I guess the excuse of being drunk is no longer valid.

My head is exploding as I make my way to the hangout spot. Exploding with questions and thoughts. I didn't want to enjoy it— hell, I didn't even want to kiss back in the first place, but I did.

Nor can I tell if I enjoyed it because it was Sander or because it was... a boy— it has never felt like this with a girl.

"There you are. Finally." Rico pats me on the back, hard. "Where the fuck were you?"

At a loss of words, I reply, "Guess."

"Throwing that jacket in the bin?"

"No, dude. I may hope that doesn't take him multiple days."

"Maybe with that limp, it does."

I freeze for a moment. It's like my heart stops, my body paralyzed. Somewhere, I had hoped they would never mention it. "I was at someone's house," I tell them.

"Who?"

"How am I supposed to know her name, mate?" My hands tremble slightly as I take a lighter and cigarette, fingers sliding across the pocket knife. "Anyway, a little birdie told me something happened between you guys and my sister."

Their eyebrows raise, as if they have no idea what I'm talking about.

"You touched her inappropriately," I hint.

"Ohh, that. That was nothing, don't worry. We didn't do anything serious."

"Yes, you did. You molested her."

"What does that even mean, man?" Rico rolls his eyes. "Let's just let go of it–"

"It means you touched her inappropriately." I step in front of him, face-to-face. "Was it all of you or just one? Hm?"

"You're being dramatic–"

Just like with Sander, I lose it, grab him by his collar, and slam him against a wall. Except this time, out of pure anger. No fear of showing vulnerability or being afraid to break down–just anger. "Was it all of you or just one?!"

For a second, fear flashes in his eyes, but he's soon laughing. "Calm down. We're sorry, alright? Now let go. You don't want to continue this, Newt."

I know I wouldn't stand a chance against all four of them, and it's a disadvantage they now know about how much I care about Sonya, but this is too twisted to leave alone. "Don't do it again. Ever. Don't even come closer to her. Not even if she agrees. Never. Promise me."

"Boo-ooh, you're so scary." Mal rips me off his friend. As he does so, the pocket knife flies out of my jacket, right in front of Kieran's feet.

Everyone falls quiet.

Slowly, Kieran picks it up, and opens the blade. "What? You planning to stab us or something?" He scoffs.

My cheeks burn as I snatch it away from him. "No. It's not for that."

"Then for what is it?"

"Same reason you also carry one with you."

They all share glances, not started, but surprised for sure.

"We don't carry knives with us, dude."

Out of absolutely nowhere, Randy starts laughing. So loud that it echoes in the tunnel behind us. "Wow. I didn't think you're the bantam of the group, but here we are. Why didn't you tell us before?"

My mouth is dry when I reply, "Didn't think we would need it."

"Well, now I'm in for a show." Mal crosses his arms. "Get someone."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

"You're carrying that thing around to make someone bleed, aren't you? I mean, what else is it for? Cutting sandwiches?"

While they chuckle, terror hits me. "You want me to do what?"

Mal looks around. "Ha! It's like it's destined." He points at the tunnel. A dark figure is walking there. I don't recognize who it is until I see the cap. "Get him, Newt."

Aris.

I look down at the knife, then back into the tunnel. They think I carry this around with me so I can harass random people on the street, like a sick bully. "What?"

"Go on, then."

They're all staring at me. I bite my lip, the pressure dozens of weight on my shoulders. Then I nod. "Alright."

Before I allow another bad thought to ring through my mind, I march into the tunnel, towards Aris.

I hold the knife in front of me on purpose, showing it off to him. He does exactly what I wanted him to do: run.

The pounding of my feet echoes through the tunnel as I sprint after him. He glances back, the fear etched on his face.

When I close the distance between us, he stumbles slightly, catching himself on the corner of the tunnel.

Immediately, I sneak him behind it. Out of sight from Rico, Randy, Mal, and Kieran.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper.

By the look on his face, I can tell he doesn't believe me. Why would he? There's a knife in my hand.

"Run away in ten seconds." I don't allow him to reply: I've already rolled my sleeve up, sliding the knife across my wrist. A loud, panicked yelp leaves Aris's mouth, just like I wanted.

I dab my arm against my jacket. The leather becomes dirty with the red liquid. I spread it around my hands and cheek, too.

"Go," I tell Aris again, then walk back to the four boys as I cover my wrist again.

They stare at me, conflicted. Their eyes trail over the blood–on my hands, jacket, and face.

Rico and Kieran look genuinely shocked, but Randy and Mal look amused. Somehow, they look amused.

