When Dylan Grey first decided that life was gloomy and ridiculous, it wasn't by any accounts on a serious note. But when you're young, everything is serious; catching the curious gaze of a crush is the equivalent of disarming a nuclear missile and he knew it.
And dinner at his favorite pizza place being cancelled was the equivalent of the world ending because he would be there. And he needed to see him, or else he'd die. And the golden lining on his curtains rustled as the door of his room slammed shut, and then again, lightly, as he fell onto his bed and groaned is exasperation.
He was 11 and his life was over.
A few years later, upon starting high school, he was solely excited because he would finally see him again, because he had finished middle school a year before him and they had rarely seen each other. So he stayed up all night writing their names in his journal.
Tiny "Dylan Grey"s next to large, cursive "Elliott Lynch"s and he swore his passions were of the most innocent persuasions but sometimes he wanted Elliott to mark him. And sometimes he stayed up and wondered what his skin felt like. Because he hadn't seen him in a year.
And when he got to school the first thing he did was look for him and there was a curious wonder in his eyes as he stared at the tall kids and compared them to his fellow first year midgets. And he fidgeted in place and shifted his feet until he saw a mess of curly hair in the back of the hall and he fucking bounced.
A million thoughts raced through his mind and he asked himself if Elliott would even recognize him. He had to, he assured himself, they were the only two people in the hallway clad in pure black, they were like a necrosis forming on the community the school held.
Just as he was managing to calm himself down, eye contact was made, and Elliott made a beeline towards the boy who, slowly and nervously, kicked a bottle cap he was sure someone would get yelled at for just tossing on the floor.
When he made it over to him, Dylan finally took a good look at him. He grew taller, if that was even possible, and his face shaped up nicely and he looked absolutely menacing, especially when he drove him up against the wall, probably not on purpose as Dylan kept backing away himself and Elliott leaned up closer.
"You look good," was all he managed and the sun shone through the window, illuminating the wall across from them, "did you change your number?"
And all the other did was gesture to his arm, so Dylan Grey pulled his sleeve up as if he was getting a booster shot, and Elliott kindly ignored the parts he wasn't proud of in favor of running his fingers idly along the skin, making Dylan shiver a bit, before he pulled out his marker and wrote his number on Dylan's arm.
He didn't have his contacts in but he could easily make it out as it was quite large but he was absolutely sure the only thing it said was 'claimed' and he was pleased.
Throughout the week, the golden lining on his curtains rustled more and more and he was sure there was rustling in his stomach as well.
It rained on Saturday and he was sad. His heart ached with a need to see Elliott again but it was raining. And if it didn't stop raining, he swore he would die. But his phone rang and everything was okay when Elliott Lynch invited himself over.
They watched horror movies and he wrote his name on Dylan's arm and yes, this was what he had been waiting for but somehow he felt something was missing.
And that night he felt sad again and sad is a mist that makes the room stuffy and sad is an uncomfortable silence only you can hear. And his life was backing him into a wall and he wondered what he actually wanted. Was it okay? He thought about this as he idly scratched the scars on his side and yawned at the ceiling.
2AM
And the phone rang.
"I need to tell you something," the voice was obvious and Dylan Grey keened lightly and hummed in agreement into the phone as Elliott continued, "look, I," he paused, "I can't really tell how the world works or anything but like," and he paused again, "I… that one word, you know the one. The one I said was stupid in 8th grade when we made fun of jocks on Valentine's day. That one," he knew what it was and his mouth was open but his voice crawled into the pit of his stomach and his chest was hollow. Elliott took the silence as a prompt to elaborate, "you're just… everything they're not, y'know? I mean I don't hate you and you've never made me wanna shoot up. So I guess I mean… you know what I mean, right?"
The question tore Dylan from his thoughts and he messed with the red in his hair while he pondered the answer and looked for his voice.
"Yeah," he finally managed, small and raspy. And then, "me too."
If anything, that only made him more restless, and he spent the night wondering about emotions and people as he looked over the marks on his arm from where Elliott stubbed his cigarettes out, trailing over them gently with his fingers.
He saw little peeks of sunlight while he twisted and turned, wondering if the rustling in his belly entailed something more than he first thought. Wondering if he was in too deep to notice what he was even feeling, maybe the hollowness in his chest meant he couldn't handle it.
He wrote their names idly in his journal and a heart made its way onto the paper when he realized backing off would tear him apart. He turned over.
And dove deeper.