Kissing Scars is rated Mature for violence, vulgar language, sexual content, and triggering scenes. It is a boy/boy, yaoi genre story, strictly male love of the LGBTQ variety, so if you dislike the content or are uncomfortable with it at all, please don't read.

This story is a work of fiction, and any likeness to peoples living or dead are merely coincidental, as the characters depicted are simply creations of my own design, and do not depict actual people, although many of the circumstances are based on fact.

~~Ame

Faggot.

Hollow steps hit the cold tiled flooring as Casey Ryan made his way down the school's hallway, his hands lifted and curled around the straps of his backpack, head lowered and eyes flashing around him in unease, that cursed word flickering through his mind with an image of himself, joined by the thought that it was the only word that correctly defined him. When he finally reached his locker, his eyes clashed with posters and note cards taped to the front, harsh and cruel phrases scribbled over the surface of each paper, but he fought against the burn at the back of his nose and pushed aside the painfully familiar feeling of his heart breaking as he tore the posters away, crumpling them up in his hands and throwing them away before returning to his locker.

How did his life end up like this, hiding from bullies, plastering a mask of no feeling over his face so his tormentors never saw the pain in his eyes, not even feeling safe in his own home because of his parents? It started two years ago when he decided to come out to his parents, and his best friend Brad. For the longest time he would hold it in, fake it, pretend he liked girls, but after reading a few blogs online about the support they'd gotten, he'd become so hopeful and determined. His parents would be the same, he told himself. They would support him and his sexual orientation without question, because they were his parents and they were there to love him, but luck was not on his side.

When he sat down the three most important people in his life in order to reveal to them that he was gay, there was no support, no acceptance, nothing at all like what he'd come to expect. The looks of disgust and resentment in the eyes of his mother and father, the twisted look of horror, followed by mocking laughter that left Brad's lips, all of it made his head spin with the destructing realization that he made a mistake. He forgot to look up the bad things that came with the good. He forgot to research the failed coming out stories, and only focused on the possibility of good, happy days. He messed up, never even considered the consequences of a close minded family, and now his life was hell.

After laughing, Brad was the first one to sneer and insult, jeer at Casey, call him sick and disgusting, stand up from the chair he was in to storm towards him and point a finger against his chest, screaming in his face before shoving him away and walking past, leaving the house for the last time. Casey was left alone with his parents, which couldn't have been worse. His mother started to cry, his father stood up and took Brad's place yelling at Casey, chastising him, telling him all the reasons it was wrong, a sin, to want to be with another male romantically. His mother just cried, blubbering, saying that Casey was a mistake, that she never asked for such a horrible son, that his brother was better and that Casey should be ashamed of himself. Because of that, his life had been lived in solitude, head lowered in shame, convinced that he deserved the insult, the harassment, the abuse and neglect.
Everywhere he went, be it school or home, people would make fun of him, yell at him, push him around, and he had no other friends to go to for safety, no haven where he'd be protected from the people at school, his own parents, and ever since that horrid day, he hadn't even gotten a text from his older brother in college. It seemed everyone had cut him off, his father wouldn't look at him, his mother only acknowledged him when she was screaming and hitting him. Brad would only talk to him when he was calling him bad names or starting rumors, somehow swindling half the school into joining in on Casey's harassment. His older brother, Casey didn't even know what happened with him, he just stopped calling, stopped texting, stopped sending letters, and his mother claimed he didn't want anything to do with Casey, so he just accepted it.

Not even the teachers helped him through his bullying, the blatant abuse that no one bothered to hide, instead they acted like nothing was happening, completely turned their back, even if they saw the harassment with their own eyes. They ignored it completely, pretended it wasn't happening, and because of the lack of help, support, the lack of anything really, Casey's pain grew to an unbearable point, turning to self hatred and the beginning of his mental and physical self destruction. Two weeks after coming out, the constant criticism, the looks of poison, he found himself spiraling into an abyss of darkness and red.

He stopped eating, whenever he tried to go to the kitchen his parents would get angry and yell at him, he stopped sleeping, insomnia had come hand in hand with his pain, and he stopped caring about himself completely. He would cry at night, into his pillow so his parents wouldn't hear him, though he had a feeling they wouldn't care if they did happen to hear him, and he began a routine of self-harm. Of course, it hadn't been a planned relief of his pain, the first time he cut into the skin of his arm had been out of curiosity, a desperate attempt to find something that would successfully keep him steady, something to fight the pain. 

The idea didn't just appear out of nowhere, he found it on a blog written by a homosexual who was the victim of bullying because of his sexual preference, one who started cutting himself because the judgments and cruelty were all too much for him to take. He claimed on his blog that he stopped the self harm, but he never did write anymore, so interpretations were wide as to what that meant. He said that the cutting helped him, helped fight away the pain, so Casey tried it once, once turned into three times, and now both of his arms were littered with red lines. Cutting had turned into the only relief he had. The razor, any sharp object he could find when he started falling, had become his new best friend.

No one had a clue about the scars under his sleeves, not that anyone asked, not that anyone would have cared, and he went to great lengths to hide the proof of his pain. The only things he wore were long sleeved shirts and sweaters, sweatshirts, and hoodies with the sleeves stretched and pulled so far over his hands that they hid all but the very tips of his fingers and had to be bunched up when he needed to write. He never attended the physical education classes, and instead hid in the library or the boiler room of the school where no one would find him. If he changed into the gym shorts and shirt, people would see the scars and cuts on his arms, thighs, and calves, and although he was quite positive no one would care much, he was sure they'd harass him even more for it, claiming he just wanted attention even though he tried so very hard to hide it.

He'd become somewhat of a mute in the sense that he did his best not to talk in public, especially around his bullies, because everything he said ended up getting laughed at and insulted, even if it was intelligent or the right answer to one of his teacher's questions. He stopped raising his head, stopped looking people in the eye, never stood straight with a confident and proud posture. He would slump his shoulders instead, hunch forward, his head lowered and his long bangs hiding his eyes from the view of others, no longer caring about his appearance or how others saw him.

