It was nearly four AM when they returned to their neighbourhood. Mickey had dragged River's broken body through the quiet shadowed streets of Axminster, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist, River's cheek resting on his shoulder. They walked in silence, both hopelessly trying to comprehend how something so awful could have happened in their boring little town.
"Can I stay at yours?" River mumbled sleepily as they neared their road. His eyes were drooping, and body slackening against Mickey's.
"Yeah, of course you can, River." Mickey readjusted his grip on his best friend, and trudged onwards.
Once they were finally through the front door, Mickey helped River up the stairs as quietly as he could, before pulling him into his bedroom and shutting the door softly behind them. The second he placed River on the bed, River curled up against Mickey's sheets, and buried his face in the pillows, "Th-Thanks, Mickey." He grumbled, his words still slurred as the drug still stubbornly worked its way through his system.
Mickey watched him for a moment, then leant forward to brush a stray curl out of River's face, "River." He said gently, "Let me help you change into something more comfortable before you fall asleep."
River groaned, but complied nonetheless, dizzily sitting up in Mickey's bed, his body limp like a doll's, "Okay." He whispered back.
As River shrugged out of Mickey's coat, Mickey leant down to untie River's laces, and pull his shoes off. Then, he instructed River to lift his arms up, and he peeled off his sweater. That was when the anger which Mickey had been suppressing the whole way home came bubbling up to the surface again, "Shit, River." He breathed out in shock, examining the deep bruises that covered River's hips, and wrapped around his wrists.
"Hm?" River drawled with lidded eyes.
Mickey gulped. He knew the facts; River was drugged, and then raped, by Casey Dawson. But the details? He couldn't bring himself to even think about them. It made him sick to his stomach. And seeing the bruises Casey had left behind on River's smooth flawless skin made him want to physically throw up. "Here." Mickey forced himself to look away as he handed his friend an oversized t-shirt - it was River's favourite; he wore it every time he stayed at Mickey's house.
After dropping the piece of soft fabric into River's lap, River merely stared down at it for a couple of moments, then tried to pick it up, but his grip was weak, and it fell again, "C-Can you help me?" He asked, his eyes full of hopeless pleading. He hated asking for help, and Mickey knew that.
Mickey knelt down in front of him, and pulled the t-shirt over his head, his fluffy hair getting messed up in the process. He helped River slip his arms through the sleeves, and after he collapsed back onto the bed, Mickey pulled his jeans off and set them aside. Within a couple of minutes, River's breath had levelled out, and he was fast asleep.
As Mickey tugged the covers over River's body, his gaze lingered on the healed cut that ran up his leg. Mickey touched his fingertips to it for a moment, remembering that day at the river on the first day of summer, when everything made sense. Mickey sighed, turning away before collecting River's clothes and folding them into a neat pile. If River ever changed his mind and decided to go to the police, his clothes would provide important evidence. They were probably covered in Casey's DNA. And so, Mickey resolved to keep his things safe, and unwashed, waiting for River whenever he was ready.
As Mickey watched his best friend sleep, he couldn't help but see something childlike in his soft expression. He looked tranquil, carefree, boyish. It was like they were kids again, and River had passed out from exhaustion after a long day in the treehouse, or playing video games under the glow of a lava lamp. Mickey wished it was that simple. That they were that happy, and that peaceful. But River hadn't passed out from exhaustion, he had passed out from a date rape drug, and the culprit wasn't staying up past his bedtime, it was Casey Dawson.
Mickey pulled up a chair from his desk and turned it around to face his bed. And so he sat there, wide awake and unmoving, watching River sleep. Perhaps it was a little creepy, but he didn't know what else to do. He felt restless, like he wanted to scream, and like he wanted to punch something. But he was afraid to take his eyes off of River. If he did, then the world could hurt him again. And Mickey couldn't let that happen; he had to protect him. He had to. That's what friends - even terrible ones, like him - did.
But the longer he sat there, alone with his thoughts, the scarier those thoughts got.
Was this his fault?
No, it was Casey's.
But Mickey was the one who pushed River towards Casey, thinking he would be good for him.
But Casey was the one who raped him.
But Mickey lied and told River that Declan had cheated on him. That was the only reason that River had gone out with Casey in the first place, to get his mind off of Declan. If Mickey hadn't lied, would this have ever happened at all?
This is Casey's fault, this is Casey's fault, this is Casey's fault-
He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to turn his mind off somehow, and so, he distracted himself by grabbing a packet of painkillers and a glass of water, and placing them on his bedside table for when River woke up. Then, he researched all of the side affects to date rape drugs, and fetched a bucket too, in case River was sick.
He made himself a coffee, he checked the news, he watched skating tutorials on mute, and he wondered where River's glasses were.
He must have lost them at some point during the night. They were already missing when Mickey found him on the side of Orchard Street, crying into his hands. At the time, Mickey was too preoccupied to give it a second thought, but now, he was starting to wonder, and starting to get angry. Because Casey probably had them. Had he not already taken enough from River?
