Short Stories - Chapter 22: Chapter 22

It almost hurt, how similar Monday was to Friday. Danny got to school late and took different hallway routes and ate lunch in the library.
But he didn't want to hide. He wanted Santiago to find him. He waited for black hair and tanned skin to burst through the hallway doors and demand his attention.
Danny had worked so hard to keep his secret and to fall out of love. Now that both had failed, all he wanted -- more than anything he'd ever wanted -- was to know that Santiago wasn't as disgusted with him as he was. He wanted Santiago to find him and tell him that he didn't care, that he didn't hate him. He wanted Santiago to let him talk about what had happened Friday night — maybe then he wouldn't feel so awful about himself and what he'd done with some pretty-eyed, smooth-voiced stranger. His skin still crawled when he thought about it, and what he'd given away. He still felt disgusting.
He would give anything to go back in time and make Friday — the day, the night, all of it — never happen.
When the bell ending lunch rang, and Santiago didn't show up, Danny felt something sink from his chest from his stomach. He felt it splinter, then crack, then break.
It was there, in that library, that Danny felt it for the first time in years -- the first time since he was six. The prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to cry.
He sniffed miserably and swiped his finger beneath his eye, but it came up dry.
+++
Santiago was in shock. He hadn't slept all weekend.
He wanted to talk to Danny. God, he just wanted to see him. He wanted to tell him that it was okay, and he wasn't mad, and they could be best friends again, if that was okay with him.
He almost did it. He left his loud, rowdy new lunch table with the guys on the soccer team to track Danny down. He walked to the entrance of the library. But then he saw Danny there, reading The Great Gatsby, and his hand fell away from the door. He couldn't do it.
He had practically shoved Danny out of the closet. Danny probably never wanted to see him again -- Danny had said it himself, he wished they weren't friends.
Santiago turned and walked away from the library with a deep, painful breath.
Every hour felt like a day. Every day felt like hell. Every morning felt like waking up to start the sick cycle all over again.
Santiago couldn't see four feet ahead of him without thinking of Danny. And he couldn't think of Danny without feeling the world flip upside down, sending him falling into the sky. He wasn't thinking, he couldn't focus on anything -- on school, on soccer -- and after just a week, it started to show.
Two weeks. Santiago was exhausted; he could hardly sleep. He was being an ass to everyone, he knew it -- snapping at friends and teachers and family -- but he couldn't fix it, and didn't care to. The person he was -- the nice, outgoing, happy guy -- had left him as soon as Danny had.
He failed a few tests. He got benched for a few games. That was when his parents started to notice.
They screamed at him. They gave him their worst. It was no different than usual, but he fell apart, cut from the inside out -- he had a million reasons to be angry with himself, and they all crashed down on him at once.
He didn't know why he called Danny. He didn't know why he thought it might be any different this time. He just couldn't shake the hope.
By the time the call went to voicemail, his hand was shaking; he clutched his phone hard at sound of the automted voice and squeezed his eyes shut with a breath that seemed to rattle his whole body.
"Danny . . ." he started to say at the tone; he had no idea what he wanted to say, but he couldn't hang up -- as if somehow Danny' voice would appear if he talked for long enough. So he forged on with some pitiful apology, hardly making sense at all, gripping his phone so tight his hand hurt, until the automated voice interrupted him -- he had reached the voicemail limit.
He threw his phone down onto the bed and jumped to his feet; then he was walking, down the hall, out of the house, back into the forest. The cabin was dark and cold and empty. He collapsed onto the couch, and he waited.
He knew it was hopeless the moment he sat down. He knew that Danny would never open that voicemail -- and even if he did, it was stupid to expect him to come rushing like some knight. The knight never rushed to save the villain.
Yet he was stuck there, tied to his seat, waiting for some fruitless miracle. He sat there for hours, waiting, thinking.
Santiago tore himself apart.
He couldn't please his dad. He couldn't please his mom. He'd hurt Danny. He couldn't do a single goddamn thing right; he never could. He was every bit as worthless as his parents had made him out to be; incompetent, inadequate, incapable, hopeless.
