Authors note: Hello everyone! Boring chapter today, sorry but I really needed to set stuff up and relieve some tension/conflict from the story.
I don't know whether or not I like this chapter, so let me know what you think!
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 24: Gay and Cliché
"The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
As the soft light poured into the floor of my room, my mind was a heavy haze of bliss. Visions from the night before permeated my head, rapidly playing out behind my eyelids. The familiar memories left an inextinguishable warmth in my chest, heat rising to my cheeks.
I was so lost in my disarray of thoughts that I almost forgot about the arms wrapped around me.
And who they belonged to:
Callaway
My lips unfurled into a bright grin as fondness swirled within me. I nestled in closer to the heat surrounding me as I let my body and mind slowly rise from their dormancy. My eyes blinked, heavy as I tried to swim back into full consciousness.
I turned my head, gazing at the boy beside me who was still deep in sleep. Dark curls spilled across the white pillow in stark contrast. The sleeping Callaway was entirely juxtaposing to his normal self; he was peaceful, neutral and quiet. And in all honesty, it was slightly disconcerting.
But as I always did, I took utter advantage of the tranquility:
I decided to paint.
I deftly slid Callaway's grip off of me, careful not to wake the boy from his slumber. As his arm was removed from my torso and lowered onto the plushness of my bed, I watched in fondness as Callaway let a soft, almost inaudible murmur.
Even in his sleep, he complained.
I tried my best to shuffle off the bed, feet hitting the floor of my bedroom with a soft creak. I winced, glancing back at the - thankfully - still sleeping boy in my bed. I couldn't help the dopey smile that graced my face.
I slid over to my 'paint corner', picking a blank canvas with little concern. I gathered some paint brushes and the paint colours I'd presume I'd use. And in a minute breadth of time, my brush was streaking across the canvas in a haphazard grace. I let my mind and my hands digress as I worked, eyes flickering in and out of focus. Seconds, minutes, or hours passed and I continued to work, utterly entranced.
In no way was I prepared for the languid interruption of a familiar voice.
"I better look pretty," Callaway drawled, voice husky.
My gaze shot up from the canvas in momentary shock. My eyes were met with the image of a boy, mess of curls bouncing in every direction atop his head. He stared back at me in visible amusement, smirk decorating his face.
There was no surprise on his face. No 'Isn't art for girls?' or 'You'll never do anything with that in life' or 'Chance, that's gay'.
There was just:
"Draw me like one of your French girls."
I shook myself out of my surprise, laughing at Callaway as turned back to my painting. "You're not French."
I could hear the offense in Callaway's voice without even looking up. "Or a girl."
"Well," I giggled.
Callaway's scowl was expected - the pillow that hit my head was not.
I got a mouth full of cotton as the object hit me with meek force. I watched in terror as it reflected off my visage and onto the floor, nearly colliding with my painting. The soft material was a mere inch from skimming the still wet canvas.
"You almost ruined my piece," I whined at Callaway, tone light.
Face hidden in the blankets of my bed, he grumbled at me, "Oops."
"Oh well. The painting's fine," I laughed, happy mood almost imperishable. "Wanna see?"
The question surprised me as it left my mouth, leaving my lips with an unexpected nonchalance. For it was rare that I was willing to display my art - my father was the only person who I'd show it to without any trace of hesitancy. I had been taught that art wasn't a thing to be proud of - that it was far-fetched, frivolous and feminine. And so it had taken great courage for me to finally show Aly my sketchbook. Even then, I had been friends with her for months - having had a lot of time to mull over my decision.
In contrast, I had known Callaway for only a little under three weeks. In three weeks I had witnessed so much - learned so much about this odd eighteen year old. In three weeks he had somehow become one of my best friends. In three weeks I had grown unimaginably close to him.
And in three weeks I had fallen in love with him.
So maybe it wasn't so odd that I was so willing to show my art to this peculiar boy. Even so, it still disconcerted me a little.
I let my mind wander back to reality as my gaze peered at Callaway, still sprawled listlessly on my bed.
