Short Stories - Chapter 21: Chapter 21

By the time Danny got to high school, he found that Santiago, already there for a year, was somewhat of a celebrity.
He had made and started on the varsity soccer team as a freshman. He'd been on the Homecoming court, and probably would be again this year. He'd dated a few girls -- never anything serious, but enough to get people talking. Teachers and students alike loved him, and the great part was, he was actually popular because he was nice. He didn't act like a douchebag, he talked to everyone no matter their social group, and he stood up for kids that needed it.
People found him intriguing, because he was something of a mystery. Though outgoing, everyone who knew him eventually came to realize that they didn't know much about him. Even his close friend circle found him strangely hesitant to delve deep about much of anything -- he provided jokes and smiles, but never emotions and secrets, and he always seemed distracted, like his mind was elsewhere.
Danny didn't get quite the same reputation as Santiago. Or much of a reputation at all -- most kids didn't know he was there. He kept his old friends, Aika and Layla, and every once in a while made acquaintances with the kids that sat around him, but he never had much presence in a room. He was still shy and jumpy. He got startled by fast movements and loud noises. He was silent whenever he didn't have to talk. He had his few friends and didn't seek out more. He was extremely smart but never showed it — he didn't raise his hand to answer questions, so that only the observant few who noticed that he was a year or two younger than the rest of the class, or that he never answered wrong when he was called on, saw how intelligent he was.
He and Santiago seemed more different than ever in the polarized high school spectrum. Yet they always found a way to meet in the middle. And there were certain aspects of themselves that stayed only between them.
Santiago saw the sarcastic, funny, bold side of Danny. Danny could get really happy sometimes, and he would make stupid jokes and run around and be spontaneous and loud. He would go on rants about concepts and subjects that most kids his age couldn't hope to understand. He would express his political opinions without hesitation, and curse out the things he thought were worst in the world. Danny Alvarez could be full of energy and joy and life — nobody but Santiago ever saw that.
And Danny got to see the deep, emotional parts of Santiago. All of the affection and thought, all of the things that made him a real person. The good . . . but also the bad.
Santiago could get really, really sad sometimes. And he would seem like a different guy — quiet and frustrated and unwilling to do much of anything. He would say things — really dark things, things that made Danny worry — like they were nothing. Nobody else knew that side was there. And nobody else could make him feel better.
Danny wore his bad on his sleeve, keeping the good locked up within him. Santiago was the exact opposite — he projected what everyone wanted to see, and he hid his ugly.
Maybe that was what made them work so well. Whatever the case, from the first day of Santiago's sophomore year, when Danny came in as a freshman, they were inseparable once more.
Their schedules were pretty hectic. Santiago had club and school soccer to worry about, alongside student council and keeping up with homework. Danny had heaps and heaps of difficult schoolwork every night, plus a new job that he worked extra hours for so he could be independent. They barely had time for themselves. Yet they somehow always made time for each other.
"I miss you," Santiago huffed one day, halfway into the school year, draped across the yellow couch in their cabin like a ragdoll.
Danny chuckled. "I see you every day," he said as he scribbled the answer to a Calculus problem in his notebook.
"Yeah, but it's not the same," Santiago whined.
Danny snorted. "Jeez, quit being so obsessed with me."
"But alas, I cannot," Santiago sighed, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead and arching his back like a damsel in distress. "You are just too beautiful."
Danny rolled his eyes and threw his pencil at Santiago, who yelped and narrowly dodged. "You're a dumbass," he said, but his cheeks were pink.
"Aw, you're cute when you blush," Santiago teased. "What a babe."
Danny made a face and threw his whole notebook at Santiago; the latter tried to avoid it, but it hit him smack in the chest. Not that that bothered him -- Santiago had grown into himself since high school started, and the impact probably felt like a dull tap.
Danny turned away so Santiago couldn't see him turn bright red. Santiago had taken to doing this a lot as he got older -- this playful flirting -- and it was taking Danny longer than it should to get used to it.
Maybe it was because of the rumors.
