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I'm nervous.

The conversation seems too momentous to begin.

There's so much that needs to be said. It feels like standing at the foot of a great mountain and being told to climb it without any prior planning.

We don't talk on the way to his apartment. Once we're in we sit together in the living room, side by side on his sofa.

We both want to speak, but we don't know where to start.

Moments accumulate in awkward silence.

"Kale."

Hearing his voice, my heart stops for a full second.

"Yeah?"

The next words pain him to speak.

"My bed is still covered in blood isn't it?"

The words dismantle the remains of my composure. He's right.

All that blood.

It was so awful.

But I can't fall apart. I need to be here for him.

I can't let him down again.

"I'll sort it out." I say, without really considering the implications of my words.

It cheers him up and that spurs me on.

"Thank you," he says, "really."

His voice is still so brittle it seems dangerous even to listen, as though the simple act of hearing him speak could irrevocably break him.

I tell him I'll make us both a coffee and then get right to it. He nods and thanks me again.

"It's not a problem," I say, trying to convince myself.

He points at the matted fur on his neck and muzzle where it's still red and clumped with his own dried blood.

"I would go for and wash, but..."

I see what he means. The ensuite is the only bathroom in his apartment and he'd rather not go there while the room's still painted red.

Going back in his room isn't going to be easy on me, but I have to do it for him. Once I've got this done we can finally talk for real.

I sort out our drinks in muted introspection, then pass Adrian a mug. He accepts it quietly and offers a barely noticeable nod, lost in thought. It's all so unlike him.

I ask if he has a spare set of bedding to replace the blood-soaked ones and if he'd rather I throw the old set out. He nods again and tells me where to get the bedding as well as a black trash bag to stuff the current covers in. He says he'd offer me a shirt but he doesn't have any in my size. I tell him not to worry, I'm getting used to being shirtless by now.

I hoped the comment would elicit a laugh, or at least a smile, from the fox but he just stares into his drink.

Every second of this is hurting him. He wishes he had never put me in this position. I'm wishing I'd never let things get to this point. Is it ironic that we both think we're to blame or is it only normal?

As if normal even exists in this situation.

I drink my coffee quickly, get the supplies I'll need and let Adrian know I'm ready.

"Good luck with it," he says. I smile and nod. He continues to stare at the end of his drink. "Thanks."

I instinctively take a deep breath as I enter his bedroom, the reaction born out of some sort of primal fear, but there's nothing to be concerned about. The horror show has already taken place. This time things will be okay.

Or maybe that's only wishful thinking.

Standing inside the room, memories flood back in vivid, violent flashes.

His dying body is right there in front of me. I see it clearly, superimposed over reality. He's bleeding out.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

I can't do this.

Fuck.

Adrian.

I close my eyes and breathe slowly in and out. In and out.

I can't do this.

Breathe.

I have to. There are no other options.

I have to.

Adrian is safe. Adrian is alive. I could walk a few steps right now and see him living and breathing. There is no need to panic.

The myriad of bloodstains littering the bed and carpet have dried and faded into a brownish red as a byproduct of time and absence.

There is nothing to fear. This is all past-tense.

Okay.

I can do this.

I can do this.

First thing's first, I take a short walk around the room to see what needs cleaning. Apart from the bedclothes there are stains on the carpet leading from the bed to the ensuite.

Inside the bathroom there's more blood on the floor and in the sink. There's blood on the inner door handle too.

In my mind the scene recreates itself without permission.

There the fox stands alone, staring at himself in the mirror above his sink. Something is wrong. He feels worthless, hopeless, isolated. Something triggered this. He holds a small razor blade.

He feels it, fiddles with it, switches it between his paws. He's staring at it. He rubs it between his thumb and index finger. He takes it to his wrist.

He makes the first cut.

At first maybe the pain makes him feel better, like he's getting what he deserves. Maybe it angers him, maybe it isn't enough.

He makes another cut.

He's bleeding.

He makes another cut.

The pain is blaring. It's the only thing he can feel. Somehow that's what he wants.

