Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

She phrases it like a question, but it's obvious to him that it isn't one. It's a reminder that she owns his time every Wednesday from three-thirty to four-fifteen for the foreseeable future.

This is her little way of telling him that even though he barely speaks and he spends most of the time watching the clock, he still can't miss a single appointment.

Not if he wants to get his life back on track.

In the end, Bradley chooses not to answer that. Instead, he removes himself from the situation. There's no use in arguing with a psychiatrist.

Bradley is quiet as he walks through the familiar hallway of his therapist's office. Following the arrows painted on the ground back to the lobby. A garish room with mismatched and threadbare furniture.

It looks like something out of an early nineties sitcom. A relic from a bygone era, packed to the brim with bored housewives and balding men, all waiting to be called back for their appointments.

It almost feels fake, in a way. As if someone staged this specifically to play into his discomforts.

Penance for all the things he's done to lead him here.

When he walks through the waiting room, he keeps his eyes down on his shoes. Watching his white sneakers as they tread across the ugly burgundy carpet. Somehow all at once out of place, but also not.

A reminder that, no matter how much he wishes he didn't, he does belong here.

Outside, the winter sun is bright, but does little to chase away the Midwest chill. It's still too early in the season for snow, but it won't be much longer before it blankets the ground.

Bradley stands in the parking lot for a long time. Gazing at the dirty chassis of his white SUV. Letting the cold seep into his skin and numb his nose and fingers.

It's hard to believe it's been a little over a year of this now.

And he still doesn't feel even a little bit better.

Bradley isn't the type to believe therapy is going to fix what's wrong with him. He's too smart, too educated for that. Whatever is wrong with him is lodged too deep. Woven into the very fabric of what makes him.

There is no fix.

He's broken in a way that defies logic or reason.

So this was always going to be a colossal waste of time.

Gravel crunches under his feet when he finally makes his way across the lot to his car. Parked on the far side furthest from the door.

The same place he's been parking twice a week since his entire life imploded.

When he opens the door to his car, he's hit with the familiar scent of well-worn leather laced with just a hint of hospital disinfectant. The latter of which he's beginning to think will never fade. Considering it's been a year since he's even stepped foot in a hospital and the stench is still lingering around.

It serves him right, he thinks. One of several well-deserved reminders of his sins.

Another of which blares in his ears when climbs into the cabin and pushes the ignition to start. Radio roaring to life, playing the fading final notes of a song he's come to know better than his own thoughts. Despite trying his damnedest to avoid it.

"That was Max Goof and Ruby Matoille singing the song that put everyone's favorite former Powerline backup dancer turned front man back on the map, Wish You Well." The radio jockey says and Bradley very pointedly tries to ignore the shock of pain that sears through his chest at the mention of Max's name. "thistle has just released their long-awaited debut alb—"

Bradley smashes the source button on his center console. Changing the audio from radio to Bluetooth. The podcast he was listening to on the way to therapy drones lazily through his speakers.

He isn't really listening.

Max's name is ping-ponging back and forth inside his skull. Anxiety and impatience itching beneath his skin.

He doesn't have the mental fortitude to listen to someone sing Max's praises right now.

Not after, well, everything.

Abruptly, he's pulled from his thoughts by the sound of his phone ringing through his car speakers. Loud and shrill as his father's contact information flashes up on the center console screen. A feeling of intense dread washes over him, rising from the depths of his stomach and reverberating all the way down to tips of his toes all the way back up to the top of his head.

Every single hair on his body stands at attention. A terrible roiling feeling rumbling inside of him.

Bradley already knows what this is about. It's the same thing every week. Like clockwork. Exactly twenty-five minutes after his therapy appointment, his father calls. Intrusive and angry and typically right when he's pulling into his garage. Right on time, as always. Phone blaring to life just as Bradley pulls into his driveway, garage door opening to welcome him home. The exact right moment for his overbearing father to barrel through every single one of his carefully curated boundaries and demand to know of his progress in therapy and when exactly his medical license is going to be reinstated.

As if he didn't fight Bradley tooth and nail when he told him he wanted to go into medicine in the first place. As if he wasn't present in that court room when the judge passed down his ruling.

Nineteen months, contingent on significant improvement in rehabilitative therapy and maybe time off for good behavior.

A lifestyle he hasn't exactly been living. Still too hurt and betrayed about the way things ended and the toll it took on his life. While Max—

MAX

—gets to return to Hollywood like nothing happened. As if his entire presence in Bradley's life and the whole of Ohio never existed.

