“—and I hate myself for thinking that way. Because I know it doesn’t work like that. I know if he was in the right mind, he would have never, never made it so I found him like that, let alone even went through with it. I know he was screaming for help inside, and I just—I couldn’t reach him. God, I couldn’t reach him—”

Strong arms come around me, crushing me to a warm, firm body. Cutting my words off with a sharp gasp. Because holy shit, Waylon is hugging me. Waylon, of all people. Comforting...me.

“I know,” Waylon rushes out just over my ear. He squeezes me so tight, it’s borderline painful. “I know.”

The tears welled up in my eyes drip over silently, clearing my vision. And here I thought I was done crying for the day.

“You can be mad, okay?” he says in a rough whisper. “You’re allowed to be fucking pissed off, regardless of what you know to be true. You can’t change how you feel. You can only feel it. It doesn’t make you a bad person, Will. It just makes you human.”

My hands come up slowly, carefully. Trembling as I pat around for his arms, before sinking my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. My shirt. The one I hastily packed in my bag last night when we stopped by the garage on the way here.

He smells...

Well, horrible.

But he also smells like me under it all.

“And just like I know he’d want you to laugh,” he goes on thickly, “he also wouldn’t want you to be bottling up your anger. It’s okay to feel guilty, man, but don’t let it consume you. Why do you think he wrote that note? He knew, Will. He knew you’d beat yourself up and, somehow, through all that...darkness caving in around him, he managed to think of you. Worry about you.”

Blinking, I consider his words. Because I never really thought about it like that. If anything, I resented Zayne for not giving me enough.

Maybe I was looking at this wrong all along.

Maybe it was never about me.

Waylon stiffens suddenly. As if just realizing what he’s doing. I knew it was coming, but it still sucks when he starts pulling away. I don’t even bother trying to stop him. A hug is probably the last thing I expected to get this morning, especially from him. So I’m not about to be greedy.

This morning was supposed to be about helping him, not dealing with my shit.

His face is twisted in a grimace and he won’t meet my eye. “I just remembered. I haven’t showered in days.”