Maybe he loses control or maybe he decides he deserves more. He wants to keep going. He wants to keep hurting himself, but the pain is becoming too much to take, he can't keep standing.

He goes through to the bedroom and lies down.

He takes the blade to both wrists but, right pawed, he realizes he can't go too far cutting his right arm or he'll lose strength. He focuses on his left.

He keeps cutting.

He's bleeding so much.

He feels weak.

He can't move. His consciousness is flickering.

He wonders if he'll die here.

He starts to believe that he will.

He's scared, but then...

Then he realizes something.

He doesn't care.

...

Oh god.

I feel sick.

Oh fuck.

I-

I puke into his sink.

Breathe.

Get

yourself

together

Kale.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He's alive Kale.

He's alive.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Open your eyes.

Take stock.

Think.

Well, I guess I needed to clean the sink anyway.

I grab the cleaning products and tools I need and get started. The quicker I get this done, the quicker I can get the fuck out of here. I clean the sink, the floor and the door handle as best I can, thankfully with the receptive, smooth surfaces I manage to clear all the blood away without much hassle.

Back into the bedroom I have a go at the carpet and with effort I manage to get the worst out, leaving only a few small, stubborn, half-faded marks. I do my best to remove even them, but they persist past my abilities.

Adrian calls out to ask if I'm doing alright. I tell him about the carpet's most argumentative stains. He tells me not to worry about them.

That means it's time for the bed. This is the part I was dreading most of all.

The duvet cover is drenched red with a roughly Adrian shaped clearing in the centre from where he was laying.

I'm popping open the cover to remove the duvet when I notice something metallic sliding down the length of the material. I stop what I'm doing and pick it up. It's a small, flat razor blade. The one I noticed earlier. His chosen weapon of self-destruction.

Out of some unknowable impulse I take it to the sink and clean it. I twist it around in my fingers, just staring at it.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Leave it here in his bathroom? Give it back to him? Of course I want to trust him, I want to believe he won't do it again, but giving him the razor again seems insane.

I should throw it out with his covers but it could split the bag. I could wrap it up inside the covers before putting it in, that should do the job. But...

It seems wrong somehow.

I look into the mirror.

I raise my left arm and stare at the reflection of my wrist. I lift up the razor.

In my mind I watch Adrian do the same thing, his motions matching mine exactly. I overlay his fur and feature on top of my own.

I try to imagine feeling so lost, like so much of a failure, like such a fuck up that I might actually slice through my own skin. I try and fail.

Then I try again and I succeed.

I'm no fucking saint.

I bring the blade to my wrist and see my fox doing the same.

I move it so close it's almost touching.

Reality reasserts itself.

What the fuck am I doing?

I shake my head in disgust and retreat to the bedroom. The razor still clutched in my paw. I haven't made a decision about it yet and I don't want to think about it anymore.

I twist it around in my fingers one more time, then I pull out my wallet and slip the thin piece of metal into a free, tight-fitting slot.

Returning my attention to the bedclothes I finally loose the duvet of it's cover, stuffing the stained thing into the trash bag. The duvet itself is soaked through with blood. I feel like a forensics expert at some gruesome crime scene. This is awful, all of it, thank fuck I'm almost done. There's nothing a few casual cleaning products can do that will fix the duvet so I simply take it off the bed along with the pillows. The bed sheet harbors a few splotches of blood too from where the liquid had soaked all the way through the duvet. Maybe these could come out in the wash, but I think Adrian would rather never see the sheet again. I stuff it in the trash bag and grimace at the few final spots of blood that made it all the way through to the mattress.

I scrub at them until they are mere hints of a forgotten stain, then I flip the mattress over completely so that even those aren't visible. After re-clothing everything in fresh bedding I'm finally done. Last minute, remembering the blood-stained state of his current pair, I fetch Adrian a clean set of pants.

I return to the fox and he stands up and hugs me with his one decent arm. After coming apart I hand over the garment and explain about the remaining stains on the mattress and duvet. He nods, says he will deal with them later and thanks me for everything.

