Trigger Warning: Implied SH
Seventeen minutes. That's how long you had been standing here, back to the wall, wordless and motionless. Your legs were aching, but you refused to back down.
After you had unlocked the window, the masked man had jumped inside only for you to bring a vengeful fist down on top of his hooded skull. The action had been cathartic, and you had been fully expecting him to retaliate by giving you a puncture wound. You had been ready to die, brimming with rage and sorrow.
The problem was, he was just as full of surprises as you were. He had taken the blow to the skull like a champion, barely even grunting in pain as he had pushed you off of him. You had charged once more, trying to get a good hit to the throat once he was at his full height. Once again, he had shoved you back.
Through fits of tears and frustrated screams, you had done your worst to try and hurt him. He deflected you, every single time. He never even made a move to hurt you, not even a little bit, and that had made you even more fucking angry.
It reminded you of Monday night, the way he had tolerated your panic attacks until you had got it all out of your system. A part of you, the part that rooted for your own survival, was grateful.
You told that part of you to shut the fuck up. This was all his fault. Harry would still be here with you, if not for him.
As angry as you were, though, you had to give it up eventually. There was only so much effort your injured, traumatised body could exert. If he was going to kill you, you supposed he didn't plan on giving you the dignity of a fight. He'd probably shoot you in the back of the head while you slept, instead.
So, you had been forced to back off after probably your twentieth time of being gently but firmly pushed to the ground. You had scooted back across the floor, staggering to your feet and fixing the man with a hard glare. A glare that had lasted seventeen minutes now, another agitating staring contest which you were now determined to win.
You refused to be the first to speak or move. You were demeaned, ashamed at the way you'd only landed one good hit, and he'd barely reacted. If the man had any motives, he'd have to carry them out with the knowledge that you had (at the very least) won one of your little nonverbal stand-offs.
Now, after seventeen agonising minutes, the man seemed to throw in the towel. He was either bored or indifferent, you had no clue. Still, you felt victorious as he broke the stillness that had enveloped the living room, reaching down slowly to grab the box of fucking pop-tarts, which had fallen on the floor when you jumped him.
You watched as the man reached into the box, pulling out one of the wrapped goodies. It made a sad crinkling noise as he tossed it at at the carpet, landing anticlimactically at your feet.
This absolute son of a bitch.
He was making fun of you, once again. You half expected him to make a quip, 'You're not you when you're hungry!'. He had a witty sense of humour, you'd admit, and you fucking hated him for it. All he did was treat your life like a game. Empathy was dead.
The man tilted his mask at you now, waiting for a reaction. Maybe he wanted you to run at him, again. You couldn't fully tell if the throw had been a challenge or if he was laughing at you like a pitiful worm. Probably both at the same time. He had long ago established his love for sending you mixed signals.
You were about to kick the food back at him full force, when he said something you'd never have expected.
"Truce?"
...you blinked dumbly at the man.
What did he mean, truce? You really did think he was making fun of you, in a sadistic way. You refused to believe anything else, he couldn't just play the way he'd been treating you off like light teasing. He was the one who had fucked up your brother's head.
You opened your mouth to respond, eyeing the man wearily. You needed a witty comeback, something smart you could throw at him to catch him off guard like he had just done to you.
No such remark entered your mind. No thoughts. Head empty.
Your breath hitched in your throat, before you finally garbled out a string of confused words.
"I can't tell if you're making fun of me or not." The statement was an honest one, uncomfortably so. Damn it, (y/n). Your dumbass was one step away from being emotionally vulnerable.
You expected him to burst out laughing at your confusion, a clear sign of weakness. Instead, he only shook his head and chuckled a little. The noise came out darkly through the filter, you had no idea if he was genuinely amused.
"Only a bit."
You frowned at the sound of his voice, a thought suddenly occurring to you. He probably put the stupid voice changer on for this exact reason. It prevented him from showing any emotion - anything he said was destined to come out sounding sinister.
You had just validated him by admitting your uncertainty, sure. Yet somehow, making the connection made you feel empowered. Understanding people's intentions was why you took psychology in the first place, and it seemed to finally be coming in handy.
Whether or not he was being sarcastic about wanting a 'truce', it didn't matter. Clearly, the aggressive approach wasn't working - and if he was here to kill you, there'd be nothing you could do to stop him, anyway. He had just now proven his superiority in physical prowess.
If you played nice, though, maybe he'd let some information slip.
You sighed, squatting down carefully and picking up the damned pop-tart. You'd have to open it one-handed, great. The wrapper crinkled as you almost dropped it, and the man chuckled once more, either at you or at the ridiculous situation he had conjured up. It was impossible to tell. You straightened, boldly ripping open the packaging with your teeth and taking a bite. You thanked the heavens he had bought (or, stolen) the individually wrapped sort. You didn't feel like eating carpet fluff today.
