"Where are you going, Hunter?" Dillon, who had been trotting happily by Hunters side as they laughed themselves into fits about what was to come of their junior year of high school, came to an abrupt halt when Hunter stepped off of the main sidewalk. "Come on! My house is right up there."

"I know where your house is." Hunter grunted, putting both of his hands under Beths flaccid form, which had just started shifting as she came to. Unceremoniously setting her on her feet, he kept his hands on her waist to steady her wobbling legs. Dillon was right. Seeing him like this wouldnt have been a pretty sight. "I have to go pack if Im staying over tonight. Your clothes dont fit me. Weve been over this before." Pushing Beth over to her brother, he heard Dillon huff as he caught her body in his unsuspecting arms. "Take your sister back. Ill meet you there in a minute."

As Hunter started to walk away, Dillon hollered after him, "My clothes dont fit you because youre freakishly tall, Hunter!"

Hunter could only laugh at his best friend, who was more insecure than any other man hed met about how short he was. Going away from the two of them, Hunter navigated the pathway hed only taken a few times before, weaving in and out of small, wooden houses that were falling apart, nail by nail. Dillon was only a few blocks away from him, but that distance made all the difference when it came to the shack that Hunter lived in, to the two story home where Dillon resided. Feeling his way over to the fence that blocked off his backyard, Hunter swung his legs up and jumped over it, landing hard on the crunchy grass.

He strode across the green field that he knew must have been browning, slowly, but certainly, fallen twigs crackling beneath his heavy feet. As he came around the front of his house, he seemed to smell that something was off about the air, a whiff of cigarette smoke hanging over the blacktop of his driveway. Looking toward his home, Hunter raised a single brow, heading over to it. Long ago, when he was just a child, he used to fear entering this place, but now that he was older, and undoubtedly stronger than the man who used to beat him and throw him into walls and cut him and burn him, he thought nothing of shoving through the front door. "Karofsky?" He yelled, his noisy voice echoing through the empty halls.

From the living room, he made out the muffled groan of the TV, which was once again playing one of those crime shows that Karofsky vegetated over. Crossing through the doorway that led to the main room, Hunter leaned in the doorway, listening to the quiet noises of snoring. Karofsky was thirty six years old, and hed done just as he predicted he would do thirteen years ago, by turning into a fat drunk who sat on his ass all day and chugged beer. At least he had maintained a steady job at the bar, but only because he had begged his manager, and because no one else was lowly enough to take a job at that shitty place. Desperate as he was for money, even Hunter wouldnt do that to himself. "You fuck up." Hunter whispered, the fondest thing he could think to say to the peacefully snoozing man.

Going over to where the sound was at its loudest, Hunter reached down for Karofskys face, feeling his unshaven jaw scratch the tips of his fingers. He traced them down Karofskys chest, pausing at his hands, which held a half emptied bottle of beer and a cigarette that had burnt out. He pulled those things from his loose grip, setting them aside on the coffee table, then grabbed the throw blanket that had been draped across the back of the couch. Spreading it over Karofskys large form, Hunter knelt down by the drunkard, clasping one of his sweaty, plump hands in his. "Ill be home tomorrow... not that you could care." He stood back up, turning away from the snorting man, and he hurried out of the house.

Walking the same pathway that he always took, Hunter went past the boundary that separated Karofskys side of the yard from his own, which was safely enveloped by the leaves of the trees and the hanging branches. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, slowing down his walk so he could enjoy the sounds of the trees rustling as the wind hit them, the smell of the greenery drying up as the cold air made it retreat. He wished he could see all of this. Getting to the wooden block that he lived under, he leaned down and grabbed the door, yanking it up. He stepped down the stairs, pulling it shut behind himself, which submerged him in total darkness. Creeping down the stairs, he padded across the creaky floor, getting over to his dresser. He pulled open the top drawer, grabbing the bag that he always kept stuffed for those times when he needed to leave as soon as possible, when Karofskys temper was too heightened for even him to subdue.

