Chapter Text
-dan-
Spring.
It was spring when my life started to shift. All the formalities I'd held close started to crumble and fade, making way for new patterns. But this wasn't a bad thing. I liked spring. It was the season that brought the flowers back, so any changes in my life- good or bad- could be tolerated.
Flowers had always fascinated me. Even when I was little. There was something about them. Their perfection, maybe. Something I'd never been able to acquire. Every petal had a place to be, and each leaf was organised perfectly on the stem. There was something so wonderfully calming about the muted vibrancy they held.
When I was younger, all the other kids in my neighbourhood used to love playing tag. They'd stay outside for hours, long after it was dark. They'd come back in with hearts racing, faces flushed, and laughter just spilling out of them. But not me. Sure, I'd stay out late too, but it would be away from the other kids.
Whenever I was outside, I was trying to find all the wildflowers I could. I mapped their locations, I counted their petals, and I studied their names. Then, when I heard parents calling, I'd follow the other kids in, as if I'd been a vital member in the tag game, too.
We'd all kick off our muddy boots together, and tell our parents about our adventures. I'd always follow along with the other kids. I'd take their story as my own, and pass it off as the truth. I'd ramble to my parents about how we were chasing fireflies, or I'd tell them how Avery was cheating during hide and seek. And they always fell for it.
Looking back, I sometimes wondered if my introversion was even by choice. Did I enjoy flowers more than the company of others, or did I turn to plants because nobody wanted to play with me?
It was a case of chicken or the egg which I didn't understand when I was little.
But even when I got older, I never really figured it out. I also never really got over the whole flower obsession. That was why, on the first day after our spring break, I had nobody to walk to school with, and a guide to wildflowers in my pocket.
The morning was warm. Well, not really. I could still see my breath, emerging in soft puffs ahead of me. But it was heaven compared to the cold spell our town had just emerged from. It was still early when I started walking. Much too early, in all honesty. Most days I left for school before the sun was even up. That was one of the many downsides of having leg that didn't quite want to work properly. Things just took longer. That being said, it was partly my fault. I refused to use a cane, and I still walked everywhere, so the result was an awkward effort made by my body to compensate for the incapable leg. More commonly known as a limp.
I groaned as my left leg stiffened. It was too early to deal with it. I didn't want to keep walking anymore. I pulled in a shaky breath, and stopped moving. I counted in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. It was my mums idea, actually. She came up with it when I was little. Whenever it started to hurt, and I wanted to cry, I would count. Ten seconds of being sad. That was it. I could only feel bad for myself for ten seconds, then I had to deal with it. Five. Six. Seven. I took in another long breath, and fixed my hair. Eight. Nine. Ten.
I started walking again, letting any protests from my leg roll off me. Time was up. Time to walk.
This rhythm kept up until I was stuck standing at the kerb while I waited for a particularly slow truck to pass. My eyes scanned the ground beside me, and I smiled softly to myself when I spotted a bright purple flower peeking out from the grass. It was the very first flower of spring. I crouched down, ignoring the protest my leg gave me.
I pushed back the grass it was hiding in, and studied it more carefully. Little beads of dew were resting on it, creating tiny prisms, begging for some of the morning sunlight.
"Crocus sativus," I recited to myself. "More commonly known as the Saffron crocus."
I glanced around once I realised I'd been speaking aloud. I chided myself mentally, and made sure not to admire any more plants once I got closer to my school. I couldn't give them another reason to avoid me.
-
The bell rang sooner than I might've liked. I wasn't going to be late or anything, but it meant that I'd have to hurry through a hallway that was swimming with people.
The sea of clamouring voices was probably the most terrifying place in the world, in my opinion. I hunched my shoulders in a little, and clung to the very edges of the hallway, depending on my thin frame to keep me from getting noticed.
I ducked around the people in my path, and made myself smaller. But sometimes even the very best of my intentions fell through. I never found out if someone tripped me purposely, or if I was just clumsy, but suddenly I was stumbling over my own feet. My arms pinwheeled slightly. I didn't want to fall.
Looking back, hitting the ground would've been much easier on me. I ended up crashing into someone else. I grabbed onto them instinctively, trying to keep myself upright. My head was pressed up against their chest. I inhaled sharply, a wave of raw panic hitting me. I looked up, and was met with the familiar sight of green eyes.
"Dylan," I breathed. I felt my chest tighten up, and my heart sink. I allowed the familiar feel of defeat wash over me. He was the wrong person to crash into.
He smiled venomously. He smiled like we might've been close friends. But we both knew that wasn't the case.
