Chapter Text
1.
“They’re going to get their asses beat,” you say, staring over Gregory’s shoulder.
You don’t know the name of the movie, you walked in during the middle, and you’re still trying to string the pieces of it together.
Some military movie, it looks like. A world war. Lots of crying and screaming and clutching each other while the cannons rage. You feel like you’ve seen it before, on TV or something.
“They should just curse God and die.”
You’re quoting something, you think. You can’t remember what it’s from but the words aren’t yours.
Gregory goes stiff, his shoulders tensing. He pauses the movie: two men are gripping each others’ hands, as though they’ll never let go.
Between you and Gregory lies No Man’s Land, the area of couch between you and him, the space between the both of you. It reminds you of that look his eyes take on, when he’s being disgustingly visionary, the area you can’t bridge. What's it like to believe in the good inherent in god and man?
You pull yourself into the area of open couch beside him, force yourself across that blank space, until you feel his shoulder dig into yours as he starts the movie again.
On screen, one of the men presses a golden locket into the other man’s hand, makes him promise to take it back to his mother if he dies. The locket is covered in mud (probably from being at the bottom of a trench) but the gold still shines through.
“He’s going to die, isn’t he,” you say.
Gregory doesn’t say anything, but leans back into you a bit, even though there’s plenty of room for both of you on the couch.
2.
You feel like you’re always on edge, ready to snap someone’s head off if they look at you the wrong way.
At school, at home, at church. “God doesn’t care about you, about me,” you want to shout. “God doesn’t even care about your mangy mutt.”
Half the time, you don’t even utter these words.
What would be the point? You don’t want to be one of those prophets with the sandwich board advertisements on them. Except, in your case, you’re a prophet spreading the word of a god who crushes his children like ants. An anti-prophet, perhaps.
No, you keep your words to yourself. That’s one of your rules.
A knife should only be drawn in a fight, and like a knife, you try to keep your words under your tongue, sheathed.
You write them instead, scribbling in your notebook with the golden fountain pen your mother got you for Christmas. She doesn’t really understand what you like, but you don’t mind using the fountain pen to write.
Sometimes you draw, but inevitably, you fill the pages with words that you try not to speak.
Still, you can’t keep every word to yourself. Especially when it comes to Gregory.
Somehow, he’s enough to get you to draw your knife, go in for the kill.
You always break your rules for him.
3.
The door to the guest room is unassuming. White painted wood with a plain doorknob, across the hall from the master suite (your mother’s room) and the downstairs bathroom.
You catch Gregory in the act of attempting to turn the door knob.
“Don’t go in there,” you tell him, even though he wouldn’t be able to open it.
“That’s the guest room. Bathroom’s through here.”
His eyebrow raises, as though he’s getting ready to test you. He always pushes. You always push back, lockstep. After all, you can’t let him best you.
“Do you have the key? It’s your house, after all.”
You know where the key is. It’s dangling from one of the hooks in the kitchen, glinting golden in the light from the double windows. You’ve never touched it: you’ve never wanted to.
You exhale, a noise that means nothing.
“I could also have the keys to the city, or to the gate of God’s heaven. I wouldn’t want any of those things.”
“Why must you be so complacent?” he asks, still fiddling with the knob. “I’ve never seen inside.”
“You’d like to think it’s all about you, you English putain. Don’t you.”
“Get your head out of your ass. This is your house, and this is your room.”
“No, idiote, it’s the guest room. My maman keeps old dusty clothes, old dusty pictures in there. Why would I ever want to go in there?”
Gregory still seems fixated on the room. It’s a challenge to him. To you, it’s just a landscape feature.
“Pictures of you?”
You laugh, forced.
“I guess.”
He pushes at the door, as though extra force will pry it open. “You French really don’t question things, do you?”
That’s a bit of a barb, but you’re used to his verbal fencing.
“I question why you want to poke through old dusty clothes, all right,” you say.
“And pictures,” he says.
You don’t ask why he’d be interested in pictures of you.
4.
You don’t do after school activities.
Instead, you go to the pond behind the high school, where your favorite smoking spot is.
There’s a flat, oblong stone that juts out over the edge of the water, and despite encroaching erosion, it persists.
You dangle your legs over the water, tapping ashes from your cigarette into the pond, watching as it floats, then sinks, like falling snow. Sometimes, Gregory follows you there. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Today, he announces his arrival by sending a stone skipping across the pond. The splash breaks your reverie, and you spot him, in his obnoxious orange coat, on the other side.