The flavour only reminded you of Harry. Sweet taste, bitter thoughts.
You kept your eyes on the man as he nodded in what you assumed was mock approval. You tracked him as he made his way to the kitchen, trying not to flinch at his every movement. You heard him put the pop-tarts away, like a fucking nerd. You hated it when he expressed basic human behaviours.
He came back to the living room shortly, leaning against the wall to the kitchen. He was now far closer than you would've liked him to be, but you steeled yourself. Being visibly afraid would only give him the high ground, and you needed information from him too badly for that.
You continued to lean against the wall behind you, attempting to look as nonchalant as he did. His constant cocky demeanour could have just been laziness, but it came off intimidatingly. Why was everything this guy did open to interpretation? He was a living representation of something you'd be forced to study in a literature class, in the worst possible way.
"So." You tested out your voice into the (un)comfortable silence as you chewed. It came out hoarse, you cleared your throat awkwardly. "You been in Harry's room?"
Thinking about what you had seen in that room made you want to spit the question out bitterly. You stopped yourself. Fighting had got you nowhere, thus far.
The man had a habit of taking an infuriatingly long time to respond. You refused to let him get to you, biting back a salty remark about him being brain dead - 'it's a yes or no question, dumbass'. You pretended to be far too interested in the pop-tart as you nibbled on it, though on the inside you were brimming with disgust.
"You know I have."
As always, his cryptic remark took you a moment to consider. God, this guy was so infuriating. He was playing dumb, you decided. Reminding you of the video he had sent you in the library, the one where he had sat next to your brother while he slept. Dick.
"Recently, I mean." You suppressed an eye roll.
The man surprised you once more. You watched as he pushed himself off of the wall. Instead of coming towards you though, thank God, he turned and walked into the hall. You shuffled along behind him at a distance, despite your better judgement. Following him down the hall, you watched uneasily as he disappeared into Harry's room. Clearly, he hadn't yet seen the mess. Ha!
Your eyes landed on the bloodstained doorway, stopping you in your tracks and snapping you out of your petty glee. You couldn't force yourself any further down the hall towards it, you didn't want to see the room again. Besides, you needed to keep your distance from the masked fuckhead - you may have let him into your home willingly, but he still made you vastly uncomfortable.
You waited at the end of the hall, rocking idly on your heels as you continued to nibble at the sweet pop-tart. You looked anywhere but the doorway as you ate, eyes avoiding the red splotches. At least Harry was alive, for now. You couldn't say the same about yourself for much longer, but despite your company you were strangely unafraid. Talk about an emotional burnout.
Five minutes passed before the man reappeared at the end of the hall, shutting Harry's door softly. You eyed him as he took a few steps towards you, fighting the urge to back away.
He stopped at a fair distance, not taunting you for once in his life.
"It's worse than I thought."
Your face scrunched again, nervous tic going off. (You didn't care to suppress it - he'd probably noticed by now). What the fuck did that mean? Hadn't this man been the cause of the fucked up notes in that room? He had to have been the one to drive Harry to breaking point. You were growing angrier by the second.
"What's worse?" The question came out drier than intended. You weren't playing dumb, you just needed clarification.
"The blood."
No shit. God, this was like trying to have a chat with a brick wall. You sighed, trying to be as diplomatic as you could, "Jade said he had a nosebleed."
The man mirrored your thoughts from earlier, "Nobody bleeds that much from a nosebleed."
He seemed to be heavily implying that he thought you were the dumbest bitch on planet Earth.
That's it.
"Stop it." You snapped.
"Stop what?"
You spoke through clenched teeth, the urge to charge at him arising once more. "Stop talking to me like I'm fucking stupid, and just tell me where all the blood came from, please." You tacked the final word on, tone dripping with sarcasm.
The man seemed to size you up for a moment. "Harry hurt himself."
You felt sick. But now that you thought about it, it made sense. Your brother had been having some sort of mental breakdown. People in that situation often took things out on themselves. You didn't want to think of the gory details, though.
"And what made him do that?", you hissed. Hopefully, this motherfucker would finally own up to his actions. Admit that he had been the one to hurt your brother, drive him to do a thing like that.
"I know what you're thinking, (y/n)."
Well, that was one bold fucking claim.
"But I didn't cause this."
You shook your head at him, glaring daggers. "Like hell you didn't."
The man only shrugged at you with indifference. "See for yourself. His phone's right there."
And with that, he moved down the hall towards you. Your instinct screamed at you to run, but you planted your feet and stared indignantly ahead.
He moved by you without another word, disappearing back into the living room.
—
It took you a solid ten minutes to psych yourself up enough, but you had finally forced yourself back inside Harry's room. The masked man hadn't come back down the hall at all, you weren't sure if he was hanging out in your living room still or if he had fucked off. You sincerely hoped it was the latter.
