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- Freckled cheeks
Bad has freckles on his face.
I never noticed it then, but I know it now. It’s hard to capture these kinds of details through a low-resolution screen. Real-life, on the other hand, comes with a much better image quality.
Bad, whose sunlight happens to give him faintly freckled cheeks (I’ve learned today), extends his arm towards me – my vanilla ice cream cone in his left hand.
He asked for a mint chocolate chip ice cream for himself – which, questionable – but also very Bad of him.
The sun is high and hot as it should be in the middle of June. (If you want to know, Bad’s wearing an old t-shirt with a print of what seems a rock band I'm too young to know or care about). The ice cream melts over my index and makes a quick run for the rest of my fingers. I catch the mess with the tip of my tongue while Bad laughs with gusto. He looks kinda cute. Face spotted with sun kisses.
My heart also melts a little.
- Bluish eyes
Bad said his eyes are green, but I think they’re more on the blue side. If I have to describe them more precisely I would say they’re like this: mostly light blue with flecks of green, specks of gold exploding around the pupil like the big bang.
I once read in a book that old gods have those kinds of eyes, it was a poem I think, but I don’t remember the title.
“Your silence is loud, you’re doing this on purpose to distract me”, Bad whines, a black piece of chess brushing over his thoughtful bottom lip. The knight he gained from me two plays ago.
I adjust my stance on the carpet, uncrossing my legs and sinking my buttocks on my heels. He’s the one distracting me. “I’m as quiet as a mouse so you can concentrate”, I retaliate, so I don't have to confess the reason for my contemplative silence, “you take a gazillion years to make one play. I can feel my hair turning white. Follicle by follicle by follicle”.
Bad grunts, because of course he does.
“It’s not gazillions, Skeppy”, he rolls his pretty eyes, gold stardust tumbling inside them, “it’s bazillions.”
“Dude,” sigh, “they’re both made-up words.”
“Every word is a made-up word.”
“Just play, please!”
The old gods of the old poem maybe hear me, because Bad slides a pawn on the chessboard and doesn't take another twenty years to do so.
“Your turn”.
I look down, studying the pieces displayed on the board. A light breeze grazes my temple – the fan spinning left and right, slowly.
I look up, studying Bad's face. His eyes are almost dark turquoise in the warm afternoon light.
“Stay still”, I ask, closing my hand around the edge of the wooden table, leaning forward.
Bad flinches half a millimetre when I brush my thumb over his cheekbone.
“Sorry. Eyelash.” I press it in between two fingers. “Make a wish”.
“Make a wish that doesn’t take a bazillion years”, I clarify, stopping myself from giggling.
Bad makes a frown that lasts a good ten seconds. "Done".
“Up or down?”
“Up.”
“Down.”
I lift my index finger; the single eyelash stubbornly clinging to the curve of my thumb. Bad pouts. It’s times like these I would like to be a knockoff Magneto able to control the magnetic field of eyelashes.
“I hope your wish comes true, ‘Geppy”, I know he means it, his smile sincere.
I don't have the heart to tell him I didn't ask for any.
“It already has”.
- Awful wardrobe
There’s no nice way to say this: Bad’s wardrobe is an offense to humankind. And it's not just because it looks like he went to the thrift store and bought the personal collection of some emo kid that resigned the all-black-clothes-lifestyle, no. Besides the six black shirts and the four black jeans he possesses (oh, God, oh, no, pajama jeans), he’s also the proud owner of nearly all the DSMP merch.
There’s also a plastic box pushed all the way back to the back of the closet with Lucy's whimsical clothes, but we don't talk about that.
Bad’s taking a shower and I'm trying to not catch a cold, while in charge of finding a piece of clothing warmer than the t-shirts I brought. In my defense it’s june and California was as hot as an oven last week; not my fault the summer backtracked almost as soon as I entered this man’s house.
I run my fingers through the hanging clothes, hoping to find something that feels right. In between black fabric and minecraft themed hoodies I choose a forest green sweater with a roaring bear on the front. It’s soft to the touch and it smells like washed laundry.
“Can I wear this?” I yell towards the bathroom and describe the sweater to Bad. He says yes.
I squeeze my head through the collar of the sweater. It’s a little bit oversized but fits nice.
“Where did you find this?”, I yell the question towards the wooden door, again.
“Huh? Can’t hear you, Skeppy!”, he shouts back.
“Can I keep it? Like, as a memento?”
