"Tell me a story."
"A story?"
"A story."
He coughed and inhaled yet more of the dust from the disused classroom. "Um. Okay. Let me think."
The other boy crawled over to him and gently touched his cheek. The impossibly pale hand seemed translucent against his own dark skin. He felt a breath against his ear. "Take as much time as you want," the breath whispered. "You know how much I like stories."
An eternity later, he started his story.
-
"There once was a boy," said the boy.
"A boy, Dean?"
"A boy. And the boy lived in a glass house."
His companion giggled and let out a mock gasp. "Oh! Don't tell me he threw a stone!"
"Shh, Draco. The boy did throw a stone."
"And he turned into a fish?"
"He didn't turn into a fish."
"Oh, what a shame. He would've looked fabulous as a fish."
Dean snorted. "What is it with you and fish?"
Draco smirked at him. "That's for me to know…"
"…And no one else to ever find out. I remember."
"You're learning!" Draco nodded at him. "That's good, now you just need to understand the fish."
"Draco, love, I'd have to be insane to understand the fish thing," chided Dean.
"Hey, worked for me. I thought that's what we were supposed to be doing, anyway."
"Be insane? You're better at it."
"I'm the best, darling. Of course, it helps that I am." Draco rolled away from him and pulled himself up onto the desk, reclining on it as if it weren't dusty and hard in the slightest.
Dean began to feel a bit uneasy. "You're not insane."
Draco inspected the ceiling. "Fuck that," he snapped. "You know I am. You know you're going to be joining me soon."
"No." Dean shook his head. "Neither of us is insane. It's just a game. A damned stupid game."
Draco regarded him coolly. "You didn't know we'd stopped playing? Bullshit."
Dean felt prickles behind his eyes. He kept shaking his head. "Draco… god, how'd we end up like this?"
"Like what?"
"You know like what."
Draco was back to staring at the ceiling. He shifted and a paperweight was nudged off the desk. It fell on the floor with a clunk. Dean could tell when he was about to speak by the faraway look he got in his eyes.
"Well, there's the bit where we're both incredibly fucked up."
"Yeah. I know that bit already. Fast forward."
Draco gave him a look. "What?"
"Nothing. Go on."
Draco shrugged and sat up, swinging his legs. "Juvenile delinquent meets misunderstood loner… well placed racial slur from yours truly, and BAM!" He grabbed the paperweight from the floor and slammed it down on the desk, hard. Dean flinched. Draco leered at him. "…Instant pot of madness and masochism. They should write a book."
"We could write a book," said Dean.
"Nah," said Draco. "We'd have to be lucid for that."
"We're pretty lucid right now," Dean pointed out.
Draco was silent a moment. "Oh. Damn, you're right." He grinned. "So, how about those fish? Think they'd be good eaten raw?"
Dean shook his head again.
"Oh, come on," said Draco. "They could never compare…to…you…" he said, starting to breathe erratically. He hopped off the desk and threw himself on top of Dean, knocking him onto his back. The cold stone bit into Dean's back.
Draco kissed him harshly, one arm coiled around Dean's head. "…Raw…" Draco finished with a hiss.
Dean pushed him away. "No, Draco. No… we can't do this anymore."
"What?" he asked, sounding shocked.
Dean reached out to take Draco's hand, but Draco yanked his hand away like Dean had burned him. "Draco…"
"WHAT?" he screamed. "No, Dean, no, you don't understand, there's nothing else…"
"There is, Draco. I may not've lived it, but I've seen it, it's possible. Look at… look at Harry, or Hermione, or… you know? They're heroes almost."
"Even heroes have nasty little fish in their bed. Nasty… little…fish." Draco glared at him. "Dean… finish your story."
"My story? Now?"
"Yes. Now."
"I… uh…"
-
There once was a boy. He lived in a glass house. It was a pretty glass house, and it reflected the sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. The light was so bright that it scared people, hurt people. It was safe for the boy, and kept other people away. If people kept away, they wouldn't see the boy. They wouldn't see the shiney little red bits inside him and the glittery eyes and the ivory bones and the heart going eat bee beat eat bee beat inside him.
The boy was safe. So safe he was restless and reckless and scared. He didn't want to leave his house at first, not really. As time wore on, he grew too big for the house. He felt cramped, and no one could see to let him out. The walls kept pressing in on him, grinding his thoughts together in a jumbled muss.
One day, he found a rock in the corner of the house. Somehow, he knew the rock was all his doubts, all his fears, all his hopes. They were in the rock, around the rock, they formed the rock. Had the rock been attracting them? Taking them into itself, all the nigglings and nagglings and little little thoughts? Had it been there all along?
As he held the rock, he felt all of it come crashing down around him. He couldn't stand it anymore. He didn't want the house around him, he didn't want the rock, he didn't want any of it.
He threw the rock away, anywhere, just to make it stop, and it hit the wall of his house. The glass shattered, the house fell down, and he walked away from the ruins. Free.
-
Draco was silent again.
"Well?" asked Dean.
"Stop," he said.
"Stop what?" Dean tried to move closer and Draco shied away again, glaring at him.
"Stop trying to save me," he hissed. "See, I heard a story like that. Except when the boy threw the rock and the glass shattered, the glass turned into flying shards like silverfish and stuck in the boy everywhere like spines, and he bled, and he bled, and no one could hear him scream, because they couldn't tell the difference between his shining scales dripping blood and the glass house. I believe in that story. Your story is a fairy tale. Your story is a bedtime story for little girls, little girls who don't know yet that the world cuts."
"No," said Dean. "No…"
Draco climbed to his feet angrily. "And I heard another story. There was a boy, a boy, and he didn't live in a pretty glass house, but an ugly dull mud one, and the boy was brown and the house was brown, and people weren't dazzled, they just expected it. They said, 'look at the mud boy,' and they saw and they saw and then they looked away. Does this seem familiar, Dean honey?"
Dean had the prickling behind his eyes again.
"Oh, but I'm not done yet. You see, this boy, he was happy in his mud house, where everyone adored him or abhorred him and then ignored him. But then he met a boy made of glass and he got stupid. And the boy made of glass loved, loved the boy made of mud but he knew he didn't know how to love and that he didn't really. But the mud-boy got cut by the glass and there was more blood, and everyone saw and they were surprised that the boy didn't bleed mud, but red roses, and then they looked away again. They all looked away, they didn't see, they didn't really see. They just looked up at the jagged sky and down at the ground and didn't see in between."
Dean realized that the prickling had become tears, cutting channels down his cheeks and dripping onto his chest. "Draco, stop."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't. Can't stop. You can't… can't save me." He turned away.
"Draco, please. God, Draco, I love you. I love you. Please stop doing this to yourself."
Draco stifled a sob and sank down to the floor. Dean grabbed him before he could move away, and tried to get him to meet his eyes.
Draco finally looked up, face clear. "Dean, go. There's cracks, there's cracks in the mud. It might break. Dean? You'll go now?"
Dean sniffed and nodded. "Yeah. I'll go now."
"Good. You'll look back on this and you'll laugh, isn't that what they say?"
"I won't laugh."
"Hey. You'd better." Draco managed a small grin.
"I'll… I'll see you in class, then," said Dean.
"No," said Draco. "You know you won't. 'Bye."
"Yeah," Dean said, and walked out the door into the corridor, scrubbing away his tears with his sleeve.
He could feel something start to fragment.
. . . . .
end