By the time he'd given up -- on everything, on himself -- the lights were off in the house and his parents were asleep. He went inside distraught from head to toe -- he was hardly walking but stumbling, shivering when he wasn't cold. He looked ahead with blurry vision and half a mind; his feet led him into the kitchen, to the six-pack of beer in the fridge.
He downed a bottle. Or two, or three, or more; he lost count. He lost track of time altogether.
He sank lower than he ever had. He ripped through himself more than he thought he could. His mind spoke the truth; that he was an idiot, that he could only break things, that he dragged every person he knew down. He couldn't keep a meaningful relationship because he didn't deserve one. He didn't deserve Danny.
He was so fucking pissed at himself.
The bottle in his hand came crashing down against the kitchen island in a mighty swing; with an earsplitting shatter, glass and beer showered onto the counter and onto the floor.
"Fuck," Santiago hissed, only half-aware of what he'd done. He tried to move away from the counter, but he stumbled forward instead, and his hands slammed against the counter to catch his weight. He gasped and jerked his right hand away at a sharp pain in his palm, and looked down to see thick red dripping onto his wrist, then down into is sleeve.
The world started tilting at his feet. Feeling like he would throw up at any second, Santiago hastened to the other side of the island and slid to the floor, covering his face with his arm and making a tight fist with his bleeding hand. He barely heard the footsteps pounding down the stairs -- they were distant to his buzzing mind.
"Santiago!" his mother's shrill voice was right in front of him, but he could hardly see her. "What did you --"
"Look at the mess you made!" his father bellowed from the other side of the island. "Have you -- you've been drinking!"
Santiago didn't say anything. He tried to calm himself, but his breath shook, and when he shut his eyes, he felt tears leak from the corners.
"You idiot!" his mother hissed. "You wake us up, you make a mess, and you reek of beer! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"That's it!" his father shouted, closer now. "Your mother and I have done everything! We've raised you the best way we could, we've paid for your whole goddamn life, but you want to throw it away! We've tried our hardest, we've given you everything, but you are never going to be anything! You never learn! Get up! Stop being a fucking moron and get up!"
Santiago swallowed a sob; he didn't move or speak, but stayed were he was, his tears soaking into his bloody sleeve as his shoulders trembled.
"Are you even listening? Hey!" his father barked. When Santiago still didn't respond, he snapped, "Do you hear me? ¡Escúchame!"
"I'm listening!" Santiago said, his voice hoarse and breaking.
Santiago's dad grabbed Santiago's arm and yanked it away from his face. Santiago intantly turned his head to the side, away from him.
"¡Mírame!" Santiago's dad pulled his chin forcefully, forcing Santiago to glare up at him.
"Stop crying like a little boy! Stand up like a goddamn man, clean yourself up, and fix this mess!"
He let go of Sabtiago's chin harshly, pushing his head back against the kitchen island, and stormed away, wife in tow. "I want this place spotless tomorrow morning," she hissed on her way out.
Santiago wanted to just sit there and be miserable. But he followed orders like a servant. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he cleaned his hand in the sink, splashed water on his face, and, broom in hand, began to sweep.
The pain in his hand was almost unbearable now; the cut wasn't deep, but it wasn't shallow, either. It was distracting — he could hardly think at all.
He paused in his cleaning. What a blessing that was -- pain that was only skin-deep, but enough to disract from other, worse types of pain. He set te broom aside and, ater a short hesitation, ventured over to the kitchen island; hundreds of glass shards littered the surface, but he spotted the biggest one instantly — it was smeared with red on one edge, where it had cut his hand.
He lifted it between two fingers. And, as a tear fell fom his eye onto his wrist, he thought that it just might help. But then he stopped, holding the glass just inches above his skin.
"Have you ever . . ." Santiago trailed off. He was thirteen, in the cabin with Danny. It had been a really bad night for the both of them.
"Ever what?"
Santiago swallowed. "Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?"
Danny blinked. "Like . . . you mean, like cutting?"
"Yeah -- yeah, like that."
"No. . ." Danny said, and he seemed confused, until his young eyes widened. "Have you?"
"No!" Santiago said, too quickly. But he'd never been good at lying to Danny. "Maybe . . . I don't know."
Danny looked very bothered by this, but his tone was even as he carefully said, "It won't help. There are other ways to deal with sadness."
