Boys Don't Cry [Trigger Warning!] (Wren)

[Dante Russo]

Dante hadn’t stopped thinking about it since it had come up a couple days ago. He was doing Christmas. He was willingly going to take part in a thing that he hated, despised, and was frankly terrified of.. because Wren asked him too. Because his eyes were pretty. Because his skin was smooth. Because his lips were—

That didn’t matter. That shouldn’t matter! Why was he doing this!? He should have just said no! What the hell was wrong with him!?

No. That wasn’t fair. His anxiety in this moment had nothing to do with that. It was just a handy thing to blame it on. He woke up this morning with her voice in his head, and it hadn’t gone away yet. It had nothing to do with Wren and his stupid family vacation. It was just something that happened sometimes.

It was right before lunch. Excited, hungry students all stampeding toward the same place. Bumping, jostling, pushing, shouting. It was impossible to avoid touching anyone, and Dante decided that skipping lunch would just be easier. Not much appetite anyway. Hunger, yes. Desire to eat, no. But the stabbing pain in his stomach wasn’t making him any calmer.

He felt ill. Food sounded nauseating, but the gnawing hunger made it so much easier to slip back to thirteen. Back when there was never enough food. Back when he and Rebecca shoplifted most of what they ate. Back when the sound of her shouting, and screaming, and crying was something he heard every day.

Back when he used to hide the bruises with makeup. When he bent over backwards to keep her happy. When he worked himself ragged to take care of her. To make sure she went to work. To make sure she was fed. To make sure they had a place to live—

”Dante, I’m hungry!”

“Well, that’s too bad, because we don’t have any food,” Dante muttered, ducking into a bathroom to escape the herd of ravenous students. Part of him knew where he was. The part that was responsible for taking him someplace safe. The part that made sure he didn’t draw attention.

He glanced around the bathroom, and that part of his brain told him to shut the fuck up for a minute. There were people still milling about, apparently not in as much of a rush to eat as everyone else. Quietly, head bowed, Dante slipped into stall and leaned against the door once it was latched. He tried to breath slow, but that was hard when his skin was crawling, and every voice outside that wasn’t quite loud enough for him to hear turned into Rebecca in his head. He couldn’t even respond. Couldn’t snap back.

Quiet. Had to be quiet now.

”Dante, be quiet! Quit squirming! Somebody’ll notice! Oh my god, stop crying. Don’t you love me? Isn’t this nice? Sh, Dante. Look.. just breathe. Breathe. See? It’s nice. It feels good… say my name, Dante.”

“…Rebecca,” Dante mouthed the word, still not daring to make a sound. He bit his lip, stifling a sob. Shit. Shit!

”Dante, come on! Just.. STOP CRYING! What is WRONG with you!? Boys don’t cry, Dante! They don’t!”

“I know,” he whispered, slipping quietly to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees for a moment before he began digging through his pocket for something. He found a sharpened pencil and hurriedly pushed back his pant leg to drag it harshly across his skin, above the cigarette-sized burns on the inside of his ankle. The pencil broke before his flesh did, and Dante fought hard to keep himself from hitting the inside of the stall. He held his breath and listened. Wondering if he was alone yet.

He didn’t hear anyone. Dante dropped his pencil and was about to stand up when he heard the door open again. “Fuck,” he breathed, settling to the floor again. He picked up his broken pencil and dragged it across his skin again, desperately fighting off the sensation of sickness that bubbled deep inside him. Trying to drown out her voice with pain.

”Come on. I want you to come. Don’t you want to? Do it for me, Dante. Please?”

A quiet whimper passed his lips and the pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling out of the stall. Dante hugged his knees to his chest and pressed his lips together. Eyes staring, wide open, in the direction of the sounds outside his stall.

[Wren O'Hara]

There were very few things that could put a damper on Wren’s appetite as a general rule, and worry was at the top of the short list. He could have sworn, he thought to himself as he surveyed the crowd gathering in the cafeteria, that he’d seen the back of Dante’s head somewhere in the outside corridor. Being that he and Dante now usually met for lunch, and, really, most things, the slight wrinkle in his daily routine made his brain itch.

He sighed and took a side-step out of the lunch line, which quickly inched forward to fill his absence.

