Script Keeper
Title: Script Keeper
Author: destroyedminds
Rating: R
POV: 1st, Ryan's
Summary: So there's this boy on a bench.
Disclaimer: Not real, not based off real events or real people.
Author Notes: I'm trying out a different writing style. I think I like it.
I reside in the crevices of a young boy’s brain. His name is Ryan. I know him inside and out. I’ve been through it all. Through the tears on the floor, the hollow screams into a pillow, the stuttered explanations. I’ve been through it all.
The first word he learned to write, naturally, was "Ryan."
Although his first letter was "B."
Ryan loved to write. And he was pretty good at it. He liked the grind against the paper, the way he could control the thickness and style.
He used to sit on the floor asking his mother how to spell this and that, this went on for quite some time, until his mother screamed and
gave him a firm smack to the back of his thighs. He never asked again.
When he reached height, he would grab any and every book off the shelf in his mother’s room. Pages sprawled out in front of him he
would trace the letters with the stub of his pencil, then rip out a blank page in the front of a book, and copy them down. His mother
slapped him so hard across his cheek he didn’t pick up another book for a year.
Ryan would steal paper from school, take pencils from desks, and collect them under his bed. When he went away to his Dad’s for a
weekend, his mother found them. His father slapped him across the neck with a rolled up magazine and told him that stealing was wrong.
Once he learned how to use a key board, he didn’t touch a piece of paper, outside of his school work, for two years. He got smart and
hid his work away on a flash drive. Ryan would write about everything. Beginning simply with how he woke up in the morning, and slowly inching towards explicit descriptions of his father coming home drunk. As the years paced by his grammar and style became that of a well praised author. Except no one knew.
The night of his 12th birthday that’s when she left. In the middle of cutting the cake and parents screaming across the counter, the knife
flew across the room nearly straying from his dads head, it hit the ground next to Ryan, breaking the tip off. Ryan stood clamping down
on his lip, standing between the noise. His mother walked out and he was not returned to her after the weekend. His father cut him a slice of cake,that wasn’t bludgeoned into a mess, sat him at the table with a plate and fork, grabbed a bear, and left
to the living room. Ryan ate it slowly, trembling and tears sliding down his cheeks, not wanting to disappoint his father. When he built
up the strength to go thank his father, he was already passed out on the couch. Ryan wrapped the rest of the cake up and stuck it in the
fridge next to the beer and leftover take out.
Ryan stayed up for hours that night, he sat for minutes telling himself that plenty of kids probably don’t even get a hug for their birthday.
At lease he got a cake. But he couldn’t think up any other excuses to make himself feel better, he pulled out some paper, the back of a worksheet he used in school, and wrote about the cake. Because at least he got a cake.
wet mush. sweet sugar. sweet layers covered in sugar. underneath the sweet were dry crumbs with pieces of baking powder stuck between the cracks.
When Ryan wrote about something insignificance he wouldn’t capitalize, felt it unfitting. He would rewrite it in a few hours with more
deserving descriptions.
He never asked about his mother, was never told. To this day he hasn’t seen her with the exception of pen on paper.
Six years later, when he met Colleen everything changed. What is everything? He’s smile, his posture, he talked more, he touched
more, he wrote less about more things. Colleen kissed softly, smiled softer. Cut her hair four times a year. Cut her hair not her skin.
Brushed twice a day unless she was really tired, and work up early in the morning to jog, and sometimes she’s take him with her. They talked about simple things, they talked easy and carful.
Three years in. He swore her eyes shined when she told him she loved him, he swore he could’ve fainter. He repeated the words back with a smile on his face and a flutter in his chest. When things got harder, she got kinder, when things eased up, he thanked her for it. She wasn’t perfect but she was a lot closer to it than Ryan, and if Ryan was with “close to perfect” then he was close to “close to perfect."
They’d sit together filling page to page with the future. When she left he sat as night and read them like a book. In his dreams one day
they would be true.