"Like coming here to see you?"
"If that's what keeps you happy." Danny offered a half smile.
Santiago sighed.. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I feel like this -- all the time."
"It's not your fault," Danny assured. "If you ever think about . . . doing it, again, promise you'll tell me. And promise you won't."
"Okay . . ."
Santiago dropped the glass shard into the dustpan.
+++
He  missed Danny so much. Everything suddenly turned into a reminder of him. And every reminder, whether good or bad, made Santiago's heart ache with a pain he hadn't felt before.
Three weeks. Santiago hadn't seen Danny once. They were too good at avoiding each other.
It was killing him. He needed something.
Hardly aware of his own feet, he trekked into the forest during another restless night. Back to their happy place.
But it wasn't a happy place tonight. As he stared around at the walls -- at every picture of them, every beautiful poem Danny had written, every book they loved and blanket they shared and board game they played -- he felt the most overwhelming sadness, misery in a physical form. It clutched him around the waist and dragged him down, so that he sank into the sofa, covered his face, and had to try his hardest not to cry.
Santiago missed Danny's shy smile. He missed his obsessive cleaning, and the way he laughed loud when something was really funny; he missed the random bursts of energy he would get at night, when he would jump to his feet and turn on some music and they would dance around the cabin like little kids again. He missed the way Danny understood him like no one did or ever would, and the way he always agreed to come to the cabin when he knew Santiago was upset. Or used to.
Santiago missed the way Danny used to feel in his arms, when he was frightened and shaking after his parents laid their sick hands on him. He missed the feeling he would get -- that he would do anything for Danny Alvarez, that he would die for him. He still felt the same, but now the feeling made him sick.
He missed Danny's dark, long eyelashes. He missed his small hands. He missed how deep and dark and beautiful his eyes were. He missed Danny's smooth pale skin, and his messy brown hair, and his pink lips. He missed his smell, fresh and clean and sweet, and his face -- the prettiest face he'd ever seen. He missed how small Danny always seemed, when he really wasn't -- he was tall, but he was so lean and shy and fucking adorable that Santiago always wanted to just wrap him up and hug him.
Not just hug him. Hold him. And kiss him.
"Shit," Santiago muttered, setting down the deck of Uno cards they had wasted hours upon hours playing with. "Shit, shit, shit."
Ten years. Santiago had known Danny for ten years. How had he never seen it?
The feeling wasn't new. He knew it wasn't, because as he sat there on the old yellow couch, running his hands up into his hair in frustration, he didn't feel any different.
Just confused. He felt so fucking confused, and he couldn't take it. He fell back into the cushions and stared ahead at the other wall -- at the framed picture of him and Danny, cheeks pressed together to cram into the frame, goofy grins on their faces -- and he didn't know what to do.
After the fourth week, though, Santiago knew he had to do something. He needed to talk to Danny -- actually needed to, or he would lose it. He didn't want to date him, even though he knew he could. Nothing would be worse than that. Because relationships ended in breakups, and he couldn't lose Danny a second time.
Santiago didn't really understand how he was feeling, let alone how he would ever act on it -- he would be more than happy to pretend he wasn't feeling anything at all, if it meant they could be friends again.
But Santiago didn't even know how to approach Danny. A month had gone now, and they hadn't spoken; he was starting to lose hope that they ever would when a miracle opportunity presented itself: his teacher sent him out o the classroom, frustrated because he wasn't doing any work and kept talking back. She told him to get his things and go to a different classroom, all the way at he other end of the hall. Santiago recognized it instantly -- he used to wait outside of it to walk with Danny to his next class.
Danny's head snapped up as soon as Santiago walked, as if he could feel him. They locked eyes for a moment — just one moment — before Danny turned away.
Santiago sat at the desk behind Danny's, and watched as said boy's shoulders tensed. He had no game plan. He had half a mind to just stand up and get Danny's attention -- but that would embarrass him, and embarrassing him would get them nowhere.
The class would be over in eight minutes. Santiago had to do something.
What he ended up doing was pretty stupid. But it was still something.
Without thinking, he tore the edge of a sheet from his notebook and hastily scribbled the words i miss you onto it. Then he crumbled it up and threw it; it bounced off of the back of Danny's neck.
