Page 55 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
“And you let me know if you need me to dust off my cape. Okay?”
There’s always that scene in every love story where the protagonist gets their heart broken and some well-meaning person gives them “the talk.” The one that explained how things happened for a reason.It’ll get better with timethey’d say, orlater this will all make sense.
It always came down to having to wait until somelatertimefor relief. But later didn’t matter. It never mattered when dealing in the here-and-now. Becauseright nowwas all I had to hold on to, and right now I had nothing. Right now I was falling.
The days blurred but the nights were the roughest. They were the parts of my day that had belonged to Sebastian. To his hands. To his mouth. I needed him at night more than I needed my next breath.
I read his entries at night. There weren’t many but seeing that I could only read a few sentences at a time, I reckoned I’d have enough of his words to last me a lifetime.
I’d gotten away with not going to school for about a week, but Mom insisted I get back into a routine after that. I had yet to attempt more than small-talk with Danny and Theory during our rides to and from school, and at our table in the cafeteria they kept up a conversation without me. No one touched the elephant that followed us from room to room.
I settled onto the middle of the floor of my new bedroom with the journal in my lap, waiting for the strength to finish the passage I’d started last night. Irritated with myself, I snatched it up and flipped to the correct page.
I’ve just made love to Phoenix and like the obsessed madman that I am, I’m sitting in the chair next to my side of the bed watching him sleep. For the first time, I wish I were a painter. I’d set up an easel and brushstroke onto my canvas all night trying to capture his beauty in sleeping form. Since I’m shit with a brush, or drawing in general, I figured writing would make due. Something to look back on all the same.
His sleep position is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Naked and on his belly, one leg bent at the knee. But what I find endearing is how his cheek rests on his folded palms causing his lips to pucker as if forming the letter O. On occasion, he blows bubbles through that O.
His legs are as long as the ocean. And his bones are dainty, bulked to their capacity by the muscle he’s put on since sparring with me.
And his hair. Let’s see… When dry, some spots curl—depending on their mood, but a few stray areas insist on rebelling by remaining straight as a needle. But when dripping wet, by water or perspiration, it coils tight like his precious bud. I could watch him sleep forever.
Maybe I’ll show him this one day.
Reading this he could easily be mistaken for the famous sculpture of David. My Phoenix is just as captivating, if not more.
He’s stirring as I write this. With his eyes closed, his hand reaches out to the empty space next to him. I know what happens next. Sluggishly, his immense blue eyes open, his head rises from the pillow and twists in search of me. He’ll spot me in the chair, that he so often wakes to find me in. He’ll ask me what I’m doing, with cheeks the color of premature tomatoes and lips plump and moist from his bubbled O’s. And I’ll stop where I’m at, no care to even finish the sentence, or even the word, that I am working on. And then—
The entry ended abruptly. I remembered that night. We had just returned from the lake house. I’d rolled to my back, stretching through a yawn and positioned myself so that my feet were at the edge of the bed where he sat in his chair, and I’d shyly opened myself up for him while asking what he was up to. “Painting something I never want to forget,” he’d said. The journal was then chucked over his shoulder, and his mouth latched on to my hole, and his hand to my cock.
Slamming the journal shut and flinging it at the wall, I fell forward until my forehead touched the carpet. I sobbed without tears, having used them all up, but I heaved nonetheless. I hugged myself, digging my fingers into my sides in an attempt to redistribute my pain, rocking like a row boat abandoned at high sea, my oars floating away from me. I missed my Michelangelo.
Chapter 18
Phoenix
“The part can never be well unless the whole is well.”
~Plato
The new year came and went, and plans for graduation and prom were underway. “Who are you asking?” Theory said to Danny while I picked at the bread roll on my tray. Mason slid into the empty chair to my right. He’d become more of a fixture since the Winter Formal, picking up my slack in the group. “Hey, Mason! Danny’s about to fill us in on who he plans on clubbing over the head and dragging to prom.” They all laughed; I jumped in half-heartedly on the tail end.
“I’ll have you know that the ladies have been lining up for a chance to go to prom with me ever since the Winter Formal. I think the suit catapulted me from freak to sex symbol,” he said around a mouthful of fries.
Theory rolled her eyes. “Don’t forget to tell them that these ladies are part of the geek squad.”
“Did you forget thatwe’rea part of the geek squad? Well, you three are at least,” he said with a cocky wink.
“Yeah, we’re the geek squad, and you’re the freak squad.” We all laughed, even Danny, and I was right on cue this time. Mason watched me like I was a glass vase sitting precariously at the edge of something; it’d become a habit that I was too exhausted to care about. Too exhausted to pretend that I wouldn’t break if tipped over.
The bell rang and everyone shot up, dumping their trays and shouldering their bags.
Mason and Danny went on ahead of us, while Theory encouraged me to hang back with a hand on my arm. “Some of us are meeting at my place after school to hang out. You should come.”
My leadened brain digested the first three words like quicksand. “‘Some of us?’”
“Oh, yeah, well...” She squeezed the strap of her messenger bag. “We made a few new friends at the dance. No biggie.”
“Replacing me already?”