He starts to awkwardly work off his pants with his good paw. I stop him silently, gently taking hold of the paw as it wrestles with a button. He looks up at me, confused. Instead of responding I simply help him replace his stained pair with the fresh ones in fast and efficient motions, the two of us sharing an intimate quiet for a short time.

"Good looks and great service. I'm a very lucky fox," he says, finally finding a smile.

"Do you want these ones in the wash or the trash bag?" I ask, holding the blood-stained pants.

"Trash bag for now," he says. "I can always change my mind before throwing them out."

I do as he says and then we sit on his sofa, side by side all over again. This time I can't help myself, I wrap my arms and tail around him, careful not to put pressure on his bandaged arm. He snuggles his head against my shoulder.

For a while we just stay like that.

Eventually I find courage.

"So," I begin.

"So," he agrees.

"Why..." I trail off, struggling to phrase the question. Then I find it. "Why?"

He sighs a sigh of total exasperation.

"I'm sorry. I fucked up, badly."

"So did I. Look, maybe I don't have any right to ask, but I need to know why all this happened. Please Adrian, explain it to me."

He takes a moment to consider the question and his answer.

"I guess it all started last Sunday, the day after we went clubbing. The day you woke up at Ryan's. I got a call that afternoon from my parents saying they were going to come down the following Friday and stay over for the weekend." I stay quiet and listen, only giving the fox a reassuring squeeze as response. He stops for a moment, shakes his head and restarts. "I guess, to be more accurate, it started the day I realized I was gay."

I settle in for a long story.

"Go on."

"You know what? Ever since then I had been dreaming of a perfect, glittering future. I wanted freedom, friends, a stable job and great sex. I got it all too. Lucky me. The problem is, I still wasn't happy. I'm too fucking demanding, too fucking needy to be satisfied with what I have. I always seem to want more. I wanted more money, I wanted more time, I wanted love." He shakes his head and when he speaks again his tone has regained a degree of calm. "You know about my parents, right? The ones that think homosexuals are unnatural and sinful? Living in that family, it was- Fuck. We've talked about my family before, but I always gave the brief version.

"I won't go into every little detail, but it was hell living with them. I had to suppress my true self constantly. When I finally got free of them I came out and lived my own life. for once I felt happy. I thought it might remain that way.

"One of my biggest mistakes was ever admitting to my parents who I am. If I kept my sexuality secret from them then maybe things would have been easier, but at college I got brash and confident and entitled. After one of my semesters, when I was back home, I made it clear to them. I practically bragged about it. I told them about my hookups and boyfriends. I even told them about that time I went to England - I told you about that before right? - that night I met the otter, Marcus. The first night I truly felt free. They knew about the holiday of course, but this time I admitted I why I went: to get away from them. I went to be free, to fuck and to have a good time for once in my damn life. Like an idiot, I told them everything."

He steadily becomes more and more tense as he continues to speak, he is deeply upset and it increasingly shows in his voice as he retreads past trauma. I squeeze him against my chest once more. He looks up with wide, kind eyes, blinks, kisses the side of my muzzle, then prizes himself free of my arms and sits on a chair a little way across the room.

"Need space?" I ask.

"Just for a while," he asserts. I nod plainly and offer a reassuring smile. "When I told them all of that they were disgusted. Hell, they were outraged. They went on and on and on at me, spouting a barrage of hatred and disapproval. They said they were fucking worried about me. Can you believe that? Worried. They wanted to get 'help' for me, as though this is some kind of mental illness.

"It didn't stop there either. They told their friends what a disappointment their son was. They said they prayed for me every night. They thought I was unclean, living a sinful life, so they prayed for my soul. I thought I could handle it, but I was so wrong. Can you imagine what it feels like to have your family think you're an abomination? To have them prod and manipulate and dump vitriol on you at every possible opportunity?

