"And you're sure that she hasn't asked about me yet?"

"Marsh, she's really not in that sort of a state…"

Marshall picked at his shirt collar, fingernails hesitantly brushing up on deep red flannel. Even inside the school building it was nearly freezing, and the bright lighting made his eyes twitch and sting as he clutched onto his cheap cellphone. Technically he should not be on such a device in the school's main hallway, and it wasn't like Marsh could afford to pay his phone bill anyways. Still, he had to keep in touch with Fiona at all times, because A) They were best friends and B) His mom was dying. Anyone who has had a best friend or a dying mom can relate to this sort of an urgency.

"And you'll get me in as soon as you can?" he questioned, watching a swarm of students swish by him. He glared at a few, those who were clearly condemning him for his little sick mom-one friend predicament. Highschoolers are just horrible people.

Fiona was still just outside of the hospital room, peeking in at the sleeping Simone through the doorway. She had her own kind of swarm, the cold faced and white coated kind. The kind with "concern concern concern" sketched in sharpie across their faces, in place of any actual human features. She twirled at that one strand of hair.

"Marsh, I really think you should talk to someone before trying to get in, maybe her doctors were right…"

But he was done playing pushover in regards to these kinds of things.

"I have to see her. You of all people should know this."

Fiona remained unconvinced. "Of course you're going to feel that way. But the question is, are you mentally prepared to see her? Can she even handle it right now? I mean, not trying to be negative, but-"

"I know," Marshall snapped, slapping his phone shut and shoving it into his ass pocket. It was almost time for his first period class anyways. The air was horribly stuffy down each and every hallway, as if the end goal was for all high school students to suffocate and drop dead before the year's finale. Marshall would much prefer death to pre-cal, if anyone happened to be surveying the students' opinion on the matter. Also, the cafeteria needed more variety.

The footsteps came before the body, and before even looking up Marshall knew exactly who it was. Only one person in the entire school walked like that, so much attitude vibrating in each step. Bubba's walk was different, more graceful, choreographed, elegant. Angel, on the other hand, pushed dangerously on the envelope of walking, just bordering the "stomp" aisle. He and Bubba had several similarities, but as far as physical traits they were polar opposites. Angel wore bright, loud colors mixed in awkwardly with deep ones, lemon yellows layered with mute sweatshirts, and ugly brown skinny jeans. It was as if he'd only been dressing himself for the past year or so. (He was just as loud fashion wise as he was mouth-wise, Marshall had previously noted.) Angel was not lean but scrawny to the point his eyes bulged, his nose was flat and he wore his thin hair in a long, loose ponytail, the kind that hardly bore any support at all. Also. He always smelled too strongly of breakfast food.

Marshall wondered what the two could possibly have in common so strong that it canceled out all of his "bully me" traits. And he wondered where he could pick that trait up for himself.

The two boys were exchanging words in tittering whispers, staring right at Marshall as they did so. There was a flock of preps behind them, all following close behind, but not 'stepping on your heels" close.

Shit.

Before Marshall could run, his opponent was at it again, he managed to escape to the bathroom but the boy followed him in, forcing him up against the bathroom wall. At least his friend and all the others had dissolved into their proper places, and at least their proper places weren't the men's room. Though he did wonder why Angel hadn't come with. Did he hate Marshall hat much, he'd ditch his friend over it?

The real question is, why do I care?

Marshall focused once more on his current surroundings, body growing stiff and hot. Bubba wasn't even touching him, not yet, just staring, forcing their bodies close together, not close enough to share friction, but they were definitely sharing warmth. Warmth. There was something intimate about the idea that a whole temperature was reserved for just the two of them.

"We're gonna be late for class."

Bubba's eyes glared on, right through the other boy's face, through the bathroom wall and the classrooms beyond it. He drew in his breaths, a thin calmness surfacing over and embalming his body. Boy liquid. Only the minute Marshall thought it he regretted it, because the two words combined with their setting conjured up intrusive pissing images. He closed his eyes and focused his mind elsewhere.

When Marshall was younger he would sneak outside at night and watch the stars in the sky, he used to have all the major constellations memorized. And in that raggedy boy's bathroom, watching Bubba watching him and feeling soft butterfly hands rise up the insides of his legs, Marshall was a little boy, seeing stars all over again. The new constellations exploded in his mind and skipped amongst their merriment, his body was hot and chilled and calm and nerve-wracked all at once.

The preppy individual had yet to kiss him, yet Marshall was already tasting fresh strawberries.

"Do you hate me?" Marshall asked, surprising even himself by the question. He never thought he'd have the nerve, but ever since Fiona had brought up such a notion it had been nagging at him. He knew he wouldn't be hearing what he wanted, he knew he was setting himself up for imminent tragedy and potentially another bathroom panic attack.

Bubba was equally shocked, dropping his hands to his sides. He was dressed completely sleeveless that day, the epitome of extravagant in a white dress shirt and matte black tie. Marshall wasn't quite sure whether the lack of pink clothing had been intentional or not, and he wasn't about to ask. There was already a hard-hitting question in play.

"I said, do you hate me?"

Silence. The constellations were dying off, the little boy a ghost once more.

"And Fiona said something about your father-"

Bubba's eyes narrowed into small slits. "Don't you ever shut up?!" The prince's voice was loud, too loud, it was likely someone would overhear. The bell for first period rang at last, and it was flaming and equal in its loudness and neither had been prepared.

Marshall had to remind himself not to chew on his tongue again, not when it was still healing up. He'd already been forgetting to do the steps. "H-hey, are you crying?"

Bubba sighed, calming himself with numbers and equations, mini-math aligned inside of his head. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Marshall's right ear. He finally kissed him.

Rough, quick, sloppy. Too much and too little simultaneously.

"Yes," he said, "I do hate you."

It was certainly an oddball way of saying it. But you don't say, "God, what a weirdo" to the boy you're making out with in the third floor restroom at the start of first period. Bubba turned to walk away, to leave the other boy sweating frantically against a peeling restroom wall. The stale piss aroma would be trapped up his nostrils for the next five hours at least. The scene accompanying it, much longer.

Marshall had pulled out his phone again, checking to see if his friend had called again with more info on his mother. He wasn't looking to a repeat a certain little mishap. But his phone had nothing to say. No missed calls, no messages.

"Hey," There Marshall went, surprising himself again. He cracked a few knuckles, waiting for the proper crunch factor to set in. Bubba was just watching him, waiting like he cared what was left to be said.

"Wanna go visit a hospital?"