Ever since Dante had told him about his flashbacks and nightmares, Wren had made a concentrated effort to not be any different, which was a surprisingly hard thing to do when you were thinking about it. The furthest he’d gone was making vague Internet searches in the privacy of his dorm, like how to be a really good friend and how to help somebody with nightmares. This hadn’t really been helpful, because it turned out that Wren knew about as much as the Internet did when it came to dealing with things like that. Most of the suggestions had been pretty obvious.

Reluctantly, Wren had decided to trust his own judgment.

Currently, his judgment was telling him that he should go to the last place he thought he’d seen Dante, which was somewhere around the corridor that led to the common area which led to the cafeteria. He stood in the middle of said corridor for a few moments, looking around a bit dumbly. The corridor was empty. Everyone was at lunch.

So where was Dante?

He furrowed his eyebrows at the cinderblock wall as though it had insulted him gravely. His gaze traveled along the tiled floor, and his feet followed. He walked until he reached the boys’ restroom; it was the largest restroom in the main building, and it was also the only door on the corridor.

He reached out to pull the door open, but it opened before he got there. He made eye contact with a boy he didn’t know and backed away, a little startled. He managed to catch the door before it swung completely closed again and hurried through it, lest he get any more unwelcome surprises.

At first glance, the restroom appeared to be empty, too. Wren sighed audibly, which was rare for him; he’d already turned his back to the stalls when an odd noise across the tile caught his attention. He whipped back around and pinpointed the source – a wooden pencil with a broken tip. He blinked at it.

Seriously, who took pencils to the bathroom?

Nevertheless, he bent down and picked it up. He might not have, if he’d thought a little harder about where it might have been before rolling out onto the floor, but it also served as a good excuse to peek under the stall door.

He did so, and instantly recognized Dante’s shoes. Dante’s jeans, also, and the bottom half of Dante’s puffy green jacket. He was sitting on the floor. Wren couldn’t see his face.

His eyebrows had formed a sort of worried peak in the center of his forehead.

“Dante?” he asked, finally.

[Dante Russo]

Dante inhaled sharply and held his breath. It was hard to hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. It was like he was listening through a thick layer of cotton, and his mind was more than willing to distort his muffled perception. But it wasn't her. It couldn't be. She did't know where he was, and even if she did Dante was pretty sure she was in jail! He pushed himself against the stall, thoughts racing. Head spinning because he was forgeting to breathe.

Cold panic coursed through him, and he did the obvious thing. The predictable thing. He slammed his foot against the inside of the stall and barked, “Get lost!! Just fuck off!”

He tried to wipe tears from his cheeks with trembling hands, but the mounting hysteria made him slightly uncoordinated. Mostly he just smeared them across his face. Dante pressed his hands against the inside of the stall and pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the walls for balance. His vision dimmed once he was upright. Not enough food. Not enough water. He blinked and swayed and covered his face with his hand.

"Just go away," he mumbled, most of the force gone from his voice. "Yer.. fuckin'.. crazy bitch. Leave me alone!" His words were slurring a little, and he was taking short, gasping breaths. Then he pounded his fist against the inside of the stall and shouted again, "GO AWAY!"

[Wren O'Hara]

Wren, who’d been holding his face rather near to the stall door, jerked instinctively away. Well, that had certainly got his blood pumping. He sat on the tile floor and crossed his legs, this time at a safer distance. He was still holding the pencil.

He waited patiently as a lot of things apparently happened inside of the stall that he couldn’t see. He could only see the shaking of the flimsy plastic dividers, and hear the muffled crying, and fill in the gaps with his mind.

He bit his lip, uncertain. For a moment, he thought that calling a nearby adult might be a good idea. He quickly thought better, though; if he was thinking about Rebecca, like he’d said, then… well, Rebecca had been an adult, right? In a manner of speaking. It might only make things worse.

Not that he was confident in his ability to make things better. But…

Dante called him a crazy bitch from the other side of the door, and Wren’s eyebrows quirked again in confusion and concern. There was another loud bang against the door, but this time, Wren didn’t flinch.

He cleared his throat.

“It’s me, dude,” he called, a little hesitantly. “Wren.”

