Chapter Twenty-Two
T his is unreal.
I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this!
My stomach has been in my throat for minutes on end while I pace around and around, wearing a damn hole in the concrete floor. I’m trying not to look in his direction, but it’s difficult.
He’s too quiet…
Trevel is rarely quiet when we’re alone. That’s something I’ve come to realize. He likes talking to me— almost too much.
But right now, he’s been effectively shut up by what’s currently holding his attention, and it’s freaking me the fuck out.
Peeking across the room, I watch Trevel where he’s seated on the top bunk, face buried in a book. Okay, not really a book per se…
My journal.
He’s reading my fucking journal.
And the real kicker is, I’m letting him.
I’ve been ping-ponging back and forth between glaring confidence in this decision, and a nagging doubt— like buyer’s remorse —since I moved aside the loose piece of concrete to reveal my stash spot.
It’s as if those purple eyes can see right through all of my masks and my shields.
Since day one, he’s been able to read me the way he’s reading my secrets right now.
To him , it’s been clear that I’ve been hiding my true self beneath a layer of fury, disguising pain and confusion, and vulnerability… The way it never was to anybody else.
When he promised that I could confide in him, and that he could handle it, this sudden wave of yearning crashed over me, pulling me under. I’ve been dying to open up to someone for so long… To release my demons and let them dance freely. Maybe even… with someone else’s.
The thing is, I don’t need him to open his vault for me to open mine.
This isn’t a quid pro quo situation. After everything that’s happened recently—my friendship with Luthor and Ren imploding, after already losing people, and the general misery that is Alabaster Pen—I’m desperate to drop my defenses and finally let someone in.
Because life is too fucking short, and I don’t want to take my secrets to the grave.
Trevel just so happened to be there, begging for it.
“What’s that?” he asked, oozing curiosity, though he was clearly trying to downplay it.
“It’s where I hide my stuff,” I told him, about the hollowed-out space in the wall. “There’s a… um… a journal in there. And it contains all of my truths.”
He blinked at me, a baffled shimmering elation in those peculiar eyes.
“It’s all in there.” I stepped aside, fear and thrill vibrating through my extremities. “The reason I’m here, the things I’ve done… That journal is basically everything about me that no one knows.”
“Why… are you showing me where it is, Byron?” he asked softly.
I took one last breath to search his vibrant irises for any sign that this was a bad idea, before finally whispering, “I want you to read it.”
That was nearly a half-hour of pacing and self-doubt ago, and he’s still reading. Still nestled up in his bed, with my journal in his lap, violet frantically scanning the pages as if he’s entranced.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
“You know, you don’t have to stare at me while I’m reading it,” he hums, gaze never leaving the book.
“What am I supposed to do?” I scoff. “Go to bed?? I might never sleep again…”
He chuckles, finally prying himself away from my journal to peek at me. “Byron, I just have to say one thing.”
Oh, God… “What’s that?” I cover my face with my hands.
“You’re a very talented writer.”
Huh? My face snaps in his direction.
That’s… not what I expected him to say.
“Honestly, this is really good,” he awes. “You’re not simply writing down what happened to you. I’m feeling it, alongside you. That’s the mark of a talented writer. Evoking emotion and all…”
My chest warms, tingles of heat spreading up my neck and into my face. “It’s just a journal… Nothing special.” Gaze dropping to my shoes, I kick invisible rocks.
“Learn how to take a compliment, warrior.”
When I glance up, he’s smirking at me. I roll my eyes for show.
“Whether it’s a journal or not is irrelevant. This is no ‘Dear Diary, today we had Eggos for breakfast and the guards beat a man unconscious. ’ This is real , deep stuff that you’ve bled onto the page. It’s palpable how honest you’re being within these pages.”
I have to gulp, flustered and hiding it as best I can. “Yea…?”
He nods animatedly.
“Well, that means a lot coming from you. Since, you know… you’re an actual writer and all.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “I write poetry . There’s a big difference.”
“Yea, poetry is a lot more complex than just writing down your experiences. Doesn’t it have to, like… rhyme?”
Trevel releases a rumbly chuckle, his brow cocking at me. “Who told you that? Dr. Seuss?”
I bite back a smirk. “No… I’m depressed. I like Edgar Allan Poe.”
He laughs again. “Okay, I’ll excuse that because Poe is one of my favorites. But no, it doesn’t always have to rhyme.” I give him a questioning look, to which he grins. “You want me to stop and give you a poetry lesson?”