As close as Danny and Santiago were, talk was inevitable. They spent so much time together. And they had a different kind of relationship -- for boys, at least. They were touchier, maybe, than most their age. More affectionate, and fiercely loyal. Maybe they talked about each other too often.
Whatever the cause, it hadn't been long before the idea started floating around that their relationship was more than platonic. It was never anything serious -- just murmurs in the hall, and honest questions that received honest answers.
"Hey, can I ask you a question?" A pretty girl with dark skin and thick curly hair had asked Danny one day during biology.
"Uh, yeah," Danny said, looking up in surprise.
The girl shifted awkwardly. Danny remembered her name was Alexis. "I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but are you and Santiago dating?"
Danny's mouth fell open, and he stammered around in a circle for a few seconds before he managed to say, "No -- no, we're just friends."
"Oh," Alexis smiled. "Okay, cool. So you won't mind if I try to ask him out, then?"
Danny shook his head. "No, go for it," he said with an encouraging smile, even though his chest tightened uncomfortably.
Alexis and Santiago had gone on a few dates after that. They never went anywhere, but they stayed friends.
She wasn't the only one to ask. Danny and Santiago both got questions. They answered honestly, and it never bothered them. At least, it never bothered Santiago.
And it never bothered Danny at first.
When he initially heard the speculation, he laughed. He thought it was ridiculous that anyone would even think that, and easily brushed it off. He and Santiago even joked about it.
The problem was that he kept thinking about it, and how ridiculous it was. Until it didn't seem so ridiculous anymore.
That was when Danny started noticing things. Things like Santiago's tanned skin and dark hair and perfect nose. Like how sharp his jaw looked when he laughed, and how bright his eyes got when he smiled. Like his hands, and how big they felt around Danny's, or his toned arms, and how tight they held when the two of them hugged. Suddenly, Danny found every one of Santiago's features cute, from his dimples to his sharp canines to the birthmark on his waist.
"What are you thinking about?"
Danny's head snapped up. "W-what'd you -- huh?"
Santiago scoffed. "You're weird," he said. "I asked what you were thinking about."
Danny found it impossible to look at him, so he stared at a random spot on the wall in desperate need for a lie. There, he saw one of Santiago's old drawings, of a knight slaying a dragon. It was really good. Santiago had made it in middle school. Danny realized a new sketch or painting hadn't been added to the wall in a long time. "I was wondering why you stopped making art," he lied.
Santiago hesitated, shifting so he was sitting up. "Oh," was all he said for a minute.
Then he said, "My parents told me I was wasting my time. That I was . . . distracting myelf from soccer and school, when art isn't a real career."
"Who the fuck says it isn't a real career?" Danny said indignantly. "And it's not like you even want to do it as a career, do you?"
Santiago shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know. But . . . they said I wasn't good enough at it, anyways."
Danny let out a heavy sigh. "When are you gonna stop letting them control you?"
"Danny, please don't --"
"Wait," Danny put his hand up. "Just hear me out. Admit it -- you like art, and you want to make it as often as you'd like. You don't want to play soccer as a job when you're older. You don't want to live in Colorado for the rest of your life."
"What does it matter what I want?" Santiago said dejectedly. "They know what's best for me."
"No, they know what they want for you," Danny objected. "You don't have to listen. You don't have to be their puppet. You don't have to let them push you around and make you feel like shit."
"They just care about me!"
"I care about you!" Danny argued. "I criticize you when I think you're wrong, and I give you advice on what I think you could do better. But have I ever said anything that made you feel bad about yourself? Have I ever told you that you were worthless, or —"
Santiago ran his hands up into his hair, taking a deep breath. "Please stop, Danny."
He sounded so exhausted -- and so torn -- that Danny lost his motivation to push it. With every word, he was hurting Santiago, even if he was just trying to help. And he never wanted to hurt Santiago.
"Okay," he gave in. "But," he stood up and crossed from the beanbag chair to the couch, "Can you draw something for me?"
Santiago looked like he was going to protest. But he decided against it, took up the pencil and notepad, and said, "I don't know what to draw."
Danny pursed his lips. Then he stood, found another notebook and a pencil in his bag, and joined Santiago again on the couch. "How about I describe something to you, and you draw it?"
