It didn't take long to make up his mind, in fact, his feet began to move even before he consciously decided to walk over and slide into the booth. York jumped, eyes meeting his, a flicker of panic playing across them. It subsided, and he relaxed, shoulders slouching again.

 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he muttered, looking pointedly at the tabletop.

 

"I just came for some coffee, and saw you." Comrie sighed, trying to choose his words carefully. "Look, I was out of line last night and I'm sorry, I had no right to blow up like that..."

 

"No you didn't," York said calmly, his voice bordering on empty, "but neither did I."

 

A waitress showed up at that moment with a pot of coffee, topping up York's cup and pouring one for Comrie. The latter declined a menu, saying he wasn't hungry.

 

"That's where you're wrong," Comrie said softly as she left, wrapping his hands around his mug. "You..."

 

"Look Comrie," York snarled, eyes burning, "I told you before, I don't want your goddamned pity, so stop fucking patronising me, alright? Just go back to your little Wolverine friends, have a good laugh about the insane Spartan, then just fucking forget about it."

 

"That's what you think this is all about? Goddamnit York, what do you think I am? Wait, don't answer that." He sighed loudly, rolling his shoulders back to try and diffuse some of the tension knotting them. "There's something going on, and I just can't ignore it, alright?"

 

"Why the fuck do you care so much?"

 

"I wish I could tell you."

 

York shook his head with a mirthless smile. "Figures," he muttered, taking a long sip of his coffee, "it fucking figures..."

 

"Shouldn't it be enough that I do? I mean, if either of us knew why, would it really make such a difference? I care about you, whether you want me to or not, so you might as well accept it."

 

"Excuse me if it's a bit hard to swallow, two days ago you wouldn't have even looked at me twice."

 

Comrie resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall; why did the man have to be so damned stubborn? "That's not the point."

 

"Then enlighten me."

 

~

 

"Then enlighten me," York said, almost as a challenge, resisting the urge to bolt.

 

Perhaps Comrie really did care, it certainly seemed like it. Most people he knew would have just said fuck it by now, and walked away, given up.

For some reason, that only managed to frighten him even more.

 

"Youre not going to get rid of me that easily York, Im not going to just brush off because you dont want to admit that youre not doing so well alone. The point is that Ive noticed that, unlike most people. So why dont you enlighten me?"

 

York snapped.

 

He didnt know whether it was the sleep deprivation, or everything being so very different from how it was supposed to be, or even the fact that he was tired of keeping it all to himself, but he began to ramble, words tripping over each other in their haste to get out, and he told Comrie everything.

 

He told him how it had all started when he was fourteen, after an important game. Hed turned over the puck right before the other team had scored in overtime. His father had berated him for hours, telling him real men dont cry when the tears had began to prick at his eyes. Hed been desperate to find anything to stop him from crying and had come across his fathers razor.

 

The tears had fallen anyway.

 

He told him about how it had quickly come to the point where the cuts were the only solace when anything went wrong, like a drug with an addiction that demanded to be fed.

 

He told him about his mother finding out when he had been sixteen but basically ignored it. Hed asked for help but she hadnt let him, a psychiatrist would ruin the familys image and his upcoming career, or so she said.

 

Hed only sunk deeper into depression.

 

And at the end, Comrie wasnt judging him, or laughing, or walking away. He was simply sitting there looking at him not with the expected pity, but with a look that he couldnt quite decipher.

 

There was a short, not quite comfortable silence, before Comrie sighed, hands dislodging from his cup to rest on the table, almost as if he was considering doing something with them but then decided it wouldnt be a good idea.

 

"So..." Comrie said, trailing off almost immediately. York wasnt sure if he was uncomfortable, or had been put off by everything, or was thinking how goddamned pathetic he was... "Only your mom knows?"

 

"And my brother, but we arent exactly on the best of terms." Comrie sighed loudly, flexing his hands, drawing them back towards him.

 

"That must be hard."

 

He should have known.

 

"I told you, I dont want your pity," York snarled, moving to get up, but was stopped when Comrie leaned over the table, laying a hand on his arm. He froze in place, unsure whether he should run away or not, but the heat radiating even through the sweater seemed to be coaxing him back down.

 

"Its not pity." Comries eyes seemed to be glittering strangely. "Im just trying... well trying to understand."

 

"You cant."

 

"I know!" Several heads turned their way, and Comrie lowered his voice somewhat. "I know," he repeated, suddenly drawing his hands back towards himself, fists clenched tightly. Yorks skin felt cold at the loss of contact. "Why do you have to be so goddamned stubborn? Why wont you just let me help?"

 

York blinked, taken aback. He hadnt expected the outright statement... not in any scenario that had been running through his mind... it seemed to make such a difference from just caring. Hed been alone for so long, anything to the contrary was... strange to think about. Strange... but not completely unwelcome.

 

No. No, it would just fall apart in the end, leaving him more broken than before. "Im surviving just fine."

 

"Surviving isnt living." Mike sighed loudly, seemingly oblivious to the way those three words were wreaking havoc on his brain. Surviving isnt living. The cutting allowed him to live... didnt it? So what would he be without it?

 

"Look, I cant make you do anything, hell, I cant even make you listen to me if you really dont want to..." he trailed off, signing again as he reached into his jacket pocket for a pen, scribbling something down on a napkin. "Heres my number, call me if you want. It really doesnt matter what time it is, or whats going on... just call."

 

He stood, putting a dollar bill on the table to pay for his coffee and began to walk away, hands shoved in his pockets.

 

York looked after him, wanting to say something, but not quite sure what it was. "Mike!" he called as Comrie reached the door, causing the younger boy to turn back. Sunlight streaming in from the windows caught in his hair and played across his face, causing Yorks heart to drop somewhere in the vicinity of his toes.

 

He tried to find words to describe what he was feeling but although they were running through his mind over a thousand miles a second, he couldnt get them past the tip of his tongue. So he settled for the simplest version he could find.

"You're right."

 

Comrie smiled at him, brightly enough to light up the room, and hesitated for a few seconds before continuing on his way out. York picked up the napkin, staring at the blue numbers marring the otherwise pure white surface.

 

Who knew? Maybe he just might...