"I thought they might pull my college funding, but they didn't. Through it all they made sure I knew they 'loved me really'. They said they wanted me to succeed, to improve. That might have been the worst part of it all: the mixed messaging. It really fucked me up. I felt like I couldn't escape them, as much as I wanted to. They supported me so much despite their views that I felt indebted to them. They had me in their clutches.

"I guess that's all history now, but the scars remain. Thankfully I became more and more independent as time went by. I met great people like you and Eve, I moved out for good. You helped me especially. You were always there for me when I needed you. You would always listen, you would always wrap your warm arms around me. You would encourage me to stand up, move on and keep going. You were my rock, you kept me sane, even if you didn't know it."

It hurts to hear. I've been there for him before, but this time I fucked up and he almost paid for my mistake with his life.

"And then, this last week, things changed," I suggest, my throat dry and my voice hoarse. "I failed you."

Adrian doesn't respond straight away, but closes his eyes, breathes slowly and tries to center himself.

"Last weekend came along and I got that message from my parents. I felt like I had to let them come visit. I suppose I thought, despite everything, they're still family and they supported me so much in the past - financially, not emotionally - but still, I felt like I owed them. It's not like I could stop them anyway. They know where I live and they would come whether I invited them or not.

"This next part's funny, you get to see how stupid and weak I really am. I knew they'd get inside my head, drain me and leave me feeling down and self-destructive if I faced them alone. So what was my solution? I wanted somebody to be there with me. I wanted a boyfriend."

He laughs darkly, but there's no humor to it.

"Adrian, that's not stupid or weak," I protest. He avoids my gaze. I carry on. "Is that why you asked me out?"

He raises his paws and shakes them back and forth in denial.

"No, no, no. It's-" He stammers. "It's like this: uh, it accelerated the issue, but I had been trying to build up the courage to ask you out for months. I know you, um, I- I know you don't feel the same way, and I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I love you Kalie. I seriously love you. I've loved you for a long time now. A long time."

I feel breathless and worn out, overworked stressed and dejected all at once, but still his words hit me hard. Oh Adrian, why did I have to be so fucking blind?

"I wish I could say more," I begin. "But right now I don't really know what love means. All this with Marty and Ryan, and today with you... My brain is fried."

"I don't think anyone really knows what love means Kale. It just 'is'."

"Well, for what it's worth, I do love you Adrian. I just don't know if it's the same kind of love you feel for me."

He stares at me solemnly, unblinking.

"I know," he sighs and breaks his stare. "I know." He takes a moment to himself and then restarts his story. "So my parents' visit helped me ask you out sooner, but it would have happened either way. Don't worry I'm not completely delusional. If you turned me down I was going to ask you to come with me and pretend to be my partner instead, I know it would have been a big favor, but I thought you'd go along with it.

"That day we argued, when I called you up, that's what I was going to ask. I had already realized by then that you weren't interested in me romantically. In spite of my foxy little broken heart I was trying to be pragmatic. I wanted you to be there. Somehow we ended up arguing again and blowing up at each other. I never ended up asking and our talk left me feeling even worse than before. I'm sorry, it sounds like I'm blaming you, I don't mea-"

"No, Adrian. That was all my fault. I was totally out of line. I started the argument unprovoked and I said some nasty things. Things I shouldn't have said. I was stressed, sure, but I wasn't thinking about you. I was being a complete dick. I deserve all the blame for that. I'm serious. I should have noticed you were distressed, I should have been there for you and helped you. You needed me and I failed you. That's on me. That's entirely on me."

Adrian remains quiet. I can tell he doesn't agree, not fully. He's too hard on himself. I only hope my words can make some small positive difference.

"Thank you, but I can't pretend I'm blameless." I shake my head but don't argue verbally. "Let me back up a bit with my story. I was thrilled when you agreed to the theater date, even considering the complications with Ryan.

"I want to be completely honest with you now. I love you too much to hide things from you so I'm not going to. Not any more. I know it's not fair at all, but as you drifted towards Marty and Ryan and away from me I became spiteful towards them, even towards you. I felt abandoned, disregarded and deflated. I was quickly becoming very unhappy. Those arguments we had afterward, and then that visit from Eve where she confirmed the suspicion that you don't want to be with me, that all hurt, badly. Hearing it from Eve instead of you didn't help either."

