Reggie’s face smooths over with something like resignation. “Well, too bad, kid. You’re stuck with us.”

Waylon snarls and steps back, then another, until he’s got both of us in front of him. His knees threaten to buckle, but whatever is fueling him right now—anger, fear, or some combination of both—seems to be keeping him upright. At least for the moment.

I start to say, “We just wanna help you—”

He barks out a laugh, the barbed edges of it sending chills down my spine. “You? You’re the reason I’m like this.”

Yeah, there’s no fighting the flinch this time. His words slice me right the fuck open, just as I’m sure he intended.

“Waylon!” his uncle barks.

I look down at the ground. “I’m not the one who hurt you, Way—”

“Just looking at you hurts!” he screams raggedly.

I still.

“It makes me want to throw up. It m-makes me want to punch something. It makes me want to hurt myself—”

“ENOUGH!”

I hear a scuffle of movement and look up just in time to find Reggie grabbing Waylon around his midsection, easing him to the ground as Waylon throws out messy, careless punches, too inebriated to do any real damage. He scratches at Reggie’s arms, his face, wherever he can reach, begging him to let go, stop, don’t touch him. Please, please, please—

My vision blurs with tears as Reggie whispers into his ear that it’s okay, he’s got him now, that everything’s going to be okay.

“Make it stop,” Waylon sobs. Reggie’s arms are wrapped around his chest like a vice, effectively holding his limbs in place. His head’s bowed to his shoulder as he lets Waylon cry and rage and scream it all out. “Please. Please. I c-can’t—I c-can’t—”

Something splinters in my chest and I have to choke down my own cries. Swallow them. It’s taking everything in me to not rush over, shove Reggie away, wrap Waylon in my arms and press my face to his smelly, gross head.

His desperate screams gradually, then all at once, crumble into broken, gut-wrenching sobs that lodge themselves in my throat as if they’re my own.

He’s shattering.

I’m shattering.

Maybe together, we can stay whole.

Reggie lifts his head, looking up at me through red, tear-stained eyes. His hold has eased up some, and I notice it’s no longer him holding on to Waylon for dear life, but Waylon holding on to him.

He buries his face in Reggie’s thick bicep, muffling his cries into his flannel shirt. His fingers grapple along his uncle’s forearms, nails digging into the fabric. All the while, Reggie continues to murmur reassurances and apologies while he strokes Waylon’s head. His back. Anywhere he can reach.