Author's Note: I do like Krew. I really do. I think Katie is a great support system for Drew. And I like Katie, too. But…he and Bianca just need to be together. So, my two cents being said, here's one for anyone out there who might love those two as much as I do.

Twitter: AlbatrossTam14 (protected tweets)

I don't own Degrassi.

The biggest shock Drew gets following the prom fallout is that his mother wants Bianca to come home with them.

She's avoided talking about the legal shitstorm all of them are about to face until now, but Adam's discharge papers are signed, and they're taking him home this afternoon. Bianca has been at the hospital every day to visit, chatting with Adam about music and how lame remedial gym is and avoiding his mother's voiceless scrutiny. Ever since curtly promising "we'll talk" the morning after prom, when he arrived with Bianca in tow like an immaculately dressed wreck, she's been strangely nonverbal on the subject of Drew's ex, but now here she is, asking Bianca if she would join them at home and finally have that sit-down they've all been avoiding for the past week.

"I think we all need some time to breathe," his mother says. "But when we get home and get everything settled, we need to have that talk. All three of us."

Bianca looks like she wants to turn tail and run, but says yes, hesitantly, peering over at Drew like she's worried his mother is springing a trap.

Drew shrugs, just as surprised as she is.

His mother runs her fingers through her hair. She's been doing that a lot lately. She rarely goes home, and when she does, she barely stays long enough to take a shower and put on a new shirt. His dad is still in Chicago on business, unable to get a flight home, but he calls nonstop and talks to Adam when he's awake and not doped up on meds, which isn't very often. He talks to Drew instead, asking the same questions over and over again like he just needs to hear his voice, just to know that at least one of his kids is safe and whole.

Bianca isn't sure what Drew's mom is playing at.

She doesn't really trust Mrs. Torres to not just rip her a new one and then dump her out on the curb. Every time she's been in the hospital to see Adam and Drew, his mother has stood in the doorway. She doesn't say anything, but Bianca can still feel the heavy weight of her judgment, like Bianca has a target on her.

But Drew reassures her that everything will be okay. Just like he did that night.

She has to believe him. She needs to.

She doesn't know how she can do anything else.

The ride home is tense. Adam sleeps in the passenger seat, and Drew and Bianca sit in the back of the Suburban on opposite sides of the bench, each staring out their separate windows. His mom doesn't talk to them, just drives home in heavy silence.

Adam is still off-balance from the pain meds and can't really stand, so Drew pulls his brother's good arm around his shoulder and puts an arm around his waist, hobbling through the back door. He eases Adam gently on the bed and helps him take his shoes off, then puts the covers over him and settles them back around Adam, trying to rest him comfortably in spite of the sling awkwardly slung across Adam's chest.

Drew smoothes the blankets over his brother. Adam gives him a heavy-lidded look, barely focused from exhaustion and Vicodin.

"I could get used to this," he half-slurs.

Drew tries to grin. Adam's face is so white, he looks like he's sinking into the sheets. Drew brushes some hair out of his eyes, then rests his hand for a moment on Adam's forehead.

"You should," he jokes. "I'll be doing it all summer."

Adam's lips split into a sideways smile, like his face is sliding apart.

"I could definitely get used to this," he says, barely intelligible.

Adam looks at him for a moment like he's going to say something else, but then his eyes close and he seems to have surrendered to sleep. Drew sits by him a moment, hand still rested on his brother's forehead, then tiptoes out the door.

Bianca is standing in the kitchen looking out of place amongst the shiny appliances and sunlight. His mother is making a pot of coffee, and only has one coffee cup set aside.

"I don't really know where to begin in all of this," his mother says, her back to them. The coffee maker pings; she takes the dirty filter and tosses it in the trash, then pours the steaming liquid.

"Is there anyone we need to talk to from your family?"

There's silence, then Drew realizes his mother is staring at Bianca.

Bianca blinks, like his mother's speaking Finnish.