“Not right now,” I mumble, the smirk pushing its way out. “What kind do you write?”
“Anything. Everything.” He shrugs. “I just write what I feel… Kind of like you.”
Inching closer, I stand on the edge of my bunk, pulling myself up by the railing to watch as he dives back in.
I’ve never considered myself a writer . In fact, I never wrote a damn thing before I came to prison.
My interests always revolved around the physical; training, fighting, exercise and nutrition.
Apparently, I’ve tapped into something with this journal… A gift from The Ivory.
Disregarding that odd sentiment, I ask. “Can I read something you’ve written?”
He peeks at me, lips sloped. “The only thing I have written down in here are some random scribbles on the floor of my old cell.”
“Well, hopefully I can check it out one of these days…”
Trevel’s head slants, deep, interesting eyes skimming me over in that way he does… So fucking different from the way everyone else looks at me.
“You’re going to regret encouraging me, Raph,” he breathes. “I’ll be writing you poems nonstop.”
I’m trying hard to fight the awkwardness I’ve felt around him since the blowjob. It doesn’t make much sense. I’ve hooked up with my fair share of people I consider friends over the years in here, carrying on afterward as if nothing happened. I never had any problem looking them in the eye…
I mean, it’s the whole reason the mattress has a fucking hole in it.
But I don’t know, something about Trevel Fenwick chokes me up more than anyone else. He’s this mysterious presence who showed up out of nowhere, flashing that crooked, taunting smirk and restless longing in his purple eyes.
Whatever the reason, I’m sure we can continue fooling around without it meaning anything too serious for either of us. Because if the alternative is not doing it anymore… Well, I’m not confident I can pull that off.
“Byron, I have to tell you…” His voice pulls me out of my thoughts once more. “This book is extremely enlightening.”
My lashes flutter. “Like how?”
“Well, for starters, it directly contradicts your whole I’m straight outside of prison defense,” he sneers, and I scowl.
“What’s your point?”
“You had a boyfriend.” His smirk widens.
“Michelangelo was not my boyfriend,” I grumble. “We were just fucking.”
“Doesn’t read that way…” he sings.
“Yea, well, I guess I’m a better writer than I thought,” I grunt.
Trevel sighs, slapping the book shut and turning to face me. “Look, I’m not here to pull anyone out of the closet. It’s none of my business, other than that I happen to consider you a friend, and I could tell from the moment we met you were begging to finally let yourself out.”
“That’s bullshit,” I scoff. But I know he’s right, and I hate myself for the knee-jerk defensive lies that pour out like a reflex.
“Byron… This is not a coincidence,” he says firmly, but with an air of encouragement. “What are you so afraid of?”
Frustration builds inside me, a rolling discomfort in my gut that travels up into my chest. “I’m not afraid of shit.”
He leans in closer, until barely an inch separates our faces. I gulp, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “Then tell me the truth.”
This reaction is so familiar, it’s baked into me at this point. The fear… I know it so well, and I hate it. I despise that he’s right… They all are.
Everyone who looks at my behaviors and says, “Why can’t he just be honest?? What’s stopping him?”
Because they’re all right. I have no reason to fear the truth anymore.
I’ll never see my parents again. Losing what little love and support I had from them in the first place doesn’t matter.
Let’s not pretend they weren’t already disappointed in me, queer or not.
And honestly, the feeling of being with Michelangelo was good enough that I would have gladly sacrificed their approval to keep it.
They’ve never given a fuck about me. Who I want to be… Who I am .
Might as well be the best damn disappointment they could ever disown, right?
So what if it’s not what I expected? Doesn’t that make it better?
Being surprised by yourself…
“You can do it, Raphael,” Trevel whispers, his hand sliding over mine where it’s holding on to the railing for dear life.
Swallowing hard, my grip loosens. My lips part, and I summon all of my inner strength to just… stop . Stop fighting for lies, and start fighting for me .
The real me.
My fingers slip through his, squeezing his hand as I take a breath.
“I… I think I might be…” I croak, shakily coughing up the word, “Bisexual. I mean, I’m… I am … bisexual.”
Trevel is twinkling from head to toe, his pink lips sloping into a smile that’s just… overjoyed for me. He sinks his teeth into the bottom one like he’s trying not to overwhelm me with his obvious glee, as he croons, “There it is.”
Huffing, I shake my head, rolling my eyes because I can’t not. But I’m grinning , and I can’t stop that either. I physically can’t make myself stop smiling right now. It’s ludicrous.