Chapter Text
Moving was normal, I guess, after the many times my dad had to fly overseas and take us with him, despite hating my guts and constantly telling mom that the marriage was just convenient.
When he finally died we just moved on, but I guess it was just a little bit of safety before my mom took after him. She's never liked me, it's obvious. It was a drunken one night stand and then a shotgun wedding, then me; the biggest mistake of their lives.
At least, that's what they're constantly telling me. Some fag, grunge boy who's never got anything ahead of him except a beating. I never even had to come out to them, or get caught making out with some boy, they just guessed.
Maybe they knew, maybe it's the clothes, the music, the way I sneak out every night to find a better place to stay. Now I sit on the worn down porch of my new house, pondering. I don't even know where to go from here. I've taken a small walk around town, everything seems so... regular; like I'd stand out as much as a sharpie mark on a blank piece of paper. Everyone is so stereotypical.
Maybe it's my clothes they'll laugh at. Or the bags under my eyes. Some boys in Lettermen jackets pointed at me, and some of the older folk looked at me as if I was the devil incarnate. It's probably the scar, or the stick-n-poke tattoos I did while I was high off the weed I got from some stoner in my neighborhood.
I stand from the stairs, creaking as I move, grabbing my satchel and lifting the strap over my head, letting the bag rest at my side. I start off, going for a walk. My beat up Converse crush against the gravel path leading to the main road where I'll walk into the outskirts of town. It's a small place: cute houses, beat up trucks, trees, parks, no large buildings, what you'd expect. It sits by the edge of a forest, making it a nice area for exploration – at least for me.
There's a graveyard just west of the place, mostly full. I like the sit there and sketch. It's quiet, people are allowed to be weird and sad there. It's perfect for a lonely boy to smoke a joint and draw. Currently I lay, grass tickling my neck, Walkman sitting beside me as the music travels up from the cords to my ears.
I feel nothing. Content? Calm? I couldn't tell you. Feeling the need to move around, I stand to leave. Weaving slowly around the headstones to open the gate and step through the fence. The walk to the record store is slow, heavy. I feel weighted, tired.
I can't go home yet, my mother hates when I come home before eight, so I settle on haunting the isles of CDs and albums of older bands. I find... not much, but there are still rows and rows of things to look through.
I settle on a surprisingly newer album by "BATTERY ACID", a smaller band, clearly, but one I've listened to before. I hand the cashier fourteen dollars, all in coin, and head out.
As the door jingles to indicate my departure, my eyes land on a group of people across the street. Boys, maybe my age. I steer my gaze away, knowing for whatever my grunge or alt attire is somehow always odd to 'normal' people. I feel a few judgmental glances on me as I disappear quickly down the narrow alleyway, feeling my cheeks pale.
I step softly down the pavement towards the trees. I decide to stop home quickly to pick up some more of my albums to go on a small adventure. To avoid disturbing my mother, I push my window open from the outside and climb in. I exchange my satchel for my messanger bag, which will fit more CDs; a good switch, in my point of view.
I slide back onto the gravel and continue my journey, many more bands sitting by my side. I choose Kings & Pills to be my next choice, clicking my Walkman closed and putting the earbuds in. The trees surround me, path narrow yet inviting as I hum while stepping my way down the trail.
Rocks click and tumble as I walk, while branches and leaves brush my brown flannel jacket. My attire matches the greens and browns of my surroundings, blending into the woods. It's calm, and the stringy, mellow sounds of the music flows in and out of my head, making the travel just the right amount eerie.
I pick up a few interesting looking rocks, smooth and green, just to my liking, and place them in my pocket. The sky looms an intimidating gray overhead, threatening and angry. I take that asy sign to turn back.
I make my way back to the road and turn a corner. I'm surprised by a boy, maybe my age, wearing a Letterman jacket like before, leaning on the wall.
"Hullo." He greets. He takes a glance at my attire but doesn't seem disgusted or annoyed. I nod politely before walking past him. His shoulders were hunched, eyes narrow, but he seemed to be softer when I arrived. Tense.
Was he waiting for something? Someone? I pause.
"Are you waiting for someone?" I ask, making sure to be polite and not interrogatory.
"You could say that." His voice is deep, soothing, but there's an edge of hesitation. Curious – and slightly worried – I lean beside him.
"You're waiting for someone," I state, feeling sure, "are you ok?" I slide to the pavement, knees to my chest. He follows suit. He looks away, darting his eyes around like a threatened rabbit ready to bolt. A sigh leaves his chapped lips.
"I'm not sure. I... am a bit scared..." He admits, looking at bit softer, more vulnerable.
"What's wrong?" His eyes glance over my frame before deciding to speak.
"I..." He chuckles slightly. "Is this a safe space?" He jokes. I grin.
"Well it depends on what you did i guess." I can see the seriousness of his problem when the whimsy in his eyes disappears. I sober up. Deciding he might need a bit of an out, I take a bag of weed from my pocket, rolling a joint and taking a small puff. I hand it to him. I can see the slight confusion fade before relief takes over. He looks... soft.
I desperately want to touch him. He's been the only one not to look at me like I'm disgusting, that the scar crossing my face isn't the mark of the devil. He hasn't even asked about it or my clothes or where i got the weed even though we're underage - at least I think he is.
I wish to not need to love the first person showing me kindness. I steel myself after realizing I've been staring too much at him, turning my head to look near the trees. I turn back.
"So?" I question, still waiting for an answer. He pauses, looking almost hurt by the dwelling problem, before–
"Im gay." He admits.
Oh. I've never comforted anyone like this... as if I was close enough friends with anyone to comfort them. But...
"Me too." I murmur to my knees. The silence isn't tense, it's void of real thought, but understanding lingers and flows through it comfortably. The smoke from the joint snakes around us, not making us too woozy, but enough to soften the blow of our dealt hand.
"Im Ryan." I state, wondering what his name is.
"Im Sam." Theres a pause in the moment where we look into each other's eyes. It seems like the world stopped. Just for a second.