"Is there anyone that should meet with the lawyer with us," his mother asks again. "Your dad, your mom…"

Bianca shakes her head.

"It's just me," she whispers.

His mother's eyebrows shoot up over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Well, then, who takes care of you?" she asks.

"I live with my auntie," Bianca mumbles. "And my cousin. But he works all the time, and he's never really home, anyway."

His mother nods. "And what about your aunt? Wouldn't she want to be there?"

Bianca shrugs one shoulder, staring at the polished wood floor.

"She wouldn't really be able to handle it," Bianca mumbles. "She can't even take care of herself. She wouldn't be able to do anything."

Drew winces at her words, feeling his face heat up in adjacent embarrassment.

"I see," she says, though she sounds like she doesn't.

Bianca keeps her eyes on the floor. Drew's eyes go to hers, and he wishes she would look up and see him, so he could at least give her a small smile, or a nod, or just a look to tell her that it was going to be okay. He feels like he could spend the rest of his life telling her it would be okay, and it still wouldn't make up for everything that's happened, and that's about to happen.

His mother sighs, setting her coffee cup down and putting her hands on her hips.

"Okay," she says. She looks up at Bianca, and Drew watches Bianca lift her head and look his mother in the eyes. "Here's what we'll do. I'll call the lawyer first thing Monday morning, and we'll arrange a meeting with him. If he says we'll need more help than he can give us, we'll get a recommendation, and see where that takes us. Sound like a plan?"

Bianca seems too surprised to answer for a moment.

"All right," she says finally, sounding dizzy.

His mother nods, then turns to Drew.

"How's Adam doing?"

"Fine," he says. "He's asleep."

"Good," his mother mumbles.

She takes another sip of her coffee, then turns back to the sink.

"I'm going to make breakfast in a little while," she says. "If your friend wants to stay, tell her we'll set a place for her."

Bianca's eyes widen. She looks at Drew, who just shrugs.

"I'd like that," she whispers.

Bianca steps out of the shower, wrapping one of the plushy blue towels around her. The whole bathroom feels plush, between the soft towels and the warm water and the steam surrounding her, making her feel like she's walking through clouds.

She wonders if Mrs. Torres will be mad that she stayed in the shower for so long, but she felt like she hadn't really been clean in months. She stood under the water and lost herself in the white mist, soaping herself over and over again, until her skin felt rubbed raw and her hands were shriveled.

Under the harsh bathroom lights, her skin looks white and pinched. It only makes the purple and blue patches of her skin stand out more. She can still make out the fingerprints Vince dug into her wrist, but now the shapes are bloated and misshapen, because her wrist has swollen to almost twice its normal size, and she can't close that hand into a fist anymore. The back of her neck and shoulders are ringed with jeweled bruises, fresh as new paint and painful as a burden to bear. Thankfully, after that first time, Vince never struck her face again, but he left a good reminder of which one of them was in charge on the arch of her back, blossoming like a rumor spiraling out of control.

Bianca leans against the sink, and realizes her mistake a second too late when her belly brushes up against the edge of the countertop.

She cries out in pain, but then clamps down hard, biting her lip and holding her breath as if to retract the traitorous sound. She doubles over and tries to breathe normally. She leans her forehead against the smooth porcelain of the sink, her fingers turning white in pain as she grips the counter tightly, trying not to cry.

When she finally is able to get her breath back, she stands up very slowly, hissing as she finally rights herself. The towel drops out of her hand and falls to the ground around her, a navy blue puddle at her feet. She stands naked in front of the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, gets a good look at herself.

The right side of her ribcage is covered in darkness, like the blurred run-off of a watercolor. The shape of the bruise is decorated with treads like latticework, surrounded by an outline of a man's boot print, like someone stitched the shape into her stomach.

Bianca takes one finger and traces the outline with her finger, careful not to touch the discolored flesh. She was worried Vince had broken something when he gave her that kick, but she figures that if he had, it would hurt a lot worse. It hurt to breathe deeply, or laugh, or sit up straight, but she figured she was no worse for wear. As long as she took it easy, she'd be okay. Especially now that doesn't have to worry about the possibility of him giving her another knock to the ribs.

