Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

nine plus teen

i hope you guys enjoy, i tried not to make you wait as long this time.

poptarts.

if anyone buys me some grapes i'll love them forever and we can get married and make babies some time okay?  okay.

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There's sixty-seven consecutive knocks on the door in the next thirty seconds.

I can only think of one person who'd give such persistence to such a simple task, and his blue hair is visible through the rain-streaked glass surrounding the front entrance.

I let him in with a flick of the lock.

"HolyJeebusit'sfreezingoutsidei'dneverthoughtyou'dcomedoyouhaveanydryclothesformetoborrow?" Timmy asks in one long run-on word. Slowly, but surely, I'm getting better at comprehending more and more of each one.

I nod. "Upstairs. I've got something you can wear."

He follows me up with gusto, dripping down the stairs his entire way. I can't tell if he's trembling, or singing, mostly because the two tend to go together with him.

Two minutes and half a We Came as Romans song later, Timmy peaks a wavy haired head around the edge of my doorway. He's dressed in my clothes, jeans baggy and rolled at least twice at the bottom, and t-shirt two sizes too big.

"Do you got a straighte-hey, you're playing music. I know these guys!" He hums along to the breakdown. "Kinda angry-y. Got anything happy?"

I motion towards a stack of CD's in the corner by the closet. "Take your pick. Can't promise there'll be anything suiting your taste."

"No problem." Timmy plops down on the carpet and immerses himself in sorting through the disorderly pile. I just watch as he examines each cracked case, and sets it either off by itself or on top of another with a matching artist. His fingers twitch along the broken plastic and chaotic cover art, almost too innocent for all the hatred going into each set of lyrics.

It's another "Pull the Trigger Bitch" moment.

"You might be able to find a Breathe Carolina one somewhere in there," I tell him. "Deep down at the bottom of the pile. Justin's favorite."

That's when I remember it's not in the pile anymore.

"Scratch that." I don't know if I'm ready to sit through his favorite album just yet. But if I had any doubts, I force them aside with Timmy's eager face. "It's in my closet. I'll get it."

With the exception of the Suicide Silence sweatshirt, the majority of Justin related objects found their way into a box buried deep within my closet. Smaller things, like the photos on the walls, and scraps of writing, just stayed. It had been enough change for me just losing him; I couldn't bear the thought of forgetting him too.

I don't think forgetting a person heals you at all. Even if it's the only thing that can stop you from breaking down in public. If they were special enough to make you cry, then they're worth remembering.

They left their mark on your life.

I stand, and slowly, clench my fingers around the cold doorknob. Its Seattle-sky surface is accompanied by a twisting purple monster, snakelike body wrapping around and around until coiled to tight to breathe. Behind an inch-thick wooden shield, well hell, I'm even starting to forget what's back there anymore.

"Just open the damn thing. Don't make it look like a big deal, because it's not. You're just going to get Timmy a CD so he doesn't have to listen to your emoscreamo shit."