bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter thirty.

Smoke swirled through Case's head, dulling his senses . . . giving him a lingering sense of spacey-confusion he couldn't quite shake.  He'd sit up, think he should exercise, but minutes later would still be staring at nothing. He'd get into the shower and zone out, the water going cold before he had the chance to wash. He'd struggle to pick a book to read, only to glaze over on the one page for what could have been hours.

"Alright, Case, c'mon. Wake up. WAKE UP!" he'd shout, hyping himself up, trying to snap out of the daze. But the energy, the clarity, never lasted. Instead, his focus lasered in on the same thoughts:

Had he really fallen in love with Sir?

Was he officially gay now? Or bi, or some other unknown sexuality on the grand spectrum of gender and love?

Did Sir love him?

Were they in a relationship—boyfriend and boyfriend?

He doesn't love Sophie, the voice crept out from its hibernation. He killed her. And now he has you. Sir does so much for you, the voice slithered. Sir says you're special. Says he can't live without you. That sounds like a relationship, like lovers, like soul mates . . .

The voice was noisy, cluttering his mind. But his body filled with a strange sense of unease. Something wasn't right. Case wasn't right. Something was wrong inside of him, unsettling him. He'd try to sit with the uncomfortable feeling, to meet it head-on, as if he were trying to meet a monster hiding under his bed.

He couldn't be dating Sir. This—this—couldn't be dating. Right? A relationship shouldn't involve constantly living in fear of the person you're meant to love. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of getting hurt. Scared of being rejected.

But, the voice showed him, his relationship with Sir wasn't always bad.

What about the confidence, the safety, of being able to share the deepest most vulnerable parts of himself? The sharing of secrets, insecurities . . . the intimacy, both physical and psychological.

If Case was honest with himself, his relationship with Sir was only a more extreme version of his relationship with Hannah. The bad and the good.

If he was truly honest with himself—which he wasn't, because the ugliness of the truth still scared him—he'd admit that he hadn't been happy with Hannah; that he should've left her long before the party; that he'd deserved a relationship that was happy and healthy back then, and he certainly wasn't in one now.

"Did you like the book?" Sir's fingertips stroked Case's arm, dragging him back to the basement. Grounding him back to the bed, its stained mattress powdery with bicarb.

"Yeah," Case replied. A flat, absent reflex.

"Tell me what it was about."

"Hmm?"

Sir placed his hand on Case's shoulder; his body cringed from the touch. He blinked, bringing himself to his senses.

The book.

"Oh." Right. The book. He hadn't made it past the first chapter yet. "Uh, I don't remember. I don't know." He scratched his hair, fidgety. Adrenaline spiking. He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. Tap tap tapped his kneecaps, not sure what to do with the sudden restlessness. "I don't know. I haven't been reading lately."

Sir inhaled sharply through his nose. Rolled away, the mattress jostling beneath his shifting weight. "If you're becoming ungrateful, then perhaps I should them away. At least until you learn to appreciate my generosity."

There were so many books laying around the basement. So many reminders of Sophie. Stacks of mini piles across the concrete floor. Cluttering the basement. Reminding Case how connected Sir had remained to his long-dead favorite. "Take them."