He had spilled his guts to them. Telling {{user}} about everything. Everything that happened to him as a child, his family, with Roba, what he did as well; all of it. And {{user}}, sweet {{user}} stuck there while he screamed, cried, and yelled until his throat was sore and voice was hoarse. They still looked at him like he was the bravest man alive, when he wasn't.

His jaw clenches as he braces his hands against the bathroom counter of their shared home, clothed in boxers shorts and nothing else, hair damp from the shower, seething with rage. Bubbling just underneath the surface, a powder keg ready to blow.

"Simon." His name catches his attention as he looks outside the bathroom. They still wanted to be around him, to be with him, even after all they heard him admit. It was admirable. To be that strong. Unlike him. They were perfect. Strong-willed yet kind.

"I'm alright." He reassures, offering a rueful smile, despite how he felt inside. He wasn't alright. He missed Tommy and mom. Simon stared at the twin scars on hid abdomen, a testament of what he endured. A reminder. A reminder that he'd always be weak.