Impermanent.

Ephemeral.

His father's call goes to voicemail while he is once again caught up in his thoughts about Max. Someone he hasn't seen in person in nearly a year. Not since his second and even more meteoric rise to fame.

He's untouchable now.

Especially to someone like him.

Immediately, his phone start to ring again, startling him and once more dragging himself out of memories and the spiral of self-loathing. Bradley grimaces, sinking lower in his seat. Heated leather molding around his body.

He lets his car idle. Garage door open, exhaust billowing like smoke in the frosty air. Watching as his father's call once more rings itself to exhaustion and goes to voicemail.

Silent for the few moments it takes for him to hang up and dial again.

Shoulders tensing when his car speakers blare to life once more with the shrill whine of his mobile.

Bradley knows his father will keep calling. And calling. And calling. Until he answers. Bradley Uppercrust II is not a man to be ignored. No, he's powerful and rich and, unfortunately, saddled with such a disappointment of a son. Ever the ongoing failure even in spite of his accomplishments. His multiple specialties in medicine. His breakthrough research. He is still, no matter how hard he tries, nothing in the eyes of the man who sired him.

There's no use in continuing to play this game. He can't avoid his father forever. This is just another punishment on the long list of consequences he's suffered for the things he's done.

He turns off his engine, grabbing his phone from the center console and shoving it into his coat pocket as he makes a swift exit from his vehicle. Shivering a little as he climbs the steps to his mudroom. Blowing hot breath into his already freezing hands before reaching up to press the 'close garage' button on the keypad next to the door.

His phone is already ringing again before he even makes it inside. Vibrating insistently against his hip as he toes off his shoes and leaves them on the entryway rug.

The phone goes to voicemail again while he's taking the four steps from his garage door through the mudroom to the kitchen door. He unlocks the kitchen door with a code, taking his time entering, wincing again when his phone begins to ring once more.

Bradley doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

He'll have to answer. To continue the weekly ritual of constant ridicule. A reminder of his foolish follies after he's already allegedly explored his massive fuck up with his court ordered therapist. Something that's supposed to make him feel better and more settled. Which, for all intents and purposes, is not something his father can allow. Why should Bradley get to feel more at ease and settled in his life when he never should've been given life in the first place? It's a game his father likes to play. Ripping the rug out from underneath him any time he finds some semblance of normalcy.

God forbid he have anything worth having.

It's why he doesn't even bother trying. Not anymore. What would be the point in trying to heal? To find peace and betterment and move on from the shitty things he's done in the past. From the people he's hurt. What's the point in growing? Changing.

There's no one to support him. To offer him a shoulder to cry on or a bit of personal advice. He has nothing outside of therapy. Something he bitterly notes that he personally made certain of. Listening to every voice in the back of his head always echoing the constant that he isn't allowed nice things. He isn't allowed love.

So, why should he even try?

His phone starts ringing again once he's made his way inside. The warmth of his house seeping into his skin and making it ache just a little as it eases the chill away. Heated floors coming to life beneath his feet as he pads from the kitchen and into the den.

This house is smaller than the one he shared with Veena. The one he graciously gave to her in the divorce despite the fact that she doesn't even live in Ohio full time. They lived most of their lives separate from one another. Her in New York, him here.

And it worked.

It really did.

Until it didn't.

In his pocket, his phone falls silent once more. Easing the tension he's holding in his shoulders just a little. Making him unclench the tightness in his jaw.

Praying that's the end of it.

Even though he knows it absolutely isn't.

He peels his coat off, hanging it up on the coat rack at the corner of the den. There's another in the mudroom, but he prefers to have his nicer pieces hung here.

The mudroom is for heavy duty puffers or heated coats. The den is for designer pieces like the chocolate brown pea coat trench he wore out today.

Bradley debates on leaving his phone in his coat pocket and letting it ring for the rest of the afternoon. His father is overseas in London right now, so it isn't like he's at risk for him to show up in person and antagonize him with his presence. Except, he also knows if he continues to let it ring, the uncomfortable hammering of his heart against his ribs will never subside. Nor will the anxious burbling of his stomach.

He is once again trapped at the mercy of his father's whims.

With a heavy sigh, he retrieves his phone from his coat pocket. Feeling the way it buzzes against his fingers. Setting off a jittery feeling through his nerve endings and making his jaw clench tight.