"No way you actually just did that."

I make sure the bloody knife is in full display while I put it back in its case.

✧

Back at the dorm, I clean my jacket with a paper towel before hanging it on our coat rack. I can tell Sander is trying not to stare at me, washing the blood off my hands.

It doesn't look like he saw the blood, though. He would've reacted differently.

"Hi."

"Hi," I mutter.

He stands up from the couch, walking towards me until he's on the other side of the kitchen counter. "Can we–" he stops. Clears his throat. His voice is softer when he repeats, "Can we talk about yesterday? Please?"

There it is. And I have no right to get angry at him, nor deny anything. "I guess, yeah."

"Oh," he sounds way too shocked.

I look up. "What?"

"Nothing." Sander shakes his head, swallowing. "Just didn't expect you to... agree." He looks down.

Then immediately grabs my arm, so tight that I flinch.

"Newt..." he peeps.

"It's not what you think it is. I swear."

"Then who did this?"

Sander's grip lingers in the air after I yank my wrist away, his eyes wide with concern. "Who did this?" he repeats.

"It's not—" I start, but the words crumble as soon as they leave my lips. He's staring at me so intently, it's like he's looking straight through the lies before I can even form them.

"Who?" His tone softens now, pleading.

"Look. It's nothing. They wanted me to attack A– someone. I pretended I actually did it, and to make it seem real, I used my own blood."

His brow furrows deeply. "Why?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

I look away, my throat tightening as shame creeps in. "To get them off my back," I admit. "To make them think I— I don't know, that I'm strong or something. That they can't hurt me."

"You shouldn't have to do this. Not for them, not for anyone," Sander says.

The second my lips part, he adds, "But we don't have to discuss. I know you don't want to. At least let me help you clean up."

I don't get to reply, because he has already put me down on the couch, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom.

"What I do want to talk about," he says, sitting down next to me, "is yesterday."

I exhale, trying to push the immediate anger down–the anger at myself–, but it's not working.

I should've stopped him when he first kissed me, should've pulled away. The first time it happened, when we were drunk, it felt like an accident. It was just because of the alcohol. But now?

"Sander, I—"

"Stop. You're doing it again," he cuts me off.

I rub my temples, trying to calm the storm inside me. A part of me wants to shove him away, to pretend it never happened. "You don't get it. It was a mistake."

"A mistake? You're calling it that now?"

I grit my teeth. No, stop. He didn't do anything wrong. "What do you want me to say? You kissed me. I kissed you. That's it."

No matter how hard I try to stop it, it's like my body just needs to blame him. Needs to defend itself from... from I don't even know.

He wipes my wrist with a wet cloth. "It means something. At least to me."

I try to breathe through it, but the shame starts creeping in. "I can't do this," I say, barely able to get the words out. "I can't—"

"You don't have to do anything," he interrupts, voice soft. "But I'm not going to let you shut me out again. We're not drunk anymore, Newt."

I hate how right he is. It's not a mistake this time. And that makes it so much worse.

I swallow hard, the taste of bile rising in my throat. I can't stand this. I can't stand how good it felt, how it felt right in a way. I'm not supposed to feel this way about him. I can't.

"You don't get it," I repeat, my voice shaking now. "I can't be... like that. I can't be like this."

Sander's expression falters, just for a second. "Like what? A person who feels something?"

"No." My voice cracks. "Like this." I gesture between us. "Like two guys kissing. Like—I don't know. Like I'm some kind of freak."

The words sting as soon as they leave my mouth. I don't dare to look at him. It's not like I'm disgusted by him or something–by the fact he's clearly into boys. It's just myself.

"I know you're not homophobic," he assures calmly. It surprises me, both his words and tone.

I hate that he knows exactly what I'm thinking without me even saying it.

"I'm not," I mumble but if I wasn't, then why does it feel so wrong to want this? To want him?

Sander doesn't respond at first. He just sits there, covering the cut on my wrist with a band-aid.

I take a deep breath. "It's just... I don't know how to stop feeling like it's a wrong thing."

"Maybe start with dropping those friends of yours," he blurts out. Quickly, he forces the softer voice again, "I mean, just start slowly. But don't pretend. Not with me."

Pretend? He says that like it's easy, like it hasn't been my entire life. I've spent years pretending. Pretending to be normal. Pretending that every time someone said the word gay like it was a curse, it didn't sting. Pretending to myself most of all.

"Okay?"

I want to punch him in the face.

"Okay," I groan.