***
Ryan’s second year of college he rented an apartment with his roommate from the year before and a girl they had met on the track one
day. They each had their own tiny room. There was a kitchen attached to a living area and that was all they needed. Ryan surprisingly
got along well with these people, Jon was quiet and made him laugh, and Amanda yelled at him when he left a dirty bowl on the couch.
They kept each other in line and Ryan was pretty sure his life had tuned a complete 180.
He was still with Colleen, she went to a school a half hour away. She stayed with her parents. He wanted to stay with her, but she told him that he should try out living with other people, experience new things. Make his own home. And she was right. She was always right, but not in the annoying way that most men hate, but in a motherly way, keeping him grounded. Sometimes he was convinced that she was god. They would meet up though, at least three times a week, usually more. If they met half way it was only a fifteen minute drive for her and a twenty minute bus ride for him. Otherwise they would go to her house or his apartment. They'd cuddle, they’d fuck, they'd talk, and sometimes they did laundry and they'd cook together. Ryan never knew the last few things could be that much fun.
His roommate Jon liked Colleen. They talked while Ryan was in the shower, and he thought she was pretty. Amanda thought she was to
“cookie cutter” but then again she thought everyone was. He never really gave much thought to it. Amanda was a completely different
person however. She wears dresses and swears. She cooks and reads books when she’s not at a club or bartending. She dates guys and girls and sometimes guys who look like girls. She’s a contradiction to herself and Ryan’s never met someone so interesting.
He wouldn’t change his life for anything, it’s normal but possibly the best and most perfect kind of normal. The normal Ryan never had.
He spent years living in other people’s normal. This is his normal.
***
He stares at the screen, the keys and the empty space around him, seemingly all at the same time. The pixles in the screen start to
blur and everything looks fuzzy. There’s a ringing in his ears and his mind is completely shut off. Not thinking, not working. Just
buzzing. This is a completely new experience, he’s never just NOT been able to write. He’s not the best talker but he can write one thought into a novel. And now he’s sitting here, thinking about the boy with deep brown eyes and fluffy dark hair. He sees pale pale skin, fingertips on shoulders, wind of breath on his neck. He shutters, collapsing back in his chair. Trying desperately to remember his face, remember any expression that wasn’t hurt and confusion. He remembers pushing the boy off him when it should have been the other way around. Pink lips and flushed cheeks flood his vision
***
She told him that he needed something more. Something more than himself to take care of. Something beyond his capabilities.
Amanda said colleen was too good for him, not what he needed. But she was what he needed, soft and kind and willing. Ryan couldn’t
think of anything he needed more. And yet he found himself strolling the park, passing bench by bench, searching. Something to get him
in trouble. Yes it’s a stupid Idea. But he needs it, like a drug. Misses the chaos. Just a little something to feel.
Steal something. Hurt something. Destroy something.
A mother and her two kids.
A couple hand in hand.
A man jogging with his dog.
The boy on the bench.
A women selling magazines.
A little girl playing.
The boy on the bench.
Ryan feet sick, drippy gooey sick.
He knows what he wants to do to that boy. Knows it’s wrong. But he wants it.
And that’s obviously more important than any moral standing right now.
Because before he knows it he’s next the boy, grabbing his shoulders and pushing their lips together. The boy's eyes go wide and he
stiffens under Ryans touch. Ryan forces his tongue in his mouth, teeth to lips. There’s a slight motion form the other boy. He doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t shove Ryan away. But kisses back.
Ryan sneers and slams his palms into the boys chest, lips peeling away like glue. He gets up and walks no more than twenty feet away
before the first tear falls off his cheek. He wipes it away with one hand and breaks into a run. Doesn’t stop until he’s face down, curled in
on himself and shaking on his bed.
He doesn't know why he did it.
***
He’s tried to write about it. A poem, a song. A story. Key words. Something. But he can’t get a single word down about the moment
that hasn’t left his mind for days. He feels sick and hasn’t written properly in weeks. The boy's face flashes in his head. Buzzing.
