Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

friday the thirteenth!

isn't this perfect? 

it's friday the thirteenth! 

i've decided to be extra nice, after keeping you all waiting so long.  i'm glad everything's starting to work again.  isn't this just beautiful.

once again, i just want to say thank you, SO FREAKING MUCH. all of you, you're so amazing. i couldn't have asked for a better group of fans.

i love you all.

and i hope you enjoy. please forgive all the wait.

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"Can I ask you something?"  The boy beside me tilted his head and looked over through one eye.  His other lay hidden beneath a set of untidy bangs.

"Of course.  You can ask me anything, Justy, you know that."

I scuffed my feet in the rocks between the railroad ties.  He balanced carefully on one of the slippery rails, arms stretched out on either side of him.  Just a minute ago, the fourteen year old had been racing back and forth along the metal pole, airplane noises escaping his set of perfect white teeth.

Justin stopped, and sat down.  I copied him, and we sat across from each other, him on the right rail, and me on the left.  The steel was cold through my jeans, and I shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the hard line.  His questions always sparked deep conversations.

"You ever think about getting out of here?"

"What do you mean?"  My ninth grade brain whirred with possibilities.  Of leaving the town I hated so much with the only boy I could ever imagine wanting to be with.

Fourteen year old me had the world's biggest crush on my best friend.

"I mean like, just me and you, running away from this place.  Going somewhere where we can just be us, without anybody telling us what to do all the time."

"You mean, like being adults, when we're still in high school?"

"Yeah."

"I guess I have, but not like the way you put it."

Justin stared at the gravel intently, his hands rubbing circles along the ripped knees of his skinnies.  A gray varsity style jacket hung loosely over his shoulders.  "How have you thought about it then, babe?"

Even being a joke, him calling me "babe" brought butterflies to my tummy.  I choked on finding the right words.  

"I mean, like.  I've thought about us leaving, but I always just kinda pictured it being like us as runaway teenagers."

"Like those homeless kids we saw down in the Haight?" he brought up our trip to San Francisco with his parents the summer before.

"Yeah.  With our cups in front of us and sitting there stoned out of our minds."

"But neither of us does drugs."

"You get what I mean."

"Yeah."

The conversation stopped, as did his motions.  He sat so still I could have sworn he stopped breathing.

"Hey, Damian?" 

I looked up in time to see Justin reaching out for my hand.  He took it in his, his palm slippery.

When I looked into his eyes, I could see all the nervousness in the world.  At first, I didn't understand why.  

"Yeah?"

"You um..." he started.  He looked so scared.  He was practically shaking.

He was gorgeous.

"You ever feel a certain way about someone you never figured you'd feel that way about?"

Shit.  "Yeah?"

"Well, I know this guy.  He's so amazing and funny and cute and makes my tummy feel like it's about to fucking explode whenever I get near him."

"Yeah?  He sounds like a pretty cool guy.  Why don't you tell him you feel that way about him?"

"What if he doesn't like me?  I mean, I'm just me."

"That's bullshit.  I'll be willing to bet he feels the same exact way."

Now we both knew.

"Fuck it.  Hey Damian, do you wanna be my boyfriend?"

"I can't think of anything I'd want to be more."

His right hand tightened around mine as we stood.  Two words lined the cuff.

Drop Dead.

"What'd his cuff say?" Timmy asks eagerly.

I hold up my right wrist, the one that displays the matching two words.  Three years later, the jacket's a little more worn in but the tag is still there.

"Drop Dead?  Oli Sykes, right?"

"Oli Sykes," I echo.  

"Hey!  Oli's got the same last name as Justin!"

That's right.

Reality hits me like a brick.  

Who the fuck is this kid?  What the fuck did I just do, telling him all this stuff and pretending like everything is okay?  What the fuck am I doing?

Justin's dead.  That memory is nothing but about a dead boy asking me to share his life with him.

"I have to go."  We've sat down on a bench, but I need to get to my feet.  I need to feel the grass beneath my shoes and the stone in of my view.

"Damian?"  

In front of me, Timmy is shaking like a leaf, freezing.

"Are you going to him?" 

I nod, slowly.  

"Don't."

What?

"I said, don't," he repeats.  "Sit down.  Stay with me."

Why should I?

"We were having such a great time.  You were laughing, don't you remember?  And talking.  You were talking to me."

That was a huge mistake.  I have to go.

"No Damian," he reads my thoughts.  "You need to stay."

Don't tell me what to do.

"You don't have to talk, that's okay.  Just sit with me.  Breathe.  Look at the skyline.  Watch the living."

I don't move.

"Damian, look at the world.  It's all right there in front of you.  Don't you want to make your mark while you're still living?"

"But, Justin..."

"Justin made his mark, Damian.  Right here."  He taps my chest, right above my heart.  "He's not going anywhere as long as you can still remember.  But now it's your turn.  Make me remember you."

With that, I take off Justin's jacket and slip it around the shivering blue haired boy, and I leave him sitting alone in the park.

It may not be the way I'd ideally pick anyone to remember me-- the asshole-- but at least I'm being remembered.

He didn't say it had to be for something courageous.