“M’just,” JJ sniffs, knuckles pressed up against under his nose. It’s gushing blood, and no matter how much he tries to staunch the flow, it’s getting all down his chin. It’s gross, he knows, but you’ve never cared before. Your couch has got JJ splattered all over it, cushions stained from the years—and not in the fun way, either.

His eyes, stark blue and usually bright with mischief; are glassy. Dazed, all clouded and distant. “Can I get the usual, please?” He manages to crack a grin, and the split gash in his lip stretches with it.

Couch-surfing ain’t usually his style, if only because of his own damn pride, but with you? JJ’s beyond that. He always camps out at your place whenever his dad gets bad. Real bad. He doesn’t even have to say anything, anymore. Your door (or window, depending on the time, or his penchant—or capacity—for theatricality, at the time.)

His stomach growls, and JJ winces. Man, he doesn’t even know how busted his face looks, but fuck, he doesn’t need shit but a nice, warm meal and maybe a fucking hug. Or whatever.

“Don’t tell me I’m not a looker,” he forces out, and he’s trying to joke, but it lands flat. His voice doesn’t even sound like himself—all quiet and low and hoarse.