[Watching Steve follow his lead and flop down into the grass makes him smile. They can't look at each other very well right now, but he wouldn't hide it even if they could. The rare moments when he does something simple and enjoyable enough that Steve decides to do the same are really rewarding, like he's really learning after all. They should do this again on some other nice day, when they don't have anything serious to talk about.]
[For now, though, he doesn't hesitate, because he doesn't have to think about this.]
I want it to be.
[He does, unequivocally. As soon as he came back to himself, he decided; maybe even before. It just feels like the right thing to do — not right as in moral, but right as in correct, the best thing for him.]
[He reminds himself that Steve doesn't know the significance of the word trust to him. That's not a condemnation, but a simple fact. There's no way to understand how powerful it is if trust is something that feels natural to give. For someone like that, it's still valuable, trust always is, but it doesn't feel like such a breathtaking risk. It doesn't seem like a miracle when that trust isn't broken.]
[That's one little hurdle. There are going to be a lot of them, he reminds himself, stretching his arms over his head and feeling the grass tickle his wrists. That's okay.]
Before here, the longest I'd ever had a friend was just a bit over a week. Those were my first friends, and half of them died. That's . . . who I was dreaming about. You know. [In the tree.] That's about how long I knew Trish, too. I've never had a friend for anywhere near as long as we've been friends, let alone Riley. I told her after what happened in March, but not on purpose. It just slipped out.
[And he expected her to look at him like people have looked at him all of his life. Like a freak, an incomprehensible unwanted thing. But she didn't. Not even close.]
. . . She understood. Instinctively. [The ghost of a smile returns, wry and a little bitter, just for a second. He can't imagine Steve will find that very surprising.] I didn't think anyone could. But then I thought the only reason was because it was her. Because we're so similar. So I didn't tell anyone else.
I had a lot of reasons, but I was just scared. [His chest goes tight around his breath as he admits this, so vulnerable-feeling that his tongue wants to swallow it back down.] That if I told someone, they wouldn't want to have anything to do with me anymore. Especially someone like you.
But this place changes people. I'm not the same as I was when I came, and while you were gone, I— [Grass still tickling his wrists, he touches the end of one particular blade.] I wasn't all right, and I didn't pretend to be, and Trish didn't understand because that's not the version of me she knew. It was all . . . messy.
[Messy, messy, messy. It hurt. He covers his eyes with his hand, just to block out the sun for a minute.]
What I'm sorry about is — convincing myself that you wouldn't understand, that it wasn't worth the risk to tell you, because it is.
[He's quiet for a moment, staring at behind his eyelids. Everything smells like green. And dog.]
Even if you don't understand all the way, I know you'll try. I'm scared of chasing you away, and I'm scared of upsetting you, but I don't want to lie to you. And not telling you feels like lying.
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[For now, though, he doesn't hesitate, because he doesn't have to think about this.]
I want it to be.
[He does, unequivocally. As soon as he came back to himself, he decided; maybe even before. It just feels like the right thing to do — not right as in moral, but right as in correct, the best thing for him.]
[He reminds himself that Steve doesn't know the significance of the word trust to him. That's not a condemnation, but a simple fact. There's no way to understand how powerful it is if trust is something that feels natural to give. For someone like that, it's still valuable, trust always is, but it doesn't feel like such a breathtaking risk. It doesn't seem like a miracle when that trust isn't broken.]
[That's one little hurdle. There are going to be a lot of them, he reminds himself, stretching his arms over his head and feeling the grass tickle his wrists. That's okay.]
Before here, the longest I'd ever had a friend was just a bit over a week. Those were my first friends, and half of them died. That's . . . who I was dreaming about. You know. [In the tree.] That's about how long I knew Trish, too. I've never had a friend for anywhere near as long as we've been friends, let alone Riley. I told her after what happened in March, but not on purpose. It just slipped out.
[And he expected her to look at him like people have looked at him all of his life. Like a freak, an incomprehensible unwanted thing. But she didn't. Not even close.]
. . . She understood. Instinctively. [The ghost of a smile returns, wry and a little bitter, just for a second. He can't imagine Steve will find that very surprising.] I didn't think anyone could. But then I thought the only reason was because it was her. Because we're so similar. So I didn't tell anyone else.
I had a lot of reasons, but I was just scared. [His chest goes tight around his breath as he admits this, so vulnerable-feeling that his tongue wants to swallow it back down.] That if I told someone, they wouldn't want to have anything to do with me anymore. Especially someone like you.
But this place changes people. I'm not the same as I was when I came, and while you were gone, I— [Grass still tickling his wrists, he touches the end of one particular blade.] I wasn't all right, and I didn't pretend to be, and Trish didn't understand because that's not the version of me she knew. It was all . . . messy.
[Messy, messy, messy. It hurt. He covers his eyes with his hand, just to block out the sun for a minute.]
What I'm sorry about is — convincing myself that you wouldn't understand, that it wasn't worth the risk to tell you, because it is.
[He's quiet for a moment, staring at behind his eyelids. Everything smells like green. And dog.]
Even if you don't understand all the way, I know you'll try. I'm scared of chasing you away, and I'm scared of upsetting you, but I don't want to lie to you. And not telling you feels like lying.