Dylan was possibly my least favourite person I'd ever know. He was a year older than me, and essentially the stereotypical bully type. Not that clever, but enough muscle to make up for it (He was the kind of person who always had his shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing off the fact that he actually went to the gym). And, I couldn't exactly deny the fact that he was attractive. Not that I'd ever willingly go within ten feet of him, but sometimes I could almost imagine that he wasn't an asshole. His face just seemed so nice, before you got too close.
Sometimes I wondered what I did that made him hate me so much. He brushed some of his light hair away from his face, and glanced around at his friends. They exchanged smirks.
"Dan," he remarked pleasantly, keeping up the charade that we were friends.
Dylan always went through the same patterns when he was dealing with me. The first few minutes he didn't actually touch me. But he'd lead up to it in the worst possible way. Humiliation. He'd make sure I was bright red and close to tears, with a good audience, all enjoying my misfortune. Then, he'd start swinging. Usually, when the first punch came, it would be more of a relief than anything else.
His eyes locked onto mine, and I scrambled back a little farther, nearly tripping over my feet again. But his hand latched onto the front of my hoodie before I could get away. He tugged me forwards, and pulled me so that we were only inches apart.
"Where are you going, pansy?" he growled. I was so close to him. I could see all his little freckles, and his long eyelashes. He was staring straight at me.
I broke our gaze, but he put a hand under my chin, and tilted my face so I was forced to look at him again. "One of my friends said that you had a flower book, Daniel," he cooed mockingly. "Is that true?"
I tried to squirm out of his grip, but it was no good. He let go of my shirt, and roughly grabbed my bag. He rooted through it. My chest tightened up. I knew he'd find it. I didn't want him to. I really didn't want him to. I considered protesting somehow, but from experience, I knew that it wouldn't end well.
He pulled out the small and faded yellow book triumphantly, and held it up for everyone to see. I'd gotten that book when I was little. Maybe eleven years old. It was mine. Not his. My throat started to constrict, but I fought it off. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
"Recognising Wildflowers, a Complete Guide," he read aloud.
"Give it back," I said quietly, willing my voice not to crack.
He ignored me, and opened it up. I winced as he started to flip through it.
"Guys, oh my god. He's written fucking notes inside this book," he sneered. Dylan held it open for his friends to see, demonstrating the small inscriptions I'd written inside, wedged between lines of text.
It hurt. Or it stung, at least. I loved that flower book. And it wasn't just a guide, I'd turned it into more than that. It was something of a journal to me. Whenever I found a flower or plant that meant something to me, I'd write about it. Make a small record of the event. Sometimes I wrote about things that didn't even have to do with plants at all.
Dylan cleared his throat, and then started reading one of my notes. "Log, April 4th. Today it was much warmer than before, and while in the park I found-"
I lunged for the book, my face burning.
He lifted it above my head tauntingly, rubbing in the fact that I was too short to be any kind of threat to him. "Sorry, you fucking pussy. I want to read this book a little more. It's just getting interesting."
He skimmed through it, and then froze when he reached the first page. "Holy shit. This is too fucking good. There's an inscription.'To my darling Daniel. May you find every flower in the world. Lot's of love, mum.'"
People were laughing. I was ready to cry.
"So your mum gave it to you, then. I guess she's a freak too. It's no wonder you turned into such a poof," he mocked, stepping closer to me.
There was something so horribly wrong about that. About taking something that was mine, something that was intimate and personal, and special, and using it against me. Using the book that I'd poured my heart into to humiliate me. I loved that book. But now it seemed tainted. Or ruined, somehow. I wondered if I'd ever be able to hold it again, without remembering Dylan's taunts.
I felt a blush crawl along my cheeks, as I heard his friends laughing more. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to curl up into a little ball and hide. I wanted to be alone.
Dylan snapped the book shut, and turned to look at me again. "Let me give you a little advice, Danny. If you want to come off as less of a fucking fag, you'll ditch that flower book, alright?"
I shook my head frantically, and reached for it again. He was faster than I was, though. And he had longer arms. I found his eyes again. "P-Please," I whispered. "Please don't."
Dylan held my eyes for a moment. "Fine," he said.
For a split second, I got some kind of hope from his words. And then I realised I'd fallen for it. His thuggish hands tore through the flimsy book easily, ripping it in half. He dragged it out as much as he could, making sure that I saw every second. "This is for your own good, Dan."
And then I knew it was done. He was finished tormenting my thoughts and emotions, now he had better plans. He was ready to make me hurt physically, too. I resisted the urge to grab the pieces of my broken book, and I backed up. Before I could get anywhere, Dylan put both hands on my shoulders, and shoved me backwards until my shoulder blades met the cold metal of a locker. I winced on impact, but kept my mouth shut.
