***Trigger warnings for mentions of past abuse, mentions of sexual behaviour, vomiting, and slight self harm.***
Start the song. It's How by Daughter.
Hooking up with your ex was never a good idea, and Tyler knew that very well. He especially knew that was true when it came to abusive ex-boyfriends who had broken his bones in the past, but some part of his brain was cloudy for some reason. His brain was cloudy between classes when he ran into the man who'd put him in a hospital bed twice in his life over little arguments, and it got even cloudier when that man approached him. The fog didn't clear until Tyler had already allowed that man to fuck him against the metal door of a bathroom stall, taking much more than he was giving and leaving Tyler struggling not to limp as he walked out to his car.
The dirty words that had been whispered into his ears made his eardrums burn like they were infected. The hickeys on his skin felt more like open sores. The cum dripping from between his legs and dampening the back of his underwear might as well have been blood, and the phone number written across Tyler's left forearm might as well have been a death sentence.
Still, he mechanically drove home and walked across the lawn to his trailer. By the time he climbed the front steps, he was seconds away from a complete breakdown. Brendon and Sarah were laughing on the couch when he came in, but they fell silent when they saw him.
"Ty?" Brendon asked worriedly.
Tyler ignored him, going straight to his room, shutting and locking the door behind himself as he shed his backpack and coat. He didn't cry yet though. No. He was still suppressing that, trying to focus on understanding how he'd rationalized what he'd just done while it was happening. Why had he allowed the same hands that had given him a concussion to lead him into a bathroom stall, to card through his hair, to hold him against the cold metal of the door? How had he allowed himself to enjoy it, to laugh while it was happening, to smile when a number he'd never deleted from his phone was scribbled across his skin with a blood red Sharpie? How had he kissed those lips goodbye when they'd been spitting out words that still made him question himself after months of healing?
Tyler grabbed clothes out of his dresser at random before leaving his room. He had to push past Brendon, who was already trying to figure out if he was okay and if someone had hurt him and if he needed anything and blah blah blah, but Tyler shoved right past him and into the bathroom. He still wasn't crying. He still wasn't crumbling. He was holding it together.
The dam didn't break until he had already been in the shower for nearly an hour, scrubbing his skin absolutely raw. Blood beaded up in places, but nowhere as much as atop the hideous blotched bruises that had been left on his hips by fingertips that he hated more than anything. He sobbed as he tried to scrub them off, only hurting himself more. Then he collapsed to his knees in the tub and retched and vomited until his body was sure that it had rid itself of all of the toxicity that man's kisses had filled him with.
He remained on the floor then, not because of the pain filling his body, but because of the tiny stains beside the faucet. They had clearly been left there by flecks of pink dye. Josh. They were't just tiny little marks that had refused to be scrubbed away; they were Josh.
Tyler squeezed his eyes shut, only aware he was still crying beneath the stream of water because he could hear himself sobbing. "Please come back," he whispered to the little piece of Josh. "Please."
More unheard pleas were whispered before Tyler shut the water off and climbed out of the shower. He dressed in sweats and a long sleeved shirt before picking up his dirty clothes and dropping them onto the hamper. His hands trembled slightly as he left the bathroom, finding Brendon sitting in the hallway outside of the door like a loyal sentry. He didn't move when Tyler came out, didn't ask questions, just watched Tyler solemnly and waited.
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