Haley sends me a text around lunch time. Given the fact that I'm supposed to be in the cafeteria right now, I assume the three blurry shapes on my screen say "where are you?" Unfortunately, I can't guarantee I'll be able to read any follow-up messages if I happen to successfully type a response without spelling errors, so I hit the call button.

When he picks up, my right ear is barraged by a cacophony of voices.

"Hi," I say. "I don't feel well. That's why I'm not at school."

It's not technically a lie.

"Ah. That sucks. I hope you feel better soon."

"Thanks."

"Dude, everyone's acting so weird today," he says, his voice lowered.

"What do you mean?"

"They keep, like . . . staring at me? And Sam and Davy are avoiding each other or something. I don't know—they're not talking, and Davy even said we should sit at your table, but Margie told us to fuck off."

I guess we're all lucky nobody has told Haley what happened yet. I wouldn't have been able to stop him from blowing up at them, even if I was there—he would have torn them a new one. Admittedly, a part of me wants to see it happen. They deserve everything coming for them, and then some. But it'll be better to explain the events to him in a more controlled environment.

"Oh, that's . . . weird," I say. "Maybe they're just wondering why I'm not there. I don't know about Sam and Davy, though. Anyway, uh, do you have time to come over today?"

"Sure. I'll come after school."

"Okay."

"Do you need me to get you anything?"

"I'm good."

"What about your books?"

Not that I can read them, but alright. I give him my locker combination, hang up, then spend the rest of the afternoon watching TV and doing the breathing exercises the doctor told me to do. I feel like I've been hit by a truck, but with painkillers the pain is much more manageable.

The worst part is that there is little to distract me from it. I wish I could go to the woods, but if just bending the wrong way hurts, I'm not gonna try taking a walk, especially not in my bear form, so watching TV it is. Even if it's kinda blurry. . . .

Well, I can listen to the dialogue.

I'm on my second documentary when I hear Haley's Destrier outside. I mute the TV and slowly get up from the couch to walk over to the door, where I stand to wait for Haley to reach the house. I can hear them whistling a cheerful tune. Once they ring the doorbell, I take a deep breath and reach for the handle.

As I open the door—no more than a crack—I say, "Don't freak out."

"What?" Haley's hand appears in the gap. "Gus, what do you mean?"

I keep my foot against the door. "Promise you won't freak out."

"Let me in," they say in a low voice.

"Promise me."

"Gus."

I hesitate. They're probably gonna freak out whether I make them promise or not, aren't they? Yeah, they are. Stepping back, I open the door and let them see.

I know what I look like.

There's a bruise on my jaw, another on my left cheekbone, and a big hand shaped one on the back of my neck, and that's just what's visible. Beneath my clothes, I'm covered in dark splotches. My right side, where the ribs are bruised, looks like a painting of the night sky. It'd be cool if it didn't hurt so much.

Haley's eyes widen. "Gus . . ."

"Come in," I say with a weak smile.

Thankfully, they do. They don't say a word as they follow me into the living room, where I lower myself to the couch—slowly, as to not make any sudden, painful movements. This, Haley does comment on. "Are you okay?"

I laugh, which, of course, makes me wince. "No."

He sits down next to me. "Shit. This is so fucked up. I can't believe—wait, did this happen this morning? Or last night? Is that why everyone was acting so fucking weird?"

"Yeah. Last night."

"And nobody told me?"

I grimace. "I'm sorry I di—"

"No, I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about—about literally everyone else. They lied straight to my face. All day." He breathes hard. My vision may be blurry, but I can see his face is tight with anger. "I would have killed them."

"That's probably why they didn't say anything."

"I know, but still. Fuck all of them."

"Well, except Davy."

Haley opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"He took me to the hospital," I explain.

"He was there?"

"No! No, I called him."

"Oh. You have his number?"

"Uh, yes, but that's not relevant. He went with me and brought me home. He even made—he made sure the medical bill was paid. Very kind."

Haley leans back on the couch and, for a moment, they just sit there with that vacant stare of theirs. Then they say, "Davy and Sam are super close, but they bicker all the time. You know, typical sibling stuff. And they're not . . . quiet when they're mad at each other. They don't shut each other out like they did today."

I only have to meet their gaze.

It's answer enough.

"I see."

"Haley . . . please don't do anything."

"I can't just—"

"I know. Neither can I, but we have to be smart about this."

"It's very simple." Haley pins me with a look. "We press charges. If they didn't want to pay for their mistakes they shouldn't have beat you up. With you covered in bruises and with me—with my family vouching for you, we have a pretty strong case."

"It's not enough. You know it's not."

He lets out a frustrated noise. "It should be."

"Ostracizing them, threatening them, even getting them sentenced . . . None of that is going to change their minds. It's the same thing as them beating me up. Instilling fear into a person doesn't really change how they think about something, you know? It doesn't change that I want to be your friend. Feelings like love and hate are stronger than fear."

"Deep."

"I'm serious, Haley. Oppress people long enough and at some point they're gonna get tired of being scared. That's why revolutions happen."

"Okay," he says, rolling his eyes, "I'm not grading your history exam, so you can stop showing off. Also, did you just say your love for me is stronger than fear? Do you love me?"

I drag a hand down my face. "Are you even listening?"

"Yeah, you love me."

I can't say I've been thinking about whether I love Haley.