Time seemed to slow down a little, but my heart refused to do the same. I couldn't quite hear anymore, I couldn't focus on anything, either. I knew what was coming. I knew I couldn't do anything to stop it.
"Next time when you're in the hall, watch where you're going, you fucking cripple."
His first punch hit me in the lower stomach. I doubled over from the impact, and my breath hitched. I clamped my mouth shut, and did my best to hold back any sound. It hurt, but it wasn't as bad as I was expecting. He was holding back slightly. I wondered why.
"Got that?" he asked, his voice low and cruel. I nodded a few times, but I kept staring at his shoes, as if not looking up would spare me from my fate.
His second hit landed a little higher- my ribs, to be exact. This time it wasn't a soft blow, either. I felt the wind leaving my chest, a little puff of air just audible. I bit my lip, and felt it trembling slightly. My eyes were starting to water.
"Oh my gosh, are you going to start crying?" he said with a laugh. "Are you actually crying, Dan?"
He slapped my face when I didn't answer him, and the impact stung. Some of my precious tears bloomed, spilling over my cheeks. I looked around at the group of people who were watching the events unfold. They were all avoiding my gaze. I recognised some of their expressions. Guilt.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Daniel."
I met Dylan's unforgiving gaze. He smirked when we made eye contact. Some kind of sick smugness was burning inside of him. He glanced back at his friends, and they laughed more loudly, as if I was the best entertainment they'd ever seen.
And then he stopped holding back entirely. He kicked my leg- my bad one- as hard as he could. It gave out almost immediately, and I tumbled to the ground. A burning pain was shooting through me, and the room had started to spin.
It seemed that to Dylan, there was nothing funnier than seeing me unable to stand anymore. He gave me another few good kicks before backing up a few feet and admiring his work.
I'd curled up on my side, facing away from Dylan and the small crowd that had formed. I was still crying when they left. I was on the floor for awhile, entirely forgotten once I wasn't being hurt anymore. They didn't think of me as any more than a plaything.
As soon as I tried to move, I was stunned with a sharp pain. My leg barely held up at the best of times, and it wasn't good today. I knew that standing up would be almost impossible, let alone walking.
The hall was empty, but I didn't know how long that would last. I knew that any minute a teacher could step out of their class, and then they'd see me. That would mean a trip to the office, or worse, a call home. And I didn't want that.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
After my time was up, I started to stand, but winced as I tried to put pressure on my leg. I held back a sob, and fought my way to my feet. I didn't know where to go. My mind had filled up with cotton balls, or something similar, because I couldn't think clearly anymore. It was spinning. Everything was spinning.
I shuffled forwards, and snatched my book, alongside the pages that'd been torn out of it. I shoved them back into my bag, and started to head back down the hall.
I stumbled, leaning heavily on the wall for support. Normally, I'd hide in the bathroom, but that wasn't an option. It was too far away. I'd pass someone by then. I needed to find somewhere closer.
I peered in the classroom windows as I passed them until I found one with the lights off. I tried the door. Luckily, it was open. I walked into the empty science class, and sank down to my knees.
It was an old room, cluttered with desks and chairs. No real scientific equipment was there anymore. It was more of a space for lessons. I looked at some of the tacky posters hung all over the walls, and almost wanted to laugh. They had cheesy messages, like 'When nothing goes right, go left!' I wondered if teachers believed the crap they fed us.
The second I shut the door behind me, I let go of everything I was holding close to my chest. More tears fell, but I didn't try to stop them. I crawled to the far side of the room, not trusting myself to walk any further. I ended up hiding under a desk. I pulled my knees close to my chest, and I buried my face in my arms.
I was such a baby. Such a pathetic baby.
I tried mopping my face up a few times, but it didn't quite work. I was crying too hard, so I gave up, and just let the tears keep spilling. I closed my eyes
I was alone in that room for a long time. Time spilt by fluidly, and I wasn't really keeping track. The only thing I knew, was that at 9:36, I wasn't alone anymore.
The door creaked open, and then slammed shut with a violent intensity. I bit my lip, and made sure not to make a sound.
At the time, my feelings, my emotions, were cold emotions. It was a big mess, a big puddle of sad, and scared and worried. I wanted to be alone, and I wanted to cry.
But not that boy. His emotions were flaming hot. Like they could burn me if I got too close. Like they could leave scorch marks without too much trouble. Anger, rage, hatred. These emotions radiated off of him. I could feel them, even though was across the room.