He doesn't answer it right away. Instead, he lets the buzzing stop once more. The phone going still in his hand, static creeping up his nerves as he walks back into the kitchen to pluck a glass water bottle from his fridge. Taking a long, rejuvenating sip.

Giving himself just a moment.

A minuscule bit of peace.

Then, when his phone rings again, he bites back the bile that's settled in the back of his throat and finally answers.

"Hel—"

"Bradley Richard Uppercrust III," his father hisses into the receiver before he can even get out a single word.

Bradley can tell he's enraged. Probably because of the amount of time it took him to answer. He tries to tell himself it doesn't matter, that he doesn't care. He's lived through his father's abuse before. He can live through it again.

Except.

That's not what happens.

Instead, he feels his blood run cold. Feels his pulse rise and rabbit in his throat in response to his father's anger. His mouth goes dry and the palms of his hands go slick with sweat.

It's the same thing that happens every time.

Decades of compounded trauma lighting up inside of him like a tempest.

He can almost see his brain scans now. Scattered and shrunken; hollow. Stunted by years of torment.

It's a wonder he ever became anything at all with all the damage that's been done to him. Irreparable and violent. Oppressive.

"Father," he answers, deadpan. Carving out the torrent of emotions that wells up inside him. Anything to keep himself disconnected. Safe.

"Don't you father me," his father barks, voice thick and brash. Anger rolling through the line like a miasma that Bradley does everything in his power to fight against. "What took you so long to answer your phone?"

"I was driving," Bradley answers simply.

To the point.

Clinical.

"You know damned good and well that isn't an excuse," his father huffs. "I know that expensive SUV you bought with my money is top of the line. You have hands-free. There was absolutely no reason to make me wait."

Bradley raises his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. Trying to stem the headache that's already starting to form just behind his left eye. The same one that forms every week when they have this conversation almost verbatim.

"I was close enough to home that I didn't want to sit in the garage on the phone with you, it's the middle of winter here, in case you forgot," Bradley snaps. Hating the way his voice wavers just a little. Fear present in his tone even while he's trying to push back. "I figured I could call you back later once I got inside and got settled."

"Do not take that tone of voice with me, young man," his father growls, rage once more cutting harshly into the charged static between them. His voice a loud rumble of almost incomprehensible noise through the line. Twisting Bradley's gut. Making him feel ill at ease. "You will give me the respect I'm owed, do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Bradley answers through clenched teeth, fist clenching around his water bottle so tight he's almost scared it's going to shatter.

If he could see his reflection right now, he wonders what he'd see.

Would he see a scared little boy, a neurotic teen or perhaps a traumatized young adult? One with bloodshot blue eyes and frizzed hair and chapped lips. Decades of abuse and neglect painted sharp across his gaunt face. Exhausted and scared. Open and raw. Or would he be stoic and placid and brave. Shoving everything down to hold his emotions in hand behind a mask of indifference. Fear buzzing just beneath the surface of his skin. Hidden, but ever-present.

"It's been nearly a year," his father says, changing the subject with barely an acknowledgment of Bradley's obedience. It's expected, after all. For him to kowtow and bend to his father. "What are you doing about your medical license? The board hearing said ten months—"

"Nineteen months," Bradley corrects immediately. Interrupting his father before he can get too far into his rant. "Contingent on being cleared by a psychiatrist."

He says this same thing every week. Every single week. And yet his father still doesn't seem to get it.

Silence bleeds through the line and Bradley can practically feel his father's umbrage seeping through. Pushing across the Atlantic and into Ohio to worm its way down his throat like choking vines.

"Have you not been cleared?" His father questions, even though Bradley knows he already knows the answer.

"No," Bradley answers calmly, pulling the phone away from his ear for the yelling he already knows is coming. He can recite the entire diatribe by heart by now. The lecture, the belittling, the abuse. He doesn't need to hear it in real time to know just how disappointed his father is in his continued existence.

He moves from the kitchen and back into the den. Taking a seat on his overstuffed leather sectional, only just biting back a groan as he relaxes the tension in his muscles, losing himself to the softness of the couch.

Bradley sets his water on the coffee table on top of a stack of nondescript gray ceramic coasters. Reaching for the remote and pausing for a moment to listen to his father's tirade to see how much longer he has until he needs to pay attention. Or, at the very least, try and stand up for himself.