Callaway mumbled almost inaudibly into his nest of pillows, answering my prior question. "Yes, I would be thoroughly obliged if you'd allow me to see your art."
My mind lit up in triumph at the response, mouth quirking into a smile.
I watched in enjoyment as Callaway gathered up the blankets on my bed, draping them across his head and body.
It was hilarious; he looked like some kind of a nun.
But like - a really gay, boy nun.
He ambled towards me, dragging his feet against my floor in slurred movements. I held my breath, waiting for him to catch a glimpse at the painting in front of me. I bit my lip, gazing fiercely at Callaway as his eyes finally stumbled upon the multicoloured canvas.
"Whoa," Callaway muttered, amazement genuine.
I smiled brightly as his eyes skirted across the details in thoughtful silence. In a brief instant, his eyes met mine.
"Well you can definitely art."
I laughed at him, " I like to think so."
Callaway nodded in acknowledgement, gaze returning to the painting, studious. "I'm all truth, I am in no way cognizant of the various intricacies and convolutions of art. But I gotta say, Cha." Callaway gave me a sideways glance. "This is impressive."
I beamed at him, smile pinching at my cheeks. I observed as Callaway pulled his - my - blanket close to himself as his eyes stayed deftly fixated on the painting. There was an odd intensity in his stance.
He actually seemed intrigued.
Callaway was actually interested in my art.
The boy who had said that gloves were for pansies.
And he liked my gay art of him.
And apparently, I had uttered that last thought aloud, for Callaway responded in full seriousness, "I wouldn't denote it as gay art per se. I'd just describe it as heavily influenced by the artists inherent presence of homosexuality."
I looked at Callaway, dubious, before muttering, "So gay art."
Callaway shrugged. "Yeah, gay art."
I rolled my eyes at him, trying to suppress the smile tugging at my lips.
"But impressive gay art nonetheless," he told me matter-of-factly.
I grinned at him and with that in mind, I questioned with confidence,"Want to see more?"
Callaway peered at me, eyes skeptical. "You have more impressive gay art?"
I giggled, fidgeting with my hands, as my eyes flickered between the short boy and the painting. "Gay art? Yeah, some." An artificial frown graced my face. "But impressive gay art? You'd have to look somewhere else for that. Like pornos."
Callaway's eyes met mine, disgust evident within them. "Pornos? Now I'm concerned for what you designate as art." Callaway took a step back from me. "I don't believe I want to see any of it involves any explicit content."
"Well if by explicit content you mean how explicitly hot you are . . ." I grinned tauntingly as the joke left my mouth.
I should've been prepared for it this time, but I wasn't.
I hadn't even seen Callaway move, but the plush object left his hand rapidly. And the pillow hit my face even harder this time, inducing my face to drop in shock.
"I was complimenting you!" I gasped at the dark haired boy.
Callaway grumbled inaudibly at me, shuffling back over to my bed. Minute mutterings of 'making fun of me' left his lips as he hid beneath blankets once more.
I shook my head at him. "Well sorry for calling you attractive."
From the little lump on my bed that was Callaway, a hand shot out from the blankets, middle finger extended.
I mouth dropped open, a fake offended look on my face. "Callaway is that the way you're supposed to treat your boyfriend?"
The word left my mouth without any hesitancy, but the repercussive silence was terrifying.
Callaway looked at me, far blank. His empty - almost ghostly - voice spoke. " . . . Boyfriend?"
It was only subsequent to speaking did I realize that I should not have said that.
Oh god - what had I done?
Callaway nearly jumped up from his spot on my bed, blanket flinging onto the floor. He looked at me, eyes accusing. "I thought I had fucking dreamt that."
Terror filled within me as I processed his words.
He had forgotten about it?
My face contorted as I gave Callaway a pained look.
"I - I ," I spluttered, mouth gaping. "It's okay if that's not what you want anymore I just thought . . ."
Callaway raised an eyebrow at me, face addled.
"I just thought it would be nice," I admitted, voice morose.
The short boy gave me a hard look, eyes flickering across my features in thoughtfulness.
His eyes burned into my own with alarming intensity as he spoke, "Is that truly what you desire?" Callaway was as serious as ever. "To be my . . . boyfriend?"