I couldn't see much, from my spot under the desk. And I didn't want to risk him seeing me. I pulled my small arms closer to my chest. He was pacing back and forth quickly, probably trying to calm himself down.
He stood in the corner or the room for almost a minute, deadly quiet. His hands were clenched into fists, and they were shaking. I could hear his rough breaths quite clearly.
I thought I might've recognised him. He was new, the one some people were talking about. He arrived just after the break. I didn't know much about him, other than the fact that he looked rather scary, and seemed to be a million feet tall.
It was quiet for another minute or so. Then, all at once, he broke.
At first, it was just a shout. Then it was followed by several others. The boy's voice was cracked and hollow, and full of pain.
He punched the wall, and swore loudly. I recognised the tone in his voice. He was a person who'd been pushed too far. He'd snapped. It all came crashing out of him after that. A few more shouts, and then he was breaking things. Slamming chairs over, tipping desks. I wondered how nobody had heard the commotion yet. He was shouting things, sometimes coherent sentences, other times just strings of curses.
My breathing started to get uneven again, and my head swam with anxious thoughts. I was worried about what he might do next. I was worried about who he might hurt- himself, or others.
And then, he saw me.
Or I assumed so, anyway, because the next thing I knew the room had gone silent. No more yelling, and no more crashing. His footsteps started to echo around the room. It didn't take long for them to come towards where I was. Then, when he was right next to me, he stopped moving.
I didn't look up. I refused to. I was praying that by some miracle, he'd overlook me. That maybe, he hadn't really seen me. I heard him crouch down. I heard his ragged breaths being drawn only a few feet away.
"Y'know, love, even if your eyes are shut, I can still see you just fine."
His voice was less angry than I anticipated it would be. But I heard his voice shake, and it was clear that he was just barely holding it together. He wasn't really calm, I could tell from how sharp his tone was, but he wanted it to seem that way.
I didn't say anything, but I did wipe my eyes again in a last ditched effort to dry them. For some reason, I really didn't want him to see me cry. After I worked up my nerve, I turned my head and looked up at him.
And god, his eyes were just lovely.
He spoke again. "Look, kid. Why don't you leave now, and we can both pretend that we never saw each other, okay?" His frustration was starting to slip, and his voice shook. I knew if I didn't listen, he wouldn't keep his calm much longer.
But I was petrified. I didn't want to move. If I did that, I might encounter Dylan again. Somehow, I thought hiding under the desk would be the safer option.
"Look, I'm trying to make this easy on you. I just want you to leave, so please get the hell out before I lose my mind," he asked finally. He looked exasperated. I felt bad.
I huffed a little, then crawled out from under my desk. I stared at his blue eyes a little more before I had the courage to talk. "Don't make me leave," I mumbled. "Please."
For a second he looked mad again. Like he would snap on me. And then his eyes found mine, and he shared my gaze. After a moment or two, he nodded slowly.
"Fine. Just shut up, okay?"
In that action, we made something of a ceasefire. A truce. We were both aching, each from separate causes, and we both wanted to be alone. But there was something else going on. We were both too tired to oppose each other. And so we coexisted.
I nodded frantically at his words, and pulled my knees back up to my chest.
The boy stood up, sat down on a desk a few feet away from me.
I went back to fiddling with my sleeves. He went back to glaring at the wall, or whatever it was he did.
-
It was quiet between us for a very long time. The room grew an icy layer of silence that almost bit into me. I was too afraid to make a sound. I kept my breaths shallow. I didn't want to bother him.
In the end, it was him who moved first. He slid off the desk, and came over to where I was. He sat down a few feet away from me, and leant up against the legs of a nearby desk. He yawned, and stretched his long legs out on the ground.
"So why are you in here, then?" he wondered aloud, gazing at me very curiously. He'd settled down considerably since before. A relaxed, amused tone had taken over his voice. I assumed that this was what he normally sounded like.
I shrugged, and then looked down, showing off the side of my face where Dylan had struck me.
He didn't say anything, but he nodded in understanding.
"That's a better reason than I've got," he said, his tone bitter.
I stared at him, unsure how to paint my expression into one he wouldn't get mad at.
He shook his head. "No, don't look at me with those disapproving eyes. The kid was fucking evil. He deserved it."
I raised my eyebrows. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not. I didn't really want to find out, either. I didn't understand him. He seemed so honest, and so genuine when he spoke to me. But I knew that he wasn't. The kind of anger and pain he was in- that anger that made him yell, and tip chairs and desks- that wasn't caused by an annoying kid. That was a deeper, and scarier type of anger, which was caused by something much more dangerous. And so as much as I wanted to believe his cheap lie, I couldn't.
