The Art of Unopulence

20 | maghfirat

Nathaniel looks tired and he's awfully moody on our first day back to school after five days of staying at home. He kicks the loose gravel on the road with his feet absently as we make our way out of the gate of the house and quietly keeps his eyes trained on the ground, conveniently choosing to avoid my gaze. I've noticed the signs over the last two days since the day after Madison and Truck's visit and they were becoming progressively worse.

He hasn't uttered a word since breakfast except a polite good morning and a slight nod when he entered the kitchen to get a banana and some almonds. I mean he isn't much of a talker, I know that by now but today his eyes are rimmed with a light shade of pink and his lips look chapped. And he's wearing a powder green half sleeve button up on a white full sleeves t-shirt with his black jeans, which strikes me as odd since he makes it a point to always wear dark turtlenecks to school and hasn't once touched the brighter section of the wardrobe I bought with him.

"Hey," I bump his shoulder with mine as we begin our fifteen minute walk to Wolfrock Secondary, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing of consequence." He says sincerely, pulling his mouth into a tight lipped smile.

"Sure," I drawl, rolling my eyes, "Everyone's raving for dark circles and here you are rocking them naturally!"

"Well-"

"I don't want to hear any excuses." I assert, turning to him with a scowl, "We are friends and in case you need to be reminded since you were bent on being ignorant for the last god knows how many days, I can recite the rules of friendship again."

Nathaniel sighs, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

"It's not something I can talk about right now." he says finally, glancing around out of habit.

"Alright, you can tell me later. But you're not going to sulk alone, ok?" I nod quickly, getting the hint, "And everything will be ok. We will make sure that it's ok."

I reach out to squeeze his hand reassuringly. He squeezes back lightly, before linking our fingers together and holding on.

I don't think he realises that we're holding hands now, he's walking determinedly with his eyes trained on the road ahead. My mouth curves up into a smirk, mentally filing away this incident to memory so that I can tease him about it later.

His hand is soft, all smooth and doesn't have a single cut or scar on it unlike mine. I wonder if he can feel the roughness of my palm and healing patches of calloused skin, from weeks of MMA practice at The Glade and the thought suddenly makes me hyper aware and very conscious but all doubt flies out of my mind when his index finger absently begins to draw soothing circles on the back as we walk briskly.

It's only after he looks at me briefly before glancing down at our linked hands with a heavy stare that I realise that he isn't drawing mere circles.