He'd gone from well groomed and well liked to sloppy and hated. His untamable raven hair had grown out so the bangs fell down to his cheek bones and dipped to his shoulders at the back. No one could see his once lively violet eyes through the veil of dark hair hiding them, instead they saw a permanent frown pasted on a pale face. He tended to wear his hood up to hide his messy black hair, and he almost always had headphones in to block out the insults, his hands stuffed into his pockets and the fingers of his right hand moving idly across the razor he kept on hand, in case he felt the darkness overcome him at school. His fashion sense had turned into baggy black jeans, black and red Converse shoes, and black long sleeved shirts that complimented every black sweatshirt and hoodie he owned. Most had band logos on them, but others were just plain black. He even exchanged his old green backpack for one the color of a raven's wings, with the zippers a blood red color. 

The straps had been pulled out so the bag hung loosely at his back, lazily, carelessly, and were a perfect stress reliever, something he would clutch onto until his knuckles turned snow white while he was making his way down the halls of his hell high school, his teeth biting hard onto his bottom lip, in a constant state of panic, thinking someone was planning on jumping him, following him with the intention of hurting him again. He was feeling that panic as he pulled open his locker, cringing when the crumpled up pieces of paper tumbled out, ignoring them as they fell to the ground and collecting his school books, setting them in his backpack before closing his locker, picking up the papers and throwing them in the trash can with the posters from the front of his locker before turning and hurrying down the hall, sniffing and wiping his sleeve under his nose. 

He didn't know how the bullies got his combination, or maybe they slipped the papers in through the little slits in the locker door, but everyday it was the same things. Rude posters taped against the front, crumpled pieces filling the inside. Uncrumpling them and smoothing them out, you'd be able to read the insults that continued from what was pinned on the front of his locker door, so he just threw it away, all of it, every piece of paper, such a waste.
It was expected and understandable that Casey would get to his classes as early as he could and sit in the very back of the room, his backpack sitting on his lap and hugged against his chest, his hood on his head and pulled low over his eyes, at least one headphone in his ear. He was hunched over his desk, sketching in his notebook, completely ignoring the lesson. By then the teachers had learned not to even bother telling him to pay attention, they didn't really care, so they just let him be.

One thing Casey had always been good at, the one thing he still had from before all of this started, was art. He couldn't draw everything, landscapes or still life, he wasn't perfect, and usually everything was just sketched out, but he had a rather impressive eye for portraits, which he busied himself with most classes. Sometimes he'd look up during the lessons and jot down key notes that he may need for tests and quizzes, but besides those hastily scribbled notes, the only things in his notebooks were hand drawn portraits, sketches and practiced hands and eyes. Focusing on his art was a much better way to spend his time, rather than paying attention to the notes and paper airplanes that constantly fell to his desk. 

When everything started, he would unfold the airplanes and read them, each and every one, because at first he expected something like confessions, things he and his friends would do in grade school, just passing notes, but now that he knew they would always be insults, familiar insults and curses, he would simply brush them away so they fell off his desk. There was nothing more that the demons of this school could do to ruin his life anymore, that's what he'd convinced himself.

After the second period ended that day, Casey made his way slowly to the least used men's bathroom near the locked door leading to the roof, locking himself in one of the stalls and sighing as he sat down on the back of the toilet, reading the graffiti and curse words painted, carved, and drawn onto the walls of the inside of the stall. There were even things written about him, rumors that Brad had started with a few of his friends. He felt his muscles tense up when he heard the door open, pulling his backpack onto his lap as the voices echoed in the bathroom, one of the faucets singing as it was turned on.

"Lunchtime?" a familiar voice asked, "No way, I eat at lunchtime."

"Alright, fine," a second voice tersely spoke, "When do you want to do it?"

"Any time before lunch," the first voice muttered.

Casey could hear three sets of feet. Whoever was at the sink was silent, while the other two were complaining to each other about something. Whoever the first voice belonged to was pacing around the bathroom, fingers sliding over the doors of the stalls, stopping at the one where Casey was hiding and turning around with a hum. Casey could see the red hair through the crack in the stall door.

"Anytime, hm?" he repeated, walking away from the stall.

There was silence, then dark chuckling as more footsteps hurried to the bathroom door, followed by a sigh as the door opened. Casey held his breath as it closed with a click, and he shuddered in fear before hopping off the back of the toilet seat onto the ground, clutching his backpack to his chest as he pushed his way out of the stall. He walked towards the bathroom door, but was stopped by two sets of hands grabbing him from behind, pulling him back.

The first stall opened and a painfully familiar teen with red hair and blue eyes stepped out, grinning as he walked towards Casey, shaking a finger at him, "Ah, ah! Can't get away from us now, can ya?"

Casey bit his bottom lip and hunched his shoulders, looking between the two boys holding him in place. The teen on his right side had buzzcut blonde hair and pale blue eyes, skinny with a thin face and a hooked nose, laughing with his head falling back in complete amusement, tightening his grip on Casey's elbow and shoulder. The boy on his left remained completely quiet, his green eyes bored, looking almost regretful, his dark brown hair a charming mess on his head.

"This worked out great," the redhead decided, "Now we don't have to wait till lunchtime at all!"

"Yea!" the blonde agreed, squeezing Casey's arm and leaning towards him with a grin that had Casey wincing and leaning away, "Let's push him around a bit!" he grabbed Casey's backpack and tore it away from his hands, tossing it aside before grabbing the back of Casey's shirt and throwing him to the ground, kicking his side hard before the redhead stepped forward and held an arm out to stop him.

"Easy, Rick, we had a plan."

There was a little pout of frustration on the blonde's face, "Yea, so?"

"So let's stick to it."

"Okay, but... will it be enough? I like beating him up."

"Yea," the red head elbowed the blonde, "But I'm curious how he'd respond, so pull him up and yank off his hood so he can see us. Brad asked me to do this, so I'm gonna."

