Notebook [Book One]

Twenty-Five

Nathan watched Aiden as he slept in an exhausted stupor, completely worn out by his emotional episode.

He couldn't get off the bathroom floor without the help of his parents, who picked him up and carried him to bed like a toddler. His father clutched his only son in his arms like a fragile newborn baby.

It was difficult to witness the boy with pink hair in such a shattered state. He lay in his bed, waiting just long enough for his mother to peel off the dark Converse before pulling the covers up to his neck, ready to sleep for the rest of the day.

Aiden's dark eyes were unbelievably heavy and burned like he hadn't slept in a week.

Nathan didn't miss how his tiny hand peeked out from under the duvet, begging for his attention. He granted his wish right away, sitting on the floor beside the bed so he could look the younger boy in the eyes.

The pink-haired boy's eyes were usually so expressive that they gave away his feelings, even when he pretended to be okay. But now, his eyes were flat. Almost dead.

The traumatic flashback erased all ability to feel, and Nathan hated it.

He hated seeing the other boy so solemn. He wanted to hear him laugh, listen to his voice as he rambled about nothing, and feel his hands roaming his body.

Quietly, the older boy lifted his hand, making every action slow, so he didn't frighten the younger boy, and placed his fingers on his cheek, gently stroking the mark that caused this meltdown.

Aiden was so sensitive about how he looked without makeup.

The scar was a constant reminder of what he went through and how badly it escalated.

It was such a significant mark; it was always eye-catching and noticeable when uncovered, so Nathan understood why.

As the older boy leaned forward and pecked at the soft, plump lips, he couldn't help but feel a wave of guilt and responsibility.

He was the one who convinced Aiden to go out without covering his face that morning. He was the one who removed the hat Aiden borrowed as they kissed. If Nathan had left the hat alone or left the younger boy at home and gone shopping himself, none of this would have happened.

He would have been eagerly waiting for the white-haired boy's return, a bright smile on his face, probably sprawled out on the bed looking innocently desirable.

The older boy sat beside Aiden's bed until he fell asleep, stroking his face as the boy's hand draped over his shoulder, leaving him to rest and recover his strength for a few hours.

Nathan braced himself, groaning and clutching his shoulder as a sharp bolt of electricity shot through, ripping down to his fingers. He jammed his teeth together hard, riding the wave of pain as he tried not to cry out.

He didn't want to wake Aiden.

Looking around the room, the white-haired boy found his medicine bottle, conveniently placed on the desk, ready for use.

He had taken none that morning, which explained why the sudden pain was so intense—combined with lugging the shopping bags with his weaker hand.

However, this left him with a problem; Aiden always opened the bottle.

The stupid twist-open lid required two hands to operate, and despite his best efforts, Nathan's left arm was now too weak to do anything.

His muscles felt like wet tissue, ready to tear at any second. He couldn't grip the lid, let alone open the bottle.

On any other day, Nathan would have submitted to the pain. He would have climbed into bed with the pink-haired boy and slept until it disappeared, but not today.