He wears no hat: his hair ruffles as the breeze picks up. You stand up, taking another drag from your cigarette, and watch as he screws up his face in concentration, positioning the stone just so in his hand, before sending it across the pond.
One, two, three skips, before it sinks to the bottom.
You’ve heard a kid drowned here, once, but you think it’s just a story.
“Fag,” you call out. “You want me to show you how to throw a stone, n’est-ce pas?”
“I can skip rocks just fine,” he protests, marching toward you as though he intends to show off right here, right now. What a surprise. He’s always performing, even when he’s on your stage.
“Here, let me show you,” you say, and pick up a smooth stone from the pond’s edge. “Hold your hand flat, and then throw.”
You demonstrate a practice throw, then let your arm go. The stone practically sings as it dances over the surface of the water. One, two, and then it sinks.
You scowl, as his face lights up. Golden.
5.
It’s spring. You know because your mother is yelling at you to get up, dépêche-toi, the yard is full of dandelions and why aren’t you up already!
You fumble your way out of bed, into a shirt and jeans, and shuffle your feet into your work boots. You don’t actually mind mowing the lawn, it’s just annoying when she asks you to do it. Naturally, you take your sweet time going downstairs, ignore your mother when she tells you good morning, and head out into the bright sunlight, squinting into the bright sun.
You’ll give the yard a good look, maybe tune up the lawnmower. You’re not going to get any work done for the next hour or so, especially if your mother keeps her nose out of your business.
That’s what you expect to happen, anyway.
You’re not expecting to see Gregory sitting in the middle of your lawn, his hand wrapped around the stem of a dandelion, getting ready to blow away its white tufts. The dandelions around him nod their golden heads in the breeze. Gregory needs a haircut: his own golden hair is beginning to curl at the tips, which has a weird effect on your chest. You shake it off, and speak.
“You’re up early,” you mutter, and head toward the shed. “Aren’t you worried about getting grass stains on your jeans? Thought fags like you cared more about your appearances.”
“No, that’s just you,” Gregory says, following you over toward the shed. “It’s not early, either, only a Frenchman would think 11 am on a Saturday is early.”
You fold your arms, look at him dubiously. “It’s Saturday. Any time before 1 pm is abhorrent.”
He laughs. “Spoken like a true frog.”
This time, you ignore him. The garage door is already open, so all you have to do is wheel out the push mower, check the oil, and get to work.
You’re willing to start work early if it means Gregory will have to get his ass off your lawn.
He’s already acting as though he’d like to take a seat upon it again.
“You’d better move,” you announce as you wheel the lawn mower to the edge of the driveway. He looks up, as you revv the engine. He doesn’t quite jump, but he does look alarmed. Victory.
“Surely you’re not going to run me over,” he says, but he does get up off the lawn.
However, instead of leaving, he grabs a handful of dandelions, white-headed and yellow-headed alike, and goes to perch on the fence. Not quite victory, but close. The wind stirs his yellow curls again, and you can’t help but tighten your fists. Two can play at this game.
You reach your hands to the hem of your shirt, and pull it up over your head, dropping it on the sidewalk, before pushing the lawnmower out into the yard. You can feel Gregory’s eyes boring their way into your back, and you take a certain delight in lopping off the golden heads of the spring dandelions, row after row, aristocrats at the guillotine. Take that, and that.
You spot dandelion fluff, floating through the air, and turn your head to look at Gregory. He’s blowing at another bunch of desiccated dandelions.
“Don’t do that, stupid Brit,” you say, annoyed.
“That just means more work for me later, they don’t need your help to spread. Or is that all you Brits can do? Spread imperialism everywhere?”
“Look, I’d hardly call dandelions imperialism,” Gregory says, and plucks dandelion fluff from yet another flower’s head. He wafts it toward you with a flip of his wrist: it’s possibly the faggiest thing you’ve ever seen him do.
“Oh no, it looks like you’re going to have to mow the lawn again.”
You could kill the little bastard. You sort of want to. But then you notice your mother is looking out of the kitchen window, so you decide to finish the yard first.
There’s not much yard to cover, thank god, so you finish in record time, even with Gregory breathing down your throat. You wheel the lawn mower into the garage, and as you turn it off, you notice an untouched dandelion clinging to the front of the machine. You pluck off the golden flower, and grind it under your boot.