The blonde and the brunette both grabbed Casey's arms and pulled him back to his feet as the blonde ripped the hood off of his head, grabbing a handful of his bangs and making him wince. With his face completely showing, he could see his three attackers easily, putting names to the faces when he eyed them. The redhead was Christopher Mitchell, the brunette to his left was Samuel Novak, and the blonde teen holding his hair in his fist was Richard Allen. They never used to hurt him like this, for the longest time they didn't acknowledge him, they were just people, classmates he had math with, but after Brad had spread the word about his sexuality, they'd taken the lowest road, physically and mentally tormenting him on a daily basis. Chris and Rick were the main two who would harass him, Sam never joined in much, but he was still involved, he held Casey in place, though he never looked like he was enjoying it much.

Chris stepped forward and grabbed Casey's chin, a smirk playing on his lips as he spoke, "Hey faggot, what's the matter with your face? You're insanely ugly," he released his face and took a step back, setting his hands on his hips and laughing, "You're just a disgusting homo, you know that? Did you really think someone would end up caring about you? Guy or girl, I mean have you seen yourself? Have you looked in the mirror? Ugh! You're just a horny faggot," he stepped forward again and took Casey's bangs from Rick, yanking them back and grinning, "Hey, does this turn you on, you perverted faggot? Do you like it when I hurt you?"

Rick laughed, leaning forward to see Chris better, "Oh wow that is funny! Masochist, huh? No wonder he never protests when we beat the shit outta him, he likes it! Here man, lemme try!" Chris shrugged and stepped back, letting Rick twist his fingers through Casey's bangs, yanking hard and making him wince, lips sealed, "Oh his face is red! He's blushing?! That is gross!"

"He likes it!" Chris laughed, and Rick snarled.

"Sick!" he let go of Casey's hair and reared his fist back, throwing it into Casey's face and laughing when he stumbled back, one hand lifting up to catch the drop of blood sliding down from the split lip.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe it away, stepping back as Rick and Chris stepped forward, dark intent in their gaze, but Sam kept his head down and turned away from what was bound to happen. Before anything could actually happen, though, the bell rang, and Chris sighed with a roll of his eyes, but Sam looked up, his gaze relieved.

"Fuck," Chris muttered, "We gotta get to class now."

"Oh well," Sam shrugged, hands in his pockets, and Rick set a hand on Chris' shoulder.

"We can always finish this later."

Casey watched numbly as the three left, his vision shaky from getting punched, it still hurt though he was used to it. He slumped against the wall behind him and slid to sit on the floor, fishing the razor from his right pocket and pulling up his left sleeve, touching the surface of his skin with the razor and shivering from the chill of the metal. He held his breath as he pushed down, and flinched slightly when he felt the bite of the razor breaking through the layers of his skin. He took another shaky breath, and let it out slowly as he drew the blade over his arm, watching hypnotized as the skin split apart. When he pulled the razor away the wound seemed to pull apart even wider.

Blood filled the abyss-like cut and bubbled over the edge, sliding down his arm in a bead and falling to the ground, landing on the linoleum as a small red dot that grew into a puddle as the blood continued to slide down his arm. Casey inhaled and closed his eyes as the pain slowly erased the constricting panic in his chest. It was such a horrible habit to get sucked into. It felt good, it took away the pain, but for a price that was left on his body as scars and bleeding wounds, not that he could do much about it now.

He waited for the blood to dry on his arm before pulling his sleeve back over his hand, then stood and picked up his backpack, walking to his next class, which he was a few good minutes late to. Not that he even paid attention, and the teacher didn't seem to care. The entire time he sat there he was digging the toe of his shoe into his calf, trying to re-open a week old cut, trying to feel something, anything, pain. After the bell rang, signalling the end of class, he pushed his notebook and pencils into his backpack, his eyes lowered as he stood and swung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. As he stepped out into the hallway he was met by the same three boys from the bathroom, who were standing off to the left side, laughing and chatting. There was no use in turning back into the room, because they'd already seen him, so Casey just stood, watching the three as they sneered at him.

"Hey faggot," Chris greeted, "Did you miss us?"

Instead of waiting patiently to be bullied, Casey turned and started running down the hall. The laughs of his tormentors followed along with their heavy rapid footfalls.

"Wait up gaylord!"

"Yea! We just wanna have some fun!"

Casey bit his lip as he ran faster, his lungs burning as he breathed heavily and darted as quickly as he could manage away from the pain his bullies intended to inflict. As he was running, terrible thoughts passed through his mind, he passed windows he considered jumping out of, and whenever he turned a corner he thought about stopping long enough to slit his wrist. But he didn't. Instead he kept running, until he couldn't breathe anymore.

He stopped with a start, his legs halting and his body lurching forward as if it was still in motion, and he gasped in rapid inhales as he looked back and forth, unsure of where he was. The area looked so old, rundown, and unused. He swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat, and hurried over to a door off to the side, where a rusty plaque read 13. In all his time there, Casey had never heard of a room 13 being used at the school. He lifted a hand and set it on the cold doorknob, then turned it. He wasn't too shocked to find it locked, and he stood back with a sigh, deciding to just leave it be. That is, until he heard three sets of footsteps down the hall.

Casey turned and backed against the door, thinking he was definitely dead when his foot bumped against something and pushed it back, making it scrape against the ground. He looked down and stooped to the floor, picking up what turned out to be a key, wiping his thumb over it before blowing the dust off to see the number 13 etched into it, thanking the forces that be as he spun on his heel and stuck it into the keyhole of the door, turning it until he heard a click. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open and hurrying inside the room, then closing and locking it behind him, backing further into the room.

He heard the three pairs of footsteps stop at the door, and bumped into something when he saw the doorknob rattle, "Shit," a muffled voice cursed out, "Where'd he go? The damn door's locked!"

"He probably hid around the corner! He obviously ran back!"

"Awe jeez, this running around is such a hassle."

The footsteps led away, and Casey let his breath out, sliding to sit on the ground. After letting his heart rate settle, Casey pulled himself back to his feet and let his bag fall to the ground as he looked around the room. It wasn't big, but by the rows of desks and chalkboard on the front wall, he knew it was an old classroom, mainly because they didn't use chalkboards in the other rooms. In front of the chalkboard was a large teacher's desk, and for some reason there was an old fashioned love seat just to the left, against the same wall where the door was located.

