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“Ugh, I hate your dad”, Mike complained, fingers rubbing his temple as if Lonnie were a particularly nasty headache that would just go away if you tried long enough.
“He's not that bad”, Will argued.
His boyfriend only groaned in response.
“He's not!”
Will was a horrible son for letting Mike think that.
He was a horrible, horrible son.
“Don't talk about your father like that, William, he's not that bad. He's just in a strop right now.”
Horrible son.
“You piece of shit. Fuck’s sake, boy, you're fucking fifteen, not two.”
Will was fourteen.
Horrible son.
The bottle had been almost empty when he threw it, but the last bit of alcohol made the shards hurt way more as they cut into his arm. He flinched.
Horrible son.
“No, you're going to fucking listen to me! Stop with that fucking drawing crap or get the fuck out of my house!” He had said he'd stopped drinking. He had promised.
Horrible, horrible son.
“Fucking bitch. Get the fuck out of my way, it's her I'm mad at. Get the fuck away!” The plate broke on his shoulder. Will didn't move.
Horrible son.
“Get up. Fucking get up. Stop crying and look me in the eyes, goddamnit!” Will was crying. “You make me want to kill myself, dad”, he whispered. Lonnie's face warped into an ugly laugh, “If you ever do- remember this.” There was a fist. It hurt. He couldn't breathe.
Horrible son. Horrible, horrible, horrible, horri– “Hey”, he registered someone saying. There was a warm touch on his thigh, too- one that didn't hurt. “Hi, love.” It was a kind voice. He loved this voice. The voice loved him, too. God, how he loved that voice. “Come here, I didn't mean to upset you. It's okay.”
Horrible son. His eyes burned. “I'm sorry”, he choked out.
“I know”, the raven haired boy pulled him into his chest, “you don't have to be.”