Chapter Text
Morning came like a debt collector—relentless, unkind. The fluorescent light flickered above, buzzing with that same tired hum as yesterday and the day before that. Jefferson Center didn’t believe in curtains. Didn’t believe in privacy either, apparently—just pastel walls pretending to be calming and door handles that clicked too loud.
Eric lay there, stiff under thin hospital sheets, sweat cooling on his temples despite the room's chill. Luvox: good for compulsive thoughts about symmetry; great for making him feel like his skin was two sizes too small. His fingers twitched at his sides—counting seconds between blinks of the light (three… three… four—he hated asymmetry). His stomach churned with emptiness; food tasted like chalk now anyway.
And today? Another roommate.
The boy beside him was out cold, probably given some cocktail of sedatives and the mood stabilizers they gave all the unstable, moody adolescents. The dude was lanky, and so tall that his socked feet hung over the edge of his bed. Eric snorted in amusement, wondering what the face looked like that was hidden under a pillow that muffled his snoring.
Eric gritted his teeth as he sat up slowly—the meds dragging through him like wet concrete mixed into veins—and glanced across the narrow aisle of linoleum, into the adjacent room where an empty bed stood stripped bare but for a mattress wrapped in vinyl cover: pristine white prison canvas awaiting some new sad bastard to stain it with dreams or drool or tears.
One week. One week without losing control enough to get restrained again—one week without punching drywall till knuckles split open screaming—but still here they were treating him like glass shelving stacked full of knives while expecting zero cuts.
A shower beeped down the hall at exactly 7:08 A.M.—robotic voice announcing hygiene time because God forbid anyone forget how lost they were supposed to be. Eric swung his legs off the bed with mechanical precision. His body moved slower than he wanted these days—not from fatigue so much anymore but from resistance—from this gnawing sense inside saying nothing will change, no matter how many deep breaths Dr. Langford told him to take during CBT sessions or how straight he kept his socks lined up by color gradient underneath his bunk (black → gray → navy).
Dylan had to be shaken awake by two of the nurses before he finally joined everyone out in the dayroom. The tables were set up like a cafeteria and it felt very much like some twisted version of the first day at a new school. His awkward lanky frame stumbled over to a table where he dumped himself into a hard plastic seat beside a very timid girl hiding behind her greasy hair.
He didn't bother looking around. He'd forgot his glasses on the nightstand and couldn't really see anyone anyway. Everyone picked at their trays while a couple of established friendships flourished in hushed tones and reserved laughter. One of the techs came over and set Dylan's tray down in front of him.
It was basic. Eggs, orange juice, a single serving of cereal with a carton of milk. No meat products since his mother mentioned that they were Jewish, no doubt. He wasn't exactly conscious during the intake process.
His long fingers fiddled with the plastic wrapping around a spork and he felt someone's eyes boring into him. Naturally it was the first person he made eye contact with, the boy with the buzzed head who he didn't even know was his roommate. He was just staring. Like he hated him already.
Eric hadn’t meant to stare—well, not that obviously—but he did. He watched Dylan’s hands fumble with the utensil wrapper like it was a bomb countdown, all long fingers and jittery joints. Something about that posture—the way his shoulders hunched forward like they were shielding his spine—made Eric’s lip twitch upward in quiet recognition. Not empathy exactly, but something close to it.
Still, he held his glare longer than necessary.
Dylan didn’t flinch under the attention at first; just peeled back the plastic slowly, deliberately placing it folded square-cornered beside his tray instead of tossing it away careless-like everyone else.
Then their eyes locked across half-chewed oat clusters and juice-stained napkins.
No words yet.
But something passed anyway—a current low and sour beneath bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only boys raised on static between anger and numbness could feel without speaking:
You’re not safe here.
And more quietly—
I’m not either.
It wasn’t personal—at least that’s what Eric told himself as he tore into his cereal with sharp staccato bites, counting each crunch—sixty-three… sixty-four… sixty-five. It was principle. They gave him a roommate after two days of peace? Two blessed mornings without someone else's breathing messing up the rhythm of the room? Two nights where he could at least try to jerk off to completion and still get angry with himself because it took three hours?
Fuck night patrols. Fuck the staff. Fuck that nurse. She's lucky he didn't grab her and use her to finish the job. But thank the stupid cunt for the inspiration, because without that fantasy he wouldn't have been able to get off at all last night. Why couldn't he get a hot chick roommate?
And now this gangly stranger showed up late, looking like life had won by TKO.
Eric shifted slightly in his seat so one leg blocked access beside him—an unspoken claim on space—and focused on his plate. Eric’s fingers stilled on his spoon. Symmetry cracked under the weight of those hollow eyes across the table. Not defiant. Not scared either. Just… empty-car garage empty.
And yet...
There was a flicker—something sharp behind Dylan’s face, buried but awake—that made Eric's jaw tighten in a way that had nothing to do with meds. He looked away first—not because he was afraid, no—but because something hot and unwelcome stirred low in his chest: not pity (he refused that), but recognition, raw and ugly.
I want to burn this place down.
You don't belong here any more than I do.
Eric noticed he was biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until copper bloomed faintly under his tongue—the old ritual for grounding himself when reality started to warp at the edges.