Why didn’t he push back?
***
Jon hasn’t said anything apart form usual. Amanda won’t stop drilling him about what Ryan needs and what Ryan doesn’t. He’s pretty
sure she doesn’t know what’s good for him. But he’s positive he doen’t know any better.
***
Ryan skips class friday because it’s the last one before winter break and he’s pretty sure he know everything there already it to know about Hemingway.
He instead takes to waking up at two in the afternoon, devouing whatever was left from Amanda’s breakfast.
He still can’t write and knows exactly where to go to fix it. Possibly.
The last time he was here was when he and Colleen broke up. He couldn’t write about that either the first few days but he’s pretty sure he now has a novel and sequals words of words hidden away oin his coputer about her.
He pulls off his gloves as he steps in the doorway, the smell of coffee and stiff book pages filling the air.
And he feels safe- at home. Because no one can hurt him when he lives in the pages.
He picks a few books. Buys a coffee, and find himself an empty arm chair. He flips to random pages, soaking up word after word. Pretending that every page of every book he flips to somehow connects to one another. A new story in his mind.
One he’s picked up is about a boy and a girl. The boy beats the girl. Her friends tell her to leave but she can’t. He flips to the middle of the book and come to a passage, “His hand’s bruise into my arm, burning red. He's angry. His teeth bite down on my lip. His eye’s never once reach mind as he shoves me against the floor-“
Ryan quirte literally throws the book form his fingertips, busting the front cover. His hands shake and tears swell in his eyes as he searches around his thigh for a different book. A different distraction. His hands feel numb and his mind is swirling.
“This book makes me angry too,”
Ryan blinks a few times, looking up from his hands. looking up to register what's going on in a world that he tries to desperately to control. The book that was once in his hands are now in the palms two others. He watches the employee walk back towards the shaleves for retun the book. Ryan stiffins, watching the curve of his back and familiar slope of the boys shoulders.
Struggling, he gets up, leaves. Leaves behind the books and coffee, and goes straight for the door.
The cold doesn’t help the shaking on the walk home.
He doesn’t step foot near that building for three weeks.
***
Amanda can go to the “after holidays” book sale on her own. He really doesn’t need to go with her. Nonetheless he findhims self in the aisle of anime books and how-to's. He thought of every excuse his broken brain could come up with, none even good enough to convince himself.
He scanned every aisle they walk past, reciving looks form his friend.
Ryan’s sure that he’s not here working today and he takes a dep breath, as he slumps down agians a bookshelf, loking up at Amanda scaning through various graphc novels.
He decided to focus himself else where. Wiritng in his mind. She looks nice today, small black dress two sizes to bing hung over long, tight black and white stripped leggings, black straped doll like shoes and laced up sleveas over her arms. Her pale skins is smooth and soft, her smile even more so. Ryan counts his blessing for a friend like her.
Too traped in his thoughts, as per usual, Ryan doesn’t register that Amanda’s not talking to herself anymore. His eyes have droped from her figure to his feet somewhere along the thought prossess. He raises his eyes back up, tilting his head, frezzing within himself. He follows from toe upward, dark kahki skinny jeans, tucked in navy blue shirt. There’s really not much to look at until he follows the neck up, the short hair cut flops down on his skin, brushing it with ever jab of his jaw line when he speaks. But he doesn't look at his mouth.
Ryan’s insides tighten and he tries harshly to listen to the boy's voice. His head is spinning and he can’t makeout a single word. He wants to run, far away and never come back. But nonetheless he just sits there.
He jumps in his place when Amanda turns around, shoving a book in his face.
"Ryan, hold this,"
The books drops in his lap and she’s gone before he has a chance to understand what’s happening.
Because now
He’s alone
Here
With the boy.
He stares at the book, cradled in his lap and tinkling his thighs.
He want to move it, hold it between his fingers, fall into it.
