Drawn Apart

The dorm was a dim, hollow shell that evening, the last threads of gray daylight seeping through the blinds, pooling on the scuffed floor like spilled ash. Practice still hung in the air—an echo of shouts, the sting of Bryce's voice—and Elliot had fled it, skipping dinner to hide here instead. The dining hall loomed in his mind, a chaos of clattering trays and careless eyes, and he couldn't face it—not after the field, not after "I won't let a fag win" had sliced through him like a dull blade. He'd bolted back alone, the door shut tight behind him, a flimsy barricade against the world outside.

He sat cross-legged on his bed now, sketchpad splayed across his lap, pencil clutched in a trembling fist. The lead scratched fast, furious—dark waves swelling, crashing, a wrecked car half-sunk in the tide, its frame twisted and drowning under the ink. His ocean-blue eyes shimmered, wet and wide, locked on the page as the trauma leaked out, raw and unbidden. The lines blurred under his gaze, waves bleeding into metal, and his breath hitched, shallow and uneven. He'd hate me, he thought, the slur looping in his head, Bryce's disgust a cold weight pressing down. He'd hate me more if he saw this. The pencil shook, scraping a jagged scar across the car's hood, and he pressed harder, like he could bury it—bury himself—in the dark.

The dorm's silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the radiator and the scratch of graphite on paper. His hoodie hung loose, sleeves swallowing his hands, a shield he pulled tighter as the memory of the field crept back—Bryce's green eyes glinting, his voice sharp and casual, the word "fag" tossed like trash. Elliot's chest ached, a small, pathetic throb, and he hunched lower, dark hair falling into his face, hiding those ocean-blue eyes from a room that didn't care. Distance, he thought, mantra frail and fraying, fingers digging into the sketchpad's edge. He can't know. He can't see.

The door banged open, sudden and loud, and Bryce stormed in, gear bag thudding to the floor like a dropped stone. His green eyes swept the room, narrowing with a flicker of surprise—he'd expected it empty, Elliot gone to dinner or the library, not here after that sulky "Don't call me Eli" fight. But there he was, curled on his bed, head down, pencil moving like he was clawing at something. "Hey," Bryce said, voice rough but light, tossing his bag aside as he tried to slice through the quiet. "Thought you'd be eating. You skipping again?"

Elliot didn't look up, ocean-blue eyes glued to the sketch, shoulders hunching tighter under the hoodie's worn fabric. "Not hungry," he mumbled, voice barely a whisper, trembling at the edges like a leaf in wind. Distance, he thought, the word a lifeline, fingers gripping the pencil until his knuckles whitened. Bryce's voice filled the room, too big, too close, and the fear coiled tighter—He'd hate me more if he knew. His breath caught, a small, shaky sound, and he pressed the pencil deeper, waves swallowing the car's roof now, ink pooling like blood.

Bryce frowned, green eyes narrowing, the sulk from yesterday still simmering under his skin. "Yeah, sure," he said, leaning against his desk, arms crossing over his chest. "You've been weird all week—hell, longer than that. What's up with you?" He aimed for casual, but the edge crept in—sharp, restless, that ache from Elliot's "Don't" gnawing at him like a splinter he couldn't pull. He'd liked "Eli," liked how it felt, a bridge he'd built without asking, and now it was gone, torn down with a snapped command. "You gonna sit there all night or what?"

Elliot's pencil faltered, a jagged line slashing through the waves, and he stayed silent, trembling faintly under Bryce's stare. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and his ocean-blue eyes flickered—wary, guarded—before dropping back to the page. He couldn't answer, couldn't look, the weight of Bryce's presence pressing him down, a shadow he couldn't shake. He'd hate me, he thought, chest tightening, the slur echoing louder now, a drumbeat of fear.

Bryce's green eyes drifted, catching the sketchpad—the dark water, the wrecked car—and curiosity flared, cutting through the frustration like a spark. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the floor, voice gruff but softer. "What's that?" he asked, nodding at the page. "You're always drawing crap. What's with the car? Looks messed up."