Looking more, Casey saw an old counter in the back, and a faucet that looked like it was at least fifty years old, like what they had in the science room.

He turned slowly on his heel, taking everything in, the ripped and discolored wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling, the flickering lights, the windows covered in old newspaper, the chipped tiles on the floor, the musty smell. There were several bookshelves in the room, but most of them were empty besides a few books stacked on one shelf, caked in dust.

Casey found himself staring at an area of the wallpaper that looked strangely new. He walked over to it and put a hand on it, moving his fingers up until he'd found where the paper started, digging his nails under the paper and prying a corner off the wall. He pried away another corner and gripped the paper with both hands, ripping it off the wall in one swift move. He dropped the paper to his feet and stared at what it had been hiding, a large, black stain. It looked like a splatter, like it had happened by force, like someone throwing an egg or paintball. Casey lifted a hand and set it on the discolored area, feeling over it slowly, curious as to what it was.

After several moments of staring at the stain, Casey stepped back and walked to the front of the classroom. He stood in front of the teacher's desk and turned, looking over the room from the teacher's perspective. The couch was to his right, along with the door. Casey closed his eyes and tried to imagine the room like it was when it had been used. Bustling and loud, with teenage voices echoing. The teacher would call out for the students to be silent, because he could hear every word since the room was so small. Paper airplanes would fly, and wadded up pieces of paper would be balled up and thrown at a target that everyone took advantage of...

Casey was frowning by then, staring blankly at a desk at the back where he would have sat if he had been in this classroom. He walked down the aisle until he had reached the desk, then sat down and looked over the room from there. It was a dull view to him, so melancholy, yet familiar, as it was the same exact view he had in every other class. Casey looked down at the top of the desk, feeling his heartbeat quicken in his chest as he saw words carved into the wood. He lifted a shaky hand and traced the letters, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Faggot.

Kill yourself.

Go and die.

Casey couldn't stop himself from wondering what the teen who sat here had to endure while attending this hell of a school. He gripped the desk and pushed the top up, revealing the cubby underneath. Shockingly enough, there were papers there, so Casey propped the top up with the metal bar at the side and reached in, pulling out a photo. He blew dust from the face and wiped his hand over it, amazed at the black and white photo. He wondered how old it was as his eyes moved over the two faces, both smiling. Two boys, one several inches taller than the other. The tall one looked bold and outgoing, while the shorter one looked timid and meek. Still, they looked happy, and Casey couldn't help but feel a little jealous.

He set the photo back and picked up some of the papers, but reading them made his heart beat even faster, because every one of them looked like a suicide note, or a dark poem about self loathing and pain. Casey threw the papers back into the cubby and slammed the top of the desk down, then jumped to his feet and ran to the door, grabbing his bag before leaving the room and slamming the door closed, running away from room 13. He didn't know why it was there, or even if it had ever been used, but he knew one thing, and that was that it wasn't being used now for a reason. He wanted to know what that reason was.

"Faggot!" the cruel voice was an unfortunately common occurance, "Hey, faggot! Blown any big ones lately?!" Casey made the mistake of glancing up towards the voice, feeling his stomach twist into knots when he saw the teen standing with a fist to his mouth, his tongue pressed against his cheek to simulate oral. His friends were laughing, but Casey wanted to cry. 

He lowered his head down as his feet carried him faster down the hall. He only stopped when he reached his locker; struggling with trembling hands as he twisted the little dial to insert his combination before wrenching the door open and grabbing his books, stuffing them lopsided into his backpack before closing his locker. Casey sniffled and rubbed under his nose habitually when he felt the beginning burn of tears. 

He turned away completely from the wall of lockers and started walking quickly toward his class, gasping in when he walked into someone who had been walking just as swiftly. It had Casey staggering back a few steps, his bag falling from his hands and spilling against the floor at his feet, making him squeak out a noise of distress and drop to his knees. He scrambled to pull everything closer so he could stuff it in his backpack, breathing out a squeaked and stuttered apology and shoving his books into his bag.

The sleeve of his left arm kept pulling at the raw cuts that scattered over the surface of his skin, making him wince, but he mostly ignored the pain by biting onto his bottom lip, holding back his tears as his eyes moved around the ground, searching for his history book. It would be bad if he lost it, he'd get questioned by the teacher in class and everyone would stare at him and snicker. He heard a few footsteps, and someone knelt in front of him before reaching out. With the lights on the ceiling, Casey saw the shadow of the person’s arm, and he shied away while pinching his eyes closed. He expected to get hit because of being clumsy, but instead he heard a male voice.

"Is this yours?"

Casey opened one eye and peered out through his veil of hair, then opened the other and lifted his head to see better, startled when his gaze landed on his history book, being held by a stranger, but he didn't bother looking higher than his arm as he nodded his head quickly and snatched the book, slipping it into his bag and scrambling to his feet. Hugging his backpack against his chest, he hurried away down the hall, not once speaking to whoever had returned the book.

"You're welcome!" That same voice called after him as he turned a corner, and his steps faltered as he looked over his shoulder, but he couldn't see whoever had spoken.

It was an incredibly simple phrase, but it had him staring over his shoulder for several steps before turning to the front again, chewing on his nails and looking down at his shoes as they scuffed the hall floor. You're welcome... when was the last time someone had said that to him, had uttered anything other than a cruel insult? Casey kept thinking about it, about that stranger, as he continued down the hall, finding himself wondering what he looked like, feeling a little disappointed that he didn't even look up at his face, but there was no use regretting it, so he pushed the odd meeting aside as nothing and continued to his first class.

As usual, he simply sat quietly in his seat, staring at his blank notebook, pencil between his fingers and mind yet again on that strange boy. It had to have been male, the voice was too deep to be female, and his hand didn't have the thin, slender shape a girl's had. Without realizing it, Casey had started to sketch the hand he'd seen holding out his history book, but when he noticed it, he didn't stop, he just kept sketching. Ask any artist and they'll tell you that hands are one of the hardest things to draw, Casey was no different, starting over several times before he was satisfied with what he was drawing, each finger detailed and meticulously drawn out with the creases of the knuckles, the little scars that had Casey wondering who on earth this boy was.

