The sounds of small feet dancing around on the wood floor filled the small apartment, as Conor hummed along to the song that played on his phone. The apartment still felt empty, but was slowly being filled as Conor placed small items around the home. Ned wasn't much help—admittedly. He danced around the home and screamed the lyrics to the whatever song he'd decided to put on. Conor just smiled when he danced into the living room with a wide smile written on his small face. Occasionally, he'd dive onto the used couch they'd bought at a recent garage sale and question Conor on what he was unpacking now.

The song shut off abruptly and a low vibration sounded from the kitchen counter—where the phone was placed. Before Conor could make his way over, Ned had snatched the device, "The Masters residence, who's speaking?" Before he could wonder where he even learned the word residence, the small boy pranced over and handed the phone to Conor. "It's Daddy." Ned whispered, with worried expression.

"Hello?"

"Conor!" Ned's voice was no more than a squeak, "I did something."

Little Ned peered upward, examining his father's face for a hint of what was occurring. "Ned, go into the other room." Conor whispered.

"What?"

"Other Ned. What'd you do?"The line was silent for a few moments and Conor watched to make sure that Ned was out of earshot. "Hello?"

"H-Hi, I shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry. I'll j-just—" He was interrupted by someone knocking on the door.

Conor heard another frightened voice, "Excuse me, sir, you've been in there quite a while. Are you okay?."

"Crap." Ned whispered.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Uh, yeah. Just some Mexican food, you know." Ned altered his voice to sound cheerful, but secretly his whole body was filled with disdain—whether for Zach or for himself he couldn't tell.

"Where are you?"

"A drugstore bathroom."

"That clarifies a lot."

A long pause caused the line to almost faintly ring. Then Ned spoke in a dry, raspy voice: "I figured it was the best place. I kinda regret it, you know. I don't feel nothing yet, though."

"Are you high? Ned, I'm a father, I don't have time to play—"

"I heard it isn't so bad, I mean, after the seizing and all."

"Explain, or I'm hanging up."

"I downed a bottle of pills in a drugstore bathroom, basically." Ned looked over to his suicide note and continued, "I wrote a note, but I figured the only genuine person in my life deserves a bit more. Well, was, I suppose."

"What'd you take? How much?"

"Aspirin. A half of a bottle."

"You can't die from only half a bottle, Ned."

Embarrassed, Ned began to grow defensive, "Well, I tried my best. What do you want from me? I'll use more next time, you prick." Ned's jeans were patched in one of the knees, where it tore years ago. He'd never been forced to replace them because he'd barely grown since the ninth grade. It wasn't until now that he realized how ugly the quick fix was. Quick fixes are always inevitably ugly, so that's to be expected. "Zach and I had sex last night."

"Lovely." Conor responds, his voice dry like a chicken left in the oven too long. In fact, he did indeed feel like an over-cooked chicken. "How does that relate to me?"

"I'm trying to figure out whether it was rape or not." Ned's voice was falsely calm, "See, he was far more sober than I and I never consented, but I passed out which might have been received as consent."

"How can passing out be seen as consent?" Conor's voice sounded unexpectedly angry. Ned assumed it was due to pestering him about something unrelated to him, yet it somehow felt like it was connected.

Ned picked up the bottle—half a bottle still available for the taking— and pondered whether he should finish what he started. His initial attempt was out of a rush of adrenaline and embarrassment, but now his mods was starting to flatline he considered the fact that he still wanted to end this. This whole shit-show, and he still could end it. No one was stopping him. " 'Cause sometimes things are misread, you know?"

Ned heard Conor sigh heavily, and felt guilty for calling him. "That's a bit hard to misread." Conor's voice was steady, and Ned felt like he was conversing with a disappointed father—he has enough of those. "He doesn't deserve you."

"What?" Ned's voice seemed to drop an octave.

"Well, someone had to say it! Your parents won't so I will, he's a slag. He's just like your typical college student: drunk, weary, and idiotic." Conor's voice wasn't raised, yet it still cut like a blade and Ned could feel hatred resonate. "Look, I just moved. So, if you need a place to crash then you're welcome here."

