Chapter Text
The rain had been falling since sunset, slicking the streets in silver and blood. Neon from the liquor store sign bled across the cracked windshield of the Chevy as it idled near the old warehouses. Bryon sat in the passenger seat, the rhythm of the rain matching the weight in his chest.
Mark leaned back behind the wheel, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, thin and quiet. His eyes gleamed — gold in the dark — that same look that always made Bryon uneasy.
It wasn’t madness.
It was worse.
It was peace.
Angela was passed out in the back seat, makeup smeared, hair uneven — Mark’s work. A half-empty bottle rolled along the floorboard when the wind rocked the car. Her breathing was shallow but steady. She had been talking about dying before she blacked out, saying how easy it would be to just stop.
Bryon couldn’t get the words out of his head.
“I can get what I want, and everybody else can go to hell.”
He’d said those same words once. They didn’t sound the same anymore.
Mark exhaled and gave him that lazy grin.
“You’re thinking too much again, Bryon.”
“Yeah,” Bryon said. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Mark laughed softly. “You always let your head get in the way of your life.”
Bryon studied him — the boy who used to feel like a brother. They had shared a roof, a language, a twisted kind of loyalty. But whatever they’d had was rotting now. He could feel it.
“Mark,” he said quietly. “Why did your dad shoot your mom?”
The grin didn’t fade, but Mark’s eyes hardened.
“Because he got tired of pretending,” he said. “They were fighting about me. Said I wasn’t his. Guess he decided to make sure I didn’t end up theirs either.”
Bryon’s breath caught. The rain sounded like gunfire.
“And you were there?” he asked.
Mark’s smile thinned.
“Under the porch. Counting shots. Thinking maybe I could live with you and your mom.”
He shrugged. “Guess I did.”
Silence filled the car. Angela shifted in her sleep. Mark watched her in the rearview mirror, jaw tight.
“I don’t like people hurting me,” he murmured. “Or lying to me.”
Bryon stared at his hands. They were shaking.
“You’d have liked my dad,” Mark added. “He used to say, ‘Don’t waste your tears. No one’s coming to save you.’ He was right.”
Bryon closed his eyes.
“Mark… what happened to us?”
Mark’s voice softened.
“You started caring.”
Thunder rolled somewhere far away. Bryon thought of Charlie, of M&M, of Cathy, of everything they had wrecked trying to feel something real. All of it blurred together in the rain.
Mark shifted the car into gear. Headlights cut across the darkness.
“Come on,” he said. “You wanted to find M&M, right? I think I know where he is.”
Bryon swallowed.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
Mark smiled — calm, patient, dangerous.
“Tomorrow,” he echoed, and the car slipped into the night.