AN: Thanks much to Besieged_Infection for lots of beta-reading and a lot more patience! She's a huge help and she quickly figured out what kind of criticism I respond to! This is the first fanfiction that started randomly that I feel really proud of!

I sit by my locker, much earlier than necessary, sketchbook open on my lap, and lean back, eyes closed. The tip of my pencil sits lightly on the paper, and the remnants of last night's tears stain my face. My sleeves are pulled over my hands to hide the aftermath of the unfortunate events.

"You have another fight?" I slowly open my eyes and paste an unconvincing smile on my face.

"No. My face is wet, my sleeves are down, and there is nothing on this page," I sarcastically reply, motioning to my sketchbook, "because it's fun, Lexaeus." Even as I speak, my smile drops and I feel the tears start again. I let my tired eyes slide closed again.

"Aren't those yesterday's clothes?" Lexaeus asks.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Aren't they usually? I just took my stuff and left."

"That bad?" I hear Lexaeus open his backpack and start searching through it, his books and other various objects he takes everywhere with him rustling around comfortingly.

"Yeah, and I knew it would get worse." Soft, familiar fabric hits my face.

"You realize you're going to be in more trouble, right?" he asks. "Come on; you can change."

"Thanks." I put my stuff in my backpack, pick it up, and follow him to the bathroom.

Ducking into a stall I change my pants. I step out and grab the shirt, stashing the black jeans in my bag, mentally reminding myself to put them in Lexaeus' locker. "My dad hit me again last night."

"I keep saying I can hit him back for you," Lexaeus jokes. His eyes go wide when he sees my wrists.

"It's not like you've never seen it before," I comment, pulling the clean shirt on over my head. I slowly breathe in the calming smell. Lemon and mint; the scent Lexaeus' mom always uses when doing laundry.

"I know," he shifts uncomfortably. "It just shocks me every time."

"Get over it; you've seen worse injuries at practice," I joke, playfully smacking him, referring to his position as star quarterback.

"It's not the same, Zexion," he says, still serious.

"You think I don't know that?" I reply tiredly. I walk over to the sink and splash my face with cold water. Drying my face, I see Lexaeus staring at me worriedly. It's a routine we've grown used to. There's rarely a day I'm not at school early and we have to do this. I sigh. 'Routine is good, but this is ridiculous.'

"Come on- other people are going to start coming soon." Lexaeus opens the door.

"'Kay," I sigh, following him. We walk to his locker where I put yesterday's clothes. We walk into the nearby courtyard, sit in our usual spot under the oak tree, and talk about everything but last night.

Eventually, however, we have nothing else to talk about. "I won't make you tell me," Lexaeus says unnecessarily. He never makes me.

My dad found the painting," I say. We both remember my most recent painting.

A bleak landscape in despondent shades of charcoal and dark gray that reached out to the viewer. A lone warrior in black and silver fighting to defend all the cared about with everything he had, failing nonetheless. Two dragons, one slightly smaller than the other, in tones of slate and silver, painted to scare. Their dark gray eyes seemed to cut straight through the warrior, whose wrists are wounded and colored a bright scarletthat appears to dropwillingly to the ground for escape. The scarlet was the only color on the canvas, save my traditional indigo signature in the lower right corner: a sharp, angled script of my pseudonym, Ienzo.

Weeks were spent at Lexaeus' working on it. It spent several more weeks there due to my parents' insane art ban. We had thought it was finally safe to take it home. How could my decision have been so wrong?

"What happened?" Lexaeus asks, not prying, just letting me know he's listening.

"I came home," I start. "It should've been fine, since yesterday morning was actually good. He was standing there, waiting." The tears start again. "As soon as I closed the door he backhanded me, yelling, 'What did your mother and I say about art?' I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. My dad laughed and said he'd show me. My mom watched without a word as my dad pulled me roughly into the garage." Lexaeus tenses; he knows that's where my parents always burn my art. "My painting was sitting there. Some part of me couldn't- didn't want to- believe he found it. Then he asked me if I thought I was clever. If I thought it was funny. I shook my head, told him no. My dad asked me, 'Then why'd you do it?' I couldn't answer; you know I couldn't answer. Then he burned it. He burned it and made me watch. It got a lot worse after that. My sleeves had pulled up because I was pulling at them nervously, then he saw this," I lift up my sleeve and finger a cut from a couple days ago. "He asked me if they were bad parents. I didn't say anything. My dad started hitting me…and wouldn't stop. Eventually I bit him and ran out. So then I grabbed all of my important stuff and left."

"Except clothes," Lexaeus adds.

"I didn't want them to think I'd never come back," I explain. Sighing, I continue, "What am I going to do? Where'm I gonna go?"

"My house is open."

"They'll expect that." The bell rings. "See you at lunch." Waving goodbye, I start to walk down the hallway. Lexaeus waves back and we go our separate ways.

AN: Hope you liked it! Please comment! I always like helpful hints and suggestions!