She hears footsteps outside the bathroom door, and scurries to cover herself with the towel. She nearly falls against the door in her haste to make sure it's locked, and lets out a wince of relief, followed, by pain, when the footsteps disappear.

She slips her clothes on over her, careful not to brush up against her injured side too much. When she looks at herself in the mirror, her hair still lank and her eyes exhausted, she looks like freshly-scrubbed debris – spotless and destroyed.

Mrs. Torres has a chair pulled up for her at the kitchen table. Bianca sits down, drawing her knees under her legs and hoping her hands aren't shaking as much as they were in the bathroom. She wonders how two totally different moments – the steel in her hands, still warm from Vince's grip, and now facing Drew's mother in this bright kitchen straight out of a catalog – can produce the same reaction from her.

Mrs. Torres turns to face Bianca, and she has two mugs in her hand. She sits down at the head of the table, and slowly pushes a steaming ceramic cup over to Bianca.

"I thought we could go with some tea," she says quietly. Her lips barely form the words. It's like it's taking every ounce of civility to hold herself together right now.

Bianca takes a small sip with her good wrist, hoping her hand doesn't shake. The cup teeters in her hands, threatening a lap full of hot liquid, so she puts it down quickly, giving Mrs. Torres what she hopes is a polite, unassuming smile.

For a moment, they are both silent. They hear the sound of the sprinklers outside, the tck tck tck like a frantic clock. The passing traffic outside like a running river. The steady hum of the washing machine, reminding them both to breathe.

"Ten bucks," Mrs. Torres says suddenly, "that Drew is right at the foot of those stairs, listening to this entire conversation."

Bianca isn't sure whether or not she's supposed to laugh, but when Mrs. Torres grins drily, briefly, she lets herself.

Mrs. Torres takes a sip of her tea, as if steadying herself.

"To be honest," she begins, "I'm not sure what to think of you right now."

Bianca makes herself look her in the eyes.

"I spent the past few months wanting you out of my son's life completely," Mrs. Torres explains. "And for what I thought were good reasons."

She pauses, taking a sip of her tea and looking out the window.

"I know you must think I'm this terrible shrew," she tells Bianca, "but when you have kids, you'll understand. It's like part of you is walking around, and you can't control it anymore, and when something bad happens to them, something worse happens to you. You lose a part of yourself with them."

Her face doesn't change, but Bianca can hear the effort Mrs. Torres is putting into keeping her voice from shaking. Her hands are, though, and Bianca wonders if she notices this.

"Drew spent all morning telling me what you did for him," Mrs. Torres said in a low voice. "What you went through. I might not be crazy about the things you've dragged into his life, but if you were willing to put yourself through all of that for my son, then you must feel something for him."

"I do," Bianca blurts out.

Tears pool in her eyes, some she refuses to let fall. She can't cry in front of this woman. She can't cry, period. She's tired of crying.

"He's the best thing I've ever had in my life. He's the one good thing I've ever had." She pauses. "I care about him a lot."

She wants to say, I love him, but figures that's not what Mrs. Torres wants to hear.

She doesn't think it's something she can say yet, anyway. Too soon. Too real. It would make everything that's happened just come back and kick her again, and she's already been kicked once.

Mrs. Torres stares at her, and Bianca feels like she's being seen through. Bianca drops her eyes and stares into the brown, swirling drink in her cup, making out parts of her blurry reflection. Looking into the liquid mirror, she looks like she's made out of glass.

Drew's mother stirs her own cup with a spoon, then sighs deeply, as if just very tired.

"Would you like some more lemon for your drink?"

Bianca tries to smile at her, knowing this is as close to an apology and absolution as this woman can give her right now. Or maybe ever.

"No, thank you," she says. "It tastes just fine."