I fidgeted with my hands, eyes skirting down as I could feel my cheeks heat up. "Yeah - that's kinda what I've been going for this whole time. I wasn't exactly subtle about it considering . . . You know, I asked you."
I peered at Callaway, sheepish as he squinted at me. A thick veil of uneasiness filled the room. My gaze remained fixated on my hands as they laced and unlaced over and over in my discomfort. I repeated the movement recurrently, almost as if in a trance - trying to distance myself from the predicament in front of me.
I hardly even noticed as a new hand interlaced with mine.
The fingers brushed softly against my own - warm and familiar.
"All right then." Callaway nodded, grasping onto my hand - unhurried and nonchalant. "I am now your . . . boyfriend."
The remark left his lips with uncertainty, eyes peering at mine as he looked for approval.
I nodded vigorously, at a loss for a moment.
My eyes widened, as I squeaked, "Okay."
Callaway's face softened as he gazed at me, lips quirking.
And though it did not match the bright smile that graced my face, I still knew that it was genuine.
And a genuine expression of contentedness was impossibly better than any fake smile that Callaway could plaster on his face.
Callaway's fingers traced small circles into my palm as he spoke, voice teasing, "So impressive gay art?"
I laughed, already turning to my art. "Sure."
___________
Callaway
We were late for school.
For neither of us had deemed it significant to even acknowledge that it was Friday.
And there was school on Friday.
Chance and I had been uncaringly flipping through various pieces of art. We had established a sort of systematic process; where Chance would display a piece of art, and I would spit out - what I believed were - shrewd comments.
First, he pulled out a confounding portrayal of a wintery scene.
I smiled coyly. "There's snow way you painted that."
Chance groaned, "I hate you."
Next, there was a canvas decorated with the sight of a certain dark haired boy. I simpered.
"I look art-stounding."
Chance shot daggers at me. "We've been together for twenty minutes and I already want to break up with you."
I laughed at that as Chance slid out a new piece. This one portrayed a crimson apple rested upon the dark brown of a window - Chance's own window.
"Looks like Chance An-drew an apple," I sneered, mocking.
Chance looked at me, entirely unamused. "You're so," Chance started, mouth twitching in exasperation. "That's a painting."
My eyes rolled back into my head. "Stop attempting to undermine my utter hilariousness."
Chance tittered at me, shaking his head in amused annoyance before pulling at another picture. The taller blond observed me for an instant, expression hesitant. His gaze searched for something in my face that was unbeknownst to me, before finally grasping for the art.
Chance pulled out a small sketch - it portrayed the sharp image of a tree in the fall - colours vivid, blaring as they stretched across the page. It was astounding, but the trees were not the room art subject within the piece. At the center of the storm of autumn hues, was a girl I had come to know all too well.
Aly.
Chance's eyes flickered to mine in evident unease, a silent inquiry as they searched for whether or not I'd get angry or uncomfortable.
And all I chose to utter was:
"The drawing is beautiful, but in no way does it Aly-viate my hatred to towards her."
Chance's features held an amusing blend of joy, relief and disgust.
I could do nothing more than slyly grin at him, copiously proud of all my terrible jokes.
Chance just shook his head vigorously, his annoyance ostensible.
That's why it surprised me when he ducked down to kiss me.
My eyes gaped in befuddlement as lips met mine. It was slow, languid and tired - scarce more than a clumsy collision of our mouths. Chance hardly categorized as an astute kisser, but even so the chaste embrace left me content.
Chance stared at me as we broke apart, irises bright in ostensible worry. "I'm sorry."
I gave him an odd look. ". . . For?"
"Doing that." Chances eyes refused to
meet mine.
I scoffed at him, "I nearly had intercourse with you yesterday and you're sorry for -"
"I just wasn't sure whether not not it would make you uncomfortable," Chance disclosed, expression earnest. "So, I'm sorry."
I shrugged, drawling with a leer, "Don't apologize - I'm certainly not complaining."
"Okay . . . Um, thanks I guess," Chance stammered, cheeks flushing in abashment.