He wanted to say something valiant, like I’m not going anywhere, maybe, but at this point he wasn’t sure that he wanted to add any provocation to the firestorm of Dante’s emotions.

So, he waited.

[Dante Russo]

Wren. Wren? It took Dante a minute to remember the face that went with that name. After, "It's me, dude," he was honestly expecting, "Jo Jo." Dante furrowed his brow in confusion before the information clicked.

"Well you can fuck off too!" Dante shouted at him, leaning heavily against the stall, forehead pressed against the textured plastic wall. He felt sick, and all this shouting wasn't helping. He could feel his heartbeat in his stomach, and in his head. His chest was tight, and he was audibly gasping for breath.

Rebecca's voice was still echoing in his head, alternating between innapropriate affection and aggression. Dante wanted Wren to leave. He wanted it so badly, the only thing stopping him from coming out fists flying was the fact that Wren could easily subdue him... without even trying, probably.

He didn't want Wren to see this. He didn't trust that everything would be ok after he saw this. What they had now was comfortable. Predictable. And Dante was going to fuck it all up. Like he fucked up everything else. He couldn't handle this right now! He could feel Rebecca's hands on him, and the nausea was making him dizzy.

He hated how she made him warm, and tingly, and sick all at the same time. He hated how his body responded to her, even when she wasn't there. A sob ripped through him. "Just go away," he pleaded. "Go away. Go away. Go away!" His stomach clenched suddenly, and he choked on his own bile.

Frantically, Dante tore off his coat. Heat errupted around his neck and down his arms. He dropped his coat on the floor and hit his knees, bending over the toilet. Dry heaving. Spitting up stomach acid. Tears dripped from his nose, and he shivered. His hands were ice cold even as the heat around his neck and shoulders became unbearable.

"Fuck off, Wren," he panted.

[Wren O'Hara]

Well you can fuck off too!

The words echoed in the large, mint-tiled room. Wren pondered them, as though they were only mildly interesting and hadn’t wounded his feelings at all.

Could he really? Had that ever been an option? It had genuinely never crossed his mind. He turned the pencil over in his hands distractedly. The truth was, he reasoned, if he’d thought that leaving Dante alone had been an option… well, he wouldn’t have sought him out in the first place, would he?

The entire row of stalls was rattling nervously from the pressure Dante was putting on them from the inside. It was at this particular moment, more than any he’d ever experienced before, that he wished he had one of those useful powers. Telekinesis, maybe. Aerokinesis. Hell, even Bathroom Stall Lock Manipulation would have been better than what he had.

“You know I’m not gonna do that,” he said calmly, after some time. “Will you open the door?”

Next came the retch, and Wren grimaced silently to himself. The door would have to wait, then. The stalls had stopped rattling, and he could clearly see Dante’s knees under the door of his self-maintained prison. The sounds of his friend being ill were so loud, multiplied by the nature of the room, that it was hard for him to believe they weren’t audible in the hallway.

Nobody was there, of course, to hear them. It was just Wren.

Eventually, words won out over the sickness, and they weren’t nice words, either. Wren, who had always been so sensitive, even as a child, braced against them. He tried to turn his temporary hurt into defiance, which was much more useful.

“No,” he replied, stubbornly. “Open the door, dude. Let me help you.”

[Dante Russo]

“Are you stupid or something?!” Dante snapped, clamoring to his feet. “What part of go away do you not fucking understand!? What the hell do you think you’re gonna do!?” Dante pounded the stall door with his fist for emphasis.

“No, you know what?! If you wanna’ help so damn bad, go find me something sharp!” The reason that Dante didn’t already have a sharp object on his person was because he knew better. When he was in his right mind, he knew better. He knew it wasn’t healthy, and he knew that when he freaked out he didn’t give a shit about that. Dante was about two second away from just burning himself with his lighter, but that really wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t the same at all.

“Either find me something sharp, or drop dead! Those are you’re options! PICK ONE!” Dante stopped screaming to catch his breath. Gasp-gasp-gasp— Dante leaned heavily against the door. Gasp-gasp.

“Shit-“ gasp, “I can’t-“ gasp-gasp, “fucking-“ gasp, “breathe…”

[Wren O'Hara]

He’d thought that he had mentally prepared himself, but the next insults stung. Wren sat for a moment in his own wounded silence, trying desperately to push his own emotions out of the way.