He can't resist slipping into Adam's room after dinner. Can't resist tiptoeing to the foot of the bed, where his brother is fast asleep in a painkiller-induced white haze. Can't resist smoothing the tangled blankets over him, or bending close enough to feel Adam's breath on his own face.

He runs his fingers through Adam's hair, needing the tangible reminder.

Feel Adam. Adam safe.

He now knows that devastation is like ash in his mouth and ice in his blood. How catastrophe is elastic, stretching over every part of him. He knows what it feels to die on the inside; for someone to rip his heart out while he's still living, breathing, supposed to exist, even though there's a universe missing inside him.

Adam still here.

She's not sure how it happened, but suddenly a day at the Torres house turns into a night, then another day, and another night, followed by a string of other days hanging suspended in mid-air.

It's like everyone is walking on tiptoe. Trying not to let their days collapse like alphabet blocks, spelling chaotic nonsense when the whole thing tips under its own fragile weight.

She and Mrs. Torres don't say anything to each other, other than the occasional icy politeness that accompanies his mother asking Bianca if she needs an extra towel for the bathroom, or if she'd like a second helping of asparagus. Bianca always says yes, no matter what she asks, because she's afraid of what will happen if she says no.

She sleeps in the guest bedroom upstairs, which is conveniently located down the hall from the master bedroom. Mrs. Torres may have lost her mind long enough to allow Bianca to stay with them, but that doesn't mean she's gone completely senile.

For the most part, she and Drew dance around each other like circling birds. They dart and dodge and swoop in an unconscious synchronicity, always staying just out of the other one's reach, never meeting in the middle, never touching.

She wonders how long their little glass house can resist shattering, under the weight of this oceanic silence.

This new night comes with an old nightmare, and as many times as Drew has struggled with them himself, he didn't realize it was ten times worse watching someone else struggle. He now feels a rush of sympathy for Adam, who listened to Drew scream himself awake all those nights, totally helpless to stop the terror.

This time, though, he's the one waking up, to the sound of Bianca kicking and thrashing on the couch, where she'd fallen asleep hours ago watching a movie with Adam. Her t-shirt is hiking up her chest, and she's clawing at the fabric as if trying to tear off her skin.

"Bianca," he whispers. He reaches over to her and gently touches her shoulder, giving it a slight shake. "Bianca. Wake up, Bee."

She doesn't hear him, and his throat closes up momentarily when he realizes this is more than a nightmare. This is one of those dreams, when she's not only thinking of whatever it is, but reliving it, every horror and soul-destroying second, without mercy.

He can tell she's smelling blood.

Her legs are still kicking wildly, and he knows he needs to quiet her down before she falls off the couch and hurts herself. Or wakes up everyone else in the house. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he bends his face close to hers.

Looking into her face, the agony so painfully etched across those features he knows so well, makes him nauseous. There are silent tears coursing down her face. Her curls are matted to her head from sweat, some stray wisps in her mouth and nose.

"Bianca," he calls. He swallows down the lump in his. He needs to be the calm one for her. "Bianca. Baby, please, wake up. I'm right here, baby. Please. Wake up."

She ignores him, or otherwise can't hear him. She keeps kicking, with more force than it looks like her slim body can contain, but she's fighting him for every inch. Her knee makes contact with his groin, and he swears uncontrollably, biting his lip. He can taste blood in his mouth and his eyes water in pain, but still, he presses down against her forcefully, determined to bring her back to him.

"Bianca," he shouts, his face inches from her own, "wake up. Wake UP. Baby, wake up. I'm here. Come on."

Her face contorts in anguish; an inhuman cry strangles loose from her throat, and it's all he can do to not throw up.

"Wake up, baby," he repeats weakly.

Her eyes suddenly flip open, but instead of the deep brown, they're nearly silver, dilated with panic as she screams, unseeing, at some horror that covers her like a caul, cursing her with this second sight.

The next scream that comes out of her is truly animal, and it's frightening enough to make him let go of her. He skitters away from her in his haste to get away, and stands at the edge of the stairs, trying to catch his breath.

