At least until now.

The room doesn't have a mirror, but the cabinets are steel and he can see the wavy reflection of his face, distorted and wrong even without the dark color flaring around his eye, the swollen protrusion over his eyebrow, the blood staining the split in his lip and caked along his hairline. He can taste more blood, a sharp copper in his mouth as he runs his tongue along his teeth.

He can hear the raised voices outside, filtering down the hallway in varying tones. His mother's is shrill and high pitched, and his father's is no-nonsense, just the facts. Kevin admires that about him, even when he hates him for it. He can hear the anger humming in Tommy's voice and the confusion in Justin's - Who would want to hurt Kevin, Dad? I mean, other than me and Tommy? - and the quiet tones of doctors and policemen trying to do their job, not realizing that they were dealing with The Walkers, and nothing will get done until everyone gets the answers they want.

Sliding off the bed, he winces hard and makes his way over to the window, holding tightly to the curtain that keeps him separated from the other half of the room. He can hear the measured breaths of someone sleeping and he envies him or her the ability. He's not sure he'll ever sleep again.

The law library was quiet. Too quiet in retrospect, but he wasn't thinking about anything but the fact that he was finally able to get some work done now that the floor was practically deserted of all the other students, the ones who were there to do anything but study. He made his way through book after book, filling up his legal pad with notations and citations, his handwriting getting worse and worse as the night wore on until he had to rub his eyes to make the words come into focus, make them legible even to himself.

He put everything away, gathered his notes in neat stacks before placing them in the worn leather briefcase Saul had given him for his graduation, telling Kevin that it had belonged to his grandfather Abraham. It was an affectation, but Kevin liked it, liked the solid feel of it in his hand, liked that it felt more real than a backpack. He made his way down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, taking a breath of fresh air to the smell of dust and paper out of his head. The lights were golden circles of illumination on the sidewalks, leaving most of the world in darkness.

The first hit was to the back of his head. Lead pipe was his first thought, and then he almost started laughing, remembering all those nights of playing "Clue" with Sarah and Kitty and wondering if someone was going to come after him with the wrench next. Instead it was another hit with the pipe and then another and then across the forehead where the edge of it, ridged and shiny in the flash of a second that he saw it, left deep grooves in his skin, blood clouding his eyes.

There were boots - black and yellow with "CAT" on the back of them, cowboy boots with his blood leaving stains on the shiny leather, motorcycle boots with buckles and steel toes - and the sound of ribs cracking, bones breaking, and then more boots and the pipe, again and again. A cigarette falling from the sky and burning through his shirt and leaving a small mark on his skin when he wasn't quick enough to bat it away. Voices that blended and broke apart, no accents he could discern, nothing but words falling harder than the blows until they pounded louder in his head than the blood in his veins.

Queer. Homo. Fucking faggot.

The words weren't new or different. He tried to remember an argument - he has one, he knows he does - about reclaiming the words, all the things that he learned at meeting after meeting at PFLAG, sitting at his mother's side. Tried to remember about Matthew Shepherd and Brandon Teena and what they did, how to survive, how to die.

He curled in on himself, making himself smaller, the way he used to when his dad looked around for a victim or a sucker or a "volunteer," pretending he didn't exist because he knew he'd never be the right answer, even if he was the only one, even if he did everything as best he could. Not enough, Kevin. Not damn good enough.

He doesn't remember much after that. Just a girl's voice and sirens and someone touching his hand. An 'are you all right, sir?' and a laugh that grated at his throat, leaving it as raw and exposed as every other piece of him felt.

"Kevin?"

He turns around slowly, wincing at the movement and the very clear admonition in his mother's eyes that he should be in bed. He's not sure he can do that though, lie there like he did on the sidewalk, waiting for someone else to find something wrong with him. "Hey, Mom." The words come out slurred through his split and swollen lip, and he can still taste blood with every swallow.

"Oh, Kevin." Her voice breaks and she takes a step closer, stopping when Kevin shakes his head. He can't take the comfort right now, can't even stomach the thought of it. He suspects that the shape he's in is the result of who and what he is; he knows she would argue with him, but he believes it, logic be damned. "Are you all right?"

He wants to laugh at the question, because they both know the answer, even if it wasn't obvious from the bandages wrapped tight around his bare chest, the splint on his fingers, the stitches along his eyebrow, but laughing hurts too much, so he just nods slightly. "You didn't have to come down here."

The look on her face is priceless, and he was right about laughing hurting, because the little bit he manages burns like metal searing his lungs and claws raking at his muscles like something out of a Shakespearean tragedy. "Where else would I be, Kevin Andrew Walker?" He knows she's dead serious when she uses his full name, but it doesn't mean that he has an answer she'll like. He's saved from saying anything by his father appearing in the doorway, disappointment lining his face like old age.

William doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and moves back into the hallway, making room for Kevin's siblings to pour in, no doubt waking up the person in the other half of the room. Questions rain down, and Kevin just shakes his head, not answering anything until the doctor comes along and pushes everyone out again, a clipboard in his hand that he has to hold while Kevin uses both hands to hold the pen and sign his release. He's not ready to leave, not ready to go home, but he knows there's no way his mom will let him go back to campus tonight. Maybe not ever.

The police were there almost before the ambulance and he tried to answer questions through bubbles of blood that seemed lodged in his throat. He told what he knew and tried not to speculate, using the lessons he'd spent the evening with to guide his answers. He panicked halfway through, grabbing someone's arm and asking about his briefcase, and no one knew where it was.

