A thick, splintering crunch tears apart the delicate silence like wet tissue paper. All eyes gravitate automatically to the closed bedroom door, then quickly flicker to the floor, heavy with guilt. Todd turns supplicating blue eyes on me, laughing mouth a tense line of expectation. Do something, that look commands. Fix this.

Normally I'd stop to argue the injustice of this role I've been unwillingly cast into, but the nail-on-chalkboards screech of something heavy shattering rips the protest out by the roots. I shoot Todd a furious glare as I push past him, dragging my legs with leaden steps to the barred door that looms before me.

I wait until the house settles back into anxious silence before palming the handle and giving it a wrenching twist, throwing my weight against the door at the same time so that I burst into the bedroom. I slam the door closed behind me as soon as I clear the threshold, moving on pure instinct, ducking the cordless phone that flies over my head and explodes against the door.

He's perched at the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around himself as if he had never moved. His long hair is stiff with sweat and sticking up wildly in every direction, a dark halo framing his flushed face. There are beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks like tears, pooled in the faint hollow of his upper lip and the delicate curve of his chin. His eyes are narrow slits of fury, and my skin crawls uncontrollably as they turn on me.

"Get the fuck out of my room." Tempered and even, not the scream I was expecting, but suffused with a subtle rage somehow just as chilling. His voice is low and gravelly, rubbed raw and falling apart at the edges, a sound used too hard for too long. He won't be able to sing again for days.

"No."

He laughs, a rumbling chuckle with rough edges that snag and tear. "What do you do, hold a meeting to decide who comes and drags me out?"

"We draw straws, actually," I reply in a tone carefully flippant. "I'm fairly sure Larry rigs it, 'cause I always draw the short one."

He smirks, momentarily amused; then the expression freezes as the humor drains from his face, the wry twist of his lips becoming something sinister without ever changing. "I'm serious, Beck. Get the fuck out."

"No," I reply firmly, feeling some of my confidence return. "I'm not going to let you sit in here and sulk."

"Fuck you." He moves so suddenly I don't have time to react, halfway through a flinch when his hand wraps around my throat. His face a thought away from mine, those haunted eyes burning hotly into my own. His chest heaves violently from the past hour's exertion, harsh breaths panted against my lips. I swallow carefully, struggling to bring my pulse down and stare the fucker in the eye. I open my mouth to speak and his squeezes a little tighter, cutting off my words.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarls, fingernails digging into my throat, leaving little half-moons of scraped away flesh. "You don't know. You don't...you have no idea. I need, I need, I need--" The words become an inarticulate growl, a pseudo-word, broken and trailing rage. I hold my breath and ignore the pain as I lean forward that critical inch, pressing his mouth to mine as his grip cuts off my breath.

"Hit me," I wheeze with that captured breath, smirking into his stunned face.

"Fuck you," he whispers, releasing my throat to drive a fist into my stomach. Bereft of support I double over, clutching my stomach like my insides are going to spill out. I grit my teeth against the shock of pain and clench my hand into a fist, straightening as I punch up into his jaw. He stumbles back a step, eyes wide, touching his jaw in disbelief. I take advantage of his amazement and launch myself at him, toppling us both to the floor.

The fight dissolves into an evenly matched exchange of glancing blows and awkward kicks as we claw at each other like brawling school boys. I grab a handful of his unkempt hair and he sinks untrimmed nails into my shoulder, raking a trail of fire down my chest. The pain is sharp and immediate, jolting me from the mad reverie of the past few minutes. I spring away from him, collapsing in a panting heap on the floor. He shoots me a questioning look and as our eyes meet the spell is broken; we're friends again, and I'm suddenly aware of every abused inch of my body.

"Fuck," he groans, rolling onto his back. "Fuck, Beck, I think you broke my jaw."

"I did not," I shoot back irritably, sucking in a sharp breath as I flex my right hand experimentally. "Don't be such a baby."

"Me!" He snorts in disbelief. "Look at what you did to my fucking face!" He points to the nasty bruise decorating his cheek and the beginnings of what looks to be a very unpleasant black eye.

"At least I didn't try to take your skin off!" I accuse, pulling my shirt over my head to show him my chest and the four parallel gouges dripping blood. He crawls over on hands and knees and leans close, peering at the wounds in fascination.

"I did that?" he asks with something akin to pride. I growl and he offers me a smile, part malice, part apology. "Sorry," he murmurs with a hint of sincerity. He stares at the bleeding gashes for another moment, then he dips his head and runs the flat of his tongue tentatively along one of the wounds.

"Fuck." It's all I can say as I gasp desperately for breath. The sensation is both soothing and stinging as his tongue caresses the injured flesh, cooling some of the burning pain even as he reopens the already healing wound. "Bastard, that hurts," I hiss, digging my hand into his hair and wrenching his head away. The fucker is smiling as I glare at him, a drop of my blood clinging to his lip.

"So did that fuckin' uppercut," he murmurs as he brushes his mouth softly against mine, tone a gentle contrast to his words. I lick the blood from his lip and plunge my tongue into his mouth, tasting myself there. Tasting violence, and passion, the ashes of his fury.