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Youtopia, Ch. 8 |
| Written by retrocious.[/sneh] | |
| Friday, 18 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      “I’m sorry,” He says mechanically. “Me too. I mean, for before. You’re not a ****.” Morgue grins just slightly, so the wound from when he had snakebites is showing. “Nah, you were right about that. I do date a lot. I don’t mean to, though.” The grin quickly fades. “I’m sorry for just walking out on you.” “Eh.” I shrug it off. “I deserved it, I was being a total dick.” He nods, and I nod, and it’s awkward time again because we both have a lot more to say but no balls to say it. Usually by now we’d be going back and forth, but I feel like at the moment we’re grounded on separate islands, and the only way to communicate is by making little boats out of coconut halves that hold little notes inscribed on palm leaves, and our conversation’s being controlled by the mood of the winds and the weather. It’s a long, needlessly complicated simile, but it’s pretty much what this is like. Our words are flowing as smooth as peanut butter, and we’re getting nowhere. “Okay, so...do you like me? Like that?” “Like what?,” Morgue replies, and I groan. “I’m your best friend, Morgue. Just tell me and get it over with.” At least, that’s what I want– to get this over with. “There’s nothing to say. You heard what I said before, didn’t you?” “Well, yeah...but all you said was that you wanted to be more than friends. I sort of feel like we are more than friends.” He looks surprised at this, a hopeful sort of surprised, and I quickly clarify myself before things get any messier. “Brothers. I feel like we’re brothers. You know me better than anyone in my family does.” Morgue’s slumping now, looking even more dejected, and it’s making me feel sort of shitty myself. He should stop this– he has no reason to be feeling bad. He’s rich, he gets good grades, and he could get anyone he wants– it’s not my fault the ‘anyone’ that he wants happens to be me. “Well, I don’t want to be brothers.” His voice is in a whisper, but I can clearly hear the pain behind his words. “I want to be...you know. I want to have with you what Em has with you.” Morgue hardly gives me a moment to react before continuing. “I...don’t know if this is...a crush, or what, but I know I’ve liked you for a long, long time. And I hate it as much as you hate it. I know it’s...gross, and I’m really sorry.” There’s so much sorrow, so much misery saturating his voice that I’m starting to feel genuinely bad that I had to be straight. Morgue really is a wonderful guy, and I like him loads...just not like that, you know. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not...your fault. I’m just so irresistible.” The Morgue of a week ago would’ve giggled at that, but today he just looks angry and sad. “It is my fault. If I wasn’t gay, this wouldn’t be happening.” I crack my knuckles and stare at the floor. See, this is when I’m supposed to say something to the effect of, ‘Morgue, don’t say that, there’s nothing wrong with you being gay, and there’s nothing wrong with you liking me’, but how can I lie to my best friend? “You probably hate me now,” He adds to probe that little subsection of my body called my soul, but I can’t force myself to mutter something nice. I don’t hate him, but I’m not exactly having pleasant thoughts about him at the moment, either. “I don’t hate you. You’re my best friend,” I utter in an emotionless monotone. “I could never hate you.” “So...we’re still friends, then, right?” I gulp and choose not to answer. To be frank, I don’t know if I still want to be friends. I’m not a homophobe or anything, but...how can I be sure he’s not going to try to jump me when I’m sleeping, or something? And just thinking about him thinking about me...like that...well, my appetite has completely withered away, to say the least. “Foss?” He says, sounding worried. “We’re...we’re still friends, right?” I look down and bite my lip and do all kinds of things to make it seem as if I’m really thinking it over, but Morgue sees right through me. “Oh.” The way he says it, it’s like I just told him I murdered his entire family on the way over here. “Oh, oh okay. So, you don’t...” “Morgue, it’s not like that, it’s just...” I’m trying to defend the indefensible, and lord, how I’m losing the battle. “You do think it’s gross that I like you, don’t you?” “Well...” Should I just put everything on the table? Would that just make things easier? “Sort of.” “ *******...” He lets out a moan of despair, of a beyond-emo agony, and I realize I just made everything a hell of a lot worse. Wow, I’m on a roll today. First Friendly’s, now this. Morgue completes my thoughts. “Why don’t you just ******* stab me in the chest right now?” He rises from the bed, and without letting me get another ill-worded sentence in edgewise, he leaves too, and it’s just like before. I’m alone and feeling like ****, and God, I need a beer. I’ve never even had a glass of champagne at New Year’s, but I can tell this a moment when a nice shot of pure, mind-numbing alcohol would be good. Anything that would let me forget this horrible mashup of drama and disaster is fine by me. I trudge out into the hall and down the stairs, my feet heading morosely towards the kitchen where I know there’s a cold pack of beer in the fridge. Em’s parents are outside on the porch, and they’re lenient to a fault when it comes to the whole idea of “rules” and “boundaries”, so even if they came in and saw me blatantly chugging a can they wouldn’t mind much. However, it seems that Morgue’s already beat me there. He’s seated at the island, rubbing his tear-corroded eyeliner with one hand while clenching a cold silver Budweiser in the other. The millisecond I step onto the white tiles he spots me. “ **** off,” Morgue says politely, taking a hearty swig. “You can **** off, I want beer.” I take one from the fridge and lean against the wall besides it so I don’t have to see Morgue crying like a *****. “Well I ******* want to be alone right now.” I sip some Bud– and gag, why didn’t anyone ever tells me this tastes like baby medicine mixed with soda?– before bitterly replying, “This isn’t even your ******* house, so shut the **** up, you ******* emo *****.” I know, I know, putting as F-bombs as possible into one sentence is just such a mature thing to do, isn’t it? “I ******* hate you,” He shoots back. “I ******* hate you, too.” “I wish I had never met you.” “The feeling’s mutual.” He attempts a comeback, but breaks down into a mess of tears instead. The sounds of his sobs, which he’s muffling with his arm, pull slightly at my heartstrings but not enough to make me take back what I’ve just said. I’m tired, that’s what it comes to. He can **** off, Em can **** off, the whole world can just **** off. Whatever, I don’t care, I don’t need them. After a lull in the storm, Morgue mutters, “Do you really hate me?” “I dunno. Do you really hate me?” “Of course not! I...I love you. I really do, whether you like it or not. I just...I’m sorry.” He’s crying again and nursing down another can of beer, and now we’re back to square one: My best friend is suffering, and it’s wholly my fault. “Well, I don’t hate you, either. Really. I love you...not like that, but I love you. And I hate seeing you hurting like this.” He doesn’t say anything, and I stand up straight to see what’s going on when I realize he’s teetering towards me. Suddenly, he’s way too close for comfort and I’m not sure what to do. “Morgue...?” I ask, or I would if I knew he was listening, but I know he’s not because all it seems he’s focused on is getting his tongue down my throat. Left without much of a choice, I bite down– as gently as possible– and he retracts his mouth from mine, howling in pain. Walking backwards, he trips over himself, and just as suddenly I find myself catching him in my arms like some knight in shining armor. He hisses a little as he just sort of lies there, limp like a rag doll. “Morgue, you’ve had a little too much to drink. I think you should go home now.” His eyes are closed, so I can’t be certain he heard me, but then he nods. “Can you take me home?” I groan and pull him to a standing position. “Can’t you walk?” “I want you to take me,” He slurs. “Home,” I add, if only to myself. “Alright, fine. Let’s go.” Grabbing onto the back of his tight plaid shirt, I steer Morgue through the carpeted living room and out the front door. Copyright 2008 retrocious.[/sneh] |
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