His father is caught somewhere between the bit of his lecture where he complains about the cost of Bradley's medical schooling and the part where he very blatantly calls him a 'faggot'. So, he figures there's still a bit of time before he'll be expected to respond. May as well lose himself to the distraction of mindless TV while he waits.

The TV turns on to a random cable news channel. He can't remember the last time he even watched this thing. Honestly, he's a little surprised to find he still has cable, but right now he needs and welcomes the distraction. The sound isn't loud by any means, but he still mutes the call audio and then the TV once he's able. Stomach lurching a little when the sound becomes audible out of the irrational fear his father may overhear and know without a doubt that Bradley isn't taking their weekly lecture seriously.

Listening to his father denigrate and debase him and shout about how he isn't going anywhere in his career. A career his father never even wanted him to have in the first place.

At this point, he isn't even sure he wants to go back to medicine. He's already been branded a pariah. Essentially blacklisting him from being hired locally. He would have to leave Ohio. Recertify. Explain the blemish on his record to an entirely new medical board and be at their mercy.

Even if he takes the proper steps, the stress alone is enough to make him reconsider. He's been through enough in the past year. Really, he would rather not relive the shame.

It isn't like he needs to return, after all. He's independently wealthy. It isn't as if he needs the money. Not even with how much Veena got out of him in the divorce proceedings.

There's nothing stopping him from retiring at the ripe old age of thirty-three.

If it's good enough for Jesus—

"Bradley are you listening?" His father's gruff voice interrupts his thoughts and calling him back to the conversation at hand. Tugging him violently from his inner monologue and, unfortunately back into his bleak reality.

Where his father is still fucking yelling.

He unmutes himself and opens his mouth to reply. Probably something deadpan or sarcastic, laced with biting wit that will certainly set his father off more, but his words die in his throat when he catches sight of the TV screen.

Max's face is suddenly staring back at him in 4K. Lips split into a flirty grin, violin tucked under his chin as he draws his bow across the strings. His infuriatingly charming tooth gap taking up nearly two-thirds of the screen.

"Oh, my God," he says before he can think better of it. "Oh my fucking, God."

Distantly, he hears his father sputter. Indignant through the phone as his lecturing resumes full-force. Berating Bradley for his blatant outburst.

He's aware his father continues talking. Yelling, really. Angry and flummoxed and filled with hot air, but he isn't really listening.

Not while he finds himself face-to-face with the arbiter of his downfall. The very reason he's in this predicament in the first place.

Bradley has been so careful. Excessively strategic and painstakingly scrupulous. So that even now with Max's face unfortunately being plastered everywhere throughout Spoonerville and across the entire fucking continent, he's managed to avoid this. Managed to avoid seeing his visage front and center on his television screen.

Though he soft of always knew in the back of his mind this would be inevitable. That it was only a matter of time before Max's growing fame would make him impossible to ignore.

Absently, he sets his phone down on the coffee table. His father's ire momentarily forgotten as he leans forward. Bracing his elbows on his knees, fingers twining together beneath his chin as he lets himself get sucked into Max's orbit for the first time in nearly two years.

Max's magnetism is as undeniable as ever. His effortless charm bleeding through the screen, tugging Bradley along like a dog on a leash.

He's just as heartrendingly gorgeous as Bradley remembers. His dark skin and natural curls, wiry to the touch, but always somehow soft beneath his hands before it gives to the sharpness of his mid-taper fade. The memory of touching him still lingers, setting him on edge as he watched the camera zoom closer on his face. His pretty dark eyes glitter in the stage light, close up just barely catching the shine of the spotlights in his iris before it zooms out, revealing the larger stage.

Two more people come in to view. Women flanking Max on either side, customized mics raised to parted lips as they presumably sing alongside him.

Women Bradley would recognize anywhere.

Christina Rizal and Ruby Matoille.

He sinks his teeth into his tongue. Biting down to quell the jealous rage that wells up in his stomach. Twisting him inside out.

Bradley has no right to even have these feelings. Not after everything he's done. The colossal way he's fucked all of this up. How he ruined his life and made a valiant effort to take Max down with him.

Not that it worked, of course.

Or he wouldn't be watching him on TV on some random afternoon in the middle of winter. Not would he be absolutely fuming at the way Max's gaze follows Christina while she dances around him. Crossing his path, and swaying her hips, and blowing him a coquettish kiss over her shoulder which he instantly drops his hand from his violin to catch. Oblivious to the way their actions make Bradley's insides burn with jealous rage.

