Soft - BoyxBoy

Chapter Six

Billie Eillish - Six Feet Under

Craig stirrs himself awake, yawning and shifting only to find that he's stuck. Panic quickly consumes him and he tries to sit up, blinking his eyes open as something tightens around him.

Craig blushes as he sees that it's Tyler restricting him, an arm around Craig's stomach and his head on Craig's shoulder. Craig doesn't know what to do, he doubts Tyler will be pleased when he wakes up. Craig squirms around, trying to shift out of Tyler's grip when he knows he really can't. "Tyler..." Craig mutters, shaking the tallers arm lightly. Tyler grumbles and shifts, moving his face to be nuzzled into Craig's neck. Craig blushes even more as Tyler's heavy breathing ghosts over his skin. "C'mon Tyler get up.." Craig says softly, pushing the panicky feeling in his gut away. "Erm.." Tyler grunts, nuzzling closer still so his nose is nestled over Craig's shoulder and his arm is pulling Craig impossibly close. "Tyler c'mon, please..." Craig tries to sound sweet like a mother would, using a sing song voice, but all he notices is Tyler stiffens. "Tyler?" Craig asks, and Tyler's hand balls itself into a fist, clinging to Craig's shirt.

"Uh, come on. It's morning." Craig says normally, and Tyler shifts. "We really should get up." Craig gulps, and Tyler yawns. "Too early..." Tyler hums, only tightening his grip on Craig's shirt. "The suns up. I can hear people talking." Craig chuckles nervously, and Tyler loosens his grip on Craig. Craig breathes a sigh of relief and stands up, chuckling as Tyler falls back asleep almost right away.

Craig glances at Tyler's empty room again, sighing to himself. Craig notices something he didn't before, a single drawer on the desk. Craig glances at Tyler, who is still sleeping, snoring soundly. Craig crouches in front of the desk and pulls the drawer open, rather shocked at the amount of color inside it. Tens, maybe hundreds of pictures fill the drawer, most capturing two people. Craig gingerly pulls a picture from the drawer, smiling at the cliché aspect of it.

A man and a woman stand holding hands with at small boy no older then the age of three between them. The lady in the picture wore long, wavy carmel hair and beautiful ice blue eyes. A floral top framed her body along with tight black leggings. The man wore dark brown hair that fell over his eyes in places with dead brown eyes. A plain blue shirt barely fit over his beer belly and black dress pants were a little too long. The boy looked too much like his mother, wavy carmel hair and icy eyes, a grin that barely fit on his face missing two front teeth. He wore zebra leggings that seemed too big, hand-me-downs or donated clothes no doubt. His white shirt had a cat drawn on it, and a pink, torn baseball cap was stuffed over his hair. They were standing in front of an old, beat up house. But it seemed to be enough for them.

Craig smiles at the picture and grabs another, which seems to be taken only a decade or so ago.

It is definitely Tyler, same hair style and chiseled features even though he seemed to be no older then ten. He wore an old blue work shirt with another name stitched into his chest pocket and black pants, all covered in soot and grime and a few sizes too big. The same goofy smile was on his face, a new pink cap on his head. His mother, who has most definitely aged, is laughing with him, gripping one of his hands and cleaning off the dirt with a cloth. They seemed to be in a living room, old chairs and dirty carpeting filling the backround.

Craig chuckles lightly and takes another picture, his smile quickly falling as a gasp is caught in his throat.

It seems to be a picture taken by a phone or a really crappy camera, aimed at Tyler's mother who's beaten and bruised. She's not looking at the camera, but whoever is holding it with a worried expression on her once gentle features. Someone's fist was in the backround, reeled back and distant, ready for a punch.

Craig then does gasp, digging through the pictures until he finds one of a crime scene. Tyler's mother is dead on the floor surrounded by blood, a thirteen year old Tyler sitting nearby with a stress blanket around his shoulders and tears in his eyes. Another one is of Tyler's aged father, a mug shot of his aged father. Craig drops the pictures in his hands and digs through more. So many are of a happy toddler, or young, version of Tyler with his parents. But once he looks the age of nine most of the pictures look violent. Most of the ones with his mother are happy, at the least. Craig blinks a few times, glancing at the happy little boy to the depressed crying teenager in two pictures.

Craig yelps as he's suddenly pinned to the ground, Tyler being the one who attacked him. Tyler grits his teeth together, fire growing in his ice eyes. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He hisses through his teeth, and Craig swallows the lump in his throat.