Slipping it onto his shoulder, he reached down for his pack of cigarettes, then decided against it, because he knew how much Dillons parents hated the habit. When he and Dillon had first started hanging out, his friend had once moped over to him, remorsefully shrugging his shoulders as he told about how his parents had smelled the smoke on his clothes, and had thought that it was him doing it, which had gotten him a long lecture. Hunter tried not to put his friend through that anymore. Instead, he picked up his notebook, the same one hed had since childhood. It now had its cover taped to it, since it had long since fallen off, and was missing about thirty pages that had ripped out, one by one, after so many times of him flinging it open and tearing through the sheets with the tip of his pen. He stuck it into his pocket, then checked to make sure he had everything ready, going through his bag for a pair of sweatpants and a toothbrush. Once he was certain he had everything in order, he headed back out of the cellar, the brisk wind giving him chills as soon as he emerged.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Hunter glanced down at them, not that he could see what they looked like. They felt bumpy and dented, and rough with old scabs and scrapes. He wondered if he was ugly. The first and only time that Dillon had ever met Karofsky, when they were standing at his driveway and saying goodnight to each other, and Karofsky had pulled in after his day at work, Dillon had gotten a brief glimpse of the man before Hunter had yanked him away, running into the wooded area which he lived with him trailing behind him, nervously chuckling about what the big deal was. When Hunter had slapped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, Dillon had licked his palm, making him jerk his hand away, and then Dillon had laughed, claiming that Hunter looked just like him. Ever since that day, Hunter had gone to every length to make himself look as opposite of Karofsky as he could, taking Dillon to the store with him to help him pick out new colors for himself.

Even though he hadnt understood it, Dillon had bought a few things for him, and then taken him back to his place, where they had spent the night bleaching Hunters hair, spray tanning his skin, and working contacts into the corners of his eyes. While this process was going on, Hunter had been terribly uncomfortable, complaining about how the bleach burned his scalp, and how sticky the spray felt on his skin, gluing his fingers together and making it impossible to move, and how the contacts dried his eyes out. But now it was just a routine. The only thing he still hated was those damned contacts, which he sometimes forgot to take out before he slept, or cried with them still in, or wanted to fling across the room whenever someone said that his unusually yellow eyes were beautiful. Maybe it was just that he hated his eyes, though.

Stepping onto Dillons driveway, Hunter walked up to the porch, raising his hand to knock on the door. Within seconds, footsteps came thudding from somewhere within the house, and the door flew open. "Hunter." Dillons dad, Noah, announced, as if he was startled to see him standing there. Hunter knew that Dillons dads didnt like him, mainly because he was a bad influence on Dillon. Despite that, though, they usually gritted their teeth for the sake of their son, whose only friend was Hunter, since Hunter had never forced Dillon to do anything stupid, and honestly didnt want him to. Hunter liked Dillon just the way he was, prudishness and all. "Come on in. We werent expecting you."

Hunter didnt know much about Dillons parents, except that Noah, in some sense, used to be a lot like him. In fact, Dillon had told him that either of his dads had barely graduated high school, and had gotten through it by the skin of their teeth. It wasnt until the end of their senior year, when they had started to get together, that they pulled themselves back up. Noah used to go by the name of Puck, at least until he was married for a while and had started to think about having children, which was when he settled into a life more fitting for a responsible adult. Finn, on the other hand, had always been somewhat more mature than Puck, designating himself as the driver when they went to parties, and advising Puck to keep a good head on his shoulders during school. Dillon said that this was because his dad, Finn, had a younger brother named Kurt, who he had spent a great deal of time looking out for. Hunter had never met that side of Dillons family, despite the fact that Dillon was supposedly very close to his cousin, Archer, who lived in France with his two dads. Hunter didnt like talking about Dillons cousin, anyway, even though Dillon always seemed ready to explode with gossip after those few phone calls he got a year with his cousin. Hunter didnt like the name Archer.

"Hunter!" A familiar voice yelped from behind the man who was standing closer to Hunter. Within seconds, a small body tackled his, even though he and Dillon had just seen each other. Hunter had never had someone become so excited about seeing him as Dillon did. "Dad, Hunters going to sleep over tonight. Is that okay?"

Noah took a deep breath, "Yeah... thats fine. But I want you two to behave yourselves. Dillon, dont end up like your sister. And, Hunter... keep that mouth of yours clean."

Dillon took Hunters hand, anxiously tugging on him, "Sorry... he just got done disciplining my sister. He has to call her mom to get her to pick her up. He doesnt like talking to Quinn." Yanking a little harder, Dillon made Hunter take a step forward, "Come on! I have a pizza kit in the kitchen. We can make our own pizzas for dinner!"

