There was the new boy in his class whose uniform looked dirty. John was lucky to even get his laundry done sometimes, skirting around his father to keep up his own appearances. The teachers would start asking questions if he had to roll up his sleeves to avoid stains – only to reveal the bruises around his wrist. Everyone had to look tidy. Yet, no one asked about the boy who sat in the back, chewing on the cuff of his dress shirt and staring at nothing. His eyes were always wide, long hair pulled back into a ponytail until, one day, it was simple cut and left as an uneven shag.
It was how much John studied him that made him feel uneasy. He never looked out for friends, or really bothered to collect them. They saw him as different, talking to people when nobody was there, finding any and every excuse known for why his schoolwork would suddenly go missing. He had no intention on passing his tests, and other students could tell. They avoided him like the chicken pox, knowing their parents wouldn't want them to get mixed up in his antics.
This kid, this stranger with the worn cuffs, who barely talks and – when he did – could hardly be heard from the back of the room, was the only one who watched him on the playground with a glimmer of intent in his wide eyes. A solid year of over-the-shoulder glances and staring contests across the lunch hall passed before the boy, who introduced himself as Gary, sat down next to him on the blacktop. He was holding his backpack strangely, and John could see one of the straps was worn to the point of snapping. Their books being hauled to and from home would do that to a boy's back.
Silence passed between them as they watched other students be picked up by their parents. The supervisors stepped around John and Gary, mild inconveniences, never once asking where their parents were. Both boys knew they'd be here until it got dark, before someone remotely cared. They stood simultaneously and turned their back on the road. They walked off in different directions, looking over their shoulders now and then until the other was out of sight.
That following day, in the restroom before classes began, Gary suddenly cornered John in his own stall. It was an abrupt invasion of privacy, and he felt a twinge of pain as he zipped up too fast. There was a muffled confusion as Gary set his backpack on top of the toilet. They were close, close enough for John to hear the skip in each breath this kid took.
I've got something, he said, pulling a black videotape case from his bag. John's own eyes widened. They both knew what that was– and it made his heart leap. It was at school– they'd get into so much trouble if it was found. But it was that day that John told Gary to follow him home. They had a VCR.
† † † † †
Gary became a frequent visitor with snacks and movies and music to spare, but most nights, his hours were cut short when John's father was convinced the boy had tracked fleas in to their home. It was either this, or a flurry of many other insults and excuses for him to leave. John wasn't sure if his father had a genuine problem with his knew friends, or if his father enjoyed that shred of dismay in his son's face as Gary began to pack his things. However, his parents weren't confronted by Thomas about any of this, so he assumed the latter. It felt all the more easy to just throw Gary back outside, like the mutt he thought him as.
Despite their parents opposing views of the children's new friends. They went through gradual changes together as those years passed. Instead of remaining unkempt and neglected, Gary became well attended to; clothes began to fit him properly (John took notice), and his knack for the traditional arts began to grow. John was often fascinated by his sketches, encouraging him draw on walls and learn graffiti. It was Gary who had colored John's arm one day at school in a fake tattoo; one that earned him a clap across the head by his teacher and, much later, much harder, his father.
As these changes swelled, something new sprung between these boys. They were teenagers, still prone to reaching for one another's hand during any sign of danger or wariness. They walked home together, the same path, surely stopping in every alley to talk in low voices as smoked a fag or two. They always spoke close, passing smoke between one another, lips close enough to touch, but never thinking about the consequences of being so open. No one bothered they two on the matter – they were hardening their shells, soon pinning their ears and shamelessly wearing pins from the London Underground on their lapel. Those who didn't know any better assumed them a petty gang.
They were too lanky to take on any fights, the only scraps they ever had were among themselves, resulting in something rather heated by the end of the night. Something Gary was left to sneak out in the morning to get home, sort of thing. They discovered scars and bruises from the passing days, touching and kissing and petting whatever undamaged flesh they could find. Whatever they needed for protection could either be conned off younger fellows in the underground, or stolen from his father's dresser. And it left John restless to watch Gary leave; knowing that what they did together would only raise more questions than settle.
To be caught meant the harm of one of them, perhaps both. Thomas was usually drunk around seven in the evening, after tea was properly cleared up. With the evening came bevvy. Maybe he was older, but Thomas treated his son like a child and a burden. Often asking when he was going to get a bloody real job, rather than bumming smokes off the band that came out of the pubs. Nearly seventeen now, he and Gary were both in over their heads with alcohol. Their curiosity was not in the business world! They wanted to experiment with hard drugs, chicks (although that plan fell through early on), and any car they could get their hands on! They were planning to be different.
Gary was the first to get a car, making late nights out easier to achieve. Thomas knew John was fearful enough to get home at all, no matter the time. So long as they were found in bed. However, one morning, it was a shame to say the two were found together, tightly coiled, visibly content. Gary was dragged out by the throat and thrown out into the streets with his clothes. John, despite his frantic excuses and petty attempts to calm his enraged father, got the short end of the stick.
They were ones to miss class every now and then, but not for an entire. Seeing John out that following day only made him anxious. Their finals were coming up and, yes, they were a bit rebellious at their point in life, but Gary's parents had become a bit more expectant of him. Getting in through John's window that night proved to be a chore, but once he saw him – it was clear why he avoided school that day. Their following nights together consisted of quieter voices and softer hands. They could promise one another the world and come up short in their own ways.
It was only when they could hold one another's hands, could the nightmares be put aside. No dark thoughts, only magic in their hearts, between their touch. Poetic, Gary might say, in response to John's attempt at romanticism. It wasn't in his blood; not with what he had seen of his father. They were different– a new age of pathetic morose beginnings. At least they had one another.