I cringe at that. I'm such a dick.

"She... I... You shouldn't have had to hear it that w-"

He dismisses my words with a wave of his paw.

"It doesn't matter. I'll be real with you though, and you don't have to confirm or deny this, but hearing that from Eve made me feel like you had only accepted my date offer to placate me, to make me feel happy. I thought you probably only went along with it because you didn't want to hurt my feelings."

I want to respond, desperately, but I don't know quite what to say. I don't really know why I accepted the date. Anything relating to love and relationships is becoming a blurred, congealed mess in my mind. Despite that, I can't just let his hypothesis stand unchallenged, I need to say something.

"Adrian, that's not true at all. I thought maybe we could work." I don't know if it's a lie, or simply a convenience, but that's what I say.

"Okay, but you quickly realized we wouldn't." He says, as though concluding my thought for me. I want to protest but instead I just flap my muzzle open and shut wordlessly. "Anyway, after all that I was retreating into myself. I wasn't happy, but I was doing my best not to let it beat me. That's when Friday rolled around..." His words drift off into nothing and he wears a distant stare, looking at nothing in particular.

The world grows colder.

"Friday, that's the day you didn't show up at work. What happened?"

"I woke up, had breakfast, got ready for work and checked social media on my phone. Same as usual." He lifts his legs onto the seat and hides his face between his knees. "I saw an update that changed all that. I found out an old friend of mine, Marcus, was in a coma after being involved in some sort of traffic accident."

"Oh hell. Marcus? The otter from England?"

"Yeah. I don't think he knew it, but meeting him was a turning point in my life. He made me feel free, empowered, like I was a perfectly normal guy with normal desires and the power to achieve my dreams. Since that holiday we kept in touch, maybe he just thought it was cool to know - and have slept with - somebody from the States but, whatever the reason, we have stayed up to date with one another since then."

"I see him comment on your statuses sometimes," I chime in, nodding.

"Yeah, we caught up in private chat at least once a month too. Talking with him is a nice reminder of a great moment in my life. Over time he's become a real friend of mine. It's weird having a friend you don't meet up with for real, but that didn't take anything away from what he meant to me.

"Friday morning I went online and noticed a barrage of new comments had popped up on his newest profile photo. All these people were wishing him well, offering their sympathies. He couldn't read any of it, being in a coma, but I guess it made them feel better to write. I got in touch with one of his real life friends to get the details of what happened. I'll admit I sent Marcus a lengthy private message after that too, it's unread of course, but it helped me a little.

"With the news about Marcus, my whole situation with you and the impending dread of my parent's visit I felt paralyzed. I couldn't think or focus. I realized I wouldn't be able to work that day, so I called in sick. I spent hours and hours in bed feeling sorry for myself and constantly checking social media for updates.

"I wanted to call you, but after out arguments and learning once and for all from Eve that you weren't interested, I felt like I couldn't talk to you. I thought I'd either burst into tears or be lost for words."

"Adrian, fuck, I never want to put you in a position like that. I'm so sorry. I should have reached out to you. I should have realized you weren't okay."

"It's my fault. I didn't even try to call. I didn't even try. If we talked on Friday maybe I would have opened up, maybe you would have been here this weekend to help with my parents. Maybe not even that, but maybe you would have answered my call on Sunday. That could have been enough. I don't know."

"You can't blame yourself for this."

"Don't tell me who to fucking blame," he growls, teeth bared, a surge of anger pulsing through him. He catches himself, returns to a more neutral posture and whips his tail to one side. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

The last thing I want to do is cause more stress.

"So, that's how Friday went. Things just got worse from there. Saturday, my parents arrived at my apartment." He frowns and seems to struggle more with his words as his story approaches the present. "They were... relentless."