Hunter grinned at Dillons idea of a fun time. "Okay... okay."

"The toppings have to stay on the pizzas, guys!" Noah shouted after them, making Dillon snigger under his breath. "Your dad will have my head if he comes home to a dirty kitchen."

"Got it, Dad!" Dillon shouted, pushing through the kitchen door and dragging Hunter after him. Leaving Hunters side, Dillon went over to the pantry, rummaging through the cereal boxes and cans of soup. "So... what do you think youre going to do for our junior year of high school? We only have one more after this, Hunter."

Hunter leaned against the counter, watching the silhouette of his friend scurry over the tile floor. "I dont know. Am I supposed to do something? I dont have any plan except to just get through it."

Dillon abruptly stopped moving, "Hunter... come on. You have to take this seriously. My dads are already handing me fliers about colleges we need to start visiting. Isnt Karofsky badgering you about your future?"

Hunter chuckled, "Karofsky doesnt know how old I am. He hasnt been right in his head since I was eight years old. Dillon, I cant even afford to get into college... and no place is going to offer me a scholarship. I practically start each year off with low grades. Im not good enough at anything."

"Dont say that." Dillon started walking around again, and he returned to Hunters side, a box of pizza dough mix in his hands. "Hunter... Ive seen you working in that notebook of yours. You write all the time. Youve never let me read any of it... but I know that you love doing it. I can see it on your face. And you paint things. Youre really good at that... even if youre just doodling on your notebook in class. If you let colleges see that, theyd take you without a glance at what grade you got in some stupid math class." Hunter rolled one of shoulders, so Dillon scoffed and nudged him, "Can I have this one question, though?" Raising his head to his friend, he stared at Dillons face, wondering if his expression mirrored the enthusiasm in his voice. "Hunter... why is it always the same boy that you draw?"

Hunter stopped breathing, his expression going blank, "What are you talking about? I paint plenty of things."

"You do." Dillon agreed, turning away from Hunter so he could rip open the box and pull out the dry mix. "But you paint him more than anything else... the boy with the black hair and the blue eyes. Who is he? Id say that he looks just like my cousin... you know, Archer... but youve never seen him before. You paint him in so many different ways. Sometimes his arms are up... as if hes waiting for someone to hug... and sometimes hes flat on the ground, crying. Why do you paint him with so many emotions?" At Hunters silence, Dillon wasnt deterred, but instead pried a little deeper, "Is he a real person?"

Nodding, Hunter flicked his eyes back up to Dillons face, which he could tell was moving, "He was real... at one time. Hes a person I knew... before I ended up with Karofsky. We knew each other as children. I like to guess what he would look like now. Im sure that hes beautiful."

"Thats the way you paint him." Dillon admitted softly, laying a light hand on Hunters shuddering arm, "Did you ever love him?"

Hunter raised and dropped his chin again, "Every fiber in my being... every cell in my body... every single part of me was in love with him. But hes gone now. Its been years since Ive seen him... and Ill never see him again."

"How do you know?"

Pushing his mouth to one side of his face, Hunter closed his fist around the packet of sauce that Dillon set in his hand. He really didnt like to have his past, which hed shut away from himself after that first time that hed locked himself in his cellar, challenged. "He was like a flower to me. He was lovely... There was nothing better than looking at him, and then picking him up and feeling his fragile, small body. But flowers only last for a short time... and then you just have memories of them. Hes just a memory now. Thats all I have left of him."

"Every flower leaves seeds behind, Hunter... and then new versions of what they once were pop up. Hes still there... You just have to look for him. Hell be different, sure... but itll be him." Dillon brushed his hand against his back, then left his side once more so he could heat up the stove.

Hunter stared after his friend, watching his shadow fade into complete blackness as he got farther away. And then there was blue, the darkest shade of it, like the ocean in the middle of the night, which drowned out the endless darkness.

