The Shy Teignmouth Boy

I’m tired, he would say, lying there under the flecks of sparkling sunlight, with the afternoon slipping silently, uninvited into his eyes.

And like golden petals discolouring on an abandoned windowsill, the light discoloured the surface of his pupils into a mellower shade, softer and kinder.

It illuminated the shyness in his expression, the tenderness on his red stained lips, the coarseness of the uneven hairs shaping the sides of his face, compelling me to say, shall we go out, that’ll make it better?

Because he looked so beautiful in sunlight; glimpses of anxious animation sparking a life into his movements, flashes of bronze beneath his lips, on his arms, in his hair, the smudge of bright colour glinting against his pale neck where my mouth had grazed, the discolouring of the deep hazel of his irises. Always alert but stoned, attentive but distant.

At times he was both present and absent, his company in the grey hue of his bedroom, framed by the half-closed blinds, becoming like a furtive shadow only lengthened by daylight.

The same for the slur of words muffled against my body; they only became clearer in the outdoor air, as if the crispness of the pale morning light sliced through the stoned fatigue still loosely laced around every syllable.

A delicate breeze seemed to caress around the words, making them more emotive, less aloof, like a warmed hand stroking the side of my face where, before, the coldness made me recoil.

I like you better like that. I wanted to say.

I watched him close his eyes as the sunlight danced freely on the four walls and the sound of distant music seeped in through the window, creating in my mind a scene from another setting, one more real, more vivid, bright and alive, like his room was a sketch and in the distant the colours were tipped liberally, filling another world.

These noises intruded the bubble of his embrace. They were like flecks of coloured light on the surface, emerging and dissipating in unrhythmic flashes. They were always just out of reach, sometimes as mere backdrop of humming white noise, other times much more coherent and audible; the high note of a black bird, the slow rustle of spring leaves, the sound of distant laughter echoing along ancient brickwork.

I feel imprisoned with you when you’re like this.

I’d go for a walk later to try and forget about it, a pink stained filter between my lips, thoughts fogging and clearing in thin stretches of smoke wafting from my mouth, stinging against my eyes as the draught claimed the disturbance in the air and forced it back at me.

And the sun hung bright, isn’t it pretty? I said, prising a stem sprouting from lush grass, a white puff of seeds which parachuted into the blue when I blew out my cheeks.

They drifted silently towards him, the wind carrying their ascent until they clung to his white shirt.

Not really, he said, as I felt the warmth of his palm engulf mine, eyes looking beyond intricate details, to something bigger.

I wonder what he saw.

I noticed the rhythm of his pace, always stable, always in tune to a beat only he could hear, each trainer landing perfectly in the centre of squared tarmac, like he was secretly playing an adapted form of mature hopscotch.

I’m probably autistic, he laughed, only half-joking, if I miss the step, I keep overthinking it, it takes up about…20% of my brain. Then, suddenly shy, cautious, Is that weird?

Yes, I wanted to say, trying to keep up, having to take three steps for every one of his, it was either that or doing a ridiculous short leap every time he moved.

I don’t think so, I said instead, I like you like that. I wonder what he would think about if he didn’t have to ponder that, would it just be a void, more ghastly grey twilight that I would have to blindly observe and not understand. We walked and he frowned to himself, as if things were playing before his eyes which only he could see.

Why are you unhappy? I wanted to ask, remembering back on the sofa by the kitchen counter, I picked at the mirrored cylinders scattered on the wooden flooring. The rounded steel distorting my reflection, its’ me but its’ not me, the hallow cannisters remnants of the night before when the laughter long since ceased in the early hours. Is that what happens to him?

Does he lose himself in false laughter and struggle to find himself again, like an echo caught in the wind and he can’t quite capture it. What if I could find it for him, entrap it in a jar on his windowsill like an exotic butterfly, and together we could observe the fragile flutter of wings against the glass.

I’m happiest when I’m alone but, somehow, I’m happier with you. He said. There was loneliness in his soft, brown eyes, they were delicate, impressionable like freshly dug soil, every word, every action, seemed to disturb the peace, leaving new imprints. And he’d have to go quiet for the longest time to make sense of them.

I want you to stop, I said, I don’t like it when you’re like this. I’m not staying if you don’t.

I must’ve sounded childish, petty, like two kids threatening to steal each other’s lunch when the teacher wasn’t looking.

He was dubious, not believing it, then, eyes flitting away like a jolted bird, he looked away, okay, okay, I promise. But ssshhhh, she’s listening.

Who’s listening?

We were in his bedroom again, the evening dying away in subdued colours, vistas of bland blue, dimming slowly in the cold air, the life of the day draining silently, as if numbed by anesthetics.

The girl in the room next door. She’s always listening when you’re here.

What? I was incredulous, almost laughing but his eyes were solid, serious, the soil in his pupils’ firm, and I didn’t notice then the paranoia that must’ve been stemming from the surface, leaking into reality. So, I believed it. I probably shouldn’t have.

Okay, okay, but will you stop? We were whispering, furtive underneath the duvet covers, filling the trapped air with minty breath. It felt safe here, holy, a shadowed place where we could feel each other’s words more strongly than we heard them, they were more real under here, tangible, like we could tweeze them out of the air like flies and inspect them for what they really were.

I promise you I will.

That’s the problem with promises they exist under the heavy of weight of being broken, they strain relentlessly against themselves, like trying to stay asleep when someone’s jolting you awake. They exist in the grey battles between black and white, and the chances of it being kept- here underneath the duvet when our words were the only thing that we could feel in the dark- we may as well have flipped a coin.

I know when you said it, you meant it but that doesn’t make missing you any easier.