There's a part of him that thinks maybe Max should've been punished too. For the part he played in Bradley's downfall. For the things he did to tempt him, to drag him back in when he was lingering in the doorway of out.

But he knows better than to heap the blame for any of this on him. Bradley had all the power, after all. He held all the cards.

Max wasn't innocent by any means, but Bradley was undeniably the villain.

It took him a long time to come to terms with that fact. To acknowledge what he did to Max was wrong. To concede that he hurt Max and, by extension, himself, and everyone around him. He hurt Veena, and his medical staff, and his other patients. Bradley had put people's lives in jeopardy, had gambled with death.

All for the sake of getting off.

He'd made a mockery of medicine and used his power and authority as Max's doctor to ultimately take advantage of him.

Bradley knows all of that. Has had it spat back at him numerous times in medical board hearings, and at his divorce trial, and at his malpractice suit. He knows without a doubt what he did was wrong.

What he can't quite figure out is how Max got off scot-free. How he escaped scrutiny and ire. Even when he testified in front of the court and his own family that he had been willing. That he'd consented to the acts between them. He even admitted to having egged Bradley on. Going so far as to admit he oftentimes goaded him or begged for punishment.

Told the court that Bradley had never forced himself on him. Not once.

Not that it matters now. Considering he's sitting here on his couch and Max is in the middle of his very first Nationwide Tour.

His testimony hadn't mattered then and it doesn't matter now.

"Bradley are you listening?" His father shouts, voice so loud it crackles in the receiver. Cutting off some of his words and making Bradley's stomach lurch in surprise. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he almost forgot what brought him out here in the first place.

He scrambles, leaning forward to grab his phone from the table, taking it off speaker and putting it to his ear. Gritting his teeth when his father's voice rumbles through the receiver again, boisterous and threatening.

He wants to hang up. To put an end to this. Move on from the continued hebetude of being stuck beneath his father's thumb, but the reality is that Bradley is stuck. Stagnant. Bought and paid for by his father's will and his father's riches,

Bradley is nothing more than property. A misbehaving beast. An investment unworthy of selling. Not a son, but a thing to divest. He isn't a person in his own right, he isn't allowed to have desires outside of the path his father planned for him. It took him years to argue medicine over business or law, even despite the aptitude he showed for it. Despite it being the one thing he's actually good at.

Now, he's proven to his father what a colossal waste of time it was for him to have even a modicum of autonomy.

"I'm here," he says, voice wavering and hoarse as he clears his throat. Shaking away the shock of seeing Max and turning his focus back toward his father's ire. "I apologize, sir. I dropped my phone."

His father grunts in reply, irritation evident as he begins to admonish him again. Calling into question his ability to even be a surgeon if he's going to be so clumsy with his belongings.

The belongings that apparently he, his father, paid for.

Never mind that almost everything Bradley owns he paid for from his own salary. He's barely even touched his trust fund other than to pay for college and to get him through multiple residencies. Isn't he due at least that? After everything he's suffered at his father's hand. Isn't he due some recompense?

He chances another glance back up at the television. Watching the camera pan out further, showing Max, Christina, and Ruby as they dance across the stage. It isn't Max's usual more acrobatic routines. The ones he did when he was a backup dancer, before he fell victim to his spinal injury, but it's still something to behold. He's obviously in much better shape now than he was when he came to Bradley three years ago.

Max can keep up with the shimmy and shake of Ruby and Christina's hips. Can bend and contort his body to the music all whilst keeping his violin aloft and his vocals even. Behind him, a bit back and left of center stage, his band plays. The rest of the members of thistle looking out at where Max, Ruby, and Christina are dancing and grinning widely, hyping up the audience with admiration and amusement.

There's an ache that settles in his chest. A stabbing pain that builds the longer he watches and is confronted with the evidence that Max has well and truly moved on. That without Bradley there holding him down, holding him back, he's thriving. Back in his element where he belongs. Performing on stage for millions of people to see and adore him.

Max is absolutely fine.

And Bradley absolutely isn't.

Max's words from that day still echo in his thoughts even now. Joining the cacophony of voices inside his head that constantly, constantly tell him what a failure he is. How he isn't doing enough. How he could be more if he would just try.

He could be something if he would just let himself.

The sentiment burns to ash inside of him. Settling deep in his bones and dragging him under. Max's words joining the ever-growing grotesque menagerie of disappointment that rattles him from the inside out.