All of a sudden, she stops shaking, with one final shudder, she falls against the couch. He stares at her for a moment, when suddenly she glances over at him. Her eyes are back to their normal brown, and they're ringed with exhaustion.

"Drew," she mutters, sounding dazed.

He crawls back beside her, very slowly coming to her side. "I'm right here," he murmurs.

Her entire body is sheened with sweat. She's still trying to catch her breath, and puts his arms around her, feeling her shaking. He listens for noises from upstairs, but he doesn't hear footsteps from above, and he hopes his mother slept through it all. Adam, too, appears to have missed the whole thing, still lost in his painkiller dreamworld down the hall.

"I keep seeing him," Bianca mumbles finally, her voice like a desert.

He doesn't have to ask who.

"I can't help it," she says. "I see him everywhere."

"He's not," Drew says firmly. "He's gone."

"But he'll always be here," Bianca rasps tearfully.

She looks away, trying to compose herself.

Drew wants to touch her face, but he settles for taking her by the shoulders.

"Bianca," he says quietly. "He's gone, okay? He can't hurt you again. He can't hurt anyone."

"What if he gets out?" she asks.

"He won't," Drew insists.

"How do you know?" she asks, her voice breaking.

Drew pulls her in tighter.

"Because he's going to jail for a long time," he tells her. "All of them are."

He leans very close to her. He can smell her sweat, and her shampoo. Smell her fear, naked and exposed.

"And he is never going to touch you again," he finishes.

Bianca sniffles. She gives him a watery smile.

"You're gonna defend me?" she asks.

He grins. "I'm your knight, remember?"

Her eyes fill with tears again.

"You fought for me…" she whispers.

It really is just the two of them, in the end. Both times: the two of them in the alleyway, with a gun, alone in the middle of the night. It's always just been just them. Their private darknesses, their vacant hells.

Their satellites – Katie, Adam, Drew's mother – know the scope of their large sins, know the jagged scars that have left them bleeding and open. But they don't know everything. How deep the lies go, how big the deception, how fresh it all is.

They're the only two people who really understand each other in all of this. They can wrap themselves in each other and know they're finally not alone anymore.

So she does.

She moves across the bed to close the space between them. He looks surprised, but doesn't pull away or try to stop her.

"Bee," he whispers, barely.

She's still crying, but pushes the fact out of her mind. She's sick of crying. She's sick of being so raw, so open, exposed, trailing around with "Wounded" stamped so clearly on her face and her body turned inside out.

His eyes are wide as she leans against him and kisses him once, softly, with her eyes closed.

She pulls away from him the barest inch, and she can see the look in his eyes now. There's no question, no uncertainty, no ringing caution or warning that this is something he shouldn't be doing. His arms come around her waist.

She winces when they brush against the bruises on her rib cage. His fingers skip across her skin when she flinches, and something clouds in his eyes, something like realization. Slowly, he reaches for the hem of her shirt and lifts it up.

His eyes go so wide they're almost entirely white, then turn dark when he traces the outline of Vince's mark on her. His breathing becomes shallow, his features sharp with rage.

Bianca watches him, so angry he can't even speak for a moment.

"He did this," he finally spits, his voice deep and shaking. "He did..oh God…Bee…"

The hand that skimmed her bruises tangles in her hair. His palm fits around the back of her head, and their heads come together, everything kissing but their lips. His other hand reaches around and presses the small of her back, drawing her closer. He's shaking, or maybe she is, she can't tell. They're too close for her to untangle the two of them.

The hand on her back accidentally touches her bruise there, and for a half a heartbeat, she's back in a dank bedroom with dirty sheets and rough hands. She's back there swallowing stones, forcing herself not to cry, even though everything was hurting. Because if she cried, it would only hurt worse. But even if she didn't cry, it somehow always did hurt worse, anyway, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

But before she can be trapped there again, Drew kisses her, tasting like tears and regret. His shallow breathing is cavernous, echoing through the dark room, and it's the only thing she can hear. Her heart slows, her head stops spinning.

