Chapter Text
He shouldn’t have turned around.
But he did.
Feet pounding across lawn, heart in his throat, lungs burning, he had to look. Just for a second. Just to see—
And there it was.
Boris. On the floor.
A silhouette framed in dim yellow light.
Too still.
Too small.
Too limp.
Theo’s breath caught.
A man.
Drunk. Slurred shouting. Cane already raised.
And Boris—Boris didn’t even flinch.
He had tried to run. Slipped. Fell.
He had known.
He’d been waiting for it. Expecting it.
The first hit was loud. Flesh on bone.
Then another.
And another.
Theo couldn’t move.
The world narrowed to the sharp, staccato rhythm of the cane landing, kicks landing, Boris’s body jerking under each blow, so used to the melody of his frail body ringing like the echo of a fucking metal triangle that you hit with a stick to make music.
Theo watched.
Watched.
And he shouldn’t have.
Because he’d known. Of course he had. Everyone knew. Boris didn’t even bother to hide the bruises anymore. Sometimes he joked about it, like, “He has strong left hook, my papa. Should’ve gone pro, yeah?” and Theo would just roll his eyes, like that made it okay.
But knowing it in theory was nothing like this.
This—this was real.
And Boris—his best friend, his only friend—was still not fighting back.
The light sputtered, and Theo finally turned away, stumbling into the dark like he could outrun the image burning itself into his skull.
He replayed those moments for hours, long after he'd left it behind. The shouting. The pained cries. He sat alone, staring at the wall long after the city had gone quiet.
Boris had come.
Of course he did.
Nothing’s new.
Nothing’s changed.
Theo’s hands were shaking.
He couldn’t stop them. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the pot, or the glue, or whatever else he'd used to get fucked up. Not like he cared. He thought it would make that horrible memory disappear. Of course, it did everything but the opposite.
In his head, the scene played over and over, like someone pressed rewind and locked the button down.
Every hit. Every breath Boris didn’t take. Every second he just laid there.
Like it was normal.
Like he deserved it.
Theo remembered things now. Things he hadn’t let himself think about before.
How Boris flinched when lockers slammed. How he’d sit pressed into the corner of the couch when people shouted on TV. How he hated quiet but couldn’t stand sudden noise. How he was always high enough that he could barely speak. How he drank beer like it was water.
He remembered catching glimpses of bruises—some old, some fresh. He remembered Boris brushing them off. “Not a big deal, Potter. Worse things in the world.”
And Theo let him.
He let him lie. Because believing him was easier.
Now, Theo couldn’t stop thinking.
Maybe Boris wanted it. Maybe he believed he deserved it.
Maybe he’d been using himself as a distraction on purpose.
To keep Theo safe.
To take the heat.
Like always.
Theo buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms so hard into his eyes it hurt.
Nothing’s new. Nothing’s new. Nothing’s new.
And it never would be.
Not here.
Not for Boris. Not for them. Not for anyone. Same fathers, fathers that drank and hit. Same mothers, fragments of the past. Same houses, cold and alone. Same world, hollow and unforgiving. Wake up, iBuprofen, drink, school, drink, drugs, TV, eat, sleepless night, repeat. Nothing's new. Theo's eyes taking in the reality, his brain pulling him out of the fiction, wouldn't stop the world from turning. It was a fact he was well acquainted with that just happened to refresh in his mind. An image he'd probably have forgotten come sunrise.
He hoped.
He wished.
He knew he wouldn't.