No good deed goes unpunished. That was what Franklin likely would’ve been thinking as he trudged through the wet streets, rain weighing his shoulders, were he a more poetic man. But all he was thinking in that moment were far too violent and angry to be poetry. Though, the bit of hurt that spurred those thoughts might make something beautiful someday.

Not that day, though. That day, he was too exhausted for beauty. Too frustrated for poetry. He was cold, and he could feel sickness begin to itch at his throat, and his feet felt like they burned in pain and… gods. This was what he got. Letting his aunt stay in his house, and she kicked him out — out of his own house! — spouting bullshit about being an adult. He was an adult, damnit. It was fucking stupid.