Santiago peered curiously at him. "Since when do you like to write?"
All Danny did was shrug. "So, there's this cabin," he began, "in the woods. It's small, and a little run down. When it's light out, you can see every little crack in the wood, and all the places where a boy did a shitty job of patching up the holes in the walls. . ."
"Fuck you," Santiago chuckled. A small, hidden smile appeared on his face. He raised his pencil and began to sketch.
Danny wrote as he spoke, turning the words he said aloud into a free-verse poem on the paper in his lap.
"There's a big pine tree on its left, with this one wonky branch . . ."
The next time they did this, Danny described a beach. Then an arcade -- like the one Santiago took him to on his fifteenth birthday. Then a library. An amusement park. The school's soccer field, where Danny had watched every one of Santiago's home games. Santiago's bedroom.
All happy places.
It was their favorite new hobby, this depressing little game. Every drawing and watercolor and poem went on the cabin walls.
It made them happy. They made each other happy.
One year moved into the next. Danny was a sophomore, and Santiago was a junior -- sixteen and seventeen years old, respectively. Danny had suddenly shot up in height, only stopping when he reached six feet — he had even passed Santiago briefly, but the latter wasn't having it, and hit 6'3 in record time.
Santiago, of course, was still the more impressive of the two, with his lean, muscular build. But Danny was starting to attract some attention now as well. A few girls had asked him out, and, after blushing and stuttering like crazy (much to Santiago's amusement), he had politely declined.
Santiago had actually had a couple of real girlfriends, neither of which lasted more than a few months. They had both been sweet and athletic and drop-dead-gorgeous. They had both treated Danny kindly, but he hadn't been able to like them.
He'd tried. He'd really, really tried. But it hadn't worked.
The feelings he'd failed to ignore had gotten out of hand. And now, with every second he spent with Santiago, they got worse.
When Danny realized this, he stopped feeling so happy. All because of Santiago.
Santiago, who had to be so amazing all the time. Santiago, who had to look perfect, and treat Danny so well, and be so kind and caring to everyone. Girls all over the school fawned over him, and Danny was no better than them. He was beyond crushing. He was beyond smitten.
He hated himself for it. Santiago was the one good relationship Danny had ever had, and he was ruining it.
He felt like such an idiot.
"Goddammit!" he hissed, alone in the dark of his tiny bedroom, throwing the book he was reading at the wall. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
He tugged at his hair and fell into the pillows with a long, ragged sigh. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to fall for some nice, honest girl in ten or so years, when he was finished with school. He didn't want want to love his best friend -- his boy best friend -- when he was sixteen and didn't have time for feelings. He didn't want to destroy the only meaningful relationship he'd ever had and make the only person he cared about hate him.
He couldn't imagine how Santiago would react if he knew.
No, that wasn't true. He could imagine it. And it made him sick to his stomach.
But he kept imagining it. It wasn't long before he couldn't see much else when he closed his eyes. That was when his thoughts turned toxic.
He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. All he could do was worry, all the time, because he didn't know what to do and he didn't want to lose Santiago. He couldn't bear to lose Santiago.
He rolled over between the sheets and stared ahead. But when he looked at the wall, all he saw was Santiago: the painting he'd made Danny last Christmas, of them teaching Toro to high five; the Percy Jackson books on the shelf; red in shoes on the floor, his favorite color, the color of his last girlfriend, Hannah's, hair. And when Danny closed his eyes, all he saw was Santiago -- toothy grin, loud laugh, sad eyes that only ever truly lit up for Danny.
"I can't do this," he muttered angrily to himself.
He couldn't be friends with Santiago if he kept falling for him. But he couldn't stop falling for him if he was friends with him.
He had to do something. To fix himself, so he and Santiago could continue like they always had. Best friends. Nothing less — and definitely nothing more.
A break. He needed a break, so he could make the thoughts go away and come back clean. Before he ruined everything, and it was too late.
+++
It was hard. Hell, it was damn near impossible. Danny was drawn to Santiago like a moth to a flame -- just as stupid and just as suicidal.