"Really? Even though-"

"Even though, what?"

"Even though I'm a whore."

***

A couch, two beds and a dining room table. To say the least, Conor's new apartment was becoming a home and he hoped it would soon be splendid for his son. He relished in the beauty, well, until a loud snore broke him from his intense daze. Flecks of orange hair popped out from the pillow that Ned had unconsciously stuck over his head. He lied, splayed out, on the new couch Conor had gotten from a garage sale. He refused any blankets, but happily placed the pillows anywhere he pleased—including his face. His nose smashed into the couch must be creating the new, horrible snore that sounded oddly like a buffalo.

Little Ned calmly walked in and sat down, criss-cross-applesauce as he would say, in front of his sleeping father. He watched. He'd been doing this everyday for an entire week, unable believing that Ned had stayed this long. "Dad?" Little Ned spoke in a tiny whisper, " I overheard you saying to Mr, Sherry that you think Daddy is sick. Is he?"

Dreading his response, Conor looked at the floor rather than his son. How do you explain mental health to a child? More importantly, to a child like Ned who loved the entire world around him. "Yes. He's sick because he doesn't see himself right, but with care and time he'll be as good as new." Conor replies, faking a bright and happy smile. Truth was , he wasn't entirely sure. He wasn't sure how long Ned had felt this awful, nor if he even realized that his way of thinking was flawed. Conor was always a strong supporter of people struggling with mental illnesses, well the idea at least. Truth was, he'd never truly dealt with a person who was mental sick, rather than physically, and he was frightened. Not of Ned. Never of Ned. Only if himself would do something wrong, or of losing his old best friend.

Little Ned pulled Conor out of his own thoughts by standing and wrapping his arms around Ned—best he could considering Ned was on a couch. Ned shifted, grumbled, then opened his eyes and smiled at the boy. "Hey, Ned." He spoke softly. He looked over at Conor, who watched almost anxiously. "Good morning, Cons." Cons?

"I'm going to go drop Ned off at pre-k." Conor grabbed little Ned. "I'll be home soon." Ned nodded, placing his head back down on the couch.

***

The mirror reflected a monster. The only thing missing was fierce scales, but what was there was bad enough. Ned continuously stared at the mirror each day, trying to find something good about himself, but always ended up critiquing himself. His nose was too long. His hair was too red. His lips were oddly shaped. Some days he thought he was attractive, but most he was ashamed of his own reflection. The man in the mirror was his own nightmare. Home alone, Ned decided to let his walls down a bit. A tear slipped as he though of himself, Zach, the past. He used to feel more assured, but now something felt incomplete and he hadn't felt like Ned Roche since high school. Something was missing. Ned would critique himself in the hopes of finding the missing link, but all he saw was ugly and no magical puzzle pieces.

"Ned?" A deep voice spoke, and Ned violently turned to see that Conor had arrived back. "Ned."

"So much for knocking!"

"The door's wide open." Conor defended, then stared at the colors that bounced in the droplet that trailed down Ned's smooth skin. "You're beautiful."

Ned's eyes widened, and he refused to look Conor in the eye. Why would he say that?

"More than you recognize." He looked Ned deep in the eyes. "Sometimes it bothers me,you know, that the beautiful people struggle the hardest." Conor shook his head, staring at the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom they both stood in. "They always seem to be the most blind." He continued with remorse. "I love you, Ned Roche. Not only because you're beautifully intricate but because you're so critical, yet that simultaneously is your biggest issue."

"No." Ned instinctually blurted, lightly pushing Conor out of the bathroom. "Stop, Conor." Ned begged.

"It's true. Everyone knew it when we were in high school. Heck, I almost got kicked off the rugby team for it. The only one who never realized was you, the one person I wanted to. I never got over you because a little piece of you has been a constant reminder and how am I supposed to fall out of love with someone as magnificent as you."

"Easily!" Ned cries. "Look harder. I'm a mess, Conor!"

