Emotional Boys 2000

17

"It's just as shitty as I remember it" I scoff, staring at the horridly run down trailer park, specifically the one I used to live in... both of us technically.

Marshall stuffs his hands into the pockets of his over sized hoodie, nodding casually before turning off towards the car. He seemed not to interested in coming back here. Probably painful memories for him too. But hey, I've got my own share... we made some painful ones together... though it was mostly in his hands.

He drives a Mercedes now, a stark difference to the rusted Ford Escort that barely worked, in which he occasionally borrowed from his mother when she wasn't too pissed with him.

"Leaving so soon..?" I chuckle softly, trying not to sound slightly hurt in my inquiry. Turning around to watch him, unlocking the car swiftly, looking back up at me, a distant, maybe even sad look in his eyes.

"Well... we can stay longer but, I mean... ain't it depressing?" He asks softly, opening the driver's side door and waiting for me to follow his lead before actually getting inside.

"Mhm, I'd say... nostalgically hostile... kind of fills you with dread doesn't it..? I just- it also makes me feel proud... accomplished- I- I mean... I don't ever tell anyone from work... other than Harris that I'm from here... it kind of gets a side eye in return but... proud in the sense that... we came from this... and now we're both living in fucking multi-million dollar real estate" I ramble, staring nonchalantly at a couple of frivolous lawn chairs that looked liked they'd been out in two rain storms.

"Yeah, I mean, it does make me real proud, felt proud even when I was living here... Like- not everyone is capable of living under the stress we was under ya know..? It was a constant grind... still is... I just- I look at this fucking place and all it does it piss me off... people shouldn't have to live like this. I think your place was the best goddamn one in the whole neighborhood... but... living at my moms... or visiting my friends at theirs... it just felt like we were in some distorted... poverty fuelled bubble... I don't know..." he's long since closed the door to the Mercedes, coming back over to me and bringing his arms around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder, fitting perfectly.

I feel accomplished in this moment... I feel glad that I'm getting a glimpse back into the 'old' him that used to have good, meaningful conversations with me.

I wouldn't say 'old' him... more like, his old way of communicating with others. He's had his trust constantly abused and his social dynamics change heavily... so it didn't come as a shock that he's closed off the more emotionally intelligent part of himself.

"I kind of feel ashamed that I didn't really grind... I mean... I was working in a world that favoured me being a woman... I knew I could use it to my advantage... kind of feels like... since going to New York, the real grinding started... and it's hard... I feel inadequate by saying that my job is harsh... but... I don't know... it's just kind of terrifying knowing that any morning I could wake up and everything I've built can be destroyed... all over some fucking unpredictable numbers..."

"I always hated how we related... how we kind of feel like a metaphor for each other... you ever notice that?" He did seem to find it annoying how similar our situations were to each other...

I mean- fair. Coincidences and other relation factors like that can really piss me off too.

"Mhm, you did get pretty pissed when I drew the parallels that one time..." I mumble, not wanting to think about the events that proceeded.

"I went through a period where I used to wear fucking bullet proof vests. It just- I ain't know how to put it into words but... it felt so weird, terrified of being killed for rapping... or sticking up for a friend... like- I know fifty got a bit ballsy at times and shit... but I didn't expect things could get so wack strictly cause two guys ain't see eye to eye..." he mumbles, voice conveying the weight of each one of his words... intense, daunted...

We both go silent for a while before he brings one of his hands down to mine... the one with the busted... bruised and now relentlessly aching knuckles.

"I know you ain't wanna tell me about this... but I'm worried for you, baby... please tell me, I ain't gonna flip out..."

The dark pit in my stomach just fills me with the idea that he knows I inflicted it myself... making me want to cower away from admitting anything.

- Yesterday 5pm -

"What the fuck happened to your hand..?" He suddenly asks after having kissed me heavily. His face is flushed, nervous and partially angry, probably building himself up with the idea that someone did it to me... though it seems rather impossible.

"I..." terrified, I clam up, grabbing it with my other hand and covering the bandages with my fingers, as if that will magically erase them from his memory. "It's nothing... I don't really see the point in talking about it..." I mumble, saying something so bullshit, I don't think I've said anything worse.

His eyebrow perks up, indicating how little he trusts my words, eyes narrowing, calling my shit without having to speak a single word out loud.

"As long as it ain't nothing serious and you aren't in no danger..." he mumbles, dissatisfied but luckily dropping it, leaving me feeling nervous and awkward... foolish even for trying to brush it of the way I did.

His lips come back to mine and next thing I know, he's carrying me over to the couch, hands holding me up by my thighs.

- Present 4pm -

"You really want to know the real reason...?" I inquire, uneasy about the idea of telling him, knowing he'll absolutely assume I've lost it.

Perhaps I have a little bit...

"Yeah and you dragging it on like this is only making me more worried." He mutters, squeezing me into him tightly.

"Upon learning I had to take a weeks break and I had to hand in a stress leave slip to my boss... I kind of lost my shit and punched a dumpster... then scrapped it against a brick wall until it bled..." I stare simple, realizing that it makes it less awkward if I just admit it fully.

His head instantly raises, arms turning my body around so I can look at him properly.

"Esdeath... that's- like- seriously not good. Why would you hurt yourself over what's essentially a vacation?" His question is one I have an answer for... though ai hoped I could keep it in the far corner of my mind and not let it eat away at me anymore. His eyes are softly widened, face flushed... nervous... panicked....

"All I've ever been told is that I've got to leave the job to the men... the men can handle it! Women crack under pressure easier! No matter what that stupid doctor told me or said to make me feel less singled out and more like just an average stressed worker on Wall Street... it didn't change that I felt like I was letting them win... that I failed some how... I should be hard enough to handle it..." I ramble on, watching his eyes knit together, some distorted form of sadness and relation spreading across his face.

"You ain't fail at anything. You're one of the coldest, most powerful people I know... ain't gonna change that we all need a break once in a while... otherwise... I mean... next thing ya know, we gonna snap."