Broken Hands

96. Catch him

Antoine tilted his head slightly, just enough for Grayson to catch a glimpse of his tear-streaked, freckled cheeks—his face rosy from crying.

"Oh, you came faster than I planned," Antoine said, his voice eerily calm, almost detached. "Or maybe I just took too much time deciding to jump."

The words hit Grayson like a punch to the gut.

"Hey," Grayson said, raising his trembling hands in a desperate gesture. "Come down. Let's talk about this, alright?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the panic he was trying to keep under control. For the sake of it Antoine was mounted on the edge of the protection fence of the roof, a small mistake that would be the end of it.

Antoine shook his head, his messy curls swaying. "There's nothing to say, Gray. I already told you everything in the letter. My grandma... I thought I was going to see her, live with her after this, and... and..." He choked a sob. "There's no one left for me here. No one. And maybe I'll see them over there... or—" He sniffed, wiping his face. "Maybe I'll get better luck next time."

Grayson frowned but quickly masked it, not wanting to escalate the situation. He ran a hand through his hair, his voice soft but pleading. "You can't lose the fight, Antoine. What about your future? What about all the things you haven't seen yet?"

Antoine shook his head wearily. "There is no future for me!" he imposed, his voice breaking. "It's better to lose the fight! I'm not strong like you or anyone else. I'm weak, soft, and that's pathetic! That's all I've ever been. The only people who ever understood me were my mom and grandma. Everyone else? They're all sharks, Gray. Sharks."

Grayson swallowed hard, fumbling for the right words, but nothing seemed good enough.

Suddenly, the sound of stumbling footsteps behind him broke the tense silence.

"Jesus Christ," Timothy muttered, his voice low and shaken as he stepped closer, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Antoine glanced over his shoulder, his frown deepening. "Oh, hey, Timothy," he said in a small flat voice. "I figured Gray gave you the note. Please don't bother trying to talk me out of this. I'm jumping, no matter what you say."

Timothy froze, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked to Grayson, searching for direction. Grayson returned the look, his own eyes swimming with worry and desperation.

Timothy opened his mouth, but Grayson stepped forward first.

"I never knew my father, Antoine," Grayson began, his voice steady but raw. "And I only knew my mom for six years." He drew in a shaky breath. "Together we lived with my stepfather. He was everything but decent and sane, he eventually killed her and made it look like an accident. I watched her burn, Antoine. I watched my mother disappear into the flames and could only watch."

Antoine's eyes widened, and even Timothy seemed momentarily stunned into silence.

Grayson continued, his voice low but filled with strenght. "After that, I had to live with him, alone. And he made my life a living hell. I got hit every day, locked up, starved, yelled at, treated worse than an animal. I was covered with scars. I was dying—slowly. Hell, I prayed and begged death to take me."

Antoine's breath hitched, and his eyes began to well up. Timothy looked away, lost in thought as if digesting the fact.

Grayson reached up, running his fingers through his hair before lifting his bangs slightly, revealing a faint scar on his forehead. "I'm not making this up," he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and pain. He let his hair fall back into place.

"I didn't know what it meant to be loved," Grayson admitted, his voice softening. "My mom didn't have the time to show me. And Charlie? He hated me. Used me. Ruined my childhood. There were so many days I wanted to step in front of a bus or jump off a roof just like this, just to end the pain."