Seventeen

6

Michael's twenty years old and there's tear tracks streaking across his face. They go straight through the dirt that's already on his cheeks, cleaning paths along his dirty face. He wipes at one cheek with the back of his wrist and cringes at the feeling of gritty dirt mixed with his wet tears.

"I'm sorry, I- I don't know what I'm doing wrong," he whispers, voice rough. His throat hurts, but he's not sure whether it's from what seems like his near constant screaming or the ring of hand shaped bruises around his throat.

"What you're doing wrong is existing," Jake replies, fists tightening at his hips, but Michael knows he wouldn't dare hit him. Jake isn't a violent man. He lets his words leave bruises, not his hands.

Michael slumps where he's sitting on the end of his bed. That's probably an over glorification of the dirty mattress on the hardwood floor of his studio apartment, collecting dust and paint drippings, with only two thin blankets and pillows on top. Jake is hunched over the beat up old dresser across the room digging through all of Michael's belongings hastily.

When Michael doesn't respond, Jake spins around and gestures to him wildly. "You- you're fucking insane, Michael! You need to get help!"

"I'm not-" Michael cuts off, because he doesn't want to indulge his (ex) boyfriend, doesn't want to start a fight. Instead, he pulls at a loose string on the mattress and looks down. Seventeen won't help him with this one, unfortunately.

"Fuck you, Michael," Jake spits out as he turns to dig through the shaking drawers again. He pulls out what Michael recognizes as his own clothes and shoves them in a bag hastily.

Michael knew he shouldn't have put his trust into a boy. He regrets loving this boy and trusting him, even regrets the feeling of safety he'd felt whenever Jake held him. Michael regrets ever getting close to someone, after what had happened last time. The last few times, really.

He saw the red flags, he just chose to ignore them, because someone loved him. He watched Jake flirt with other boys at bars, barely even paying attention to his own boyfriend. He knew Jake liked his hands wrapped around something of Michael's when they had sex (Michael has all the dark bruises to prove it). He saw when Jake introduced him as a good friend to other people, never his boyfriend.

But Michael ignored all those factors, because Jake held him close and kissed him gently and told him how much he loved him. Michael always believed him.

"Michael," Jake snaps, fingers bridged over his nose. "I'm saying this as nicely as I possibly can. Get some fucking help."

Michael still flinches and wipes furiously at the tears on his cheeks again. "I'm sorry, I will, I love you."

"No," Jake cuts him off and grabs his closed duffle bag. He starts backing towards the door, holding his hands in front of him, so Michael won't follow him. "Don't fucking say that to me. You're pitiful, Michael, don't make it any worse." He flings the door open and takes one last look at Michael. "I never fucking loved you."

He slams the door shut and Michael feels his heart punch through his throat.

☆

Michael's in a coffee shop about a month later, bruises healed and heart following, when he happens to look up at the television on the wall.

There's multiple police officers on the screen, pulling a black garbage bags from the river, while the headline Body Of Twenty One Year Old Jake Milone Found In River flashes across the bottom of the screen. Michael chokes audibly and stares at the television in horror.

Part of him thinks good, the bastard deserved it, while the rest of him feels sick. His stomach churns and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the tears.