bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

Case pushed the dresser back against the wall under the stairs, its wooden legs screeching against the concrete. The tallboy thudded into place and Case collapsed against its surface, head low as he caught his breath. His shirt was damp with sweat and his lungs screamed from exertion. Worst of all, the inside of his throat was raw and sharp like crushed glass. He'd thought he could sleep off the damage, but since waking the pain was ever-present, lingering in the background; except when he swallowed, and he'd involuntarily wince as it flared with agony.

Don't stop, he told himself. Keep going. Keep moving, keep busy. Don't stop to feel the pain.

Reinserting the empty drawers was a deceptively simple task, the slides apparently different sizes and unable to fit into the wrong hole. Case met the added challenge with a scoff, imagining himself playing a grown-up version of the shape-sorter game for toddlers. He'd always liked the loopy-loop abacus, pretending it was a tiny rollercoaster, balancing the wooden piece at the highest point, before knocking it down and screaming with the thrill of watching it fall.

Fuck, I wish I had a toy. Or a game. A TV, a guitar, a skylight . . . Anything.

One, two, three . . . the drawers were snugly in place. A bead of sweat trickled down Case's temple. Reflexively, he capped off the accomplishment with a huff, triggering a short yet sharp coughing fit. The pain was mostly internal but he massaged his throat, noticing the sensitivity of early bruising.

Keep going. Don't stop.

Clothes lay scattered across the floor like patchwork carpet. Shirts, hoodies, pants—all of it waiting to be sorted, smoothed, folded, and put away. The tired, overwhelmed and defeated part of him reawakened the voice: So much . . . too much . . . you should take a break.

No, Case thought back, fought back. Don't stop. Keep going.

In a way, cleaning away the evidence was like erasing Sir's outburst. Undoing the damage. With a small oomph of determination, Case pushed himself off the dresser and back into motion. He hopscotched over the bare sections of concrete, and sat in the midst of the disarray.

If only his mom could see him now. She'd spent weeks over the summer asking-demanding-begging for him to clean his bedroom (she'd seemed to have a personal vendetta against his wizard staff made from empty Monster and beer cans). Every time, he'd snap back like a pitbull that Delaney or Ethan's rooms were just as bad so fuck off and go yell at them for once.

His limbs began to tremble, his chest constricting. A shaky laugh fluttered its way through him, and he capped his hand over his mouth, unable to stifle the ugly sound. I could have died. He laughed harder, the shirt on his body clinging against his clammy skin, twisting with his movements, tightening around his underarms and neck like a straightjacket. He could have died, and never seen his mom or his family ever again.

Why didn't I ever clean my room at home? Why was it so difficult?

Over the early weeks of the summer—fuck it, over the last year, honestly—Case had put his parents through hell. Moody, volatile. Too busy with his friends, and people he called friends that weren't. Sneaking out at night. Desperately trying to forget and move on by self-destructing. Being brought home, wasted and reeking of his own vomit, in the dead of night by the police. Always with the promises, it won't happen again and I'll do better. Promises he'd always break. Promises he'd never get the chance to keep . . . not in here.

Despite the pain and shortness of breath, Case descended into a fit of giggles. Shallow, wheezy and crackly laughter that tailspinned into gasps and dry sobs.

Why am I laughing?

"Casey?"

Why am I crying?

"Case!"

His laughter petered out and he lifted his head, an ingrained reflex to hearing his name. "What?" he asked, another reflex, his words broken and wispy.

Sir had returned, now watching him from the foot of the stairs. A toolbox in one hand, and an odd expression on his face. "What are you doing?" Sir asked—big, scary grown-up man voice replaced with a soft and tentative one instead.

Case's brows furrowed. He stared down at the fabric laying slack across his lap, then gestured to the clothes scattered around him, a wordless I'm dealing with this. Duh.

"Just . . ." Sir sighed, imperceptibly shaking his head as if he were erasing a thought from his mind. He gestured, toolbox in hand, to the opposite side of the basement. "Just sit on the bed."

Get on the bed? The simple command sobered Case from his hysterical blip. No, no, there was no way Sir was going to . . . not after their fight, surely . . .

Case's attention shifted to Sir's hand. The toolbox. Sir had never brought anything down into the basement with him before (save for cigarettes and alcohol). Adrenaline spiked his senses as he pictured needles and pliers and drills and—

"C'mon, do as I say," Sir said, forbearing . . . fatherly. For a short yet aching moment, Case missed his dad. Always hovering in the background, unaffectionate but always ready to sweep in and fix his problems. Always waiting to save Case from himself.

I want my dad. I want to go home.

Case looked to the empty bed. A twin-single metal cot, bare, stripped of its bedding, suddenly representing uncharted and dangerous territory. He'd never sex without bedsheets or a blanket to hide under (That's not true, he thought, but his mind shrouded over before he could conjure a clear image and the voice hissed over the murky memory, shhhh).

Dread pooled in Case's stomach, like cold and stagnant water. Okay. He wasn't ready for this, but he couldn't go back home if he was dead. This was the cost of survival.

Eventually, as if losing patience, Sir inched toward him. His free hand crept outward, as if he were about to offer Case assistance standing up. Case scrambled to his feet. He didn't need Sir's help–need or want. Keeping a wide berth with his head down, Case went to the bed but paused before sitting. Even though Sir hadn't told him to, he wondered if he was meant to undress. Vocal cords scratchy and throbbing, Case began to lift the hem of his shirt.