 The bell rang and he quickly and quietly made his way out of the classroom, stepping silently down the hall towards his next class, letting his eyes move back and forth over the faces of the students in the halls to make sure his tormentors were nowhere to be seen. For once he didn't see them, but letting himself get excited usually ended in a bad day, so he just sighed out and pulled at the straps of his backpack, quickening his steps to a minor trot so he could get to his class as soon as possible, in case he was being followed, which was possible and had happened before.

He reached his class and took a seat at the very back, setting his bag onto his lap and playing with the zippers as he stared down, waiting for the lesson to start. He wasn't entirely fond of English, so he was waiting and expecting another boring lecture full of useless facts, but a few unexpected things happened that day that made English class a little more interesting.

The first odd thing was when the door opened five minutes after the class was supposed to start. The students were chatting and ignoring whoever had walked in, but Casey peered out from behind the thick veil of hair in front of his eyes, his hands curling into fists when his gaze landed on Sam, Chris, and Rick. Sam and Chris were helping Rick, who was limping and obviously complaining, bruises on his face and tissue stuffed up one of his nostrils, his lip split on the bottom.

Their eyes raised, and when they spotted Casey he flinched up, but they didn't yell out or glare at him or anything, they simply lowered their heads and stared down at their feet, an emotion on their faces that Casey had never seen on them before. What was it? Fear? That couldn't be right, could it? Why would they look afraid when they were usually the ones scaring people?

Casey held his breath as he waited, expecting something to happen, but the three boys simply ignored his existence and made their way to their seats, hunching over and glancing nervously at the door. Casey followed their gazes before his eyes moved to the teacher’s desk, and he felt startled to realize that it was completely cleared off. In fact, none of the teacher's things were anywhere in the classroom. That was the second strange thing that happened in class. Where was the teacher?

After a few moments, the students seemed to realize that the teacher was gone, and by the look of it she wasn't coming back, so they started to lean towards each other and talk, muttering rumors and gossip, their own theories as to where the English teacher went. The disappearance of their teacher had taken Casey's place in their jeers, leaving him to simply sit there staring down at his notebook.

Nearly twenty minutes passed before the door opened, and everyone instantly hushed when they saw the principal walk into the room followed by a young man with black hair and dark blue eyes. He was well dressed and neatly groomed, in his late thirties or his early forties, and his smile was friendly, if not a little pained. He held a few books in his hands, and the principal cleared his throat to gain everyone's attention.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," he started, smiling crookedly, "your English teacher resigned just last night, and it took the school a bit of time to find a replacement for her." He motioned to the man standing beside him, "This is Ezekial Creed. He's actually a graduate from the school, so please make him feel at home." With that said he turned to Mr. Creed, patting him on the shoulder with a forced smile and muttering something under his breath that had Mr. Creed's smile fading to a look of exhaustion.

He watched the principal leave the room before turning to the class and clearing his throat, putting a smile back onto his face, "Well, like the principal said, my name is Ezekial Creed, but please call me Mr. Creed. I don't think I have to show you how to spell that, right? So let's just get right into it, we've already lost twenty minutes of class time. Can anyone tell me where you were in the book?"

There was an expectant smile on his lips as he looked at each individual expression of discomfort on everyone's faces, humming as he set the books he was carrying down onto the desk, picking up the textbook and flipping it open to the table of contents, "Well, if no one remembers we can just start at the beginning, how's that?"

This brought out a chorus of groans and curses from the students as they slowly opened their textbooks, and a girl towards the front of the room shot her arm up, "I remember, I remember!" she piped, "We were near the middle talking about Edgar Allan Poe!"

"Yea, yea!" A boy several seats behind her agreed quickly, "We were reading The Raven!" He looked over to the boy beside him for clarity, "Weren't we? That book is written by Poe, isn't it?"

 His friend shrugged and Mr. Creed chuckled, "How sad, it seems no one wants to go back to the beginning. Well, that's the basis of the English language," he turned around and stepped over to the whiteboard, picking up the dry erase pen and pulling the cap off, "Everyone open to the introduction, today we will be starting at the beginning."

More groans followed, and Mr. Creed burst out laughing, "Now children, I know you're all looking forward to Mr. Poe's dark sense of entertainment, but before we get there we need to see the lighter side of poetry. We don't want you getting overwhelmed, now do we?" He turned back to the class and looked around the room, "Now, who wants to begin reading? Any volunteers?"

It wasn't all that surprising when no one answered him or raised their hand, in fact, everyone dropped their heads so they wouldn't catch his eye, so Mr. Creed walked back over to his desk and picked up a clipboard, "I guess I'll just pick someone then," more groans, like it was the theme music of that class, but Mr. Creed ignored them as his eyes went down the page. "Let's see, I don't know your names yet so I'll have to choose at random. How about...," he trailed his finger down the page before stopping on a name and looking up, "Casey Ryan?"

 The room seemed to completely freeze, even the breathing paused, and Casey slowly lifted his head just enough to look through the veil of his hair to the front of the room where the teacher was standing looking around the room, a patient look on his face. Casey sunk down in his seat, thinking maybe if he stayed silent then the teacher would move on, assume he was sick and not at school, but he had horrible luck, and most of the school hated his existence.

 Most of the students in the room began to snicker, and those who didn't just looked down and tried to pay attention to something else, like the phones in their hands hidden beneath the desk top. They didn't try to join into the obvious harassment and teasing, but they didn't try to stop it, they just sat there and let it happen, and Mr. Creed raised up an eyebrow to show his confusion as his eyes looked over at the students laughing.

 "Back there," the same girl at the front spoke up, a sneer on her lips as she pointed over to where Casey was sitting, making all eyes move to him, and he sank down more into his seat, hugging his bag.

 "Would you please read, Mr. Ryan?" Mr. Creed asked, and Casey choked on his breath as he shook his head furiously while biting his lip.