I want to go over to him, lift him up and squeeze him in a powerful hug, but he moved away from me for a reason. He wants the space and I should respect that. This hurts though. It hurts to hear him relive the days that directly led to his, to his... I don't know, what would you call it? It's stranded halfway between self harm and a suicide attempt.

"You don't have to go into every little detail if it's only going to pain you," I say, speaking softly.

"No, and I won't recount every moment, but if I have learned anything from all this it's that I can't keep my feelings inside me or else I'll keep building them up and up until I reach such a stage of frustration and despair that I'll do something like that again. But maybe that's self serving. I wonder if telling you any of this is even fair of me." Something about him is different. An internal decision is made, and then a change of his posture and tone follow. "Fuck it, all I'm doing is taking my hurt and sharing it with you. The more pain to go around, the better right?" His voice raises and his teeth are bared again, but this time his anger is directed squarely at himself. "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm sorry Kale, I'm fucking up again. I thought I could do this but - fuck - I can't. All I'm going to do is make you as fucking miserable and depressed as I am."

Reality crashes back into the unstable mess it was when I first walked into Adrian's bedroom today. This isn't right. This isn't how things were meant to go.

"Adrian, stop. I want to hear you talk, I want to know what ails you, I want to help. I've been there for you before and I want to be here for you again now. There's no need to beat yourself up for being honest."

"You're wrong. Answer me this Kale: does it feel good for you to hear why I cut my own wrists? Does it improve your life to hear why I ended up bleeding half to death sprawled out on my own bed?"

"Well, not exactly, but-"

"But you want to know anyway? Why exactly? So you can see reason and logic in this fucked up world? I'm sorry to be the bearer of even more bad news Kalie, but there is none." "Adri-"

"No, Kale. You don't owe me anything. You don't need my drama in your life. I've abused you. All those times you've listened to me moan and bitch about my worries, when you've consoled me about my life, offered advice or the warmth of your company. The times you've been there after I hurt myself. Today, where you almost had to watch me die. All of that is me putting strain on you. It's me using you as a crutch, a support. I take and I take from you over and over again. I lean on you and push you down and the worst thing you've ever done to me is not love me as much as I love you. I'm pathetic."

I stand and take a step towards him with open arms.

"Adrian, you're overreacting. You mean so much to me, you're a great friend."

"If you think that then you're fucking stupid." He stands up. "A hug isn't going to fix this." He lifts his arms and shows me the state of them. One is bandaged, the other is shaved on the underside, the cut wounds still clearly visible in spite of their recent sealing. "I'm fucked up. I'm out of my fucking mind."

"No, you're not. You've been under a lot of stress from a lot of different sources. Don't let your parents get inside your head. They're wrong about you. They're wrong about everything."

"Not everything. I am a fuck up. Worse, I'm a fuck up who drains the life from the people around him."

His words and his self-directed anger strike a resonant chord within me. Part of me loses control.

"Are you fucking kidding? I'm the one who drains and drains from people without giving back. If I was there for you this never would have happened. If I actually listened to my best friend rather than chasing tail then things would be different. But no, I'm too fucking blind and naive to see that. You say I've been there for you but you've always been there for me too. Maybe I haven't needed the same kind of help you have, but you would have offered it if I did, so I don't need to hear that bullshit about you using me. I neglected you and this happened. I should have been there."

Adrian stares at me aghast.

"Am I really so fucked up that I've made you genuinely believe you are the problem? This is- This is insane. I've twisted you. Every second of your life that you waste with me is only going to end up hurting you. You're so much better than this," he generally indicates toward himself and his apartment. "You're so much better than me or my backwards, fucked up life. Kale, you say listening to me last week might have stopped this, and hell maybe you're right, but it's not that simple. These things I feel - this sadness, this self-hatred - they didn't crop up overnight or even over the course of a week. They've built up over years, over the course of a lifetime. Even all the time I've spent with you couldn't ever delete that history, it just shoved the pain away into a fucking cupboard. I'm fucked up and I have been as long as I can remember."

I take another step towards him, but he moves away, shaking his head. The world is spinning again. Oh god. I thought I could help. I thought with enough talking and hugging and...

