“On it.” He nods and steps around me, his eyes firmly on the carpet below. He didn’t mean to suggest anything by saying what he did. It was just mindless banter between friends, but no matter how hard I swallow, the lump in my throat won’t budge. I’ve tried my best to hide the marks on my body, but sometimes it’s difficult. Each week when we get changed for P.E, he uses it as an excuse to check on my physical well-being. He deliberately takes his time getting changed, giving me no option but to undress around him. It’s either strip down or risk being late, and being late isnotan option; it results in a report card being sent through the mail.
The weeks when there are no ugly bruises, his face lights up, and the rest of the week is how it always is. But then there are the times when his gaze will catch onto a small mark or fingerprints, and I know the rest of the week will be spent trying to cheer him up, convincing him that I’m okay. He’s tried multiple times to ask about them, but I just shut him down with a shake of my head before walking away. I know it hurts him to know I’m hurting, but it would hurt him irreversibly to know that the world isn’t as kind as the people he surrounds himself with.
I come over every Tuesday for dinner, and stay over every Friday night. It’s become our new routine; there’s no need for invitation or confirmation, we just know that’s how things are and fall into the comfort of each other's company and good food. Friday’s are slightly different; once school is over, Theresatakes us to the local trading card shop, where they hold weekly meet-ups for all things game-related. It’s like a little haven for us nerds, a safe space away from the judging eyes and mean retorts from peers.
Walking into the kitchen, the smell of homemade stew and dumplings wafts from the stove. The warmth of the room and the delicious scent reminds me of the comfort from an old blanket. It’s homely and familiar, but it’s also temporary.
I side-step Theresa, who’s making her way over to the small table, cradling a huge pot between her flowery oven mitts.
“Coming through with the goods!” She announces, the food sloshing over the brim. Jules follows behind her, each step he takes is cautious and slow, as his tiny hands struggle to hold the three glasses of water across the kitchen.
“Here, let me grab one.” Reaching out, I wrap my hands around the one at the front, but his fingers tighten.
“I got it.”
“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”
“I said I got it.”
We’re standing still in the middle of the small room, our eyes locked onto one another. Julian’s expression is pained, his blue eyes look like infinite pools of sorrow. The thought that he’s upset because of something as meaningless asmyfeelings is like a knife to the chest. I never want him to hurt, especially not on my behalf.
“Let go of it,” I say, quietly. Hoping that he releases his hold on the drink, and his guilt, too. I feel his fingers shift slightly and the cool trickle of water escaping from underneath,but I can’t get a good enough grip on the slippery surface as it slides through both our hands.
The sound of shattering glass, paired with the tension hanging in the air, sets off the alarm bells in my mind–survive. My body heats rapidly, and my heart beats like a war drum as I drop to the floor. The cool water soaks through the knees of my trousers as my shaky hands reach for the glass.
“I’m s-sorry, I’ll clean it. I didn’t mean to, I was just trying to help...” I’m rambling, trying to buy myself some time to formulate a plan. It never works, but it never changes either. It’s the same routine as always; I mess up, I apologise and plead for leniency, yet it never comes.
Something warm wraps around my shoulders, and I squeeze the glass tighter in response.
“Honey, it’s okay. Let go of the glass.” It’s a sweet and feminine voice, in place of the usual cold and rough bark I’m so used to. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t let go, come on.” Warmth wraps around my hands now, too, a familiar sensation that’s soft and tender
“Zander,” his voice seeps in, ebbing and weaving through my thoughts.
His presence smothers and blocks out everything else.Jules?
“Zan, it’s me. You’re okay, we’re all okay.” I look up to see him crouched in front of me, his hands cradling mine. He slides his fingers between mine, and the glass clatters to the floor.
“Better?”
“You’re hurt,” It’s barely a whisper. My mind is preoccupied studying the crimson that’s worked its way under his nails.
“Not me,” he turns our hands and spreads my palm open. Crescent-shaped marks decorate the surface, red beads of blood rolling to the centre of my outstretched hand. “Think you can stand up?” I nod, fascinated by the tiny cuts. Julian holds onto my arms as I push up from the floor, not releasing me as we make our way to the sink. I can feel Theresa watching from the other side of the room as Julian slides our hands under the warm water. I can sense her worry– I hate that I put it there, but I also hate the man who put it in me, too. Julian takes his time, rinsing away the blood and gently rubbing away the numbness.
“Let’s get them dried, and then we can eat. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” Jules takes the towel his Mom offers and wraps it around my hands, squeezing it lightly against my skin until all that remains are a few small grazes, no bigger than papercuts.
We sit at the table as Theresa spoons steaming hot stew into our dishes. Julian’s eyes never leave me, and strangely, I’m ok with it.
“How do you feel about staying over tonight, Zander?” She asks, blowing the spoonful of food.
“But it’s not Friday.”
“I know, but I’m sure Jules doesn’t mind, right, honey?” She looks between Julian and me. He still has his hand wrapped around mine, but she doesn’t care. It’s not something we’re in the habit of doing anymore. We used to hold hands often when we were younger, but as we got older and the stares became more intense, the physical comforts tapered off. I know he needs this contact just as much as I do, so I let him. If anything, hisMom’s face softens at the kindness her son is forever showering me with.
“I wish you could just stay here all the time,” Jules replies to his Mom, but speaks to me. He always knows how to make me feel better, even if it is just a childish dream. Being around him always brings a certain calmness. When I’m losing my grip on reality, he’s the one who slows everything down, guiding me back to the things that are important, the things I can control, and he doesn’t even know it. I refuse to dim his sunshine with my shadows– I won’t be the reason his view of the world, and the people in it, becomes tainted. I’ll do everything I can to ensure he only ever knows kindness– some people are just destined to be loved.
“Yeah, me too.”