They were magnetic. Whenever they were in the same room, or hall, or building, they gravitated toward each other. Danny didn't know how to turn it around. He didn't know how he was supposed to walk away from his own heartbeat.
But he tried.
He started with ignoring Santiago's calls. That was easiest, because Santiago wasn't actually there.
Then he found excuses to avoid going over to Santiago's house. He had too much homework. He was too tired. He had an extra shift.
It was the worst feeling ever, and that wasn't an exaggeration. Danny felt like he was trying to breathe in an airtight room. For the first time in years, his dad hit him and he didn't go to the happy place. He didn't call for Santiago's voice. It was a feeling like having the wind knocked out of you -- but it never came back, and you were left gasping.
Worse than that, though, was what he knew he was doing to Santiago.
The first time he ignored a late-night phone call without warning — he and Santiago always let each other know when they would be busy — he made the mistake of listening to the voicemail.
"Hi -- hi, Danny," Santiago said. Danny instantly knew that his parents had said something to him -- though Santiago didn't cry like he used to when he was little, his voice still always got thick and scratchy when he was upset. "I don't . . . I don't know if you're home, or asleep, or what. But if you're there, I . . . I need you right now. Please call me back if you can. If you can't, that's okay. I love you. Bye."
Danny had never felt worse -- physically or mentally -- than he did that night.
He didn't listen to one of Santiago's voicemails again after that. He knew he would lose if he did.
Santiago saw that something was up; that much was obvious to Danny. He wasn't the same at school -- he was cautious and apologetic and obviously confused but afraid to admit it. But as long as he didn't say anything, Danny wouldn't, either.
He really, really hoped Santiago wouldn't say anything.
They still saw each other several times every day: before school, during lunch, between classes, at the end of the day. Danny realized with a sinking feeling that that was too often. After several weeks, he didn't feel any different — maybe that was why.
So he started getting to school right before the first bell and leaving right after the last bell. He didn't abandon lunch, though -- he couldn't bring himself to do it. If he didn't see Santiago somehow, he would lose it.
See him was about all he did, though. Every day, from 11:54 AM to 12:24 PM, he pushed his headphones into his ears, pulled out his homework, and tried as hard as he could to pretend Santiago wasn't there.
"You gonna keep tuning me out every day?" Santiago asked once, obviously frustrated.
"I have a lot of work to catch up on."
Danny didn't look up at Santiago. But he could feel his stare, and it was sadder than ever.
The part that made Danny feel truly sick, though, was the fact that it still wasn't working. He felt just as in love as ever -- but now, he was in love and lonely.
He knew it wouldn't work if he kept seeing Santiago. So he started taking different routes to get between classes.
And one day, after a couple of months, when he felt defeated and distraught, he decided that he would have to go without seeing Santiago at all for a while if he wanted anything to change. The thought alone pained him, but he was desperate, and he would rather lose Santiago for a little while than forever. So he sat in the library at lunch, cutting out the only remaining part of the day where they saw each other.
+++
Santiago had seen it coming.
Ever since Danny stopped coming over. Things had been so fucking weird, and Santiago had been putting up with it for two months. He had called a million times. He had recorded a million emotional, shaky voicemails, asking what was wrong and what he'd done, apologizing for whatever it was; he hadn't sent any of them.
He had tried to get Danny's attention. He had spoken to deaf ears at lunch, waiting for the other boy to listen, deflating when he never did. He had waited for hours on end in the cabin when his phone call went unanswered, hoping Danny might show up by some miracle, only to find himself alone.
Turns out, it wasn't such a happy place without Danny in it.
There was a point when Santiago could take it. When he could be grateful to have Danny at all, even in short noncommittal bursts, and hope that this was just a weird phase.
He couldn't take it anymore when he arrived at their spot at lunch to find that Danny wasn't there. He'd seen Danny just an hour before, turning down a different hall than he usually took to get to class.
Santiago waited for fifteen minutes. Danny didn't show up.
His throat felt tight. It was really happening. Danny was cutting him out of the picture; he'd started slowly, and Santiago had let it happen, afraid to ask questions. But now he was really losing Danny, and he didn't know why.