It had taken all your mental strength not to break down again at the sight of the room, bloodied walls now beginning to dry and flake. You refused to have another fit, not if the masked man was still in the area to laugh at you for it.
Harry's phone felt foreign in your hand, he never let you touch the thing. Acted like it was his fucking child. You had occasionally made fun of him for it, one of the few things that actually got him mad at you.
You had plugged the thing into the charger fifteen minutes ago, but it was only now powering back on. That meant that for the last fifteen minutes, you'd had nothing to do but stare at the notes on the far wall. It was better than looking at the blood, sure, but the words still sent shivers down your spine. 'Never be free'. 'They know'. What the fuck did that even mean?
Now that the phone lit up, you groaned out loud as the realisation hit you.
You didn't know Harry's passcode. But, you were willing to bet who did - meaning, also, that he was probably still hanging around. Knowing, smugly, that you'd be needing his help.
You took a deep breath, opening your mouth hesitantly. Were you really going to do this? Apparently.
"Hey, dude?"
The words sounded far too casual on your tongue, like you were calling a friend over to ask for help. What else were you supposed to call him, though?
A good few seconds passed. You were about to call again, when the man suddenly appeared in the doorway, making you jump ever so slightly. You had been expecting him, sure, but fuck he was scary looking.
He walked into the room, head tilted at you expectantly. You didn't want to speak to him, so you only extended Harry's phone out in his direction, averting your gaze. You could feel the smugness radiating off of him. What a bitch.
The man unlocked the phone with ease, handing it back to you and backing out of the room. For a second you got hopeful, thinking he was going to leave you be - but he only plonked himself against the doorframe.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "You gonna just stand there, huh?"
"Yes."
You could only sigh, turning to the now opened phone in your hand. You tapped on Harry's messages, flicking through them, looking for a contact name that could hint at something sinister. You saw some names you didn't recognise, sure, but nothing else seemed amiss.
You checked his emails next, skimming through the recent ones. Nothing there, either.
It looked like the masked man had been telling the truth, after all. He didn't fuck with Harry, something else had caused the meltdown. That only left you with more fucking questions, though.
As you exited out of Harry's mail app, one last icon caught your eye.
TeamApp. It was the messaging system Harry used with his football team. He always got extra defensive whenever he opened this particular app, shifting so you wouldn't be able to read over his shoulder. You two were very open with each other, so you'd always just assumed that he didn't want you to see the virtual locker room talk he engaged in. You trusted him not to say anything too vulgar, though, since he had always been a respectful kid.
Something made you tap on the app now, though. Maybe you were being nosy, but really you just needed to feel close to your brother right now, and you had no way to get through to him in the flesh.
The app opened, and you frowned at what you saw. There were five or six message tabs, all blank. You tapped on each individually, receiving the same notification each time: Conversation Deleted.
Well, that was weird to say the least. Probably nothing, though.
Maybe Harry had had an argument with one if his teammates recently. It didn't really matter. You sighed as you flung the phone down onto a clean patch of the bed, looking up at the masked man. You couldn't see his face, but you could tell he was expectant: see?
You sighed as you observed him, taking in his intimidating appearance compared to the relaxed body language as he leaned against the wood behind him, legs crossed. A few days ago, you would have found his demeanour intimidating as fuck. Now, he just came across as petty and annoying.
You moved towards the door, feeling fed up and needing to get out of the disgusting room - it still made your skin crawl. You needed time to process, to figure out what the fuck your next move would be.
You wanted to get Harry back, true, but it was becoming increasingly clear to you that he needed mental help. Which meant that, in all truth, being around a masked murderer couldn't possibly be good for him. He was sick, and not the kind of sick that a physical doctor could help him with. Good luck at the ER, Jade, you thought bitterly.
The masked man in question didn't move, even as you got uncomfortably close. You looked up at him with a stone face.
Silence.
After an age of 'eye contact', he was the first to speak.
"Something you want to say, (y/n)?"
He was challenging you, probably wanting the satisfaction of an apology. You weren't going to give him one. You knew that you had nothing to be sorry for.
Still, you didn't want to stand there just staring at him for the rest of your fucking life, knowing that both of you were too stubborn to back down.
You sighed, deciding on a middle ground. "Okay, dude. I believe you."
The man seemed happy with this, nodding his head slightly and moving aside ever so slightly for you. You shivered unpleasantly at the proximity as you moved through the doorway, turning to the side so that you didn't have to touch him.
You were almost at the end of the hall when the man spoke again, catching you off guard.
"(Y/n)."
You stiffened, still hating the way he said your name as much as you had the first time.
You turned to face him slowly, what now?
"Call me Hoodie."