This won't hurt. He could never hurt her.

She kisses him back, and feels like he's telling the truth, when he says she'll never be hurt again.

The Morning After begins with a fraction of a second where Drew forgets where he is, that there is a body next to him in his own bed, and that, of all people, it's Bianca's.

He awakes with a jolt, shocked that this is actually real, that this actually happened.

Her curls are spread across both her pillow and his. One long, smooth leg is brushing up against his own.

Once again, she's managed to slip back into his life.

She's taking up all the space in his bed, the crevices in his body, the space in his heart he tried to exorcise with Jess and dodge ball and Katie and Boston and fighting and basketball and Katie…

Everything but her.

And now she's here. With her curls on his pillow and their legs touching and a blanket tangling the both of them together like a repaired seam.

Her body is a shock. Her body is remembrance. She is betrayal, and she is endgame.

Before he can even begin to figure out what to do, she rolls onto her belly and peers up at him through her hair of smoky rain.

He can't just regret what happened and go back to wanting her gone. It's not that simple, and if he's being honest with himself, it never has been.

She props herself up on her elbows, more hair falling in front of her face. Her back is bare and bruised, and he can see the scratches raked across the smooth skin, gouges the shape of his anger, his regret, and his inability to stop the two from colliding.

He doesn't know if he regrets what just happened. Regret is never simple. If he's learned anything from being with her, it's that.

She sits up in bed, covering herself with the sheet, which he thinks is pretty funny, all things considered. Modesty has never been a word to her.

He wants to say something, but can't figure out what the hell it's supposed to be. His head is filled with static. He just sits there, staring down at her, feeling glued to the bed. It's been a long time since he hasn't run from something, but it's still an instinct, like the way his heart picks up whenever he sees a shadow in the corner of his eye. He was childish enough to think putting Vince away might fix all that, but he was stupid. It doesn't solve everything. He's still pushing away his own clawing terrors, trying to remind himself to breathe.

Katie's face comes into his mind, but he pushes it away. For some reason, he doesn't feel like he's cheated on her, even though, by strict definition, he has. Some part of him figures this is just the formal gesture of infidelity. Maybe he cheated on her the minute he asked Bianca to come home with him; maybe it was even as far back as when he brought her to prom with him. Or maybe even before that; maybe when he was taunting Vince, he just wanted to throw it in his face that he knew Bianca still loved him, and that knowledge was enough to give him the bravado he needed to face his own nightmare and tell it to go fuck itself.

Oh, he doesn't fucking know.

All of this revelation comes to him as he watches her sit up in bed, drawing the sheet around herself and raking her fingers through her tangled hair. She peers over at him, but can't quite meet his eye, and then winces and holds her head, as if he's too bright, like she's staring straight into the sun.

He wants to reach out, touch her face, bring it closer to his. Finally look her in the eyes, something both of them have avoided ever since they began circling each other like birds in this backwards reality they now live in. Lock his eyes with hers, and feel it burn, burn, burn like crazy.

But he keeps his mouth shut, his hands still, and his eyes down. She gets up out of bed, gathers her clothes from off the floor, and trails to the bathroom, still wrapped in that sheet like a shield.

Adam wakes up around eleven. He joins the two of them for breakfast on the couch. They eat Captain Crunch out of paper cups, and Adam jokes about how he hates the way it's so delicious, but the sharp edges always cut the roof of his mouth. They all laugh. Bianca challenges him to a video game, but the only one she can really play is Kirby Air Ride on their old Gamecube, so they play seven games in a row. Bianca wins twice. The three of them spend the afternoon making guacamole, though Adam eats most of it before it even gets on the nachos.

For the rest of the day, they're polite, almost steely. They give each other a healthy space, don't make eye contact, and laugh at each other's jokes.

It's like nothing ever happened.