He stormed into the lunch room, to the table where Danny's friends sat. "Do any of you know where Danny is?" he asked without hesitation, earning several pairs of wide eyes.
"I think he said something about the library . . ." Layla Hearst said, dark brown fingers fidgeting in her lap. Santiago turned so fast, he forgot to thank her.
It took all of his self control not to run to the library. He pushed through the doors at a fast walk, whipping his head back and forth in search of pale skin and black hair.
"Danny!" he hissed when he laid eyes on him, sat in one of the plush chairs with a book in his lap and a frown on his face. Danny's head snapped up, and his eyes widened in alarm. "We need to talk."
"I have a lot of reading to do," Danny said tightly.
"Mr. Parmgraham made you read The Great Gatsby two months ago," Santiago said dryly. "I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."
Danny glanced around in embarrassment, then set his book down and stood up with his bag. ". . . Okay," he said when he was in front of Santiago; he stood several feet away, like he didn't want to come closer.
Santiago took his arm — gently, despite his impatience — and pulled him out of the library, down the hall, and into a random empty classroom.
He turned on Danny, crossing his arms and sighing exasperatedly. "What's going on?" he said.
Danny was already inching toward the door, as if he might make a run for it at any second. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"I'll tell you what I'm talking about," Santiago seethed. "You won't answer my calls or texts, you act like it'll kill you to spend any time with me, and you can't even look me in the eyes right now."
Danny looked up defiantly. "I told you, I've been busy," he said impatiently. "If that's all, I might as well just go --"
"And do what? Reread more books?" Santiago snarled. "'Busy' my ass! I'm not stupid! You're avoiding me, and I don't know why! I thought it would pass, but it keeps getting worse! Call me clingy, or needy, but I think I have the right to know why my best friend can't even stand to be around me! Do you have any idea how bad that hurts? If I did something wrong, tell me so I can fix it! What happened to caring about each other? We're a team, Danny!"
"You didn't do anything wrong!" Danny snapped. "You just need to back off and let me deal with my own shit for a while."
Some of the hardness eased from Santiago's gaze. "Danny, if something's going on, you don't have to deal with it alone," he said. "Just say the word, and I can help y--"
"I don't want your help!" Danny exclaimed; the outburst jarred Santiago, whose lips parted in shock. "I want you to give me some space!"
"I don't get it!" Santiago bit back. "It's like we aren't even friends anymore!"
"Sometimes I wish we weren't!"
The words were like a blow to the chest. To the the whole body. Santiago flinched away from them, stepping slightly back. It was a long moment -- the most painful, silent moment either boy had ever experienced -- before he could bare to even look at Danny again. Said boy's chest was rising and falling heavily, and a war raged in his eyes between regret and determination.
Santiago mustered the nerve to speak again. "You . . . you don't want to be my friend," he repeated slowly.
Danny didn't back down. He didn't even ease up. "No! I can't stand being your friend! I can't stand seeing you every day, and being around you, and hearing your voice!"
"Fine then!" Santiago yelled, determined to ignore the stinging behind his eyes. "No one's forcing you to hang around me! If you felt that way, you could have just fucking said it, don't you think? Instead of having me run around in circles trying to figure out what was wrong! If I'm not good enough for you, then go ahead, go--"
"Shut up!" Danny cried, an unfamiliar, furious heat in his glare. "Don't you dare make me feel like shit! I've been feeling like shit! You have no idea how hard it is to be your friend when all I can think about is -- is --" but he couldn't say it. "You have no idea what it's like to be around you and all of your girlfriends and have to pretend to like them when I fucking hate them because I'm jealous! I'm fucking jealous of every last one of them! You have no idea, so shut the fuck up!"
Santiago stood completely still, frozen where he was. His eyes were wide as he stared at Danny, and he kept trying to think of something to say, but he couldn't for the life of him get the words out.
He didn't get the chance. Danny gave him one last scolding, humiliated look, turned on his heels, and left.
+++
The good thing was, Danny's mind went blank.
The bad thing was, Danny's mind went blank.