His brain telling him too but he’s pretty sure nothings happening and why has Amanda been gone for 10 minutes.
Exept it’s not even ten seconds before the boy above him pipes up in a familiar tone.
"Y’know, what you did the other day was wrong,"
He waits.
Ryan nods, he really really hopes he nods.
Ryan's basically prepared for his life to come to an end.
"You can’t just leave a pile of books and coffee lying around on the floor,"
What.
He thinks he’s breathing, yeah he’s not dead, so he must be breathing, he wishes he wasn’t.
"Cleaning up after egotistic slobs is not in my job description,"
Ryan hears more smile and less ringing in his ears.
Where’s Amanda, why isn’t he running.
Why didn’t he push back?
He thinks he accidently whispered the last thought aloud, he does that sometimes, confuses mouth with mind.
The boy crouches down next to him trying to earn a look from Ryan.
But he hasn’t yet stopped looking down at the book in his lap.
The Big Book Of Irony by Jon Winokur.
His lips feel detatched and he’s pretty sure he coudnt move even if the ground just collapsed beneath him. Which doesn't sound so bad right about now. Time would just suspend him in space instead.
He soon proves that false when his head fall back against the book shelve. Shoulders pushed back by the set hands in front of him.
A blurry mass come closer to him and soft kiss to his lips shoots through him like lightening. Small pressure, small sweep of tongue along his bottom lip.
The boy pulls back, steadying himself with a hand on the shelf right beside Ryan's neck.
Ryan doesn’t know wheather to pull him back in or try his hardest to collaps in on himself.
Make his heart stop racing.
The boy speaks again.
"Why didn’t you push back?"
Ryan’s eyes land on any surrounding aread they can find that’s not a face.
He mouth his gaped and his whole body tense. Waiting.
The boys smirks, he doesn’t see it but Ryan knows he does.
“Exactly.”
His nametag says Bailey
***
Ryan writes once that week.
Bailey kissed me.
***
Little did Ryan know that the boy on the bench would change his life.
Author: destroyedminds
Rating: R
POV: 1st, Ryan's
Summary: So there's this boy on a bench.
Disclaimer: Not real, not based off real events or real people.
Author Notes: I'm trying out a different writing style. I think I like it.
I reside in the crevices of a young boy’s brain. His name is Ryan. I know him inside and out. I’ve been through it all. Through the tears on the floor, the hollow screams into a pillow, the stuttered explanations. I’ve been through it all.
The first word he learned to write, naturally, was "Ryan."
Although his first letter was "B."
Ryan loved to write. And he was pretty good at it. He liked the grind against the paper, the way he could control the thickness and style.
He used to sit on the floor asking his mother how to spell this and that, this went on for quite some time, until his mother screamed and
gave him a firm smack to the back of his thighs. He never asked again.
When he reached height, he would grab any and every book off the shelf in his mother’s room. Pages sprawled out in front of him he
would trace the letters with the stub of his pencil, then rip out a blank page in the front of a book, and copy them down. His mother
slapped him so hard across his cheek he didn’t pick up another book for a year.
Ryan would steal paper from school, take pencils from desks, and collect them under his bed. When he went away to his Dad’s for a
weekend, his mother found them. His father slapped him across the neck with a rolled up magazine and told him that stealing was wrong.
Once he learned how to use a key board, he didn’t touch a piece of paper, outside of his school work, for two years. He got smart and
hid his work away on a flash drive. Ryan would write about everything. Beginning simply with how he woke up in the morning, and slowly inching towards explicit descriptions of his father coming home drunk. As the years paced by his grammar and style became that of a well praised author. Except no one knew.