“What?”, the sound of running water stops.
“Nothing, just say yes.”
“Didn’t understand a single thing…” he is interrupted by what seems the sound of a shampoo putting an end to its misery, “oh gosh darnit!, whatever, yes.”
Alright, it’s mine then.
- Warm skin
Remember how I said summer was having a bit of an identity crisis? Yeah. I don't think it made up its mind yet.
It drizzled all day and, as soon the sun went down, it got chilly. Luckily, Bad’s the type of person that was blessed with warm skin. We all know a guy that has the mystical power of keeping his hands warm even in winter and I just found out Bad is one of the chosen ones.
As Peter Parker once said, with great power, comes great responsibility.
“Your feet are freezing cold, shooo”, of course, not everybody wants to share their great power with others.
I make a pitiful plea with my eyes, but I think it's too dark for Bad to be moved by them. I resort to another tactic. “Baaaad.” I fake cry. “Don’t be stingy. I’m just a poor boy, looking for a little bit of heat”.
Bad turns on the bed, the springs squeaking. I think my plan worked because when he talks his voice is soft. “I’ll get you socks, ok? Just leave my shins alone”.
“Socks?” I try my best to muster the outrage in my voice. “Who is the freak that can fall asleep with socks?” Bad doesn’t answer. See, at times like these I would tease him about that, but right now my feet are too cold and his skin is the right amount of warm, so I behave. I wag my legs under the sheets, five of my little fingers touching his leg. Well, I kind of behave.
“Skeppy!” He hisses but doesn’t move back. “Wanna go sleep in the guest's room?”
I tremble with exaggeration.
“Please don’t. The spider will kill me if I don’t die of frostbite first.”
As a matter of fact, there’s a giant spider in the guest’s room, I saw it, and, even though Bad swears he saw nothing, I know it's hiding somewhere, ready to attack as soon it gets the chance. Now, until the creature is found – dead, preferably, or alive –, we share a bed.
I think Bad takes pity on me, since he mutters a "fine" and doesn't protest when I put my foot next to the other.
It smells like lavender, the cotton is soft on my skin and my feet are getting warm.
“Bad?”
“Yes, Skeppy?”
I smile, cozily.
“My hands are cold too.”
- Long goodbyes
All good things must come to an end. But if it's sweet, it's just human nature to want to make it last. Maybe that’s why Bad likes to take his time with goodbyes. I still haven't decided if it makes him very good at them or very bad.
“Message me as soon as you arrive.”
I grip the rough strap of my bag. People move like ants inside the airport; ants pulling red suitcases and carrying dark backpacks. Someone is speaking on the loudspeaker in a different language, it seems, but we're in our own bubble right now.
“Do you have your ticket?”, I nod. “Have your power bank in the bag?” Nod again. “Good.” He reaches over, tightens the collar of my denim jacket, adjusting it to my shoulders. “Don't get cold on the plane or you'll get sick… why are you wearing my scout sweater?”
My travel bag makes a tunk as it falls to the floor. I launch myself forward, wrapping my arms around Bad. His cheek is warm against mine and he smells of aftershave.
“Gonna miss you lots and lots, Bad.” I hug him tighter, resting my chin on his shoulder. “Thank you for having me, sorry I brought the cold, and please visit me soon.”
After the initial shock, it takes less than a blink for Bad to rest his hands on my back.
“You didn't bring the cold, you're too much of a ray of sunshine for that.”
I laugh so I don't cry. I hope he enjoys my hugs as he enjoys his goodbyes.
“Take good care of my sweater, I'll want it back.”
It’s human nature to make things last but, no matter how strong your will is, time keeps passing and planes keep landing and it’s time to return.
* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。* 。 • ˚
My hand is open in the air; the initial turbulence takeoff is over and the padded plane seats are not that uncomfortable. I start counting on my fingers the new things I’ve learned about Bad, so I don’t forget.
The little finger is for his little freckles, of course.
His eyes, mimicking the northern lights, I’ll remember on my ring finger.
I’ll give the middle finger to Bad’s very questionable (read: nonexistent) fashion sense, for obvious reasons.
My index finger is for his warm skin, warm hands, warm cheeks.
And finally, my thumb is to remember his long goodbyes; the gentlest finger to wipe his teary eyes.
One day I’ll know more details about Bad (do his cheeks turn red with the winter breeze?; does his hair get a shade darker?), until then I can count them on one hand.