In the moment before he turned, he had the time to process that he'd just made a huge mistake. That that hadn't at all been what he wanted to do — that the anger had come out of nowhere, that he'd just accomplished the one thing he'd been trying to avoid. He'd made Santiago hate him.
Then, the moment he turned away from Santiago, he lost his awareness of his actions and his thoughts. All he saw was the corridor in front of him. And he ran.
He didn't know why. He just ran: across the campus, out through the back exit that everyone used to skip, around to the parking lot. The security guard took no notice of him as he dodged between cars; then he was sat behind the wheel in his beat up piece of junk, and he was driving away.
He drove to the library first. He felt like a skeleton on wheels -- he didn't know what he was doing, or why, just that his body was taking him places, and his spirit followed on a leash. He read a book -- just some book, he wasn't sure which one. 367 pages. Five hours. He didn't process a single word, and when he left the library to a setting sun, it was like he hadn't been there at all.
He got back into his car. Drove aimlessly for nearly an hour, wasting gas he really couldn't afford to waste. He ended up downtown, throwing away fifteen dollars to park in some garage when he had no plans to stay. Again, he moved aimlessly -- down streets and alleys and walkways, alone beneath a darkening sky. But he wasn't scared. He should have been scared -- any other day, he would have been. It was his nature. But he didn't feel anything.
His feet only slowed to a stop when he caught sight of a particular building. Low to the ground, with neon letters that glowed bright in the dark night and a long line waiting outside, approaching a bouncer.
He joined the line. He wanted to lose track.
So he pulled off his blazer to hide his high school's crest. It was only when he made it to the front, and the bouncer held out his hand expectantly, that Danny remembered he had never done anything like this before -- he didn't have a fake ID.
"I . . . I forgot it at --"
"He's with me."
Danny turned around at the deep, gruff voice behind him -- a tall, handsome man in his twenties, with a stubbly beard and glowing blue eyes, winked at him.
The bouncer looked unconvinced. Then the man offered him something -- some kind of bill -- and the bouncer quickly pocketed it, nodding stiffly to Danny and the man. "Enjoy."
Danny turned around as they entered. "Thank you," he said to the man; it was the first time he'd spoken in hours, and his voice came out scratchy and low.
"No problem," the man said, placing a large, firm hand on Danny's shoulder. "I leave it at home sometimes too -- it happens." He was being honest. And he thought Danny was, too. Danny didn't have the capacity to feel guilty. "My name's Tony. Can I get you something to drink?'
Tony helped Danny lose track. He bought round after round of shots, intoxicating the both of them. Danny had never tried alcohol before -- he hated the taste, but he loved the burn. And he loved the fuzz in his mind, the slowing-down of everything around him. So he drank more and more.
Then he was dancing. And he was with Tony. Dancing turned to making out, shameless indecency, until Danny leaned up to Tony's ear, hardly sounding like himself at all, and suggested they leave.
He woke up with a piercing headache.
He laid, immobile, in an unfamiliar bed -- softer than he was used too -- and clutched his temples, squeezing his eyes shut to ebb away the pain.
Then his eyes shot wide open. He jolted upward, staring around himself in shock as he took in what was unmistakably a hotel room. He looked to the side and saw a large lump in the rumpled sheets. Broad, muscular shoulders and a blonde head. He suddenly felt the cold air from the fan against his chest, and he looked down at himself -- he was fully naked. And there was a soreness between his legs.
"No . . ." he whispered. "No, no, no . . ."
He got to his feet and pulled on his underwear. He went, stumbling, into the bathroom, pressing his palms against the counter.
There was no describing the feeling. Just that it was sick and wrong. Danny felt disgusted with himself. He wanted to crawl away from his own skin -- he didn't want to be him anymore, not in that moment. He wanted to hear that this was all a joke -- he wanted to know that he hadn't given his first kiss and his virginity to a complete stranger last night.
But he remembered. He remembered the club, the bouncer, the dancing, the heat; he remembered the lust, he remembered how good it felt. Thinking about it now, though, only made him want to throw up.
Then he remembered even more. He remembered Santiago. Their last conversation. The sadness in Santiago's eyes, then anger, then shock. Danny bent over the toilet and did throw up.