A prison of his own making.

A byproduct of decades of mistreatment. Of constant, unforgiving trauma.

Splitting him from the inside out, until Max's words and his sentiments are no longer indistinguishable from Bradley's father's. A multi-tone monstrosity of abject loathing. Buried deep into the very fabric of his chemical makeup.

He was always meant to be a disappointment, after all.

When his eyes raise back to the screen, his father's voice still tinny and enraged through the phone, he gives himself over. Born again at the altar as he takes Max back beneath his skin. Giving him every power he needs to finally take his killing blow.

Center stage.

Caught between both Ruby and Christina as the band behind them plays harder and the song presumably reaches its crescendo. Music presumably blaring, band thrashing to make up for the moment where Christina twists into the center and takes Max's violin from his hands. Placing herself into his arms, her body undulating forward, their groins brushing as a spark ignites. Her eyes glowing in the stage lights. Playful and mischievous.

The only warning he gets before she leans in and steals a kiss. Sending Bradley's heart rocketing up into his throat.

Max settles his hands on her waist, leaning into it full force.

Her fist hangs by her side. Wrapped neatly around the neck of his violin where it rests against her thigh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ruby falter in step. Nearly stumbling over her feet, but he doesn't pay her any mind. Eyes still glued to where Max holds Christina against him. Hand sliding up her back to caress her shoulders. Sending Bradley's bile rising in it as he watches. Disgust curling his upper lip as he watches Max give her one final squeeze before setting her free and grabbing her hand to spin her outward. Sending her toward Ruby as he takes his violin back.

Drawing it up to his chin again. Nonchalant. Unbothered. Practiced.

As if his mouth isn't branded with the bubblegum pink of Christina's lipstick.

Something else happens stage left, but Bradley barely registers it. His gaze glued to the smug, satisfied smirk on Max's pink lips as he once more begins playing.

Rage builds and buzzes in his chest like violent, angry wasps.

It feels like a betrayal. Like treason.

He has no claim to Max now. Has no logical reason to feel this way. It's been years now since they last saw each other. Years since Max has even stepped foot in Ohio let alone crossed paths with Bradley.

Max isn't his.

Yet, he can't help but feel eviscerated. Emasculated. Like he's some helpless housewife watching her husband have an affair on their ring camera. And not at all the monster he knows he is, watching a man who never belonged to him move on in the most public way imaginable.

Move on to his ex, no less. A woman who hadn't even wanted him. A woman who cast him aside like refuse the second things between them got too hard.

Refuse Bradley had gladly taken and given shape. Built into something new.

She doesn't just get to have him after that.

She doesn't—

"Bradley." His father's voice pulls him out of his thoughts once more. Dragging him back into reality one last time. Where his hurt goes much deeper than being the scorned ex-lover of an overnight superstar.

His father's voice is hoarse now. Having yelled at Bradley for so long he's started coughing between breaths and wheezing around his words.

The sound grates. Hurting Bradley's ears even worse than the yelling.

He's struck with the overwhelming need for this to be done. To be over. Finished.

He desperately needs for this to stop.

And he swears, he'll swear, that he doesn't know what comes over him in that moment. Ears burning as he listens to his father cough and choke his way through calling him names. Not even bothering to check if he's still listening or caring about the damage his words will cause. Have caused for the majority of Bradley's life.

He, honestly, honestly, doesn't know why he does it.

It's not like he's ever done something like it before.

Deep down, maybe, he wanted—he longed. There's some part of him deep, deep down that is so exhausted. A part of him that's had enough. Surfacing a truth that this cannot continue. He cannot continue to live the way he's been living for his entire life.

He reaches for his phone with shaky hands, holding it between his palms and letting the heat from the ongoing phone call seep into his skin. Warming his palms and giving him the courage. Giving him the nerve. He lets the warmth linger, just for a second. For a single solitary moment in time. A monument, a tomb; before he unceremoniously hangs up and immediately blocks his father's number.

Heart beating out a war in his chest. Boots and drums hammering against his ribs. Ears ringing and eyes burning as he draws his phone up like a weapon. Fingers hovering over the screen, thumbs pressing rapidly over the keyboard.

Bringing up thistle's tour schedule.

Because, why not?

He's already thrown caution to the wind, hasn't he?

If he's going to be branded a sinner, if he's truly meant to be the villain of this story, then he may as well play the part he's been given.