Word Count: 987

His dorm-room was blessedly empty when Paris arrived, slamming the door behind him in the same way he’d slammed the door to Ladon’s house and, in effect, their friendship. His roommate was nowhere to be seen, but at the moment Paris could hardly care where he was. He preferred it this way. After all, having the room empty worked to his advantage. He could rant and scream and throw his fit of anger in peace.

He was angry at Ladon for being so stupid. He’d know the other boy was naïve, but he hadn’t been aware how deeply ingrained that innocence was in him. It was almost pathetic, would have been if it weren’t so sad. He was being played, used, and he didn’t even realize it. He’d thrown Paris out without even considering that he may have been right, that he might know something, suspect something, that Ladon was too love-sick and blind to see on his own. He’d chosen Billy -- that smug, arrogant, lying a*****e -- over him. After all that Paris had done for him, after the lies he’d put up with and forgiven before, that decision was nothing less than a betrayal.

And it hurt. Deeply.

Looking around, Paris’s narrowed eyes spied a pink plastic cup on his desk, used to hold his small collection of pens and pencils. He grabbed it and threw it against the wall, and though it did very little to alleviate his anger, watching the writing utensils spill out and fly every which way was at least vaguely satisfying.

After that, he went around his room looking for other objects to throw -- shoes, a textbook, his schoolbag, stray articles of clothing. It would have been nice to have one of those snowglobes right now. He thought about the events of Christmas Eve as little as possible now that the New Year had begun, but he had to admit throwing one of the globes against the wall and hearing it crash, watching it explode in a shower of glass and glittery water would have had a greater effect than all of the harmless objects he currently had at his disposal.

He was furious at Billy. He’d felt little for him before -- perhaps an indistinct interest, but nothing more than that. Their one afternoon of fun together had been enjoyable, he would readily admit to that, and he wouldn’t have been against a repeat. Part of him had hoped for it. It would have been convenient, having someone at school whom he could seek out whenever he felt the need, and even somewhat exciting, better and easier, more practical, than sneaking around clubs and bars trying to find someone who’d give him what he’d wanted.

But Billy had other plans, it seemed, and his easy omission of Paris was insulting. He’d been the first, the one to make Billy realize once and for all where his preferences laid, and then he was cast aside, deemed a mistake and replaced with his friend. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, Paris wondered if Billy had planned it this way, but then Billy had never known that he and Ladon were acquainted, so how could that possibly be the case?

In the midst of the chaos and disorder Paris was creating in his room, he saw his journal resting on his desk, golden pentagram gleaming under the overhead light. He reached it in seconds, ripping it open and tearing through the pages until he found the entry he was looking for, stamped at the bottom with a pair of bright red lips. He grabbed a stray marker and uncapped it, hastily scribbling over the bright pink writing in bold, black ******** YOU BILLY ROADINGER

Billy had made a fool of him, had used him and then baited his friend, and made him out to be the bad guy.

Paris flung the marker aside when he was done and continued his rampage throughout the room, kicking over his desk chair and turning to begin tossing clothes out of his wardrobe, tugging them viciously from their hangers, threatening to rend the fabric.

More than anything else, Paris was angry at himself. He had allowed this by befriending Ladon. He’d known it before, that these sorts of relationships with people only led to pain, that one day Ladon would do something, say something, and that would be the end. Had he known it would come so quickly, and yet still be so painful, he never would have exerted the effort, he never would have gotten so close. Somehow, despite his convictions that relationships of any sort always led to despair, he hadn’t thought Ladon was capable of doing this to him.

But Ladon had lied before. Who knew how often he’d lied since then? He could have been playing Paris for a fool all along, and Paris never would have known it, never even suspected, because he’d been blind himself, had wanted and needed so badly, had somehow believed that their friendship meant something, only now it was left in shambles, ripped apart before it had even really had the chance to flourish.

In the end, Paris was alone. His temper dissipated, and he was left in the middle of his dorm-room, surrounded by the wreckage of clothes, books, and papers. He breathed heavily through the pain in his chest, glancing around at what he’d done and thinking of all the things he’d said before and feeling nothing -- no remorse, no regret, just pain. His face felt hot and damp. When he lifted his hands to touch his cheeks, he found them wet with the tears he’d struggled so hard to keep back. This was Ladon’s fault, and Billy’s, and his own.

With a howl of rage, Paris grabbed his journal and pitched it into the corner of the room. Then he left, taking nothing with him, searching -- as he always was -- for an escape.