Ever since Archer was a little boy, after Hunter had died, thered been nothing he wanted to do more than to dance. He didnt know what it was about it that was so wonderful to him, since he wasnt like the other dancers that he saw on the stages of theatres, when his parents took him out for shows. He was lithe in not one way, but clumsy in many others, and he didnt have the slender, tall form of those ballerinas that flitted around the stage like butterflies, his père being one of them. Instead, Archer was short and a little chubby, with two left feet and a chin that often dipped too low. But he still loved the feeling of moving around the floor with quick, somewhat imprecise, steps. Maybe it was the freedom behind it, the fact that he could run in any direction, while he knew, at least in later years, when his parents had finally considered him old enough, that Hunter had been trapped when hed been killed. Or maybe it was just something he took after his parents, one more than the other, who both went into careers in dance and song, his père to follow in his moms footsteps, and his daddy to follow his père. And there was no one that Archer wanted to be more like than both of his parents, who, to him, were perfect in every single way.

When Archer had admitted to his parents that he wanted to dance on the stage, his daddy had instantly gone into renovating one of the rooms to look nearly identical to that of a professional dance school. Hard floors had been installed, and bars had been lined across the walls, covering portions of long mirrors that hung from the ceiling and pressed on the floor. Archer didnt know why his parents had gone to so much trouble, when they could have easily sent him to a dance academy, like his père had once gone to, but Archer was more than happy with the fact that, whenever he felt like it, even outside of his lessons, he could go in there to twirl around in circles and leap from corner to corner of the small, but perfect, room. This was on Archers mind as he went through his lesson with his père, who was warming him up for their routine by having him sit on the floor and spread his legs out. His père had once been a famous dancer, his daddy had told him, when Archer was just a baby, far too young to remember anything about the time that his père had gone off to France for ten months to see how well he did on Broadway. His père had given up before he even had the chance to perform, and he hadnt gone back to it, even though Archer could tell that he did his best work when he was wearing his tights and leotard. Archer wondered what had stopped him from continuing in that career. He could see no reason why, considering how badly he wanted it himself.

Lifting his nose from the floor, Archer gazed up at his père, who was turned away from him and idly fidgeting with his leotard in the mirror. He picked himself up from the floor, drawing one of his feet in, and he cleared his throat. "Père? Why do you not perform on Broadway anymore? Why did you stop? Youve never talked to me about it."

He could see his pale face change in the mirror, his thin brows furrowing and his mouth creasing. It was a look of distress, one he rarely saw his père wear. Whirling around on his light feet, hispère changed his expression into one of kindness, and he murmured, "I will speak to you about it if you stretch your legs, dear." Archer immediately did as he was told, wincing at the way his thighs cramped. "Archer, its been years since I left my Broadway career. Why do you want to know about it now?" Archer felt awkward speaking to the floor, so he simply shrugged his shoulders, making his père laugh softly. "I suppose I do miss it... but I could never go back. Im happiest in here... with you. This is where I do my best dancing." He heard him take a deep breath, and then exhale heavily, "I was nineteen years old when I came back to France... after I had lived in Ohio for some time. I had just recently become engaged to your dad... and you had just been born. Your grandpa was planning to marry your grandma. It just wasnt a good time for me to leave. And... I began to miss your dad... terribly. Things happened between us... We grew apart. But I would rather wait for another day to tell you about that. I tried to be in a Broadway show... but I just wasnt happy. When I came back, your dad and I got together again... and I wanted to spend time with you and Hunter. And then... I never went back."

Archer raised his head once more, but quickly lowered it when his père gave him a chiding expression. "Do you wish you had gone back?" He asked quietly, a lump forming in his throat. He would hate to be the thing that made one of his parents leave his career, whether or not he was a baby at the time.

"Of course not." That gentle voice brightened once more, and he could almost sense the smile on the lips that the sound was coming out of. "Archer, I would never replace the past sixteen years Ive had with you for all of the performances in the world. I dont regret anything. I can never resent my mom... but, sweet, she stayed in France to perform on Broadway... I hardly saw her when I was growing up. My dad kept me in Ohio with him. She passed away when I was eight years old... I didnt get to see her when she died. I know that she regretted it. And I dont want it to be like that... I want to spend every moment with you... with your dad... with your uncle. I love each of you more than Ive ever loved anything else."

Hearing his père pad over to him, his feet shuffling across the floor in his thin slippers, Archer poked his nose up, coming face to face with him. There was nothing more beautiful than those blue eyes, especially when they were so close, and he could make out each shade of the lightest blues, like those of the sky. "I love you, too, Père."