Oh god.

"Adrian stop this. You're a wonderful person."

"Really? I've made things so much better for you and Eve today haven't I? All this pain and all these questions. All these lies we keep telling ourselves to make it all seem okay. Well it's not okay. I am not okay. People don't try to kill themselves because they're fucking okay, do they?" In spite of everything, all the tears already shed and all the anguish and the onset of a jaded numbness that has been creeping up inside of me for hours, I'm crying again. "I could paint you a picture of my psyche. I could tell you in detail about everything my parents ever said to me up to and including this weekend. I could tell you about the bullying and discrimination I've faced that I once thought I'd escape in the adult world. I thought I could wear what I want and speak how I want and do what I want without reproach, but no. Now I'm just a blazing fag who's overzealous campness is mere posturing to compensate for a lack of self-image or worth. Something like that, right? I could tell you about my failed love life, all the shitty relationships and awful people, or the times I've been awful and taken others for granted, or how the love of my life had to- had to-" He breaks into a sob, but pushes through it, through all the tears and forces out his words. "Or how the love of my life had to walk in on my fucking suicide attempt and save my life. I could tell you all of that, but none of it will bring Marcus back." I'm silent, out of words or logic or brain power. "That's right, he's fucking dead. He died in hospital on Sunday. I tried to talk to you and Eve, I tried to call, to get through, but nobody answered. And you know what? I'm fucking glad. All I would have done is make your lives worse to give myself some sort of sick, momentary relief. I couldn't sleep. I cried all night. I must have called you a hundred times, and I sent you texts too even though you asked me not to. I messaged you on social media. I was trying to drag you down with me, to fuck you up. Eventually, after all that silence, things started making sense again. I'm a fucking waste of space and my existence is only making the lives of the people that care about me more difficult, more stressful. Pathetic and useless as I am, I started cutting myself. It felt good. It felt so fucking good to hurt. I was cutting deeper than ever before. I was making more cuts than ever before. I was losing control of my body. I went to lie down. Soon I found out I didn't care if I lived or died. That was my mistake. The apathy. I should have made the damn decision. I should have tried harder to end it. I should have made sure it would happen. I should be fucking dead right now!" Through steaming tears he roars the words. "I should be dead!"

Oh god.

Adrian.

I reach my paw toward him, he storms out of the room.

"Adrian!"

The word evaporates into nothing as it comes into contact with air.

All of his anguish flows through me. I live in his shoes for a single moment and I feel crushed, completely destroyed.

I follow after him in a hazy panic, terrified of what he might do next.

Thankfully it's not hard to find him.

He's stood frozen at the entrance to his room. His eyes are wide and fixated on a point inside.

I know exactly what's happening because it happened to me, though with him it will be infinitely more visceral. He's reliving it all. The deep emotional pain, the razor, every cut and every drop of blood. The decision to take it further. The true lack of regard for his own life.

It's playing out in front of him all over again. What he sees is paralyzing him.

"Adrian," I say. He doesn't turn his head. "You're right, the world is fucked, it doesn't make sense. Things aren't fair. But fuck fair. I don't care if you think you drain me, I want to be here for you. I care about you. You matter to me. You enrich my life. I enjoy my days more for your presence. If you weren't here my life would be worse not better, I promise you. Adrian I fucking love you, maybe I don't know what that love means, but I love you. If you were dead I- I- I'd- fuck, I don't know what I'd do. I'd be lost. I'd be completely lost. Adrian. I would be lost without you. I need you. Please. Please don't think you have nothing left. Please don't leave me alone in this life. Please. Stay with me. Please."

Please.

"Kale?" His voice is meek, damaged.

"Yes?"

"Marcus is dead." He turns to look at me. "He's dead."

I lock him into a hug before he has a chance to escape or change his mind. He cries into my shoulder and I cry right back into his.

