Bubba has thought skipping class with Marshall would be...unlike what it was turning out to be. He had skipped before of course, on the days he simply could not manage the tidiness of his feigned exterior; but in these instances he was always alone, and nowhere near a hospital for the poor. He was never near a hospital for rich people either. He just didn't like hospitals. However, the sole benefit of hospitals was that no one aside from the nurses was able to lay a hand on him. For this reason there were some nights at home with his father in which the boy had hoped and prayed to be injured enough for hospitalization, a vacation from those fiery hands and razor blade nails, those acid kisses and rotting lilac words. And it was somewhere within these contradicting opinions that Bubba sat himself now, finding himself fatherless down those familiar halls.
Marshall immediately sat down in a sea foam green chair and made himself at home, picking up a worn-out People magazine. It was several years past relevant gossip, but it wasn't as if he'd be able to tell the difference. The prince, on the other hand, refused to sit, staring with ferocity at those bird-print walls. The colors of this particular waiting room clashed horribly, soft baby blues of carpet bled into tan wallpaper. The chairs (excluding Marshall's) were neon green gumdrops, each more crooked than the last. There were a couple vaguely acceptable paintings, but most not properly nailed into place.
If I have to stare at this monstrosity much longer, I think I'm going to need a room here as well.
So instead, Bubba focused his attention on Marshall.
The dorky teen wore the same jeans he always did, and an old baseball jersey that was much too small, probably because he had little to no new clothes to wear, unlike like most of his classmates. Or maybe he just couldn't be bothered to do the laundry. The white cloth hugged onto Marshall so tightly around the shoulder area that Bubba saw ugly pinkish imprints on his skin, and worried that Lee would suffer loss of circulation. Loss of circulation was a real problem that kids these days were always overlooking.
Marshall was drumming his right hand on the nearby tabletop, flipping through the glossy pages with his left. The magazine rested peacefully on his lap, and Marsh gently rocked his knobby knees back and forth, subconsciously performing a mute lullaby. The rest of the citizens and white coats alike wandering aimlessly about these halls did not seem nearly as intrigued by Marshall's rhythmic movements as Bubba did.
As if on cue, Marshall looked up from his outdated magazine, cheeks as red as cherries to be seen in what he assumed was an unseemly state. Bubba hated cherries. He sucked in air through his teeth.
"Were you…checking me out?'
Marshall's thick black hair was actually pulled out of his face for once, and his brown eyes were fully visible. Flecks of uneven color decorated his irises, like a child had been using brown Crayola on their coloring page and gave up halfway through darkening the hue. Bubba had never seen brown eyes with a tint such as this one, including his own. He had always thought brown eyes were prettier than blue or green regardless, and this was just fuel to the fire.
Bubba scolded himself for being caught, for looking and thinking in the first place. At this point you're already metaphorically on your knees. In public, of all places. Lovely.
Bubba's legs somewhat buckled in underneath him, forcing him to follow through and pretend the logic behind such an action was sitting down in one of those hideous seats. And so he sat. Very unhappily so. He was not usually prone to such clumsiness and imperfection, but this particular slip up offended graciously, because it meant he now had no choice but to sit still among the colorful chaos and become a part of its gruesome collage. Once seated, he tapped his foot with authority all the same. He was sitting next to Marshal, but god forbid he meet those eyes again.
"God, you're so full of yourself."
There was no one else sitting in that specific waiting room (unless you count the bizarre excuse for a secretary, who had his own little extended beige office area), which truly was a surprise. Waiting rooms were always full of people. Living, dying, angry and sad. But perhaps when they combined forces, Marshall and his companion had enough anger and sadness to fill the entire wing. Perhaps anymore life in this room and the entire emotional scale would split in two. Bubba tried not to look at the walls anymore than he had to. He selected for himself one of those home decor catalogs, ignoring the split second in which his fingertips mingled with the other's. Now was neither the time nor place. He was working on learning that.
Fiona soon entered stage right, warrior goddess hair tied high above her head. Seeing Marshall's present company, her eyes were all thunderstorm-y again. But underneath those eyes Bubba could see the bags. She had been losing sleep over this, potentially all of it. And he was a guest in this hospital, despite the walls' inability to make him feel welcome. He'd try to hold his tongue. Bubba squinted at a particular image of cabinets with more intensity.
"You can go in now, Marsh," she said, folding two thick muscular arms in front of her chest, "but I'm not saying the same for your boyfriend."
Marshall started to say something, but Bubba cut him off with a warning glare.
"She's right you know, I'll just make things worse."
"But she has to know-"
Marshall was glaring back at him with the same sort of look. What was with him today? Bubba cleared his throat. His eyes were now on some fancy looking towel holders. Now a fairy lit porch. Classically styled dining seats. The curls were so soft they damn near cut just by looking.
"She can "know" when she's healthy. For the time being it's not worth mentioning. Besides, you've got plenty of time." Marshall looked like he wanted to hear more, like he wanted to say more, but Bubba wasn't looking back at him to catch this forlorn gaze. Classic kicked puppy, and no one had bothered to notice. Despite the earlier abandonment, as Lee stood up Bubba caught him by the shoulders and kissed him. Gentler than expected, not the usual dominant forcefulness. Just a quick butterfly peck on his cheek, but still the below-freezing room was now toasty warm and Marshal's mind had exploded into color, particularly a roaring violet, as loud as the ocean and bright as extreme fluorescent lighting.
So he kind of forgave him for the whole "not looking him in the eye" business. Marshall was of the opinion that good luck charms came as actions more than they came as objects, and this incident only rationalized the concept to his hopelessly romantic cranium.
"Good luck," Bubba said, reading his mind, and Marshall almost forgave him for everything this time. He stopped himself only because there were more important matters to attend to. Fiona was still saying nothing, though it was clear she had lots of things to say. Bubba watched Marshall disappear into the hole between wallpaper and felt almost somber to see him gone. He'd have to work on that.