A few weeks ago, I would've said it's ridiculous to say you love somebody you barely know, but I don't think I can still say I barely know Haley. Quite the opposite. Aside from my family, I've never been so close with anyone. I've never cared about anyone else this much. But the only person I ever said the words to was my mom. Kurt and I never say it, either. I don't know why. I guess it would just seem weird to start now.

Either way, I know what Haley's trying to do, and I won't let him.

"Can we focus on literally any other part of what I said?"

"No," he says with a vexing smile. "Love you too. And I heard you. I just don't want to keep trying to convince people you deserve to be loved and let them walk away with hurting you."

"I'm not saying you should let them walk away. I'm saying we need to make sure it doesn't happen again. There were five people in that alley yesterday. I'd love to make them all pay, but it doesn't end with them. There will be more."

"And they will pay, too."

"Haley . . ."

He gets up from the couch.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Are you hungry?"

I stare at him. "Uh . . . always."

"Right. Well, when you're in pain, you can have as much food as you want."

And with that, Haley walks into the kitchen.

I wait, staring at the open door as they rummage around in the fridge. If getting up wasn't such a pain, I would've gone to check what they're doing—I don't think there's much to work with right now. A few minutes later, they come out with a bowl of fruit.

Without saying a word, they place it in my hands.

"Thanks."

"I'm gonna get you groceries later, and you're not allowed to say no."

I take a slice of apple out of the bowl. "Okay."

Honestly, I could use the help. I won't be able to work at Stacie's for the foreseeable future, and Kurt can't split himself in two. I'll have to ask him if there's anything he needs later so I can send Haley the list.

"Also, fuck you."

I drop the slice. "Excuse me?"

"You're right. Prevention is better than punishment. I don't like it, but you're right."

"Oh. Yes."

Haley nods. "We can definitely be smart about this. We are smart. We just need to come up with something." He sits down, hands pressed together. "So let's scheme."

☽〇☾

Haley returns that evening with a dozen plastic bags, his sister, and his dog.

Kurt, completely perplexed, peers inside the bags Haley is placing on the dinner table—they barely fit. I'm surprised he and George managed to carry them all in one go, honestly. It's absolutely ridiculous, but I give Haley my biggest smile, and he gives me a double thumbs up and a grin in return.

Once all the groceries are put away, Haley and George plop down onto the couch beside me, and George begins, "So I told Sam we're over."

"As you should," Haley says.

Missile huffs in agreement.

"You know what the best part is? I can finally stop feeling guilty. You immediately told me to break up with him, but I thought there must be a part of him that feels sorry for those things he said to Gus, you know? And I didn't know what to do, so I just kept putting it off." She shrugs. "Well, he officially blew it."

"You could say that," I say.

"Yeah, fuck him. You—hey, you're not wearing your glasses."

"They . . . broke."

"What?" Haley screeches.

"Did you seriously not notice I wasn't wearing them earlier?"

"I was too busy thinking about killing everyone. What the fuck? Do you need me to get you new ones?"

"You can't just go out and get new ones. My eyes don't have the same prescription, so you have to get them made. Or you can order them online. It's cheaper that way, but—anyway, not that that matters to you. It's just . . . a pain in the ass. That's why I only had one pair."

"Sounds like you need two," Haley says nonchalantly. They're already pulling their phone out of their pocket. "Let's go shopping."

"Ooh, fun," George says, leaning closer to look over their shoulder. "You should get another pair of those gold-rimmed glasses." She points at the screen. "Like those. They look good on him."

"Those are gold?"

"What did you think they were?"

"I don't know, man. You try telling this shit apart when you can only see, like, two colors. They're pink to me."

George snorts and turns to me. "You're lucky I'm here. He'd buy you a pair of puke-colored glasses and you wouldn't even know."

I laugh. "As long as I can see with them."

It still feels weird to have someone just buy things for me that I've always had to save up for, like it's nothing, but I don't argue. I don't think I can. Being able to see is kind of crucial to everyday life, and I can't afford it right now.

"Okay, what about these?" Haley says, turning the screen toward me.

"I can't see anything."

"No, just look in the camera—it's a filter. I wanna see if they look good."

So I let them "try on" different pairs until they find two designs they like, and I guess I'll just have to trust their judgment, but let's be real: I'd be grateful even if they picked something that looked like shit.

Once the order has been placed, I tell them I don't need anything else—really—so they insist on staying just to keep me company. After having dinner together, Haley does homework at the dinner table, and George reads to me because I can't keep watching TV. I try not to squint, but it still gives me a headache, and I'm already in enough pain as it is. This is better anyway. With Missile's head in my lap, and the lull of George's soothing voice, and Haley's witty remarks on the story, I feel like I've never been more comfortable in my life.

When they're leaving, I call out to Haley before he can walk to the car. He pauses and turns around. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Oh," he says, smiling. "Of course."

I glance at George as she gets in the car by the road and mutter, "And in case you needed to actually hear me say it, I guess I, uh, love you, too."

"Damn. Was that so hard?"

"Don't make me take it back."

He laughs, stepping forward to hug me—carefully. "Thank you as well."

"What for?"

"For entertaining my stupid idea to become friends," he says, pulling away, "and for putting up with all the shit that comes with it. You deserve better."

"Well, hopefully your plan works."

"It has to."

"I'll be back at school next week."

He nods.

"In the meantime . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll behave."

"Good luck."

☽〇☾