River looked different without his glasses. Pretty, but different. Like he wasn't quite himself, but instead, dressed in somebody else's clothes. Mickey didn't like River looking like anyone but himself. He would get his glasses back for him, one way or another.
When River finally woke up, the sun had started to filter through the blinds, lighting up the bracelet of bruises he wore around each wrist, and the dark circles under his eyes. He rolled over, and his gaze met Mickey's, "Hey." His voice was hoarse and cracked, probably as a result of all the crying he had done the night before.
Mickey offered him a sad smile, "Hey." He echoed, "Are you feeling okay?"
River rubbed his temples, attempting to sit up, but giving up, and collapsing back onto the mattress. Agonising waves of realisation crashed over him as flashes of memories flickered through his mind. Stormy grey eyes, the taste of cocktails, a drag queen wearing a red dress, and Mickey's tears in his hair. His limbs were sore and aching, his lungs stinging, and mouth dry. He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, and remembered the taste of Casey's tongue. He almost gagged at the thought of it.
He almost wished the drugs Casey had used on him were stronger, so maybe then, he wouldn't remember it. But he did, clearly and vividly. The colour of Casey's door, the posters on the wall, the pride flag hanging above the bed. The bed; blue sheets and the smell of laundry detergent. He felt sick just thinking about it. And then, he was sick, into the bucket next to the bed, and suddenly Mickey was at his side with a hand on his back, telling him everything would be fine.
"C-Can I have a shower?" River asked after he finished throwing up, and washed his mouth out with water.
Mickey took the bucket out of his hand and placed it back on the floor, "River..." He hesitated, "I know you don't want to go to the police, so this is the last time I'll mention it, but-"
"Mickey." River groaned in complaint.
"When you shower you'll be washing away evidence."
"Good." River pushed himself up from the bed, and stumbled a little as he reached for the door.
"You can get a forensic exam done without having to report anything to the police." Mickey stopped him, "I researched it." He added bashfully, "They can store the results, and when, or...or, you know, if you're ever ready, you'll have evidence to take to the police."
River sighed heavily. He felt his eyes prickling like he was going to cry all over again. He was so hopelessly sad, he thought he might be broken. "I don't want to report anything to the police, Mickey." His voice shook slightly. "N-Not now, not ever."
"I know you feel like that right now, but-"
"Let me shower, Mickey." And this time he did cry, a tear slipping from his eye in frustration, "I-I can feel him all over me and it's disgusting. I just need to get him off, okay?"
Mickey's eyes softened, "River-"
River shook his head and took a step back, "D-Don't hug me, it will just make me cry even more." He told him sadly, "J-Just...Just don't touch me at all, for a while, please."
It hurt, but Mickey understood, "Okay." He whispered, "I'm sorry."
"I-I'm going for a shower." And so he did, and he scrubbed until his skin was raw and red and bleeding. The hot water washed away his tears, but not the bruises.
And it didn't wash away Casey, either. He was still there, clinging to his skin. And River wasn't sure whether he would ever wash away.
He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush he kept at Mickey's house, and when he returned to Mickey's bedroom with bloodshot eyes, and trembling lips, Mickey had emptied and cleaned out the bucket River had been sick into. "Thanks." River said gratefully, gesturing to the bucket. But it went deeper than that.
Thank you for picking me up last night, thank you for holding me while I cried, thank you for crying with me, thank you for giving me your coat, thank you for letting me sleep in your bed, thank you for caring about me, and thank you for loving me.
But all River could muster was 'Thanks', and he hoped that Mickey understood everything he really wanted to say, but couldn't.
"I told my Mum that you were drunk and crashed here." Mickey continued, "I hope that's okay. I wasn't sure what else to say."
River nodded, "Th-Thanks." He said again, and then, "Do you know where my glasses are?"
Mickey sighed, and shook his head, "No, I'm sorry. You weren't wearing them when I came to meet you last night."
"Fuck." He murmured under his breath, "Okay."
They stood awkwardly for a minute, neither of them entirely sure what was meant to happen next. How did one go about recovering from sexual assault? Mickey was the first to break the silence, "Did you want to talk about it?"
River looked up at him, "No."
"Okay." Mickey was secretly a little relieved. If River told him any details, the rage inside him would boil over, and Casey would surely end up in hospital. And right now, Mickey needed to be here for River - he would deal with Casey later. "Do you want something to eat?"
River shook his head, "I think if I do that I'll just end up throwing up again." He confessed, sitting on the end of Mickey's bed, "Can we just watch a movie, or something? I need to distract myself somehow."
Mickey nodded, "Yeah. Sure. Of course." He grabbed his laptop, and they sat side by side on his bed, flicking through Netflix.
They spent the day like that, leaning on each other, watching trashy movies, and trying to forget the events of the previous night. Though, of course, that was impossible.
Occasionally, River would burst out crying, and become overcome with a crushing sensation that restricted his breathing. And Mickey would feel a rush of sympathy, aching sadness, and a sudden rage towards Casey.
They didn't move from Mickey's bed, hoping that maybe that way, the world would just disappear around them.