He doesn’t mean that.

He tried to reconcile the image of the friend he’d come to know with the words that were coming out of his mouth now. Dante had always had a bit of roughness around the edges, but it had never been directed at Wren before. He didn’t think they’d ever actually argued, like a real argument, not as such. Somehow, even after Dante had told him about the nightmares, and the flashbacks, Wren had been under the impression that… well, that Dante was going to let him help. Maybe he was stupid, he thought dully.

His conscience staggered back to the forefront of his mind and scolded him.

This isn’t about you.

He furrowed his eyebrows stubbornly again as Dante continued his tirade. He steeled himself against the verbal onslaught and settled on the only option that was reasonably available to him, as someone who considered himself Dante’s friend.

For the record, Option C was climb into the adjacent stall and unlock the door by force with no regard for the general potential effectiveness of Option C.

He pocketed the pencil and pushed back the door of the stall on the left. Then, with some difficulty, he balanced himself precariously on the ring of the toilet seat and peered down at Dante from above; the other boy was gasping and shaking.

He couldn’t breathe.

With very little forethought, Wren hoisted himself up onto the divider, which was indeed much flimsier than previously thought. It wobbled ominously under his weight; the thin edge bit into his side. The pencil in his pocket dug into his thigh. He huffed out a sigh of frustration and effort.

With determined care, he shifted his weight as gingerly as possible over the side of the plastic wall.

“Ouch,” he hissed, landing behind Dante gracelessly. “Fuck.”

He’d landed awkwardly on his ankle, and he probably also had bile or pee or something on him, now, somewhere, but that was okay. He was in. And now that he was in, he put two gentle hands on Dante’s quaking shoulders.

The space was cramped with the two of them, but he dared not unlatch the door with Dante leaning there.

“Hey,” he said, voice thick with concern. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m right here, okay? You just gotta breathe. Slow down.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, or say, or if there was even a right thing to do or say in a situation such as this.

[Dante Russo]

Dante glanced up at the sound of Wren climbing into the stall, and then his eyes immediately darted anywhere else. No. No no no no no no no! This was not happening right now! Dante refused to believe that this was happening!

Wren, the somewhat dim-witted white boy who'd only known him for a hand full of months, called himself "friend" too easily. Sure, Dante had made him say it, but that wasn't the point!! Lots of people could say it, that didn't make it true! That didn't make them trustworthy! That didn't make them safe!

In his current state, it did not occur to Dante that he could just open the door. He was too panicked, and his mind was too busy masking reality for him. Wren hadn't earned his trust yet? Fine. It wasn't Wren.

Dante pressed his forehead to the plastic door again, desperatly trying to breathe through the madness happening in his brain. He braced himself at the sound of a body falling into the stall behind him, and Dante was about to start cussing him out when suddenly there were hands on his shoulders.

"Don't touch me!" Dante wiped around so fast he made his own head spin. "What did I tell you!? What do I always fucking tell you!?" This new hight of panic made the fact that he could barely breathe much less concerning to him. He didn't seem to notice the short little breaths he took every three words or so. Well, he also didn't notice that Wren was the one touching him.

"I swear to god, Jo Jo, if you don't get the fuck away from me I'm gonna personally tell your mom that you're dealing weed on the side! Don't give me that look-- you think she'll be cool after your cousin got busted!? I don't fucking think so! She'll rip you a new asshole! So if you'd like to keep that income I'd seriously suggest BACKING the fuck OFF!"

Dante finished his little tirade with a gasp that nearly caused him to fall over. His chin lifted when he gasped, and his frame shook, like he was trying to suck down more air than would fit in his lungs. His chest felt tight, and the gasping hurt. He could feel it in his shoulders, and his chest, and his neck. Everything was trying too hard. Everything was tense.

[Wren O'Hara]

Dante didn’t look happy to see Wren, and Wren couldn’t really say that he blamed him – after all, he had told him to go away. It was just that… well, he didn’t really believe that Dante meant what he said, even if he also knew somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn’t his decision to make. Even so, if he did nothing…

Well, who would do anything? Wouldn’t Dante just keep suffering, alone?