Futility dulled his answers at that point - all his hard work for nothing, nothing except this - and he talked about boots that told them nothing and voices that were typical of California and words that hurt more than his ribs when he had to repeat them again and again.

Eventually the police left, promising him everything in ways that promised nothing at all and he lay there, staring at the ceiling as doctors and nurses moved around him, binding and bandaging and talking in medical code, and he wondered if medicine was like law, where they used different words for the things that would frighten. He tried to imagine what they meant, what the drugs they mentioned did, and why the names of them sounded worse than anything that could be wrong with him. The nurses had soft hands and softer voices, and he closed his eyes against the sting of alcohol as one of them started to work on the gash on his forehead.

When he opened them, he knew that whatever the drugs were, they were working, his pain dulled to a low and constant throb. There was a blonde girl by the door, her eyes wide and scared and her hands clenched around the handle of his briefcase. He blinked, the simple motion pulling at the tightness over his eye, and elevated the back of the bed so that he could see her a little better. "Hi."

She started and he tried to smile, realizing it probably looked worse than trying to keep his expression impassive. She cleared her throat and took a step forward, holding the briefcase out toward him. "You lost this."

"Thank you."

"I think I got all the papers. They were scattered around, but you numbered the pages, so unless there was something after forty-one, I got them all."

He nodded and blood seemed to slosh around in his brain like everything had turned to liquid. "I don't remember."

"We'll hope for the best, then." She took another step forward, almost to the end of the bed. He could reach the briefcase if he wanted, but he wasn't sure he could afford what the effort would cost him. "I'm Julia."

"Kevin. Kevin Walker."

"Julia Ridge." She took another step forward and set the briefcase on the end of the bed then stepped back. "Are you going to be okay?"

"The doctors said I'll be fine."

She nodded then shoved her hands in her pockets, drawing his eye to the dark bloodstains on her knees. His blood. He leaned over the edge of the bed, more blood spilling with bile to the floor already slick with substances he didn't want to name or think about, given that they all probably belonged inside him, rather than spread across white tile. Pain sparked behind his eyes and the world went white as he slumped back on the bed, breathing hard and whimpering.

"I'll go get a nurse," the girl said softly, pushing off the wall and moving toward him, reaching out to touch his hand.

"Thank you." Kevin managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I won't go anywhere."

"I'm gay." He forced the words out, reminding himself as well as her that he was the damsel in distress here.

She tilted her head and looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Kevin laughed, relishing the pain this time as he shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

They wheel him out of the hospital room and he makes the nurse stop before his family sees him. He watches them for a moment, watching how they interact. The undercurrents are still there - anger and pain and fear - but they're overshadowed by the way they all stay beside each other, touching shoulders and arms and leaning in to one another. He knows how easy it would be to go over and surround himself with them, but he holds himself back, like always, even more now, knowing that this just reminds them all that he's not just Kevin, not just their brother, not just their son. He's all those words that were kicked into his ribs and chest and head, and no matter how much he wants to be more, he'll always be something less because of it.

"Kevin!" Sarah sees him first and rushes over, stopping before she gets close enough to touch. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, and he knows the bruises are in full bloom now, his skin discolored to red and purple and black and blue, tinges of green and yellow at the edges. "Oh, Kevin." She swallows hard and he watches the tears form in her eyes and manages a smile for her that he knows can't possibly make it all the way to his eyes through the pain.

"I'm okay."

"Yeah?" She laughs and shakes her head, moving the rest of the way to him and touching his cheek so lightly. "You're going to have to be a better liar than that if you want to be a layer."

"Lawyers don't lie."

She leans in and presses her forehead against his and closes her eyes. He does the same, trying to see her that close making his head hurt worse. "Liar."

He laughs and it hurts almost as much as it does when she pulls away, but when he opens his eyes the rest of his family is there: Kitty's face is drawn with concern and he can tell she wants to lecture him like always, warn him about late nights and being alone, about dark alleys and being smarter because of his lifestyle. Tommy looks profoundly uncomfortable, no doubt remembering the fight he and Kevin got into when Kevin came out and feeling guiltier than ever even though they've been okay for a long time now. Justin looks at Kevin the way only a younger brother can, head tilted and eyes narrowed and suspicious like somehow this is going to get blamed on him.

"You look really bad."

Kevin exhales shakily. "I know, Justin."

"You tell me who they are, I'll mess 'em up for you." He's all boy and bravado, and Kevin wants to give it all back to be like that again. Do what his dad said when he first came out and make it not be so. Screw a few girls, Kevin. You'll get to like it.. No one ever got the shit beat out of him for screwing a girl.

The tears burn his eyes and his skin as they slip down over his swollen cheek, and he's careful not to look at his dad and see his thoughts on the thirteen-year-old son defending his big brother. "Thanks."

His mother fills the silence that follows, talking to Julia, who's still there, inviting her over for dinner. She makes plans effortlessly and Kevin wishes he could be more like her. More like anyone, but he's too much like his father to be anything else, so he gets out of the wheelchair, even though he's not supposed to, and walks to the exit.

He tries not to think about the parts that come next. The car ride home and the overt concern for what he's hungry for, what he wants to watch, what he wants to do. The parts where they walk on eggshells until the next crisis comes along or until they feel comfortable enough to pretend it never happened. Kevin's already ready to pretend. He has been all along, and the moment he gets to the door, that's what he'll do.