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Whelk was playing with Noah’s hair, “What do you think would be the worst way to die?”
The seemingly out of nowhere question made Noah stiffen up, “What?”
“Just wondering,” he paused, “What would be the worst way to go out?”
There was something in Whelk’s eyes that was either pain or fascination. Noah couldn’t decide which one and he didn’t necessarily want to.
“Probably being beaten to death with my own skateboard,” he laughed relaxing a little bit, “I trust her.”
“That would be pretty awful,” he said as he tightened his hand in Noah’s hair.
(Years later Whelk would be crying and drinking alone. He didn’t do this often. Cry that is. He drank alone almost every weeknight.
Drinking alone was probably the wrong way to put it. Noah was sitting next to him even if he couldn’t see him. No one could see Noah anymore.
Noah spent most of his time now staring at Whelk. He couldn’t help it. Somehow he still hadn’t managed to find a single flaw. If Noah had more self awareness or shame he might hate himself for that. He loved him and he could have sworn he heard a “Czerny” somewhere in the sobs.
He wrapped his arms around Whelk, “It’s okay.”
Whelk just cried harder.)