A shy, genuine smile graced his face and I nodded acknowledgment.
It was then that I had resolutely decided that this entire situation was too domestic for my captious taste.
So I ruined it with one simple, harrowing word.
"School."
Chances gaze snapped towards mine, face horrified. "Oh god."
I observed as Chance put the art away in a haste with his fumbling fingers. He scrambled around his bedroom, inelegantly pulling at haphazard clothing items that he pulled out of his closet or on the floor. I peered in interest as he undressed, cotton shirt dropping to the ground. I made my staring lucid, eyes dragging obviously across Chance's sturdy physique. Unfortunately, he payed no mind to it, just continuing with his routine. I hummed to myself, as I kept my eyes fixated on the blond boy.
"What am I supposed to wear?" I inquired, though it resembled more of a whine.
Chance's head quirked, midway through pulling a sweater over his head. He shrugged at me, a gesture made all too awkward by his unpropitious position.
"Just wear one of my sweaters."
I grimaced at him, clutching the blanket still encasing me. "I'd rather -"
Before I could decline, a sweater hit my face.
It was an ashy grey - soft and familiar.
"Chance - this is my sweater." I glowered. "And apparently you abstained from returning it."
Chance pulled on some socks, not even looking at me. "I forgot. Sorry."
Though the expression on his face revealed that he was anything but.
My frown deepened. "I can't wear this. It's pajamas."
Chance rolled his eyes at me. "Either you wear my clothes and risk everyone . . . knowing or you wear that sweater."
I glared at the morose, insipid lump of cloth in my hand. I brought it closer to my face, inspecting the details and getting an ascertainable whiff of Chance.
Chance doesn't want people to know. So do it.
I gritted my teeth, becoming vexed with my own thoughts.
"Fine. I'll wear the goddamn sweater."
____________
Again, we were late.
And acutely so.
We ambled into the barren hallways, jackets still veiled with a thin layer of moisture, forty minutes late after walking to school in the biting wind of winter. I shuffled behind Chance as we crept through the eerie corridor.
"Mme Gauthier will kill us," Chance whispered, voice tremulous.
I shrugged, assuring, "I'll take care of it."
Chance paused to peer back at me dubiously before progressing towards our destination - French class.
In a matter of scarce moments and hushed footfalls, we arrived at the ominously shut door of room 247.
I observed Chance observing the doorway, vacuous expression on his face.
I urged him forward with an agile brush of fingers to his shoulder. Chance complied to the unuttered command, hand extending to grasp at the metal of the doorknob, turning it gingerly.
As the door swung open, my eyes were met with the view of a multitude of blinking, uninviting faces. Unease was palpable in the air as I got disgusted glances shot at me from every individual in my vicinity. I could even perceive the slight burn from my teachers fervent eyes glaring at me.
Whispers and murmurs were conspicuous as they fell from the student's lips. Select words repeated themselves among the turmoil of students; gay, dating and gross.
I hated them - I hated everyone. And vehement rage sparked within me, urging me to do something.
Why were they doing this? What made them so adamant about the theory that I was romantically involved with Chance?
I spared a look at the blond boy in question, standing a few steps before me and something caught my attention. My mind raced as my eyes locked onto an alarming detail.
A radiant, flushed blemish on Chance's neck.
A hickey.
That I made.
Obvious and discernible as we walked in.
Together.
Almost an hour late.
Despite it all, Chance's words echoed in my mind:
" . . . risk everyone knowing . . . "
Everyone knowing?
We were far beyond that point.
So instead of wallowing in my interminable defeat, I decided to take charge of the situation.
By, as aforementioned, "taking care of it."
I squinted hard at the group of students before turning to the teacher. I peered callously into her eyes, careful smirk making its way into my face.
My voice permeated the room like a poisonous gas:
"Sorry for being so late - looks like Chance here can last a long time."
The last words I heard before getting expulsed from the classroom was a small squeak from Chance. "Oh my god."
And perhaps I shouldn't have uttered that unarguable sentence with such obscene implications.
But the look on the student's faces - and Chance's - made it well worth it.
_________