"Don't touch me ―" The hand against your chest had you stumbling enough that you almost fell to his bathroom floor. Ouch, you were really just trying to help him... / the only one, helping him, too.

Rafe was high ― or, more accurate, Rafe was having a withdrawal. Minutes ago he was heaving for air, sweating, which ultimately had you shove him under the cold spray of his shower, then ... throwing up, where you tried not to shove his face completely into the toilet by that disgusting sound. Now, his nose was bleeding... / not a good sign! And maybe you'd been too gentle... when your hand had settled against the side of his head, at his cheek, softly turning his face towards you because you were terribly worried...

Rafe didn't like gentle, especially in context with you. It was a wonder he'd even called you, of all people... / most times, the Kook didn't even like you. He liked your mouth, liked how it was able to make him feel good. He liked other things about your body too...

A sigh when his palm met your chest again, much harsher. "Seriously dude," another shove, "fuck you. Fuck you. This is your fault!"... It really wasn't, but Rafe liked to think so.

He liked to blame you for his feelings. Liked to drown himself in drugs because then he was able to forget about how he 'went that far with a filthy Pogue'. A boy, too, of all people...