Elliot snapped the pad shut, fast and hard, hands shaking as he shoved it under his arm, the pencil clattering to the bed. "Nothing," he muttered, voice thin, vague, eyes darting to the floor like a cornered animal. "Just… stuff." He can't see, he thought, panic spiking, the wrecked car a scream he couldn't let loose—headlights flaring through rain, his parents' voices gone, metal crumpling under waves he couldn't draw away. He curled tighter, knees pulling up, a small, pitiful ball on the bed, ocean-blue eyes glassy and dodging, shimmering with something he couldn't name.

Bryce's jaw tightened, green eyes flashing with irritation, the sulk boiling over into something hotter. "Nothing, huh? Always fucking nothing with you," he snapped, voice rougher now, echoing off the walls. "You barely talk, you shut me out—fine, whatever. Keep your damn secrets, Elliot. I'm done trying." He turned, stomping toward the door, anger flaring hot and stubborn—He doesn't want me close, so screw it—but as he grabbed the knob, he glanced back, a reflex he couldn't stop. Elliot's hunched form—small, sad, trembling—hit him like a quiet punch, a pang of guilt twisting sharp in his chest. He looks broken, he thought, green eyes lingering, the sketchpad clutched tight, those ocean-blue eyes hidden. But the frustration won, a tide he couldn't fight, and he stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a bang that rattled the frame.

Elliot flinched at the sound, a small, pathetic jerk, alone again in the dorm's cold hush. His ocean-blue eyes welled, a tear slipping free, tracing a slow path down his cheek, and the flashback crashed in—rain streaking glass, a fist slamming down hard, his own small cry, "Stop," drowned by a roar that shook the walls. It blurred—pain, red and raw, a shadow towering over him, the sting of knuckles on skin—and he gasped, pressing his palms to his face, shoving it back into the dark where it lived. He'd hate me more if he knew, he thought, chest aching, the slur tying itself to that old terror, a knot he couldn't untangle. He'd hurt me. The sketchpad stayed shut, pressed against his chest like a shield, the wrecked car trapped inside—his parents, the crash, a life he couldn't reclaim—and he curled tighter into himself, knees to his chin, a boy too small to hold the weight.

The silence stretched, heavy and cold, wrapping him in its grip. His breath came shallow, ragged, the radiator's hum a faint pulse against the quiet. The dorm smelled of dust and Bryce's lingering sweat, a mix that stung his nose, and he rocked slightly, a slow, pitiful sway, trying to shake the ache. He'd hate me more, he thought, the words a chant now, each one a brick in the wall he'd built—higher, colder, a cage he couldn't escape. The tear dried, leaving a faint salt trail, and his ocean-blue eyes stared blankly at the bed, lost in the waves he couldn't draw away.

Bryce hit the hall, green eyes restless, boots echoing on the worn tile as he paced toward the stairs. The anger burned—Elliot's silence, that snapped "Nothing," the wall he couldn't breach—but that sad, hunched shape stuck, clawing at him, a burr he couldn't shake. He's falling apart, he thought, jaw clenching, the guilt flaring sharp and uninvited. He didn't get it—didn't get why it hit so hard, why those ocean-blue eyes dodging him ached like this. He told me to back off, he scolded himself, stomping down the stairs, the railing cold under his grip. So I will. But the image lingered—Elliot trembling, the sketchpad clutched like a lifeline—and the unease grew, a quiet weight settling in his chest.

The stairwell smelled of stale air and old paint, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, casting his shadow long and jagged. He paused halfway down, green eyes staring at the wall, the anger softening into something messier—confusion, a flicker of care he didn't want. What's he hiding? he thought, rubbing his neck, the sulk still there but fraying at the edges. That wrecked car, those dark waves—it wasn't "nothing," and he knew it, but Elliot wouldn't give him an inch. Let him hide, he decided, shoving the guilt down, but it stuck, a quiet pang he couldn't outrun as he hit the ground floor and pushed into the night.

Elliot stayed still, the dorm a cold shell around him, the radiator's hum fading into the dark. His breath slowed, shallow and shaky, the sketchpad pressed tight against his chest—a weight, a secret, a past he couldn't shed. He'd hate me more, he thought, trembling, and the isolation grew, a pathetic, silent cage locking him in with the fear and the pain. The night pressed against the blinds, black and endless, and he curled tighter, ocean-blue eyes tracing shadows he couldn't escape, a boy too broken to reach out.