Hush

Chapter 9: Dreamer Boy

Right now, I feel like my skin has been suddenly replaced with magnets and John is my polar opposite.

As I stare at him, eating all alone on a table in the corner of the crowded cafeteria, I want to do nothing more than carry him in my arms (which would realistically be most likely physically impossible. To put it simply: I'm a skinny French fry and John is a hot baked potato) and bring him here. I want to talk to him and I want my friends who I'm sitting with so see how fucking extraordinary he is. I don't want them to see him as a heartless jerk, and I don't want him to be sitting alone in such a big room. More than anything I just want him right here by my side, sitting so close to me I can feel the heat coming from his spotted skin. I miss him. I can't wait for the last bell of the day to ring so I can run straight toward him faster than a cheetah which he told me can run up to 75 miles per hour (metaphorically speaking, of course. We're way slicker than that, thank you very much).

My fingers unconsciously tap against the table over and over again, maybe I should stop staring at John. I mean, I'm literally in a table surrounded by a bunch of people who could easily notice who I'm looking at simply by following my gaze and as I've previously established, I cannot let people know that we're friends, let alone that I'm low-key crushing on him. It kinda feels like a Romeo & Juliet-ish kind of forbidden relationship. (Only that Romeo and Juliet wasn't actually meant to be read as a love story but as a critique toward society and romance and the childishness of it all).

I tear my eyes from him. It almost hurts.

Goddamn, why does he have to have such a beautiful face?

I force my ears to sync back into the conversation and from what I could gather in a few seconds, my dearest friends are having a rather intense debate discussing whenever or no Sponge Bob has lips.

Idiots, of course he has lips.

"See!?" Kitty shrieks as she practically shoves her phone on Hercules' face, an image of Sponge Bob with lips on the screen.

Told you so.

"Dude, no, you see," Hercules insists. "Those ain't actually lips," And so he launches himself on an explanation to support his very much flawed logic.

I bet that if John was here he would agree with me.

Shit, wait, what am I doing? Comparing John to my other friends isn't something I wanna start doing. Nope. It feels wrong, like I'm putting them all on a non-existent contest. They're all great in their own ways and that's that.

(Or maybe it's the fact that I know that if this were indeed a contest, John would probably win. When did this happen?)

Unintentionally my eyes drift toward him once again. He looks like a masterpiece, like a portrait done on Picasso's blue period.

I wish I could suck all of the sadness that surrounds him away and throw it away inside a bottle and into the ocean. (Not literally, John would literally kill me if I tried anything that involves polluting the ocean). I wish I could crack his head open and see what's always bothering him underneath that thick layer of walls, what makes him carry eye-bags everywhere he goes and fight people.

I wish I could make John happy, in a way.

I guess that's what I wish the most.

•••

As soon as the bell rings I send Lafayette a text saying I'm on my way home (aka lies) and head straight toward the back of the school. As always, the place is deserted, only things there being a tree and a trash dumpster. John isn't here yet. That's alright.

I lay in the soft grass facing toward the sky with my eyes closed. I don't know when, but this place has started to feel homey in a way to me. It's John's and I's bubble.

Suddenly I hear loud barking coming from behind me and I don't even need to open my eyes to know it's Brutus and with him, John.

"Hey," I hear him say, his voice deep and husky like a thick layer of honey.

"Hey," I respond, opening one eye to look at him. He almost looks like an angel surrounded by so much light. I notice his eyes drifting down toward my lips before willing them up once again after half a second.

Am I imagining things?

He sits beside me, too far away for my liking (even though he's right by my side) and Brutus follows, laying down on the grass while munching a piece of ham. His snout is scrunched and I can see his yellow teeth sinking on the meat. Brutus really is an ugly dog, but I can't say he hasn't earned a place in my heart.

John looks at me like he can tell what I'm thinking. He probably can, if you spend enough time with me you'll notice my face is an open book of emotions. He raises a brow at me and I stick my tongue out mockingly. He half-scoffs and half-laughs. I love it that we can be like...

Like this.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask randomly. He doesn't even blink, I guess we have gotten used to each other's weird shit, my random questions being one of them. After all, my quest to learn who John Laurens is isn't over yet.

"Spaghetti with tofu. You?" He responds without missing a beat.

"New York pizza," I say after pretending to think for a while. He snorts and throws a pencil he had on his hair at me.

"You're so basic, Hamilton," He says in a dramatic tone.

"That makes two of us, Mr. Pumpkin Spice Late,"

"Yeah, make fun of my good taste, Mr. Black Coffee," He copies me.

I sit up and shove him away playfully (May I mention his chest is as firm as a rock? Because damn). He shoves me right back and I notice his hands are still littered with paint, way less than the mess of colors in them last night but I can still see splatters of blues and greens on his fingers. I think back to the painting he was working on last night, of the blue woman embracing the world.

"Why?" I ask before I can organize my thoughts correctly and ask an actual question. He makes a confused noise and cocks his head to the side in the cutest way.

"I mean," I hurry to explain myself. "The painting you were working on last night, of your mom. She's blue in there, is there a reason? I mean, there doesn't have to be, I'm just curious. I don't know if you're the type of person to put symbolism on everything or just do stuff because you want to, though you kinda seem like the second option? Anyway, yeah, just asking," By the time I finish my ramble I notice something changed in John's eyes. He looks exactly the same but his eyes, they look... different, I guess.

They remind me of my own eyes, years ago.

"Well..." He starts hesitantly. "It's because she's my world, and so I draw her as the galaxy," He says, but I can tell there are many words left unsaid. I don't push it.

I put my hand on his bicep, trying to give him some kind of comfort, I guess. He looks at me in the eyes and half-smiles.

If I were a painter, I would draw John as the world.