He exhaled deeply, and put his head in his hands. It fingers ran through his black hair. "Honestly, if you had to listen to his bullshit for as long as I did, you'd do the same."
I scoffed a little at his words, and broke our eye contact. It was a strange emotion in me. I didn't know if I should be afraid, or if I should feel lucky that I was near someone as astonishing as he was. In the end, I settled on lucky. Not everyone got a chance to be stared at by such stubbornly blue eyes.
He started to fiddle with his hands, and I used his momentary distraction to my advantage. I started to look at him. Really look, really soak in every aspect of his appearance. He was taller than I originally perceived. His legs were clad in jeans- torn ones.
His eyes were my favourite part of him, though. Not just in how they looked, but in how they looked at me.
The boy pulled his jacket off, displaying a plain black shirt. I gawked at his bare arms. They were covered with snakes of black ink, intricate and detailed designs. I wondered how old this boy was. Were tattoos even legal for kids our age?
He smirked at my expression. "Yeah, they look pretty cool, huh."
I tore my gaze away from him, and felt my face go red. I stared at the ground, and made sure not to look up again. Idiot. I was such an idiot.
"Look, kid. You don't need to get all embarrassed. I'd stare at me too," he said with a laugh.
The corners of my mouth tugged upwards. I blushed a little more. I felt like I could laugh with him. Like Dylan and his friends were a million miles away. Like my cheek had never been slapped, and my leg hadn't been kicked at all. I hid my smile under the sleeve of my sweater, and then rested my chin on my knees again.
He stretched, and put his hands behind his head. He stared at me again. He wouldn't stop staring, either. "So what's your name?" he asked finally.
"Dan," I mumbled softly.
It was funny. That one word could be so hard to say. It wasn't as if I liked talking even at the best of times, but with him two feet away, my throat was tight for an entirely new reason.
"Cute name, dork."
I huffed at the mock-insult, but it took everything I had not to smile at him.
"I'm Phil," he introduced. He offered me his hand to shake. I took it hesitantly, and wave of unease hit me. Because even though he had very pretty eyes, I couldn't shake the feeling I got from him. He's bad news. I tugged my hand back, and felt my face drain of all colour.
"Kid- Dan, I'm not going to eat you or anything, y'know," he said quietly.
I made myself smaller. I hunched my shoulders in and pulled my arms around myself tightly. I tugged on the sleeves of my hoodie, and tried to figure out what to say. More than anything, I didn't want to offend him.
"Sorry, I-I just-"
"It's cool. You can relax," he reassured me, a light smirk playing on his lips again. "I'd be scared of me, too."
I hated it. How it was so easy for him to make me flustered and unable to speak clearly. I bit my lip. "No, I'm, I'm not scared of you," I stammered, my voice only slightly louder than a whisper. "I just. I dunno."
He nodded, as if he understood perfectly. "You don't talk much, huh," he observed.
I shrugged. "Some people like to call me shy." Those words were a lie. Whenever people called me something, they usually found much more colourful words to describe me. I liked to pretend that they called me shy, though.
"Yeah, but I don't care what 'some people' like to call you," Phil said. "What do you like to call yourself?" he asked. His tone was surprisingly serious. He seemed almost invested in my answer.
I paused for a moment. "Dan."
I knew that wasn't what he was looking for. He wanted some kind of label or description. But he didn't seem to mind after I said it. He laughed. And he smiled, and I was seconds away from doing the same.
He stood up. "I should probably get going soon," he remarked as an afterthought. "I shouldn't miss my first English class."
I nodded, but his words stung a little bit. It was like there was an imaginary bubble inside me, and being near him filled it up- filled me up- with happy thoughts and warm feelings. And when I found out he was leaving, that made it pop.
He headed out of his room, moving in long and relaxed strides. His bag was slung over his shoulder, and he seemed perfectly content. He was a polar opposite to the boy who stormed into my quiet room just a little while earlier.
I waved at him a little before he left, to which he gave me a final nod before closing the door, and leaving me alone in the dark classroom.
But as lonely as it was, there was still a little light on inside of me, that hadn't quite been snuffed out yet.
The bubble may have shattered, but the fragments didn't vanish. Sure, that strange boy had left, and I was alone. But for those few minutes, someone had seen me. He didn't just look at me like I was the awkward quiet boy who couldn't walk right. No, when Phil looked at me, he looked at me like I was a person. He looked at me like I was Dan.
When I thought about him, I could still feel the little bits and pieces of my imaginary bubble, all floating around in my chest. They were like tiny fireflies.
And I smiled.