The night of his 12th birthday that’s when she left. In the middle of cutting the cake and parents screaming across the counter, the knife
flew across the room nearly straying from his dads head, it hit the ground next to Ryan, breaking the tip off. Ryan stood clamping down
on his lip, standing between the noise. His mother walked out and he was not returned to her after the weekend. His father cut him a slice of cake,that wasn’t bludgeoned into a mess, sat him at the table with a plate and fork, grabbed a bear, and left
to the living room. Ryan ate it slowly, trembling and tears sliding down his cheeks, not wanting to disappoint his father. When he built
up the strength to go thank his father, he was already passed out on the couch. Ryan wrapped the rest of the cake up and stuck it in the
fridge next to the beer and leftover take out.
Ryan stayed up for hours that night, he sat for minutes telling himself that plenty of kids probably don’t even get a hug for their birthday.
At lease he got a cake. But he couldn’t think up any other excuses to make himself feel better, he pulled out some paper, the back of a worksheet he used in school, and wrote about the cake. Because at least he got a cake.
wet mush. sweet sugar. sweet layers covered in sugar. underneath the sweet were dry crumbs with pieces of baking powder stuck between the cracks.
When Ryan wrote about something insignificance he wouldn’t capitalize, felt it unfitting. He would rewrite it in a few hours with more
deserving descriptions.
He never asked about his mother, was never told. To this day he hasn’t seen her with the exception of pen on paper.
Six years later, when he met Colleen everything changed. What is everything? He’s smile, his posture, he talked more, he touched
more, he wrote less about more things. Colleen kissed softly, smiled softer. Cut her hair four times a year. Cut her hair not her skin.
Brushed twice a day unless she was really tired, and work up early in the morning to jog, and sometimes she’s take him with her. They talked about simple things, they talked easy and carful.
Three years in. He swore her eyes shined when she told him she loved him, he swore he could’ve fainter. He repeated the words back with a smile on his face and a flutter in his chest. When things got harder, she got kinder, when things eased up, he thanked her for it. She wasn’t perfect but she was a lot closer to it than Ryan, and if Ryan was with “close to perfect” then he was close to “close to perfect."
They’d sit together filling page to page with the future. When she left he sat as night and read them like a book. In his dreams one day
they would be true.
***
Ryan’s second year of college he rented an apartment with his roommate from the year before and a girl they had met on the track one
day. They each had their own tiny room. There was a kitchen attached to a living area and that was all they needed. Ryan surprisingly
got along well with these people, Jon was quiet and made him laugh, and Amanda yelled at him when he left a dirty bowl on the couch.
They kept each other in line and Ryan was pretty sure his life had tuned a complete 180.
He was still with Colleen, she went to a school a half hour away. She stayed with her parents. He wanted to stay with her, but she told him that he should try out living with other people, experience new things. Make his own home. And she was right. She was always right, but not in the annoying way that most men hate, but in a motherly way, keeping him grounded. Sometimes he was convinced that she was god. They would meet up though, at least three times a week, usually more. If they met half way it was only a fifteen minute drive for her and a twenty minute bus ride for him. Otherwise they would go to her house or his apartment. They'd cuddle, they’d fuck, they'd talk, and sometimes they did laundry and they'd cook together. Ryan never knew the last few things could be that much fun.
His roommate Jon liked Colleen. They talked while Ryan was in the shower, and he thought she was pretty. Amanda thought she was to
“cookie cutter” but then again she thought everyone was. He never really gave much thought to it. Amanda was a completely different
person however. She wears dresses and swears. She cooks and reads books when she’s not at a club or bartending. She dates guys and girls and sometimes guys who look like girls. She’s a contradiction to herself and Ryan’s never met someone so interesting.
He wouldn’t change his life for anything, it’s normal but possibly the best and most perfect kind of normal. The normal Ryan never had.
He spent years living in other people’s normal. This is his normal.