 The tense atmosphere in the room broke as the students started to laugh loudly, and Casey balled his hands into fists, reaching over and pawing at his left arm, eyes wide as he tried to open one of the cuts without looking too obvious. He wanted to feel pain, he had to feel pain, if he didn't he'd go crazy.

 "Why are you all laughing?" Mr. Creed asked suddenly, his tone tense and cold, so stiff in fact that the room immediately silenced, and the class stared at him in uneasy confusion.

 With everyone distracted, no one noticed when Casey stuffed his books into his bag and stumbled to his feet, making his way down the aisle. Mr. Creed gaped at him and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when someone stuck a leg out into Casey's path, tripping him and sending him sprawling across the floor, his book bag emptying in front of him and his face hitting the hard floor.

 The laughter started again, echoing around him like he was stuck in a tight cave, and he choked on the tears he was fighting as he scrambled to his hands and knees, trembling as he grabbed his books and papers. He stuffed them sloppily back into his bag before climbing to his feet and hurrying for the door, throwing it open and sprinting as fast as he could down the hallway away from the laughter.

 His chest was knotting, his lungs burned as he gasped for breath, and tears stung his eyes as he continued to run as fast as his legs could manage down the halls and into the unused wing of the school; grabbing the key from his pocket with a shaking hand and jamming it into the key hole on the door leading to Room 13. He pushed open the door and hurried into the old room, closing and locking the door behind him as the tears finally broke through the barrier and streamed down his face.

 Casey was choking from the tears as he stumbled over to the desk at the back to the room, collapsing into the seat and folding his arms over the top of it before burying his face into his forearms and sobbing. It felt like his heart was shattering, all he wanted was to disappear, and hardly anything had been done! Just laughing, jeers pointed at him, and suddenly he was a wreck. He leaned back in the chair and wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand, sniffing as he fished the razor from his right pocket, holding it up and staring at it, tears falling faster at the consideration of what he was prepared to do. No one would have to worry about him anymore, and he wondered curiously who they would target instead after he was gone.

 Death would be better, he thought to himself, so much more peaceful than being tormented every day of his life simply for loving a certain gender. How would they feel if they were harassed and belittled for liking who they liked? They probably wouldn't like it much.

 Casey's tears slowed the longer he thought of death, the longer he thought of how peaceful it would be with no more insults, no more physical bullying. He could see his blotchy unfocused reflection in the thin strip of metal he held in his fingers. How would he do it, though? Cut the artery in his wrist? Or his neck? He could jump out of a window or poison himself, or he could shoot himself, but that would all take time. He wanted it done, he wanted to do it now, he wanted to finally rid himself of the curse of his existence.

 The edge of the razor was just against the surface of his skin when he heard the door knob rattle, and he froze with his eyes locked on the door, quickly stuffing the self-mutilating object into his pocket before jumping to his feet as the door was pushed open. He was so startled that he backed up and bumped into the chair he'd been sitting in, tripping over it and falling onto his back with a yelp of pain, his hood falling off. He struggled to sit up and held the back of his head as he stared up at the boy standing in the doorway, who looked just as surprised as Casey did.

Casey didn't recognize him at all, and he wondered if the guy even went to the school there. He was tall compared to Casey, with broad shoulders and lightly tanned skin, so light in fact that it seemed like more of a natural skin tone than a tan from being in the sun. His eyes were sharp and observant, they looked silver, but for all Casey knew they were probably just an intensely light blue. He preferred to think they were silver, that was his favorite color. The boy's hair was rather messy on his head, a smoothly toned dark chocolate color with bangs drifting to hang just over his eyebrows. The expression on his face had faded from a look of shock to a calm stoic that made shivers creep down Casey's spine. He was definitely incredibly handsome.

Casey kicked himself back and struggled to his feet, opening his mouth to speak, but closing it when nothing came out. It was hard to speak, or even make words, in front of people, especially someone good looking. The most that Casey ever spoke was at home begging his mother to stop hitting him or throwing things at him, otherwise he did his best to keep his lips sealed, especially at school. Speaking made him far too vulnerable, so instead of trying to talk, he just stumbled over to where he'd left his backpack and picked it up, hugging it to his chest and hurrying towards the open door.

He went to brush past the unfamiliar stranger, but before he could leave the room a hand grabbed onto his upper arm, not tight or painful, but firm in a way that said he wasn't going to be pulling away easily, so he turned his head to gape up at the boy. His silver eyes were looking intently over Casey, moving up and down and over his face, and Casey choked a little as he pulled at his arm.

"P-pl-please let g-go," he stuttered out, rather surprised he'd managed to speak at all in front of someone he didn't even know.

 "I never got a thank you," was what the boy replied, and Casey blinked a few times, confused.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry?"

"From this morning; you dropped your history book."

 Casey stared at the boy, speechless. He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't, so he just closed his mouth and looked down at the hand holding him in place. He recognized them, the hands he'd been drawing in his notebook since that morning. This really was the guy who he ran into; the one who returned his history book.

"I'm waiting for my thank you," the boy said, and Casey went to speak again, his heart beating faster when he heard the voices of his three main tormentors echoing down the hall.

"We already checked this hallway, bro," Rick complained, "We checked it yesterday too!"

"Yea, but maybe that room is open," Chris countered, "Let's just go look."

Casey could feel the color drain from his face the same time his knees weakened under the weight of his body. The silver eyed boy pulled him back into the room and closed the door silently, flipping the lock, not once loosening his hold around Casey's arm, pulling him further into the room when the door knob rattled.

"Locked still," Chris cursed out, "Damn that's weird!"

"Let's go ask the principal what this room is for," Rick suggested, "I want to know."

"Nah, give it up, it's locked for a reason I guess," the rattling stopped and there were footsteps leading away from the door, "Let's just find the faggot; he hides on the boiler room sometimes."

"What about that... that guy from before?" Sam spoke up for the first time, and Rick scoffed.

"Who cares? He won't know."

"Yea, and besides, Ryan needs to know to keep his mouth shut."

