Ever After

Fists Of Fury

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This chapter is in Mark's perspective.

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"Jack, please," I begged, "just tell me what's wrong."

"'What's wrong!?'" he roared, finally turning from the mirror's reflection he'd been distracted by. "I fell on top of you and pulled back your hair just when Mrs. Jefferson decided to do the curtain call for the field trip, and you have the decency to ask 'What's wrong?'"

"It's a figure of speech," I tried to explain myself. "Don't get mad at me."

He let out a shaky sigh, clinging to the sink just as I'd clung to the thought of him ever actually loving me. I couldn't stop myself from praying - praying - deep inside that this was just a phase, that this was just a mental state, that it was just a few seconds before he would turn to face me, a smile sewn against his cheeks, his eyes given the same life they'd had moments ago. Every second he didn't turn and do such a thing, my heart sank deeper into my chest - he was just frustrated.

"I'm not mad at you," he grunted, his grip on the sink somehow growing stronger, as if he could thrust it across the washroom if he wished. "I'm mad at myself for being so... dumb... so fuckin' stupid!"

"You are not stupid," I demanded, feeling as if the space between us had grown larger. I was forcing myself to keep my distance, to stay close to the corner of the room, the furthest I could get from him - I needed to give him space to himself, needed to let him be. "I think you should know plenty well by now that I think if you as nothing short of wonderful."

"How can I know that when I'm too fuckin' retarded to see it!?" The sound of him slamming a fist against the mirror sent chills throughout the echoey stalls, the sound of it earning a small crack in response to his fist even more unsettling. "It's so god damn frustrating."

"... What is?"

He took a short glance against his reflection before taking in a deep breath, clenching his fists to his thighs. "This... thing between us."

I opened my mouth to speak, only to shut it less than a second later. As difficult as it was to admit, he wasn't wrong. Whatever our relationship was, it definitely was frustrating - he couldn't have said it any clearer - but I'd seen it as nothing but good, beautiful memories shared with the only person I could truly look forward to seeing. Most teenagers had that special someone by this time (or, at least, had had that special someone), meaning that I wasn't the only one, and yet it was so much different, so much more than what others saw. Teenagers these days were full of nothing but the media; "Read" messages, eggplant Emojis, and sent nudes, whereas I didn't even own a cell phone. The most romantic you could get without looking like a complete idiot was a simple peck on the cheek, or possibly a smack on the ass, whereas Jack and I treasured every moment, whether that moment was spent twirling each other's hair in a sauna or being pressed up against one another in a subway bathroom. There was something about him that made me feel as if we were special, as if we were different, but not within the entire "gay" aspect; we were just different, sharing our own kind of love with one another. I couldn't let this meltdown screw it all up.

"What are we?" Jack asked, taking a step closer to me, a step I'd wished he'd take in the opposite direction. "... Are we just friends? Or are we..."

I nearly chuckled at the thought of it. "'Friends?' How can we be 'just friends' when we've been through so much?"

"Don't make this any tougher than it has to be," Jack said, taking a step in the opposite direction.

I didn't understand. "What do you mean?"