***
He stares at the screen, the keys and the empty space around him, seemingly all at the same time. The pixles in the screen start to
blur and everything looks fuzzy. There’s a ringing in his ears and his mind is completely shut off. Not thinking, not working. Just
buzzing. This is a completely new experience, he’s never just NOT been able to write. He’s not the best talker but he can write one thought into a novel. And now he’s sitting here, thinking about the boy with deep brown eyes and fluffy dark hair. He sees pale pale skin, fingertips on shoulders, wind of breath on his neck. He shutters, collapsing back in his chair. Trying desperately to remember his face, remember any expression that wasn’t hurt and confusion. He remembers pushing the boy off him when it should have been the other way around. Pink lips and flushed cheeks flood his vision
***
She told him that he needed something more. Something more than himself to take care of. Something beyond his capabilities.
Amanda said colleen was too good for him, not what he needed. But she was what he needed, soft and kind and willing. Ryan couldn’t
think of anything he needed more. And yet he found himself strolling the park, passing bench by bench, searching. Something to get him
in trouble. Yes it’s a stupid Idea. But he needs it, like a drug. Misses the chaos. Just a little something to feel.
Steal something. Hurt something. Destroy something.
A mother and her two kids.
A couple hand in hand.
A man jogging with his dog.
The boy on the bench.
A women selling magazines.
A little girl playing.
The boy on the bench.
Ryan feet sick, drippy gooey sick.
He knows what he wants to do to that boy. Knows it’s wrong. But he wants it.
And that’s obviously more important than any moral standing right now.
Because before he knows it he’s next the boy, grabbing his shoulders and pushing their lips together. The boy's eyes go wide and he
stiffens under Ryans touch. Ryan forces his tongue in his mouth, teeth to lips. There’s a slight motion form the other boy. He doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t shove Ryan away. But kisses back.
Ryan sneers and slams his palms into the boys chest, lips peeling away like glue. He gets up and walks no more than twenty feet away
before the first tear falls off his cheek. He wipes it away with one hand and breaks into a run. Doesn’t stop until he’s face down, curled in
on himself and shaking on his bed.
He doesn't know why he did it.
***
He’s tried to write about it. A poem, a song. A story. Key words. Something. But he can’t get a single word down about the moment
that hasn’t left his mind for days. He feels sick and hasn’t written properly in weeks. The boy's face flashes in his head. Buzzing.
Why didn’t he push back?
***
Jon hasn’t said anything apart form usual. Amanda won’t stop drilling him about what Ryan needs and what Ryan doesn’t. He’s pretty
sure she doesn’t know what’s good for him. But he’s positive he doen’t know any better.
***
Ryan skips class friday because it’s the last one before winter break and he’s pretty sure he know everything there already it to know about Hemingway.
He instead takes to waking up at two in the afternoon, devouing whatever was left from Amanda’s breakfast.
He still can’t write and knows exactly where to go to fix it. Possibly.
The last time he was here was when he and Colleen broke up. He couldn’t write about that either the first few days but he’s pretty sure he now has a novel and sequals words of words hidden away oin his coputer about her.
He pulls off his gloves as he steps in the doorway, the smell of coffee and stiff book pages filling the air.
And he feels safe- at home. Because no one can hurt him when he lives in the pages.
He picks a few books. Buys a coffee, and find himself an empty arm chair. He flips to random pages, soaking up word after word. Pretending that every page of every book he flips to somehow connects to one another. A new story in his mind.
One he’s picked up is about a boy and a girl. The boy beats the girl. Her friends tell her to leave but she can’t. He flips to the middle of the book and come to a passage, “His hand’s bruise into my arm, burning red. He's angry. His teeth bite down on my lip. His eye’s never once reach mind as he shoves me against the floor-“
Ryan quirte literally throws the book form his fingertips, busting the front cover. His hands shake and tears swell in his eyes as he searches around his thigh for a different book. A different distraction. His hands feel numb and his mind is swirling.
“This book makes me angry too,”
Ryan blinks a few times, looking up from his hands. looking up to register what's going on in a world that he tries to desperately to control. The book that was once in his hands are now in the palms two others. He watches the employee walk back towards the shaleves for retun the book. Ryan stiffins, watching the curve of his back and familiar slope of the boys shoulders.