The footsteps got quieter until they'd faded off completely, and Casey backed up, leaning against one of the desks as his breath hitched in his throat. He struggled to fend off the tears as he swallowed thickly, staring down. Keep his mouth shut? What did he say? It didn't make sense, Casey never talked, what could he have "said" to those three to make them angry at him? Then again, they were always angry at him, but that didn't explain what he could have said, if he even said anything at all.

"Are you okay?" The question came suddenly from the silver eyed young man who was watching Casey closely, that same expressionless look on his face.

Casey didn't reply, he just stepped backwards around the desk, hugging his backpack tightly against his chest and biting his lip as he stared at his feet, slowly putting distance between himself and this stranger.

"What's your name?" He spoke again, and Casey lifted his head just enough to see the boy between the strands of black hair in front of his eyes, feeling slightly confused.

"Y-you do-don't know my n-name?" he stuttered out the question, and the boy shrugged his shoulders.

"Should I?"

Casey shook his head furiously, "E-e-every-o-one kn-knows, the-they all b-bully m-me," Casey said, his voice growing quieter with each word, and he tightened his grip on his bag, probably bending a few of the notebooks.

"I don't remember ever bullying you," came the rather short reply, "I saw you for the first time this morning. I didn't even know you went to this school, with how shy you were acting I honestly thought you were a new student. I'm Lex."

"Lex," Casey repeated, looking at the toes of his shoes, but slowly lifting his head and opening his mouth, "C-Casey."

"Casey?" Lex tilted his head to the side, his eyes slowly looking over Casey, his gaze intense, "Nice name," he reached a hand out, and Casey flinched, jolting back and bumping against another desk. Lex paused with his hand outstretched, his brow drawing together in confusion, "What is it? You shake it," he waved his hand a little, but Casey just stared at it, "You look like you're about to get slapped."

"I-I'm sorry!" Casey's shoulders were trembling, eyes filling with tears as he held his breath and backed further away from Lex until his back was against the wall, head bowed as his tears slipped slowly down his cheeks. He flinched when he felt the tears drip off his chin and hit the dusty floor at his feet, and he lifted a hand to his face, wiping at his eyes.

He heard shoes scuffing the tile, signaling Lex walking closer, and suddenly two hands were cupped around his face, one hand under his chin to tip it up as the other hand brushed his bangs out of his face to uncover his eyes, which grew wide as his cheeks heated up.

"I knew you were crying," Lex said, wiping one of the falling tears away with his thumb.

Casey shot back, away from his touch, dropping his backpack and pressing up against the wall, "Wh-what is wrong with you?!" He shrilled, his wide eyes glassy from the tears, "Jus-just leave me alone! If you're not going to be honest and just torment me like everyone else, then leave me the hell alone! I don't even know you! Stop trying to trick me, I know you're just like everyone else!"

Lex furrowed his eyebrows, "I don't know you either, which means I have no reason to just torment you randomly for no reason, and I'm nothing like the other people at this school," he held a hand out, "Come on, you look pathetic. If you keep rubbing your eyes like that they'll just get red, so stop."

"N-no one cares, so why should I?" Casey mumbled out, wiping his eyes with the heels of both hands, "Leave me alone."

"Why would I do that? I can't just leave someone who's acting so pathetic."

"I'm not pathetic," Casey hiccuped from his tears, "Y-you don't even know me."

"So? What kind of person would I be if I just left you alone while you were crying like a baby?"

"I-I'm not a baby!" Casey snapped, rubbing his arm under his nose, glaring at the ground at Lex's feet.

"You're crying like one," Lex countered, putting his hands on his hips, "Come on, there's no reason for this. Stop the water works."

"Sh-shut up, I deserve to cry," Casey choked, his voice cracking, "Y-you have no idea what I've been through."
Lex's head tilted to the side, his eyes changing from stoic to empathetic understanding, "No," he agreed, "I don't know what you've been through, but that doesn't mean I can't help you."

Casey stared silently at Lex for a long time from behind his dark bangs. The expression on his face was so definitive Casey almost found himself believing him, but he shook his head slowly before the hope got too strong, denying the idea that this person he didn't even know could actually understand him, could help him. No, he'd been through way too much already, the damage had been done and the scars would never fade.

Lex sighed and stepped forward, and Casey flinched, pressing his back against the wall as Lex reached him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up, pushing Casey's bangs further out of his face with one hand as he carefully cleared the tears from his cheeks and wiped his eyes gently. Casey's eyes widened and he tensed up as he felt warmth creep over his face. Why was this random stranger he'd never met before that day being so kind and gentle?

"There," Lex said, pulling the handkerchief away and rubbing Casey's cheek, "They're a bit red, but at least you stopped rubbing them. That would've made them even worse."

Casey didn't even try to reply as he stared up at Lex with wide eyes, and Lex stared back like he was letting Casey gape at him. After a moment he turned away, and Casey felt his heart fall in his chest, his breath hesitating in his throat as he bowed his head to stare at his feet, wiping at his dry eyes.

"How did you find this place, anyway?" Lex asked, and Casey nibbled on his bottom lip, staring at the closed door.

He wrung his hands and looked away as he pulled the key out of his pocket, "I f-found this key."

"Really? I picked the lock."

Casey raised an eyebrow and looked up to see Lex walking around the room casually, hands in his pockets. As he observed him more, Casey realized he did look a little like a teen rebel. Elbow long sleeves of a pitch black V-neck showed black fingerless gloves probably purchased at Hot Topic, and a handful of different styled bracelets that bunched halfway up both arms. His cargo jeans were black and ripped at the knees like he'd crashed on a skateboard, or was just too lazy to replace them. A silver chain was hooked to a belt loop and led to his back pocket, likely holding his wallet, and he wore black boots. Looking up at his face, Casey noticed a cut on his lip, mostly healed, and a light bruise just under his right eye. Besides that, both ear lobes were pierced with black studs in them.

Casey swallowed a thick lump in his throat as he continued to stare at Lex, hypnotized by how damn good looking he was. He snapped his head away and bit down on his lip, looking at the ground and grabbing his left arm, shocked at his own thoughts. Good looking? No way, being attracted to someone when he was in the middle of a crisis was not a good thing to do; Casey was just about to kill himself!  Why, after feeling such empty despair, would he allow himself to be swept away by good looks and gorgeous silver eyes?

