Chapter Eleven #2
If there was anything Trenton believed in, it was the dangers of added sugar. The boy never enabled him like this.
“Don’t want it.”
For such an extreme change, Hilary could come to the only sane possible conclusion: he, or maybe both of them, were possibly dying..
“Yes, you do,” Trenton countered.
It was good. The cold in his burning throat and the sugar.
Hilary had been keeping true to his promise of eating only what Trenton did.
Going the healthy route. He broke the wrapper on the Snickers and took off half of it in a single bite, more tears spilling over as nougat and caramel gummed up his mouth.
He didn’t expect the bookstore, though maybe he should have.
Trenton was making bizarre choices. But they didn’t go through the front entrance.
Instead there was the door beside it, one he’d never really noticed before.
Dark and kind of beat up, the door had no markings other than some chipped paint.
Trenton put the key into the lock and twisted it open.
“Why are we—"
“I don’t want to be interrupted.”
That made Hilary flush, another stupid reaction, but Trenton didn’t seem to notice, pushing at his shoulder. “Get inside. It’s cold.”
The stairs were steep and old, creaking with every step. Hilary could only imagine the racket they’d make in the middle of the night.
“Careful,” Trenton said. “Don’t slip.”
As if he could with one of those giant hands pressed up against his back, shoring him up. He should have tried to duck under it, to slip out and to run. Instead, he took another step forward. And another.
The apartment was dusty and worn out, but Trenton seemed familiar with it. He went into the tiny kitchen and came back with a wet paper towel. “Blow,” he said, squeezing it around Hilary’s nose.
It conjured vague memories of Annette and springtime allergies. “I can—”
“Blow,” the boy said again, the irritation rising again.
He blew.
Trenton folded over the gunk and made him blow a second time. Then, tidier, Trenton set him down on the ratty couch and speared him with frightening intensity. “Well? Will you tell me, or should I grovel? Because I will.”
Hilary didn’t know this Trenton. He’d seen traces of him, but mostly directed towards others. His own Trenton was gentle, a boy who put up with a lot and laughed when others would have been annoyed. His heart was thumping in his chest. “Groveling sounds interesting.”
He said it only as a diversionary tactic—still behaving as if he could act his way out of the mess.
But Trenton was done with putting up with it.
The boy knelt before him, knees to the floor, and took hold of Hilary’s leg to pull off a shoe.
Trenton used great focus, undeniable deliberation, as he raised the foot in his hand and pressed a kiss to the ankle.
“What—”
The next kiss went to the bridge. The sole. Then to the heel.
Hilary was far more flustered than should have been biologically possible. “Stop it.”
He yanked his foot back, but it was too late. His heart was thundering.
Trenton, naturally, was still composed. He seemed to be growing calmer the more flustered he made his friend. "No good?"
Hilary’s eyes blurred again. He couldn’t do this. “It’s dirty.”
“You just showered.”
As if they could use logic here. As if they could pretend that hygiene was all that this was. Except Trenton wasn’t pretending. Those eyes were so sharp that Hilary felt cracked open beneath them. “Don’t.”
“Is it my mouth that’s dirty? Should I wash it? We have soap here.”
Hilary tried to get up. Trenton yanked him back down. “Tell me.”
“I can’t!”
It burst out of him: a poison-tipped arrow. Trenton caught him by the chin. “Then I’ll ask. Hilary, are you in love with me?”
It was strange to think that out of all the places in the world, the wonders and the horrors, an endless possibility of people and locations, it was in this little town, this dingy old apartment, that the world’s only mind reader was sitting there with him. “How long have you known?”
“Since you first kissed me, though I suspected it before.”
It wasn’t really a surprise that Trenton had known.
Well, maybe a little. Mostly because the realization was still fresh to himself.
Then again, it had been in Hilary’s best interest not to recognize it.
His mind was racing with the implications, the fear of what might happen, all the worst possibilities flooding his mind. And then Trenton made it worse.
“There was also—"
“Also?” Hilary’s irritation was so strong he even managed to forget his shame for a moment. “What do you mean, also? There’s more?”
Trenton went pink at the high points of his cheeks and ducked his head. It was a very bad sign. “I wasn’t looking for it. I swear, I only meant to check the exam chapters. I figured you’d have written them down, so I…”
Hilary knew before Trenton pulled it out, the little notebook not much bigger than his hand.
Hilary had been using it as a kind of homework pad.