Really, it was the most Santiago thing he could've done.
He watched apprehensively as Danny reached down, opened it, and read it.
And crumpled it right back up, setting it on his desk.
Santiago ignored the way his chest constricted and tried again: like a lot
Danny did the same thing again. So Santiago threw another note: like a lot a lot
Santiago didn't see it, but Danny's mouth twitched. Yet he crumpled up the third note as well.
like a lot a lot a lotalotalot
Another piece of paper crushed.
like a lot a lot a lotalotalotalolaalalala
Danny pressed his knuckles to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Forcing down a smile, he turned to Santiago -- it was like a punch in the gut, looking right at him, and Danny felt suddenly sick -- and mouthed the word what?
Santiago's face lit up. It hurt to look at. On the last remaining chunk of paper from the sheet, he wrote a final note. Danny caught this one, and opened it up to see words so quickly written, they were hardly legible. meet me at our happy place, 9 pm
Danny turned around, crumpled the note, and set it on his desk with the others.
The bell rang. Santiago was crestfallen.
At lunch that day, when Santiago was sat among his teammates, resting his chin on his palm and staring ahead wistfully and ignoring all of the conversation around him, he felt something hit the back of his neck.
He turned around and saw a folded light blue sticky note on the floor. He picked it up, opened it. In neat handwriting, perfectly centered, was one word.
Okay.
Santiago looked up, searching for Danny, but he wasn't there.
"Why so smiley all of a sudden?" asked Jack Craig, the team's best defender.
"No reason," Santiago mused, putting the note in his pocket.
+++
Danny sat in his car, parked in front of Santiago's house. He didn't know what to do, or how to feel.
Santiago missed him. Santiago didn't hate him. Knowing that had been the best feeling, like finding your way out of a maze. The last month without Santiago had been the worst month of Danny's life.
But he didn't know what he would do when he got to the cabin. Would they become friends again? That wouldn't help Danny fall out of love -- but then again, if a month hadn't done it, maybe nothing would.
And if they did become friends, would it be the same? Or would it be awkward and different - would Santiago be nervous about getting too close? Danny wasn't sure he could cope with that. He wasn't sure he wanted the friendship at all if it wasn't the way it had been before -- because it was perfect before, and anything different would only hurt him.
He almost wanted to bail. But at the same time, he couldn't remember the last time he wanted something as bad as he wanted to go to the cabin right then. So he got out of the car, anxiety and all, and made the familiar trek through the woods.
Santiago was already there when Danny arrived. He was pacing pack and forth at the center of the room, fidgeting nervously with his hands, but he turned at the sound of the door opening.
"Hi," he breathed, his hands dropping to his sides.
"Hi," Danny said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
The room was quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere outside.
Santiago hesitated. Then he walked forward -- Danny nearly stepped back, but he didn't -- until they were face to face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry, for everything."
"You don't have anything to apologize for. But . . . me too."
They didn't need much more than that.
Santiago took the final step, and he wrapped Danny up in a hug, and it was what they needed -- they melted against each other, holding on tight, burying their faces in the familiar scents, apologizing again and again without saying a word.
"God, I missed you so much," Santiago muttered, pressing his face into Danny's shoulder. He swayed slightly on his feet, overwhelmed with relief, and tightened his arms around Danny's small waist.
"I missed you too," Danny whispered. "And I know it's my fault, and I know I should't --"
"Stop," Santiago said, leaning back just enough to look at Danny's face. "It's okay."
Danny chewed his lip anxiously. "You don't . . . you don't care?"
Santiago shook his head. "No, I don't. You're still Danny," he said, and Danny could tell that he meant it, because Santiago was the most honest person he knew. Santiago looked like he was going to say something else -- his gaze flickered, and his mouth opened. But whatever it was, he decided against it, and instead he said, "Let's do something. I've missed this place."
Danny nodded numbly. He couldn't believe this -- yhat everything was okay. "Alright," he sad. "What do you wanna do?"
Santiago stepped away from him to turn on the overhead lamps. Then he grabbed the notebook, sketchbook, and pencils that were always on the tree-stump side table and took a seat on the floor, in the corner of the room, with his back against the wall. He held out a notebook and pencil to Danny. "Tell me about someplace happy."