I didn't know Marcus personally, but that shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. Marcus was important to Adrian, he improved the fox's life. Now he's dead and my fox is suffering. That's what matters. Losing a friend is one of the worst things a person can experience. I haven't ever lost one and this morning I would say I couldn't imagine how painful it is, but today I genuinely believed Adrian was dead and that was the single most awful moment of my life.

Remembering that is all I need to be able to empathize with him. In fact, it's more than I need. I hold my fox close and whisper: "I know."

It's all that can be said.

We stay like that for a while, entangled in one another, letting warmth and closeness do their best impressions of healing. Adrian is right that moments can't fix a lifetime of problems, they can't take back what has been said or done, they can't even much change the course of our future, but they can make us feel okay - if only for a while - and that's all we need right now.

But this time I'm not going to rest on that small accomplishment. Things can get better, I truly believe wounds can be healed, futures can be molded. I will do everything in my power to support Adrian from now on. I won't let him reach the abyss, I won't let him feel abandoned, I won't let him die. I would be lost without him.

"I told my parents about Marcus's coma this weekend. A stupid fucking thing to do, but I couldn't get him out of my head. They ripped him to shreds, and me. They said he would never wake from his coma, that God would punish him for his sins. They warned me to change my ways. They said it's all karma or justice or some other bullshit. They said all that about my friend, my friend who was in hospital. My friend who died the next day." He chokes up and once again has to fight to deliver his last words. "I guess they were right. Marcus got his fucking justice."

I squeeze him tighter.

"Death is not justice Adrian. They are wrong. What happened to Marcus was awful, it was life fucking him over for no good reason. Sometimes things like that happen and, as fucking awful as it is, we just have to keep on living, there's nothing else we can do. This life is all we have Adrian, don't let your parents, or even yourself, convince you that it isn't worth living." I don't quite know where the words come from, but once I start speaking they flow out of me in a continuous stream as though they had always been there, somewhere inside me. "The two of us, we're not godly. There is no heaven or hell for us, there is only the here and now and you either do something with the time you have or you're done by it. Don't waste this life Adrian, please. You have so much you can still do. There are so many experiences to have and to share with those you care about. This is your one and only opportunity to live, so you have to cling to it with everything. You have to."

Adrian doesn't move or speak. I deflate a little. This isn't going to be easy, but I'm not going to give up.

"Kale?"

A tender hope blossoms within me at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah?"

"I shouldn't have said that." Adrian says, face finally out of my shoulder.

"Which bit exactly?"

"I don't know, I mean, I do, but... Maybe I shouldn't have said a lot of it. The bit I was talking about though was that... was when I said..."

I should be dead.

"It's okay," I say, putting a finger to his muzzle. "I understand. You don't have to say it again. Thank you. I hope you don't really feel that way."

His eyes glaze over briefly.

"I don't, not at all. I just... I don't know... I don't really know how I feel right now. Does that make any sense?"

I nod.

"It makes sense to me."

"You're too good for me Kalie."

"I think the same about you, so one of us must be wrong."

"Yeah, you are."

"No way."

He cracks a smile.

"Why do you put up with my bullshit?" He asks.

"Why do you put up with mine?"

"Because I love you."

"Then you know the answer."

He half opens his muzzle but stays silent. He seems to want to say something, but instead he pulls away from my embrace and closes the door to his bedroom slowly.

"There's no way I'll be able to sleep in that room tonight. I made a mistake coming back here."

"Then let's go back to my place."

"It's getting late, it's dark out."

"Nobody's going to try and fuck with a bloodstained fox and a wolf walking about shirtless in the cold night air. We have nothing to worry about."

His smile grows and he nods.

"Okay Kale, let's go."

"Wait a second," I say waving a finger at him. "I see what's going on here. You brought me back here as free labor. You got me to clean out your room and now you aren't even going to sleep there."

His tail wags and he laughs. The sound brings me more joy than I can adequately express.

"You underestimate me. I could have got Eve to help if I only wanted free labor. This way I got to stare at some bare wolf chest too."

We laugh together. All our worries and issues dissolving into nothing for a few blissful seconds.

This isn't a solution, but it's a start.