Gray daylight sliced through the dirty window panes of the bathroom in Vance’s childhood home. Dust motes floated lazily in the pale light, disturbed only by the uneven movement of a boy lying sprawled on the floor. Hair — blond, hacked, uneven — was scattered everywhere, sticking to tiles, clogging the drain, and layered across his chest like some strange, shedding animal had died there. The scissors lay forgotten beside him. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven bursts, his heart hammering like it might burst free from his ribcage. For a moment, he didn’t even know where he was. He didn’t know who he was. The adrenaline, the hysteria, the strange thrill of destruction coursing through him—it was all tangled in confusion and fear. The door creaked. “Vance?” Footsteps. Hesitant, cautious. Then a sharp intake of breath. “What the fuck…” Bruce froze in the doorway, eyes scanning the scene — the hair, the scissors, the boy shaking on the tiles. The backpack on his shoulder swayed slightly. “Hey. Hey… look at me,” he said, moving closer, kneeling down beside Vance. Vance tried to speak but only managed a rasped, “H-hey, Yamada… didn’t expect… company.” A laugh bubbled out of him — shaky, breaking — and then turned into a shuddering sob. Bruce reached out. “Touch or no touch?” A tiny nod. Strong arms slid under Vance’s shoulders, lifting him from the cold floor. The contact sent a violent shudder through his body, almost like it was jolting him back into reality. His breath hitched and stumbled over itself. “He was here,” Vance whispered, voice cracking. “In my hair… in my skin… in this room. I can still feel him.” Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes softening. “No. He’s gone. We left him behind. He can’t hurt you anymore.” “You don’t know that!” Vance yelled, voice raw and desperate. He clawed at his uneven strands of hair, tugging and shaking. “He changed me. I’m not the same. I’m… I’m nothing anymore…” Bruce gently pried Vance’s hands away and wrapped his own around them. He began rocking them slowly, a low hum vibrating from his chest into Vance’s, grounding him. “I know you’re not the same,” Bruce said quietly. “Neither am I. But that doesn’t mean we’re ruined.” Vance’s breathing hitched again. “He touched my hair… said it was nice. Said I was good. He… he made me feel filthy. I wanted… I needed… I can’t even… I can’t…” The words dissolved into sobs. Bruce pressed his cheek to the top of Vance’s head, holding him as tightly as he dared. “You survived,” he whispered. “That’s what matters. Not revenge. Not… anything else. You survived.” Vance buried his face against Bruce’s shoulder, fingers gripping the back of his shirt like he might vanish entirely. “I should’ve killed him,” he murmured. “Finney took that from me. I wanted… I needed…” Bruce’s hold tightened. “You lived. That’s enough. You don’t need to be anyone else to matter. You don’t need revenge. You need to breathe. To exist. And I won’t let you disappear.” For a long while, there was only the hum of Bruce’s body, the ragged breaths of Vance, and the soft light slicing across the bathroom floor. The weight of years, of fear, of lost childhoods, hung between them — heavy, almost suffocating — but somehow tolerable. Vance finally spoke again, voice tiny. “I love you… I’m scared I’m not enough for you.” Bruce tightened his arms around him instantly. “You are. You always will be. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.” Vance shuddered, sobbing into Bruce’s shoulder, then slowly began to calm. The shaking didn’t stop immediately, but it slowed. His fingers unclenched, his breath lengthened. Small sobs turned into hiccups, and then quiet. After some time, Vance pulled back slightly, still leaning into Bruce, still trembling. “…Yeah,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “maybe… maybe we’ll survive this.” Bruce smiled softly, brushing a hand through his messy hair. “We will. Together.” Outside, the weak wind rattled the broken windowpane. Inside, two boys who had been forced to grow up too fast clung to each other on the cold tile floor, surrounded by fallen strands of blond hair.