When the piece was done, Danny stared at what was maybe his favorite sketch that Santiago had made yet. There was no real setting -- just a blank room, with no wallpaper or furniture or decorations. Only a floor and empty walls. Sat on the floor, with their backs pressed together, were two boys. One with white skin and messy dark hair, wearing his uniform blazer and pants. He sat criss-crossed and stared at a book in his lap, which he held with one hand, his head tilted just slightly to the side with interest. The other boy had shaded skin and black hair; his tie was loose and his blazer was a crumpled heap on the floor. He sat with one leg stretched out and the other bent, a pencil between his teeth, holding a half-completed sketch in one hand, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he stared at it.
Their free hands rested between them, interlocked at the fingers, the drawing boy's hand engulfing the reading boy's hand.
"So . . ." Santiago trailed as he shut his sketchbook and set it aside. Danny could hear embarrassment in his voice — Danny hadn't described anything about holding hands. "Wanna play some cards? I miss destroying you at Slapjack."
"But losing every time at Eyptian Ratscrew," Danny reminded.
"There are too many rules," Santiago grumbled, and Danny chuckled at his little pout. The sound jarred Santiago -- he hadn't heard it for such a long time -- and for a moment, he just stared at Danny in awe.
"What?" Danny asked.
You're too perfect to be real, Santiago thought. But he didn't say anything, just sook his head and looked away. "Slapjack it is," he said, and started to stand to get the cards, but Danny's voice pulled him back down.
"So we're pretending that our conversation in the classroom never happened, right?"
Santiago swallowed. "Is that what you want?"
Danny nodded slowly. "Let's just forget it," he said. "I feel like that's the only way we can -- we can work. And I hate not being your friend too much."
"Okay," Santiago said hollowly, even though he couldn't forget it if he tried. "I agree. It never happened. I should . . . get the cards."
But he didn't move. He stayed there, shoulder-to-shoulder with Danny. His heart was racing. His head . . . his head was spinning, and he couldn't think properly, not enough to stop himself from saying,
"What if . . . what if we don't pretend?"
Danny took a sharp, unsteady breath. "Santi, what -- why --"
"I don't mean that anything has to change," Santiago said, staring ahead because he couldn't bear to look into Danny's eyes. He didn't know what he was doing. "Tomorrow, we can act like everything is the way it was before. We can . . . we can forget. But what if for a day -- or an hour, or a few minutes, even -- we don't forget?"
Danny tilted his head back and shut his eyes tiredly. "Why are you messing with me?"
"I'm not."
Again, Danny knew Santiago was telling the truth. He almost always was.
"Then why are you doing this?"
Santiago took a slow breath in. Then he looked at Danny, and Danny turned to him, and their eyes met, and Danny knew he didn't stand a chance.
"Because I don't know how I feel, and it's driving me insane," Santiago said. "Everything in my life has always been a big question mark . . . I feel like I'm always confused, like I'm driving with my hands off the wheel, and the car is my life, and . . . and . . ."
"And you're really bad at metaphors," Danny said; he couldn't help but crack a smile.
"You're the one thing I've always been sure about," Santiago admitted. "And that's different now. I have no fucking idea about my feelings for you, and I can't stand it. I'm not  . . . I'm not saying this has to go anywhere. I just want to be sure about you again."
Danny forgot to breathe. He repeated Santiago's words again and again in his head, trying to figure out where he'd misheard.
"So . . ." he said finally, when his lungs cried for air, "You want to use my feelings for you to figure out if you feel them, too. Isn't that kind of unfair to me?"
Guilt passed across Santiago's gaze. "You don't have to," he said. "I . . . I know it's not fair."
Danny pursed his lips. "What if you don't like it?" he asked.
"Then we move on, and it never happened."
"And," Danny's voice was suddenly quiet, "And what if you like it?"
Santiago hesitated. The first question had been so much easier to answer.
But he knew that his friendship with Danny came first, before everything else.
"Then we move on, and it never happened."
Danny nodded slowly. A beat passed, then another, while Santiago waited with his breath held, nervously anticipating his answer.
There was no answer. Danny just leaned forward and closed the gap between them, pressing his lips tentatively against Santiago's.