She's at the breakfast table the morning after the morning after, like it's the new norm for Drew to find her in his kitchen.

Drew watches her spoon some more sugar into her coffee, take a bite out of an orange, and wonders what the hell he's going to say. Somewhere, he wonders if he should apologize for what's happened between them, but what should he apologize for?

And even if he tried, where the hell would he even begin?

When she sees him out of the corner of her eye, she doesn't smile, or many any other face, other than the bland acknowledgement of his presence. She takes a sip of coffee, a bite of orange, and tabs her lips on a napkin. She's wearing his sweatpants again, the ones she's basically been living in since the day after prom, and one of Adam's t-shirts that says FREE THE HUMANS across the front. Her feet are bare, curled underneath her on the kitchen seat.

He figures it's now or never, and there's no point hiding anymore, so he walks over as casually as he can, yawning and scratching his head for good measure. Like he hasn't been up all night, his skin tingling with searing remembrance of her skin, as if he were actually feeling it.

He knows her in his bones. He couldn't file her away in his mind if he tried, and somewhere around two o'clock in the morning, he realized that and stopped trying to.

"Hey," he says, deliberate and casual.

She nods her head in his direction, her mouth full of hot coffee.

He turns away from her, ears burning, and goes to the pantry. Finds a box of blueberry Poptarts. The last sleeve in the box, and they're Adam's favorite, but Drew will go out and buy him his own box later today to make up for taking the last one. Ten boxes, if that's what Adam wants. He peels open the sleeve and sits across the table from Bianca, scanning over the sports section as if he's actually reading it.

Breakfast is more of an exercise in willpower than actually eating. Drew doesn't know if her stomach is as knotted as his is, but after two bites of one frosted Poptart he's officially done. He feels like his throat's about to close up, strangled by words he thinks he needs to say but doesn't know if they are the right ones or not, or if there's even anything to be said between them at all, at this point.

After an eternity of silence between them, Bianca gets up, rinses her coffee mug in the sink, and gently replaces it in his mother's cabinet. Then without sparing him another glance, she walks past him and heads downstairs to the basement.

For a moment, he just sits there, but the minute he hears her feet on the staircase he gets up and follows her, ignoring the voice in the back of his head warning him no.

If she knows she's being followed, she doesn't show it. They walk in silence down to the basement, not touching or looking at each other, keeping a fraught, careful distance between them. They sit down on the couch, miles and inches apart. Bianca draws her legs to her chest.

Drew's had all he can take. He reaches out through the electricity between them and touches her arm.

Something in her face registers this, but she doesn't flinch, doesn't even move. His arm brushes against the bare skin of her shoulder, pushing up the sleeve of the shirt, exposing the curve of her collarbone. A hundred years ago, he knew that valley like he knew his own name.

They're just sitting there on the couch, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes on her and her eyes on the ground. There's the sound of the washing machine humming close by them, and the erratic thump of clothes in the drier like a nervous heartbeat.

For a moment, Bianca lifts her eyes and stares outside the window, and Drew wonders if she'd rather be out there than here with him; if running away is the most attractive of her options right now. But then she looks back at him, something in her eyes making his throat catch, and he feels like his heart is going double-time. Or slowing down. He can't tell which, because he's trying too hard to breathe. He can't seem to remember how to, right now.

He tries to say her name. Tries to make his mouth sound out the words, tracing over each letter and syllable in his mind, but he can't make his mind to tell his mouth the word to say. It tastes different in his mouth now than it did before.

Her eyes don't leave his. She leans closer, her breath warm and smelling like hazelnut, and she's so close, he can count all the threads of gold in her brown eyes. Even the other night, the lights were off, and they were looking anywhere but in each other's eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice is dry and sad. "I'm sorry."

He knows immediately what he should tell her. That there's nothing to be sorry for, and if anything, he should be the one who's sorry. Sorry for leaving her alone, sorry for letting Vince hurt her, sorry for anything that animal did to her, for all the times he laid his hands on her and threatened her, and how brave she is for saving him, when he wasn't brave enough to save himself. He's not brave, not by a longshot. She put everything on the line for him, and he left her out in the cold. He should be the one saying he's sorry.