The other boy’s sudden movement startled him so much that he temporarily lost his balance trying to jerk his hands away from Dante’s shoulders. He cowered there for a moment, as though Dante was immeasurably large and frightening despite their near-comical difference in size. His ankle hurt; it felt like he’d sprained it.

“Sorry,” he whispered. Shit, he’d fucked up. “I was just…”

There was a heavy, uncomfortably warm feeling in his chest that migrated easily into his throat and then…

“Wren,” he corrected from his awkward half-sitting position on the tank of the toilet. “Wren O’Hara. Wren from school. Remember? You threw your history book in my nachos. I bought you a blue lighter. With snowflakes. Because it’s November. I’m Wren.”

He managed a shaky inhale that was really more of a sniffle, although it was drowned out by Dante’s desperate gasps for breath.

“And you’re safe,” he murmured, hoisting himself up a little more completely on the toilet tank and averting his gaze to the side. “I promise.”

[Dante Russo]

”Wren.”

“What?” Dante’s brow knit, and he looked at Wren like he was fucking insane.

”Wren O’Hara. Wren from school. Remember?”

Dante turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes on Wren, struggling to think. He leaned against the door, struggling for balance as well.

”You threw your history book in my nachos. I bought you a blue lighter. With snowflakes. Because it’s November. I’m Wren.”

Because it’s November. Dante blinked. He remembered the little sparkle in Wren’s eye when he decided on snowflakes. Dante thought it was cute, even though he’d rolled his eyes and scoffed at the choice. “…shit,” he breathed, suddenly feeling like maybe he should sit down. Did he really just confuse Jo Jo with a white boy?

”And you’re safe. I promise.”

Dante covered his mouth and slid to the floor, shaking with sobs. He hid his face behind his knees, curling up into a surprisingly tiny ball. He didn’t want Wren to see this part. He’d tried to make him go away before he completely lost it, but Wren was about as stubborn as Jo Jo.

”Stop crying, Dante! How many times do I have to tell you! I’ll go upside your head so hard you won’t know what hit you! Boys! Do not! Cry!”

“I know!” Dante answered the voice in his head. “I’m not! I’m not crying— shut-up!”

[Wren O'Hara]

Wren saw the change in Dante’s wet, red-rimmed eyes. It was a subtle shift in the brow, a weary blink, all signs that what Wren had said had, at least, earned some sort of acknowledgement. Wren, ever-patient, blinked slowly back.

Dante sunk down to the floor and began to cry in earnest. The feeling that had been building in Wren’s chest reached its crest and spilled over; there was an ache at the base of his throat. With some difficulty, he lowered himself onto the floor, too, supporting his weight on one leg awkwardly and bracing one shoulder against the plastic wall.

He hadn’t meant to cry, really. He didn’t even know why he was crying – it wasn’t as though he was having flashbacks, or like his life had been anywhere near as hard as Dante’s had been, he was certain. His sister had always said he had a tender heart, whatever that even meant.

Right now, it meant that Wren was wiping at his round hazel eyes uselessly with the ball of his hand and trying not to sniffle audibly. He wasn’t entirely sure how to reply to Dante’s demand to shut up, because he had not, in fact, said anything at all.

He managed to steady his breathing in relative silence. He looked down at his hands, which had begun to disappear in ugly streaks.

“You can if you need to,” he said, eventually.

[Dante Russo]

“She wo-on’t- Won’t sh-shut-up!” Dante cried, hands on his head, fingers tangled into his hair. “I can’t ma- make her sto-op! She’s b-been in my head all da-ay, and she wo-on’t stop!” Dante lifted his head to gulp down some air. He unfolded his arms to push himself into the corner, bracing himself against the stall as he gasped a couple more times.

“Y-you have to fi-ind me something sharp. Please. I need t— I just—“ Dante let his head roll back into the corner, and his eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. “She won’t shu-ut-up. I have to. I ha-ave to..” Dante was wringing his hands anxiously, digging his thumbnail into the palm of his hand. “Have to get he-er out. She’s ins-side me, do you u-understand that?”