It was like nothing either boy could have ever imagined -- or allowed themselves to imagine. It was a shock, from their lips to their toes; a jolt that ran through their bones and their nerves and their minds. Santiago jerked back with wide eyes, wholly unprepared for what had just happened.
Sparks didn't do it justice. The feeling . . . it was hot and cold, violent like a crash, or a disaster — it was Pompeii, and the first Ice Age. It was the Big Bang, the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.
"Bad?" Danny said, hardly more than a whisper.
Santiago couldn't manage a single word. He just shook his head, took the sides of Danny's face in his hands, and kissed him again. Danny's little noise of surprise broke off as he kissed Santiago back, parting his lips. He gripped the front of Santiago's shirt to press them closer against each other, and Santiago's hands slipped back into his hair, tilting his head to kiss him deeper. Santiago felt like his sanity was slipping, like he was losing it, but God, it was the best way to go crazy.
They managed to stumble to their feet and onto the couch. Danny let himself fall onto his back, dragging Santiago with him, and they got tangled up in each other; they kissed until they were breathless, until their lips were swollen, until they knew they would have to stop if they didn't want to go too far. Then they held on, breathing each other in, exhausted but invigorated, too out of breath and deep in thought to say anything.
Eventually, Santiago shifted, so that he lay on his side against the cushions. Danny was on his back, staring at the ceiling, shivering when Santiago's fingers traced a gentle line from his collar to his stomach over his shirt.
Santiago noticed a red, bruising spot at the edge of Danny's jaw; he found himself smiling, knowing that he'd left it. But his smile fell when he caught sight of another: a fading brown mark halfway hidden beneath Danny's collar that he knew hadn't been his doing.
"I hate that he hurts you."
Danny glanced down to look at Santiago, and he offered a melancholy smile. "I know," he said. He leaned forward and kissed the frown off of Santiago's face. "I know you do. But it's okay."
"There's no world where it's okay."
Danny's eyebrows quirked up, and his smile grew the smallest bit. "Yeah, there is. It's in a cabin, in the woods, with a really stupid boy."
Santiago laughed, pressing his head against Danny's chest. "You're the worst," he chuckled. "I love you."
Both boys tensed.
"I didn't mean -- not like that . . . I didn't mean it like that," Santiago said.
Danny nodded; he knew he should leave it there. So he did.
Santiago sighed. He let the unspoken question hang for a moment, and thought about it; he knew he loved Danny as a friend. But he was having trouble seeing how that, and what he felt now, were any different.
But then he looked at Danny. And he almost laughed, because it was a stupid question, really. This was ten years in the making. If he wanted to put his feelings into words, he wouldn't be able to — words couldn't describe it — but he sure wouldn't use like.
"Te amo," he said unapologetically, without any more hesitation.
Danny blinked in surprise. But then he smiled, and his heart jumped. As Santiago pushed away a stray steak of Danny's hair, Danny fully believed him. Sometimes you just know. "Yo también te amo."
Santiago kissed him again. And he took his time — he let it be long and slow, hoping it said everything he couldn't. He wondered if Danny's heart was pounding as hard as his.
It was.
"Tomorrow's gonna be hard," Danny muttered, tracing the outline of Santiago's jaw with his thumb.
"Yeah," Santiago agreed; he wasn't sure he would be able to do it. For a moment, he considered backing down, proposing that they don't cut this off at tonight. But he knew it was a bad idea. And when he looked into Danny's eyes, he knew he agreed. "So let's make the most of tonight."
Danny took a shaky breath. He wasn't ready for how bad he knew tomorrow would hurt. But he would rather hurt tomorrow than for the rest of his life -- a life without Santiago, after some stupid argument and some stupid breakup, didn't seem very much like life at all. Just a month of it had felt like dying.
They spent the rest of their night together in the cabin. They played a few card games and did a month's worth of catching up and cuddled on the couch and stole kisses whenever they could -- sometimes tender, sometimes deep; sometimes on a cheek, or a hand, or a forehead. And they fought sleep with all of their might, scared to lose a single second, until it finally overcame them, and they dozed off on the couch, with just a few hours to spare until sunrise.
And for the first time in a long time, their cabin looked like a happy place.