Struggling, he gets up, leaves. Leaves behind the books and coffee, and goes straight for the door.
The cold doesn’t help the shaking on the walk home.
He doesn’t step foot near that building for three weeks.
***
Amanda can go to the “after holidays” book sale on her own. He really doesn’t need to go with her. Nonetheless he findhims self in the aisle of anime books and how-to's. He thought of every excuse his broken brain could come up with, none even good enough to convince himself.
He scanned every aisle they walk past, reciving looks form his friend.
Ryan’s sure that he’s not here working today and he takes a dep breath, as he slumps down agians a bookshelf, loking up at Amanda scaning through various graphc novels.
He decided to focus himself else where. Wiritng in his mind. She looks nice today, small black dress two sizes to bing hung over long, tight black and white stripped leggings, black straped doll like shoes and laced up sleveas over her arms. Her pale skins is smooth and soft, her smile even more so. Ryan counts his blessing for a friend like her.
Too traped in his thoughts, as per usual, Ryan doesn’t register that Amanda’s not talking to herself anymore. His eyes have droped from her figure to his feet somewhere along the thought prossess. He raises his eyes back up, tilting his head, frezzing within himself. He follows from toe upward, dark kahki skinny jeans, tucked in navy blue shirt. There’s really not much to look at until he follows the neck up, the short hair cut flops down on his skin, brushing it with ever jab of his jaw line when he speaks. But he doesn't look at his mouth.
Ryan’s insides tighten and he tries harshly to listen to the boy's voice. His head is spinning and he can’t makeout a single word. He wants to run, far away and never come back. But nonetheless he just sits there.
He jumps in his place when Amanda turns around, shoving a book in his face.
"Ryan, hold this,"
The books drops in his lap and she’s gone before he has a chance to understand what’s happening.
Because now
He’s alone
Here
With the boy.
He stares at the book, cradled in his lap and tinkling his thighs.
He want to move it, hold it between his fingers, fall into it.
His brain telling him too but he’s pretty sure nothings happening and why has Amanda been gone for 10 minutes.
Exept it’s not even ten seconds before the boy above him pipes up in a familiar tone.
"Y’know, what you did the other day was wrong,"
He waits.
Ryan nods, he really really hopes he nods.
Ryan's basically prepared for his life to come to an end.
"You can’t just leave a pile of books and coffee lying around on the floor,"
What.
He thinks he’s breathing, yeah he’s not dead, so he must be breathing, he wishes he wasn’t.
"Cleaning up after egotistic slobs is not in my job description,"
Ryan hears more smile and less ringing in his ears.
Where’s Amanda, why isn’t he running.
Why didn’t he push back?
He thinks he accidently whispered the last thought aloud, he does that sometimes, confuses mouth with mind.
The boy crouches down next to him trying to earn a look from Ryan.
But he hasn’t yet stopped looking down at the book in his lap.
The Big Book Of Irony by Jon Winokur.
His lips feel detatched and he’s pretty sure he coudnt move even if the ground just collapsed beneath him. Which doesn't sound so bad right about now. Time would just suspend him in space instead.
He soon proves that false when his head fall back against the book shelve. Shoulders pushed back by the set hands in front of him.
A blurry mass come closer to him and soft kiss to his lips shoots through him like lightening. Small pressure, small sweep of tongue along his bottom lip.
The boy pulls back, steadying himself with a hand on the shelf right beside Ryan's neck.
Ryan doesn’t know wheather to pull him back in or try his hardest to collaps in on himself.
Make his heart stop racing.
The boy speaks again.
"Why didn’t you push back?"
Ryan’s eyes land on any surrounding aread they can find that’s not a face.
He mouth his gaped and his whole body tense. Waiting.
The boys smirks, he doesn’t see it but Ryan knows he does.
“Exactly.”
His nametag says Bailey
***
Ryan writes once that week.
Bailey kissed me.
***
Little did Ryan know that the boy on the bench would change his life.