He starts chaffing against the routine after exactly two days. It starts as a faint itch in his mind. He is cross when the nurse scolds him for not using rubbing alcohol on his insulin bottles. He is frustrated when Trent reminds him he has to finish his plate of pasta, even though he doesn't want it, because he shot up before sitting to lunch. He is angry with his father when he is quizzed about his blood sugar.
He tries to find ways to scratch the itch. He grinds his teeth and reminds himself that he has been doing this half his life, and has never been on antibiotics for a staph infection. He jokes pleasantly, or as pleasantly as he can be with his razor sharp tongue, as he pushes the food around on his pate, and slips some into his napkin. He refuses to tell his father, but instead hands him the small, hard to navigate meter he's been using. It's a model that doesn't allow uploading to a computer. He cannot find relief, though.
He's in the front hall, waiting on the stairs with David on Thursday night. Nick walks purposefully across the lobby in a snow white t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. It's odd, because in his nearly six months of living with Nick Duvall, he has never once seen the dark haired boy wear anything that could qualify as running shoes. Nick hates to run. Nick hates the idea of running. He even once expressed hatred at the word, "run."
Nick sees the two boys sitting on the steps. He almost doesn't acknowledge them, but if nothing else, Nick Duvall is a polite boy. He gives them a nod, and starts hurrying again.
"Wait, Nick," he hears desperation in his roommate's voice. Desperation and a pent up rage that wil explode if it doesn't get released. He doesn't want to take the other boy… he's going because of him.
But, Nick has vowed to himself not to let someone else go supernova, if he can help it. He does not want to be standing there, holding the pin to the grenade. He was caught there once, and it still tears him upside. He sees the lid of a long, this box, so black that it seems to absorb all the light around it. The box is surrounded by flowers, and a picture of a boy with a mysterious grin sits on top of it.
"Come with me," he says. "Text your dad, and tell him we're going to a … club meeting."
They walk to one of the old barns, where the school used to keep horses. The floor is swept clean, and a white ring is chalked in the center. Nick strips his shirt and shoes, and motions for the others to do the same.
Time becomes immaterial, as one stranger after another pairs up and takes a turn. Finally, he is called forward for his first time. Someone explains the rules, as he moves from the shadowy perimeter to the center of the circle. After the glaring darkness, he cannot make out his opponent's face. It doesn't matter, though.
He's hot. He's sweating. He's going to be bruised from here to next Saturday (although his clothes will hide them all). He's exhilarated.
As they walk out, he turns to Nick. "Thank you," he says, simply but sincerely. It's the first time Nick has heard the word some from his mouth in such a real way.