’s heard of comes close to how stupid Ted is.
That’s it, isn’t it? He’s stupid. He doesn’t get stuff like everyone else does, he doesn’t pick up on “social cues,” he didn’t even know they existed in the first place. He doesn’t try hard in school, he doesn’t try at all, really. He just messes up and messes up and messes up. He cries more than a boy should, his hair’s longer than a boy’s should be. He’s a fck up, through and through. He’s always been like this.He isn’t sure why military school hasn’t been threatened sooner.
He doesn't understand why he hasn't been fixed yet.
He doesn't understand why he couldn't've just been normal in the first place.
He had started his breakdown unbelievably upset, spiraling further and further the longer he thought about what his dad had screamed at him. Not just tonight. Yesterday, and the day before, and every single day before that.
Something has to give, doesn't it?
He almost wishes his dad would just…
Ted unlocks his window and slides it open, wincing at the creaking. He knows better; his dad is likely passed out on the couch, half drowned in whiskey. He wouldn't hear a thing, knocked out like that. But Ted still worries. It's something he's gotten good at; worrying about things he can't change, things that won't happen, anything at all.
It's dark outside already, reassuring in a way and concerning in another. He tries not to think about it too hard (he's always told he's not good at thinking hard, anyway), feet leading him up the driveway and down the sidewalk before he can stop himself.
The Circle K is the other way. He doesn't turn around.
He walks, and walks, and walks.
It's cold outside. He shivers, rubbing his arms with his hands. He realizes, blankly, that he forgot to put on shoes. He has to look like a lunatic, walking down the street in pajamas and socks. But he can't be bothered to care; he's always been the Logan family lunatic.
He stops in the Prestons' backyard, mud staining his socks. Ted gazes at Bill's window, wonders if he's awake. He lets out a breath he never realized he'd been holding.
The rusty ladder Bill's dad uses to change light bulbs is leaned against the house, and Ted thanks God (if he exists-- if he even cares, hell) that it reaches Bill's window. Ted grabs it and positions it to touch the windowsill.
It's wobbly, and he's sure it's out of code, but it works. So he unsteadily climbs up, blaming his shaking on the cold. He moves to run a hand through his hair soothingly before he remembers where he is and grabs the rattling ladder with his eyes wide.
Bill's window is unlocked; it always is, just for him. He steps (or more accurately, stumbles) into his safe space.
The lamp is on, but his eyes move to look at an asleep, most oddly positioned Bill. His butt is stuck right into the air, with his arms tucked around a pillow. The other pillow is on the other side of the bed.
Ted smiles for the first time that night.
He grabs the discarded pillow and the spare blanket Mis-- Bill's mom makes him keep in his closet to spread out onto the floor. It takes a few minutes for him to follow. For a moment, he just stares at Bill.
Bill's safe. The sense of dread that had been building up dissipates. He wonders why it was there in the first place. There was never a worry that Bill wouldn't be anything but okay, but something in Ted's chest feels lighter, seeing him fine and dandy, fast asleep.
After a moment of hesitation, he gently picks up Bill's teddy bear. It makes Ted himself feel a little safe, too.
With the teddy bear, he tries his best to get comfortable, wrapping the spare blanket around himself. He glances up at Bill's bed one last time.
"Goodnight, Bill."
Bill doesn't respond. Ted doesn't mind.
He'll wake up a few hours later with Bill draped across him like a blanket, snoring into his ear. It's the safest he's felt in a long, long time.