His père smiled, holding his hands out for Archer. "Up, up. Weve done enough stretching, havent we? We need to work on keeping your chin up during your spins."

Archer took his small hands, getting to his feet and standing face to face with his père, who busied himself with straightening out his arms and legs. "Père? Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Sure!" His père said cheerily, cupping Archers cheeks in his hands and pointing his nose nearly up to the ceiling. "Fold your hands in front of you... then lift your foot and rest it against your other knee. Youre getting very good, Archer!"

Wobbling a little as he balanced on one foot, Archer looked down at his père, who made a motion for him to slowly make a circle, "Père, why didnt you and Daddy send me to a real school?"

As soon as it was out, Archer regretted saying it, because his père gave him an expression as if he had just slapped him across the face. There were silent rules in the family, and when his daddy and his père had agreed that homeschooling would be what was best for Archer, a decision that was made when he was out of the room, they had also established that it would never be brought up again, especially by Archer. Helplessly holding his hands up as if to say that he was sorry, Archer stared at the way his père dropped his jaw. "Père, I have no friends! I dont know anyone. Shouldnt I have someone?"

His père blinked at him, "Archer, you have your cousins. You like when they call you-"

Archer dropped his stiff pose, throwing his arms out in a frustrated gesture, "Père, please! They call only a few times a month! And I havent seen them in years! You must have thought about it. You went to the effort of making me my own dance studio. Didnt you ever consider sending me to a school with other people? Ive been on my own since I was three years old."

"Archer..." his père heaved, dropping his shoulders in a pout. "We thought you liked the dance studio."

"I do!" Archer cried, looking around himself as if he was just now taking in his surroundings. "Père, I love it in here. But I need friends. Why cant we live in Ohio... so I can be with my cousins... and meet their friends? I never get to see my grandparents! I dont see my uncles! Do you know what its like to always be by yourself?"

His père stepped forward, holding his hands out for Archer, who reeled backwards, "Archer, darling... listen to me. You know we cant go to Ohio-"

"But why?" Archer yelped, whipping away from his père, who pressed his hands to his shaking back. "I feel like theres something youre hiding from me! Im sixteen years old! I know that Daddy wont tell me anything about his past, but youre supposed to be open with me! Ive told you everything about me! Why cant I know about you?"

"Archer, please!" His père tried, grasping at Archers shirt, but losing his grip on it when Archer tugged away. His small hands closed around nothing, and he was left holding the air. Archer darted away from him, shouldering through the door and letting it drift shut behind himself. Running up the stairs, he heard his daddy, who had been sitting on the couch, call after him, but he didnt bother turning around, not willing to hear him out when he knew that there was nothing to be heard.

He hadnt even gotten to his room before he heard his daddys footsteps pounding up the stairs, so he started to make a beeline to his bedroom, but was quickly snagged around the hem of his shirt. "Archer!" His daddy shouted, jerking him against his chest. Archer collapsed against his daddy, sobbing with frantic abandon as he pounded at his chest, unsure if he wanted away, or to be clutched closer. "Archer... what is the matter, baby? Look at me! Tell me whats wrong."

Archer violently sobbed, a bubble of saliva popping onto his puffy lips, "Its Hunter, isnt it? He was killed in Ohio! And youre afraid to go back because of it!" Shoving away from his daddy, Archer screamed at him, "Your fear of his death is killing me! I want to see my family, Daddy! I want to have friends! I want to know where he died... where he walked... where he slept! I have a right to know about the only boy who was ever my best friend!"

"Archer, you dont understand-" His daddy pleaded frantically, grabbing at nothing as Archer inched away, slinking over to his bedroom door. "I want you to know him, baby. I do. But I cant take you back there-"

"If you dont take me to the boy who I loved with all of my heart, Ill hate you forever!" Archer screeched at his daddy, slamming his door behind himself. He heard his daddy make a noise of despair, and soon it was joined by the sounds of quiet weeping, which must have been from his père, and Archer frowned at how much he hated himself for saying such a thing. But he had figured out that, after a few months of hating Hunter for not being there for him, that the quickest ones that he could hate were the ones that he loved with all of his heart. No one, not even his parents, were exceptions to that, since the one thing that he couldnt control about himself was his heart.