Compound Adjectives - Posner/Scripps
Un-kissed
"It is true for you, isn't it, this overwhelming feeling we have for each other? It's as true for you as it is for me, isn't it?" Posner asked quietly, eyes darting from Scripps's right eye to his left, biting his lip absent-mindedly.
"Yes, it's true," the other boy answered, shifting so he was sitting on his hands. Mustn't touch, mustn't grab, mustn't push him down and- Posner sighed and dropped his head.
"I think we mixed up the first bit. It's 'no, not really,' not 'no, I'm not,'."
"We can leave it. Hector won't mind." Posner tutted, shaking his head.
"No. Hector said exactly as it was. Can't change lines around, Scripps."
You can't miss bits out either, Scripps thought as he glanced down at the page in his hand.
They kiss as the music grows louder.
Un-rejoicing
There was a teacher at the school that reminded him a bit of Hector. He taught what he wanted and sometimes Posner could hear singing coming from the room at the end of the corridor. A bit stranger than Hector ever was, though. Paranoid, probably. Insane, maybe. Lonely, certainly.
About six months after, he left for personal reasons; at least, that's what they told the students. In the staff room, it was common knowledge he'd had a nervous breakdown, brought on by the death of his cat Beth, and Jon Taylor in 10F.
The teachers held a small party in the English office. No more speeches on a Monday morning detailing how they've sentenced themselves to an eternity in hell four times before breakfast was apparently a thing to celebrate. Posner didn't stay though. He went home early that night and spent the night talking about their old English teacher while Scripps scribbled away on the notepad in his hand.
Un-confessed
He sees Dakin, sometimes. Not often, but once or twice a year. And when he does, his stomach still dips. It's embarrassing really. Years out of school and still slightly lusting after the boy (because he always will be a boy to Posner, all of them trapped at seventeen and eighteen years forever) that he'll never get. He won't admit to it. No matter how drunk they get him, no matter who asks him, no matter what they do to him, he won't confess. No one will ever find out.
(He's sure Scripps knows. Sure that he's made the connection between seeing their old friend and the way Posner clings to him for the next few days. He won't ask if he does know. He's lucky to have what he does, he won't risk it.)
Un-embraced
Standing by his front door, Posner looks so very small and so very young, with his head bowed and his hand nervously twisting the strap of his bag. Scripps doesn't know if he pities him or feels sorry for him. Doesn't know if they're the same or not; it sounds like they should be the same, but he's sure there something that much worse about pitying someone.
"Anyway," Posner says, quietly. "Ignore me. I'm talking rubbish. Again." He starts fidgeting, moving one foot backwards and forwards on the pavement. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Scripps nods, smiles, and lifts one arm to rest on Poser's shoulder. The other boy looks down at it and then back up at Scripps, frowning slightly. He looks down, slightly embarrassed. He didn't know why he'd done that. And now they were left standing there, half way to a hug, avoiding each others eyes. God knows what they looks like to anyone who saw them. He drops his arm, lets it fall down from Posner's shoulder to down by his side again.
"See you."
Un-spent
"We're out of milk." He feels the pillow dip on either side of his head, and the paper of a five pound note tickling his cheek.
"Mhm," he mumbles in reply, lifting one of his hands to wrap his fingers around the other man's wrist.
"Get off. I have to go." Warm breath heats up his forehead, and Posner tips his head back slightly.
"You don't."
"I do if we want tea."
"Later," he says, half pleading, half insisting, as he opens one eye and blinks against the morning sun. He smiles up at Scripps and reaches his other hand up to cup the back of his head, pulling him down to press his lips against his. Posner takes the money out of the other man's hand, and tangles their fingers together as the note lies on the on bedside table, resting on top of a pile of books, forgotten.
Un-fingermarked
The bruises left there by the other man's hand have faded to nothing. Not that they were proper bruises, not really. Just marks on the skin where someone had grabbed his waist and held him there, held him down and left a permanent remind of their night together.
He'd looked every available moment, as much as he hates to admit it (it seems a rather pathetic thing to do, really), to see if they'd gone. And then this morning he'd looked and they had. Clear white, pale uninterrupted skin.
Lying on the bed, he rests his hand on his hip and presses down hard. When he lifts it up, the skin's white before going back to normal, blending in with the rest of his body. There are faint red lines where he dug his nails in. It's not the same. No where near the same.