Isaac
K uh tw for implications of abuse and drug use
Arnold
Don't walk like that. Do better. Keep the pattern, keep the stability, flawless repetition in the cycle of every step. Don't waver ever. Wavering is weakness. Weakness will have you slaughtered. Make eye contact. That person looks cool. Hold their gaze. Intimidate. Don't forget to fucking smile. Perfect. 

First week. Private school. Age nine marked the year he'd familiarized himself with these uniforms– a change he'd welcomed at the time when all he'd known was dirtied rags that vaguely reeked of sweat and shame. Crisp white button downs, always accessorized with a tacky tie. Straight black trousers, always accompanied with a bland matching belt. Patent leather shoes, always one size too small, laces always perfectly tied regardless.The shirts were unchanging no matter the school, no matter the event; always unforgiving, always constricting every muscle of the torso with the fabrics that always adamantly refused to stretch. He swore sometimes, it felt as though he could suffocate to death in the damn things, though that would be a pretty embarrassing way to die. Age nine, all else faded and this– whatever this was –became his life as he knew it. Mom died that year, the year he left. She also wrung his neck, cried fat tears that had abandoned her eyes to collapse and soak his cheeks. She cried because she wanted it to end. Whatever *It* Was, he couldn't say, though he felt he knew, maybe even better than her. *It* Was over when he left, dragged out that door, being bruised by the wrist in the forceful handling of men, four men to be exact. They all dressed better than he'd ever seen anyone dress before. *It* Was over then, and she got what she wanted. Better to be happy for her than to mourn the absence. There wasn't much of an absence to mourn anyways.

Sixteen now. Whoever said time flies was a dirty liar, because it took too long to get here. Time doesn't fly, birds and bugs do. Those sayings always irritated him. All this time and the only consistent thing had been the goddamn uniforms; boa constrictors people pay to wear.

Most days were a blur. He was walking the halls, weaving his way around the streams of students. He blinked, stepped outside of himself, faded just for a minute. Maybe more. His reflection was staring back at him now, and he resented the sight. He could hear some guy pissing just a few steps to the back of the room. When had he even decided he needed to come back here? The restrooms are dedicated either to people like the guy back there, or scumbags like himself who pull out the pill bottles or blunts or liquor and escape for maybe a minute or two. He locked himself in a stall, rummaged his bag, pulled out his escape. Escape in a bottle. An artificial moment of calm before the storm crashes upon him once again. Pop the lid, the rest is old news. The pill always catches dry in his throat. It doesn't belong. His body rejects it every time. 

Trembling fingers combed back through his hair and scraped his scalp. Loose golden strands fell to the floor in small clumps. The sight had his eyes wide. He swallowed dry, staggered out, a short walk of shame back to the mirror where he somehow looked worse than how he'd entered.
Jose
You mean that the drug addict USES DRUGS? /j

I'm trying to conjure up a response, but i can't right now, my apologies.
Isaac
Sweetheart I never expected you to respond tonight 😭
Jose
But i need to reply tonight.

Fuck i forgot about a uni assignment due at midnight and now i can't access it.
Pasquale
This was a consistent flashback for the man with cheaply dyed black hair, some white and red tufts of hair poking out in the most obscure places. As he often did, hiding in the bathroom when the onslaught of trauma began to show its ugly head was his best solution. Fingers embedded into fluffy hair and tugging anxiously, the way his silver medical staples moved within the healthy flesh and dead flesh was less than healthy, the threat of one popping loose and ruining the wrinkled white-collared shirt he wore was quickly becoming imminent. While the immediate feeling of fear was finally subsiding, the everlasting effects of the trauma wouldn't, claws embedded into his soft flesh.

Sniffling just a little, the 17 year old made himself presentable, practiced a few faux smiles that were all too convincing and then unlocked the stall door. Clicking and creaking as it was opened, he stepped out, tie loose around his neck to the point of threatening dress code. Having forgone the blazer altogether, the first two buttons were undone to allow him just enough breathing room for his collarbone to be seen without his burns be visible. Overall looking far more lax than the dress code would ever permit, his blank expression helped none as he walked over to the sink. He wasn't a fool, well aware of what people did in the school bathrooms that weren't for its intended use, but the sight of a particular blond teen popping pills had him pause. Why was he so familiar? Those gold eyes that rivaled the suns brightness themselves much dimmer than before, yet still so promising. Someone from his past long before-

"*Keigo?*" Brows furrowed, Toya turned and faced Keigo properly, staring intensely. "H-H-Holy *Shit.* I never thooooooooought-" Cutting himself off, his cheeks puffed out in annoyance as he breathed out in an exasperated manner. "I'd see you a—again."
Arnold
That voice held all the power in the world over him. Though strained, deepened by the test of time, he identified it as soon as it crashed with the stagnant air; that exasperated huff when the words caught up in their throat. Touya. Touya Todoroki. Years passed; his anatomy had suffered as had his mind; In every way, he'd been bloodied and dirtied. Still, his eyes were dry to the pain, while that voice– when broken by rage, by desperation, by grief –always managed to swell up a lump in his throat and an ache behind his eyes. For a while he'd almost forgotten. For a while, everything hurt so bad that whatever was beyond the now was irrelevant. For a while, he couldn't recall that voice that had always just barely scraped past the lips. 

Shame devoured his being. How could he ever forget? He must have been a sorry sight to behold; clammy and pale, pill popping in a public washroom.

The action was laborious and it shouldn't have been. It shouldn't have been as hard as it was to look this boy in the eyes. He whipped around, forced his focus upon the beckoning voice. It was strange, laying eyes upon them; recognizing everything and nothing all at once. Those fluffy white locks, the eyes he'd always loved more than life itself. The childish frame he'd once known had since been stretched and strained. What little light those eyes once retained was horribly absent now, as if the years had left that light to leak from the pupils, leaving only emptiness and the shadow of heavy lids. They were tired. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn't ever fix. He was tired too.

He must have been something of a failure. Hatred gnawed at his innards; the thought of leaving the other with that thought; *That they may never see each other ever again*. Keigo knew himself well enough; life or death, he'd always find his way back to his home. Back to Touya. 

There was nothing to be said that was actually worth saying. There was nothing he could say to make up for all the years lost. A seconds silence before he shook his head, stepped wordlessly forward and threw his arms around the other, face nestled into their shoulder, eyes screwed tightly shut. Keeping them open a moment longer, he'd probably start to cry.

"Touya..." He murmured, muffled against the starchy fabrics of their shirt. "...Shit, I've missed you so much, man..."