"Everyone's a mess." Conor laughed, but Ned's face remained straight and tense. "I have a fucking child and no degree!

"Why didn't you put him up for adoption if you wanted to go to college?" Ned inquired.

"Because I took one look at him and loved him as much as I loved you. Everything other than you two means nothing." Conor assures. "Even when he goes to daycare I miss him, and when I try to go on dates with other people all I think about is you. You two are my world and more." Conor was heartfelt, honest, passionate, but most of all he was being open for the first time since Ned's return.

Ned treks our of the bathroom and heads towards the door, but Conor grabs a firm hold of his small wrist. His eyes sparkle with excitement for what's to come. "I need air."

"We need to talk." Conor respondes, motioning towards the coach for him to sit down, which he hesitantly complied. Conor stood visibly assured, but secretly nearly shook with fear. "I wasn't pregnant with Ned. You were."

"Conor, what're you-"

"Let me finish. When you went into labor you fell and hit your head on a counter. That coupled with the strenuous labor made you forget everything. When you woke up you thought we'd slept together the night before, so no one had the guts to tell you you had a dying son." Conor's voice cracked , thinking about how frail Little Ned was. "He was so tiny. So sick." Conor placed a hand on his reddening face, and choked down a yelp or sob. "I thought he was going to side before the age of one, and all my mates pitied me because my son was trapped in a glass tank barely breathing."

"Conor, you're losing it, mate." Ned shook his head, fearing this was true and he had a responsibility for another being.

Conor reaches into his pocket, pulled out his old leather wallet and skimmed through photographs until he recognized the desired one. Showing it to Ned it showcase a very pregnant Ned standing next to Mr. Sherry at an ice cream parlor. "Mr. Sherry took you after your eight month exam."

"I don't remember this." Ned's voice dwindled by the end, and he was realizing what this meant. Ned looked at Conor. "I had your baby? We have a son?" Conor nodded, scratching his hair as a nervous tick. Ned fell over, hiding his face in the armrest of the couch "No! Everything is awful."Conor was trying to suppress fatherly anger out of understanding. Ned pulled his head out of the armrest. "Why would you tell my this? You selfish git!"

"I just thought-"

"What? That I'd become some housewife and we could have a family together? Fuck you, Conor Masters!" Ned was now right in Conor's face, not noticing Conor was biting his lip—a telltale sign he was going to cry. "I would've done the right thing and put him up for adoption! Now look at the mess we're in, all because you didn't have the balls to disclose important information! I can't be a father, Conor."

That was it. Conor's tear ducts and eyelids have way to river of pent up emotions that his son couldn't know about. Conor was crying so hard he couldn't stand straight, and he grabbed onto his knees for support. His words sounded like muffled screams. "You were going to keep him." He said, then repeated that sentence over and over. "I try my best. I love our son." Conor cried out, dropping to his knees and making his hands into fists.

Ned didn't realize what he would start, and the sight was terrifying. If even Conor was scared, how the hell was he supposed to not be. "Conor." His voice was now soft, barely heard of Conor's abundance of soundless yells. Ned got down on his knees, facing Conor. "Conor, you have to understand. I love you, but I don't even like myself yet. How am I supposed to teach a kid values I don't have?" Ned explained, placing a hand on Conor's shoulder. Naturally, his other hand reached for Conor's face but he stopped himself. Despite that, Conor quickly reached for the hand that was pulling away and placed it into his burning cheek.

"You love me?"

"Well, I loved you. I don't know you anymore, Conor." Ned pitied Conor because his frown deepened, creating a wrinkle in his cheek. "The only thing tying us together is a kid. A kid that I can't participate in the care of." Ned was sincere, he felt nothing towards the little boy. Conor spoke of loving Little Ned from the moment he saw him, but how could he? What did he know about Little Ned?

"You don't have to." Conor was beginning to calm down and collect himself. "I can do this on my own." Conor assures, not quite convincing himself.

"You won't have to." Ned replied. "You'll meet a guy one day that sweeps you off of your feet and takes care of Ned. But, I can't be that person. I'm sorry."