But he can't, and he really doesn't want to, because right now, he just wants those words to shut the hell up, so he can focus his entire brain on how to breathe being this close to Bianca.

So instead, he does the one thing he remembers how to do. Leans forward, presses his lips to hers, and takes her face in his hands, hoping that he can transmit to her everything he wants to say; everything he wishes he had said and done for her weeks ago, how sorry he is, and how much he wants her to understand everything he feels, because even if he can't even begin to sort it all out, he wants her to know it all.

She kisses him back, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she pulls herself against the flat of his chest, each quick breath filling the heights and shallows of each other's bodies. Their fingers are like currents, each one a little pulse on each other's skin, alive and humming and connecting, until their pulses match.

He leans over and she leans back, his weight pushing her against the lumpy couch cushions. He's careful not to accidentally put weight on the parts of her that are covered in bruises. He tries to be extra careful when he skims her hip bones not to run his fingers over the boot print Vince kicked into the hollow of her rib cage. He holds her hands, and is careful not to crush her misshapen, discolored wrist. He wants to touch her fresh skin, but it's underneath that scratchy t-shirt, so he lifts it up slowly.

In the broad daylight, he can see the bruise on her ribs more clearly than he could before. He barely saw it the other night, but he figures if anyone can be naked and still hide herself, it's probably Bianca. It's huge and purple and perfectly shaped as a tattoo, the exact size and shape of a man's boot tread. He stares at it for a moment, unable to keep himself from doing so, and something in his stomach erupts.

Vince did this to her. Kicked her like a dog, fucked her like a dog, treated her like a dog. Rage boils in him, and he sort of wishes that Bianca actually had shot the motherfucker straight in the heart; or, better yet, he had done it himself, when he'd met up with Vince the day before prom, getting close enough to see the whites of his eyes before blowing his brains all over the fucking table.

He didn't deserve to rot in jail. He deserved to fucking suffer.

She stops kissing him, the shirt hiked halfway up her stomach, and he realizes that he's still hanging over her, staring at that enormous bruise. One of her hands reaches up, touching his cheek, and she reaches up her other arm, helping him twist out of the shirt and letting it fall with a thump onto the carpet. Then his shirt, then her pants.

Drew pushes his face into her neck when he pushes into her, not yet able to look her in the eyes. She lets out a cat-like hiss of pain through her teeth when he accidentally skims over a bruise, and he tries to say he's sorry, but the words are lost in her collarbone and her body tenses under his, her fingers digging into his back as she shudders into him.

He rocks against her, apologies and need muffled into her neck. He can feel the hum of Bianca's throat as she tries to catch her breath. Her pants are quick and high, but he can hear his own name in them, being whispered over and over again into his ear.

His stomach is coiled again, boiling over, but because of an entirely different feeling, this time.

He hears his name once more, and lifts his eyes out of her skin for the first time. Her eyes zero right in on his, and when he raises his head and meets her gaze head-on, and it's all he needs. He comes hard, saying her name.

He collapses on top of her, catching himself just in time before he bodyslams down on her bruised belly. They lay like that for a while, bodies still connected, trying to do some semblance of breathing. For all the times they couldn't look at each other before, now they can't make their eyes unlock. He knows he should probably get up before Adam or – God forbid – his mother comes in and finds them, but he doesn't want to let go of her again.

"So," Bianca murmurs, still out of breath, "is this what you meant by saying we'd figure something out?"

She smirks up at him, and he feels something like his old cockiness flood back. For the first time in a long time, he starts to feel like himself.

She smiles, something like the old Bianca creeping into her eyes, and he kisses her forehead.

He wonders if their lives will ever make sense again. But for now, at least, things have reached a plateau, reminding them that they have, at one point, reached the limits of who they are, and still managed to stretch back together.