Once again Casey felt his cheeks heat up, and he tugged nervously at his left sleeve as he lifted his gaze back to Lex, who was looking around the shelves, pulling down the old books and blowing the dust from their covers. He really was handsome, Casey decided, more so than any other guy there at the school. Casey should know, he was gay, he noticed cute guys just like the girls did. Unfortunately for him, it was wrong to find other males attractive.

He really couldn't help it though, and seemed incapable of pulling his gaze away from Lex, who was flipping through the old textbook in his hands. When he lifted his head, Casey averted his gaze as quickly as possible, staring at the tiled floor and hoping he looked as fascinated as possible.

His body tensed up when he heard footsteps and nearly choked on air when he felt Lex's hand on his head, lifting his head and eyes to gape up at him. Lex was watching him with a sharp, observant gaze, obvious curiosity in his silver eyes. He threaded his fingers through Casey's hair and tipped his head to the side like he'd just discovered something interesting, and Casey shivered under his touch before stumbling back a few steps.

"Your hair is surprisingly soft," Lex said as if it was a completely reasonable explanation, ignoring the look on Casey's face as he reached his hand back out and set it on top of Casey's head, twisting his fingers around a lock of hair, "Very soft."

Casey could feel the heat across his cheeks get even hotter, and Lex's silver eyes grew hard as he looked down at Casey, over what he was wearing and the condition of everything.

"You dress kind of sloppily."

"S-sorry," Casey murmured, bowing his head shamefully and tugging habitually at his left sleeve as he retreated back into murmurs, mutters, and half replies cursed with a stutter that he never actually had before.

"Why? I was just making an observation, it's nothing to be sorry for," Lex said, folding his arms as a look of pity and confusion washed over his face, "Who the hell would pick on someone as fragile looking as you?"

Casey's blush could hardly fade before Lex made it burn a deeper crimson, and he gaped up at Lex, "I-I'm not!" 

"Aren't you? You were crying just a minute ago."

"Tha-that wasn't anything!"

"It was kind of pathetic."

"Shut up, I already know that!"

Lex was silent a moment before speaking, "Pardon?"

"I said I know; I know I'm fucking pathetic! I know I'm a fucking idiot, I don't need everyone telling me that every second of every fucking day!" Casey screamed, gasping for breath and staring up at Lex, trying his best to glare, but he felt so weak compared to the taller, more intimidating boy. Casey was sure that if Lex chose to, he could definitely take advantage of Casey's weakness and toss him around like a weightless rag doll.

However, instead of a look of anger crossing Lex's face like he'd expected, an emotion Casey couldn't quite place flickered in his eyes. He raised a hand and Casey flinched, raising his arms up in defense and pinching his eyes closed, awaiting the inevitable punches that never came. Instead he felt two hands cup around his face, a thumb caressing his cheek. Casey had lost count how many times this damn kid had made him blush. He opened his eyes to stare at Lex, who was way too close for usual comfort, so he held his breath and fidgeted, trying to move away. Lex held him in place though, staring into his eyes like he was reading Casey's soul.

Casey's breath hitched and he pinched his eyes closed, but Lex just chuckled and drew a thumb over Casey's cheek again, "Open your eyes, I'm trying to figure out who you are."

"Casey," was the whispered reply, "I already told you my name is Casey."

"I know that," Lex said, "That's not what I meant," he released Casey and stepped back, "I meant I know what you've been through, and what you go through every day."

"Bull shit!" Casey snapped, opening his eyes to glare up at Lex.

"Oh? I'll make a wild guess then," Lex started, stepping closer and putting his hands against the wall on either side of Casey, "Technically everyone here at the school treats you like some kind of disease, including someone who at one point was a very close friend of yours. Your parents don't look at you, they hardly acknowledge you, and you've been quiet for so long that it physically hurts you to talk. You're terrified of physical contact because every time before now you've just been hit or pushed around. You've been told you're useless and better off dead so many times you've come to believe it, and you're completely alone to hate yourself silently."

Casey was shaking, gaping at Lex in shock, his knees buckling under his weight and his back leaning heavily against the wall behind him, "Don't think... don't think you know me. You don't know a thing about me," he slid down to the floor and stared at the opposite wall, eyes wide.

"Maybe," Lex said, kneeling in front of Casey, "Listen, I'm sorry if you've been tormented this whole time by people you thought you could trust, but I'm not like that."

"Shut up."

 "I'm not really that bad of a person," Casey blinked his eyes and looked up at Lex, who had a serious look on his face, "I know I can help you if you let me," he held a hand out, and Casey looked at it, then up at Lex, then back at his hand.

 Help.

 So many times Casey has longed for it, longed for someone to save him, someone to protect him from himself and everyone else around him. Was it fate to meet Lex, or just a coincidence? Could Casey trust him? After being hurt so many times, all Casey could think about was Brad, years and years of friendship and bonding just thrown away in order to hurt Casey. Could he trust anyone after that betrayal?

"I... I'm scared," Casey choked out, his voice barely a whisper, but somehow Lex heard him, or maybe he just knew what he would say before he said it.

"Don't be," he replied, his voice warm and truthful, "There's no need to be scared anymore."

Casey stared wide eyed at Lex, then looked down as he lifted one of his hands. It shook in anxiety, and Casey's eyes widened even more, his chest knotting painfully as he felt his breath hitch and stop as he actually considered setting his hand in Lex's. It hurt, his chest hurt, it was hard to breathe and his vision was blurring from tears. His hand was shaking uncontrollably, and he was light headed. Then he felt a warm hand grip his own, encasing his much smaller hand to stop the shaking. Casey tensed up and stared down at the connected hands in shock. Lex's hand was so warm, his grip was firm and comforting, and Casey's tears slowed until he could see clearly, blinking so his vision was cleared and looking up at Lex, who smiled softly at him.

"See? You just need one person to hold your hand. You don't have to worry anymore, alright? No one's gonna torment you again."