Hello, Goodbye

07: Saxon

He stares at the wall, focusing on the white. Colours dance in his eyes, vibrant and glossy. He feels her warmth against his back, feels every time she breathes. It's beautiful, the silence. The two of them sitting back to back staring at nothing. Just waiting. Waiting for any phone call, any interruption of the silence. A beautiful silence, but every silence has a need to be interrupted. "Saxon," she breathes. He doesn't turn his head to face her.

"Yes?"

"What if my dad killed him?" Saxon chuckles, his back knocking against Grace's as he does so. "Don't laugh, Saxon, I'm scared."

"I think that Anthony's a big boy and knows how to take care of himself. How old did you say he was? Nineteen?" She nods, her head gently tapping his. He recognises the pattern of her breathing once again when the silence fills the room yet again.

"What about my father; you think he's dead?"

"Do you want him to be?" he retorts quietly. Grace twists her head, obviously trying not to cry. She sniffles and brings her hand up to wipe her nose.

"I would like to say that I'd like him to be alive for the rest of eternity but he's not like other father's, Saxon. My dad is a horrible man. He left my mother because she didn't make him enough money. She's a workaholic now. I hate my dad with a deep and burning passion that nobody understands in this town. My mother tells me not to hate anyone, but I know that she hates my dad." She sighs. "But he's alive. I know it. He's the kind of guy to never give up." She shakes her head, wiping her tears.

"Like you. You're not giving up."

"You don't know me, Saxon. All I ever do is give up."

"I don't believe that, Grace. You're still here, aren't you?" He imagines tears welling up, glossing her big brown eyes. She fiddles with her hair, sniffling again, but only slightly. "Grace, look at me." They both turn to face each other, even their bodies twisting around. "I'm here for you, remember that." She nods, staring into his eyes.

"Saxon, it's just a weird concept," she admits. "People aren't usually nice to me. Well, they are - but only for a little bit."

"Oh," he responds, staring into his lap. His navy blue sweat pants are making him sweat. "Ma, what's the time?" he calls out.

"Almost half past six." He looks over at Grace with pleading eyes. They'd been asking for the time from his mother for the past few hours, since lunch time. They asked during awkward moments, to relieve the tension. He pleads to her with his eyes, begging her not to leave.

"I should go. My mum will wonder where I've been." She offers him a small smile and gathers her stuff. "Goodbye, Saxon. I'll see you at school." He nods, disappointment in his eyes.

The door shuts in Saxon's face behind Grace. He stares at the white wood for a moment, chipped in places. "She's a nice girl," his mother observes, handing Saxon a mug of coffee. He sniffs it and cringes but proceeds to take a sip anyway. Any remedy is as good as any other. The scalding hot liquid slides down his throat, tangy and bitter. "Sugar?"

He pours some in and stirs the drink with a spoon. "She's nice." He takes another sip. More sugar. He figures if he puts more sugar in, it will drown out the coffee. "Yeah. Quiet. But nice."

"Is she okay, Saxon? She skipped school to be here." He nods, scooping more sugar into his drink. "Your drink will be predominantly sugar now, Saxon. If you don't like coffee, just put the damn drink down." He sets it down on the coffee table. He rests his feet beside it.

"She's fine, mum." He stands. "She's just fine."

She isn't looking up when she walks onto the bus. He attempts to hide a smile. She looks up for a moment and spots him. She hides her smile with her hair, running her fingers through it. She slides into the seat next to his and she leans into him. He presses his lips together into a tight-lipped smile. Neither of the two look at each other. They just look straight ahead, at nothing really. Neither focuses on anything but each other. Just the company of each other in the rowdy bus full of irritating teenagers.