Dante looked down from the ceiling and leaned forward, toward Wren. “I ju-ust have to ble-eed it out. Just a little—“ He reached forward and grabbed the sleeve of Wren’s shirt. “Just find me-e s-something sharp— anythi-ing sharp. Please— then she’ll sto-op. It’ll be o-over.” Dante fell back again, letting go of Wren’s shirt and leaning somewhat limply against the corner.

“Please.” Dante covered his face with his hands and sank down a little. “That’s all I need. That’s it.”

[Wren O'Hara]

Wren had never really seen anyone cry like that before, not up close. His sister, maybe, if he could have concentrated enough to think about it properly. His niece didn’t count; she was four, and four-year-olds cried differently than people who were older and sadder and more emotionally marred by the passage of time. It made him feel hollow, like someone had reached into his chest and pulled his heart out just for spite.

His conscience, which had momentarily ducked into the back of his mind to find a tissue, limped back to the front of his thoughts now and began to interject unhelpfully.

You aren’t just going to let him to cut himself, are you?, it said.

There was something else inside of him, though, that took issue with his conscience and began to wrestle with it. Yes, self-harm was bad. Everybody knew that. But this – what was happening to his friend, right now – was just as bad. Wasn’t it?

He’d never given the issue much thought, but in that moment, he felt that he understood. It was a means of escape; a necessary evil.

What else could he do? Even if he ran out now and left Dante by himself, even if he went to find a trusted adult, what would they do? What could they do that they weren’t doing already?

“Okay,” he said gently, followed by a meek sniffle. “Alright. Hold on a minute.”

He searched his pockets with fumbling fingers, pulling out random objects. His wallet came first; he flipped through it, but found nothing of use. A forgotten pair of swimming earplugs. That dull, pointless pencil he’d picked up on the bathroom floor.

He pulled the cotton lining out of its denim cover with an air of increasing desperation. There was a light, silvery tinkle somewhere beside him on the tile. He looked down.

A jumbo paperclip. It had been holding together all of the assignments that he was to complete during detention.

“Here,” he murmured, picking up the sole office supply and using strong fingers to bend it easily outward. He held it out to Dante with a slightly trembling hand.

[Dante Russo]

Dante alternated between sobbing and holding his breath while Wren searched his pockets. He turned his face toward the plastic divider, still hiding his eyes behind his hand. It was.. more than a little pathetic to watch. He felt like a little kid, even if Wren thought it was different. He felt small. And weak. And stupid.

Ultimately out of control.

Dante’s hand reached out quickly, clumsily, when Wren found something. He brought it close to his face, breathing quick, shallow breaths as he inspected the object. Paperclip. Sturdy. Not sharp, but good enough. Dante pressed the tip of his finger against the end that Wren had bend outward already.

Yeah, probably good enough.

Without a word, Dante regathered himself. He brought his feet closer, and leaned forward so that his shoulders were wedged snugly between his knees. If this whole thing weren’t so concerning, he might have looked somewhat comical, a bit like a cave-dwelling creature. He pulled back the tattered hem of his jeans again, revealing the multiple cigarette burns on the inside of his ankle, and the faint smear of graphite above them from when he’d tried breaking skin with the pencil in Wren’s pocket.

Dante’s hands were trembling until he pressed the metal against his skin. He dragged it across slowly. Pressing down hard. A red welt followed it, but the skin didn’t break. His breathing slowed considerably as he went for a second pass. The pain seemed to ground him. Gradually, the frantic desperation faded from his eyes.

By the time he managed to draw blood, he’d stopped crying. He was breathing normally with only the occasional gasp for air. Dante blinked slowly at the small beads of red that poked through the now raw patch of skin. He drew in a slow breath and sighed quietly before dragging the paper clip over the spot a couple more times. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he stopped blinking altogether for a moment. He just stared. For one sweet moment his mind was blank. Completely blank.

Then he blinked, and looked up at Wren. Silently he pulled the hem of his jeans down again and leaned back into the corner. Still looking at Wren. There was a hollowness about his gaze.

“Sorry,” he said, his tone dull. “Thank you,” he added with the same kind of numbness. Did that cover everything? He didn’t know what to do now. He wasn’t sure which kind of damage control was needed here… but he really just wanted to curl up and go to sleep now. Right here.