Nick does nothing. He does not breathe. He does not blink. If he moves a single muscle, Benji is going to tear out his jugular. Those teeth will go in like knives, and he will bleed out onto the sidewalk before he can think to staunch the wound—unrestricted blood loss from a major vein leads to unconsciousness in seconds and death within minutes. Benji’s weight presses him into the ribs of a corpse, into a squelching mess of shredded insides and robes that reek of bleach, sweat, and gore.

The next noise Benji makes is not a shriek. It’s a whimper. It crawls up from his throat like a dying thing.

Those eyes are still his. Seraph hasn’t touched them. They’re a little red, strained, but they’re his.

Nick is about to do something stupid.

He whispers, “Your hair is in your face.”

Benji does not kill him.

All he does is blink.

Nick lifts his arm and presses it flat against Benji’s chest, just enough pressure to push him back. Benji shuffles away, eyes wide, and Nick manages to sit. Benji’s fingers leave red marks on the concrete. He’s so small. He’s so light. Black liquid trickles from his nose, and Nick can’t imagine Benji has any insides left to lose.

“It’s me,” Nick says. “I’m here now. It’s okay.” It’s not a lie. He makes a mental list of everything they’ll have to do to get Benji into the bank without raising suspicion. Clean the blood off his face. Get him into new clothes and a mask. Soothe the curled-up cramping thing his hands are doing. Cover his arms.

Just make sure he gets home.

One last push, and Benji falls back to the ground. Nick takes the last of the bobby pins from his pocket, selects exactly two, and clips a stubborn clump of Benji’s hair away from his forehead. It’s like trying to fix the Hoover Dam with duct tape, but Benji’s shoulders sag, and another sad little noise crawls up his throat, and his eyes finally focus.

“Nick?” he whispers.

They’ve lost the Vanguard, but Nick hasn’t lost Benji. There is no way in hell Nick could have brought himself to give Benji over. How had he even thought he could? God, what is wrong with him? How could he?

“There you go,” Nick says. “Thought we lost you for a second.” Even though he wants to cry, Thank God, thank God, thank God, and Nick hasn’t thanked God for anything in years.

Benjamin

Chapter 24

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and other queer and questioning youth often face unique challenges in finding community. Whether you are helping build an accepting family at home or searching for one who will support you when others don’t, the Acheson LGBTQ+ Center is here for you.

—The Acheson LGBTQ+ Center official website