A place, as Trenton had mentioned, to write down assignments and tasks so he wouldn’t forget them.
But then he’d started using it during reading.
When it was just the two of them together, there was no need to write anything down, of course.
He could just tap on Trenton’s hand to get his attention and read the bit aloud to him.
But during class he couldn’t do that, so he’d write the lines down to share later.
But sometimes, maybe more often than he realized, he scribbled down other things.
Doodles and stupid observations. It was just boredom, his brain spinning idly in the endless class hours.
It wasn’t poetry. As if someone like him could figure out poetry.
But Trenton had been pushing so many of those books at him.
Really, it was all the boy’s fault. Messing with his brain, turning it into jelly pudding.
He took the notebook and flipped it open. What he found was worse than he remembered. The stupid words seemed to leap out of the pages at him, the lines so cheesy he was going to pluck his own eyes out. Things like:
His hands could cover the world, but I pretend they're too small to fit any but mine.
He didn’t actually know the mechanics of poetry well enough to figure out line breaks, so he’d just put the words together like some barely literate baboon.
I say ogre like a prayer because they live longer than men (and one life isn't enough)
He could play it all off as a joke. That was always an option. Except he’d tried to do that back in the bedroom, and it hadn’t worked. Trenton had known. Trenton had seen these stupid words. Why the fuck had he written them down? Had he been trying to get caught?
On one of the last pages was perhaps the worst one, deceptively short.
I never loved my name until he said it.
Hilary couldn’t look up. He couldn’t do anything but stare down at it, the words themselves an accusation. “Shit.”
Trenton said nothing. Waiting. Always so greedy for his humiliation. Hilary sighed. It was better to just get it over with.
“Earlier, when you asked—when I told you to guess. I think of you. It’s always you.”
Trenton wouldn’t show him disgust. However much he claimed rudeness, the boy was a gentleman about things like that. It was like with the kisses. Trenton had gone along with those too. Letting him play out the fantasy. He forced his eyes up. “Well?”
Trenton smiled.
Not the indulgent smile the boy used when he was putting up with worse-than-usual brattiness.
Or that taken aback one for when he surprised him with a rare and clever thing.
This smile—well, Hilary wasn’t sure what to call it.
The smile was almost smug. And it spread, mischievous and idiotic.
And it was smug. Obnoxiously so. Smug enough to have Hilary grabbing for that mess of hair before he could think of what he was going to do with it.
“What’s with that look? You’re supposed to be repulsed. ”
“The hottest person at school has a crush on me. If my head swells any bigger, it’ll pop.”
“What do you mean, hottest?” Hilary’s ears were burning. His face was burning. “Varda’s hottest. I don’t even crack the top ten.”
“They’re nothing to you. And don’t speak that witch’s name. It’s dangerous. I’ll become unhinged.”
“You’re already unhinged. Did you break your head open on the steps when I wasn’t looking?”
Trenton’s thumb brushed his cheek. “You’re so pretty when you’re shy.”
“Motherfuck—”
Trenton kissed him. Not sweet. Not romantic. The boy pushed him over onto that ratty couch and laughed when Hilary tried to swear at him.
“Shit! You’re crushing me.”
“Blame yourself. You’re the one who took me off my diet.”
But the air wouldn’t go into Hilary’s lungs, his heart thundering loud enough to hear outside of his body. It had nothing to do with the weight—only that it belonged to Trenton.
He tried to duck his head, to twist away, but Trenton caught his face. The boy had grown so obnoxiously bold it was making him murderous. “For fuck’s sake.”
“How do you think of me?” Trenton asked.
Hilary pretended not to understand. “My spleen’s seriously going to rupture if you don’t—”
“I thought anything involving sex disgusted you. Is it different when you’re alone? Or when it’s only a fantasy? I can’t believe I never thought to ask."
“As if I would have answered!”
“Why not? I’ll answer you. Whatever questions you have.”
“Why did you let me?” If he really was going to get a free pass—if his audacity could really last that long—Hilary knew what he needed to hear most. “You knew it wasn’t a joke. Why let me kiss you? Why pretend?”
“Was it only pretending, then?”
He’d start crying again in a second. He was so fucking angry. “Don’t give me that shit! I love you.”
“Say it again.”
“Fuck!” he shoved at him. “Fuck!”
Trenton grabbed hold of him, hauling him up like a raggedy doll, and he was no longer smiling. “Does my heart beat any weaker than yours does? Have I not been the one chasing you this whole time?”