Chapter Text
Drake Parker pushes through the bathroom door and into the biggest stall. He slams the door shut with all of his force, and the sound echoes, a piercing and unforgiving sound that translates to don’t talk to me and resonates for a second or two. He stops to catch his breath. Then, he drops the latch.
There are a couple of jocks at the sinks. One is laughing. A locker closes in the hall. Everything feels normal. Too normal. Drake’s stomach twists. For a second, he just stands there, his breath still catching up, hands shaking slightly, water still dripping from his hair and down to the back of his neck to the back of his shirt. His fingers smell faintly like bitter chemicals, and he wipes them on his soaked dark jeans without thinking.
“At least I’m not in that goddamn power shower anymore,” Drake thinks to himself, though his gratitude doesn’t get him very far when he remembers what else had happened earlier. He presses his forehead against the stall door. “God,” he mutters, voice catching on the word.
He then squeezes his eyes shut like doing so would rewind the last ten minutes, when he was paired with Clayton for the experiment in Mr. Roland’s chemistry class instead of the usual Josh Nichols–his former stepbrother and former best friend–and because of him being unable to complete the experiment since Clayton’s speech was incomprehensible and Josh refused to help his brother, Drake accidentally spilled the chemicals on his hand which led to him being put in the power shower, soaked in water, which then caused Drake to make his tearful apology to Josh and run out of the classroom and into the stall that he’s in now.
It doesn’t work.
The memory keeps replaying in his head. Josh at his desk next to Roki instead of Drake. Josh not reacting when Drake walked in late. Josh not helping. Josh not explaining. Josh not even looking.
“I don’t need you.”
The slacker swallows hard. That wasn’t exactly what his brother said, but it was what it felt like. It’s what it sounded like when he said he was done. When he said roommate. The way he said it like losing Drake wouldn’t hurt him at all.
Drake drags a hand over his face, pushing his dampened hair back. His fingers catch for a second, and he lets them fall. “Whatever,” he says, under his breath. There’s no one here to hear it or laugh. So, it just drops.
He exhales and turns, pushing the stall door open just enough for him to step out. And there it is. The mirror. He looks and immediately wishes he hadn’t. His brown hair’s a mess, darker in the spots where it’s still wet. His dark green shirt is soaked and wrinkled, clinging in weird places. His eyes look off. There’s even a faint red mark on his cheek from where the water hit him too hard.
Drake leans both hands on the sink.
“Okay,” he says to himself. “Okay, it’s–”
Fine.
But he doesn’t finish it, because it’s not. And he doesn’t know why. That’s the worst part of it all, the part he can’t joke around or finesse his way out of using his handsome looks or kissing skills. He can’t just play a song on his guitar with his band and woo the crowd just enough for everyone to forget anything even happened. This isn’t new. It was anything but. He’s screwed things up before. Left Josh places, ditched him, borrowed stuff, forgotten stuff, broken stuff. Josh gets mad, yells, then gets over it with a simple hug me brotha! That’s how it works. It’s how it’s always worked. So why does this feel… different?
Drake stares at himself like the answer might show up if he stares at his reflection for long enough.
It doesn’t.
Instead, the memories come flooding back.
One: Josh sitting on the living room floor a few nights ago, textbooks and papers spread everywhere, a blue highlighter tucked behind his right ear. Muttering in irritation while Drake tried to get him to play ping-pong like old times. The way Josh smiled, just ever so slightly, when Drake broke his concentration.
Another one: Josh waking him up in the morning, way too early, shaking his shoulder while telling him he was going to be late.
Another: Josh standing a little too close in the hallway, arguing about something stupid, hands moving when he talked, eyes locked on Drake’s.
The same eyes that Drake tries to squeeze shut again.
“Stop,” he says. But it doesn’t stop. Small things, stupid things.
The way Josh always waited.
The way Josh always helped.
The way Josh always came back.
The way Josh’s big beautiful blue eyes were so easy to get lost in.
Drake’s grip tightens on the edge of the sink. He shivers.
“Dude, you’re just–” he mutters. “You’re just freaking out, that’s all. You messed up, he’s mad, whatever. He’ll get over it.”
His eyes drift back up to the mirror, slowly. And then, everything begins to line up. His stomach drops. All those memories, those stupid, small details, the way losing Josh didn’t just feel like losing a brother, it all made sense.
A sick kind of sense.
He inhales. “No,” he says immediately. Too loud for the empty bathroom. “No no no. It can’t be–”
But it is.
“That’s not what this is.”
And he walks back into the bathroom stall.