Prologue

 

Carter

I wanted to be with him. Badly. I was thinking that when I sat up on the pigeon shit covered rooftop. The flat cement horizon of buildings as far as I could see greeted me with a grim smile. The sun was low in the sky, lighting the cement jungle on fire.

You don't just want to be with them, you want to a part of them, something to them. I was thinking that when I pushed myself up from the ground. The gritty gravel and sand bit at my numb hands, and I pat them against my jeans. It was funny- soon, my brains would be splattered on the sidewalk and yet I was still worried about having damn sand on my palms.

I fell in love my sophmore year with the quarterback of the Grafton County Gators football team. I think he might have loved me back... I guess I'll never know. I was thinking that when the edges of my Converse hit the lip of the ledge. I looked down, at the cars that zoomed by and the taxis that swerved and the bikes that growled. I was going to miss those sounds.

I thought it'd be easier if I was gone. My dad had thought the same thing when he pulled the trigger; my mother was drugged up half the time. I could have just been free. I placed my other foot on the ledge, so I could get a good veiw of my destination- the concrete below. I breathed a deep breath, my chest rising and my nostrils whistling. The air tasted bitter.

I wanted to kiss him one last time.

The door slammed behind me, and before I could jump or turn around or scream, arms wrapped around my middle. Strong arms- his arms. I fell back from the ledge with a 'hmph', my feet slapping against the rooftop. My back pressed against the flat planes of his chest, he held tightly to me.

I fought against him and his strong arms. I kicked and cried used all my strength to get away. "Let me go! Let me go, Ashton!" I don't know how long I fought against him, but soon my arms grew heavy and tears fell hot and heavy from my eyes. My chest shook, so hard it hurt, and my head fell forward, my hair hanging in my eyes.

"Don't ever do that again," he murmured into my mop of hair, his breath hot against my scalp. He smelled spicy. I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks and the back of my neck. He was crying on me. Shivering, I clung to him the best I could with numb hands and arms. The white powder was still under my nose, and I swiped at it with the back of my sweatshirt sleeve. "You're a fucking mess, Carter."

 "Let go of me," I tried again, my voice cracking. I didn't want to look behind me, because his green eyes would only hold sadness. Instead, I took a deep breath and gripped his forearm tightly. He didn't even flinch.

"So you can throw yourself off a building? No thanks," he growled, anger seeping into his tone. His grip tightened some.

"I don't want to be here," I whispered, my voice lost in the wind. I'm glad it was lost. He would have just cried; he would have just become more angry.

"I'm taking you home."

"I'm not some floozy," I muttered, the thought making me half-heartedly chuckle. His lips remained a tight, grim straight line that left my stomach feeling like a cinderblock. It wasn't until he let go of me did I suck in another breath of bitter air. My eyes flickered to him.

He was tall, taller than me, with broad shoulders and lean hips. For such a big guy, he was shaking, snot dripping from his nose. His green eyes were rimmed red and his cheeks were tear-stained. Calloused hands wrapped themselves over mine, a motion that was once my security blanket.

"I'm taking you home," he repeated, his fingers stroking my wrists, laced with white raised lines that trailed up my arm. As if it would just prove how committed he was, he placed a small kiss on the newest one, still pink and hot. The action was bittersweet; he loved me, but would never tell anyone he did.

I nodded despite how much I wanted to stay in my own concrete jungle ablaze. He smiled softly, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards, hollow and useless.

"I love you," he whispered, before placing a kiss on my lips. Light, like butterflies. His stubble, creeping up on his jawline like shadows, scratched my face.

We made love that night. And then, the next morning, I hung myself.

Ashton

The funeral wasn't something I remember well. It felt like someone had taped over the whole thing. Instead, I was thinking of the night before everything had happened. He was alive, and we had kissed and watched movies and fell alseep, pressed together like we fit.

 We had been fine just a few nights before, and then suddenly he's gone. How was it possible? How could he just be gone, I asked myself.

I think the worst part was that I had to pretend I wasn't affected. Coach Mulligan made the whole football team go, which was bittersweet. Sweet because I had my teammates with me; bitter because I had to remain stony faced while the one guy I loved was lying in a casket like a broken doll. His sister, Ally, kept glancing at me. Her blue eyes were just like his; each glace was making my skin prickle with heat. She was one of the few people who knew about us. She also knew I was with him the night before he killed himself.

His mother was clueless when it came to the two of us. I had met her once. I don't think it really counted, though, because she stumbled into the house, drunk and half dressed. Carter introduced me as his lab partner. He proceeded to herd me out of his house until his mom stopped us, only to throw-up all over my white Nikes. She passed out, and the two of us carried her back to her bedroom. Only after we were alone did I hug him, and let him cry onto my shoulder.

He wasn't as tough as he wanted everyone to believe. The day I first met him, he was being beaten up, making smart ass comments despite the blood that trickled down his lip.

I had been walking down the halls, Stephanie Sinclair clinging to my arm like a rag doll. She kissed my neck, something that felt awkward and forcibly enjoyed on my part. That's when I heard it, as we walked down the empty hallways, as Stephanie nibbled on my neck like I was one of her distgusting pieces of brown celery and dry carrot sticks.

"-gonna jack off during wrestling practice, Fag Boy," a voice called, one I recognized as Mike King. Mike was an asshole, who I swore was gay the way he and Daniel Raisch never left each others' sides, and made it his life's mission to be an annoying bully. The sound of something heavy being thrown against the lockers made both Stephanie and me freeze.

"No. Unlike you asswipes who have killed enough brain cells during beer pong and cheery games of pass around the pipe to put your IQ at a very depressing height, I have a life beyond high school and their stupid sports," an unfailiar voice responded. The sound of rattling lockers bounced off the halls once again, and I followed the sounds.

"Ashton, what're you doing? C'mon, we're going to be late getting into fifth block," Stephanie insisted. I rolled my eyes, and held up my index finger to signal I needed a minute. Following the noises, the slamming of lockers and sharp words turning to grunts and groans, my pace quickened until I rounded the corner.

He was lying in the corner, Mike looming over him, Daniel Raisch and Tanner Geist circling the two like a miniature pack of wolves. Carter's nose was bloody; his skin was pale like marble. He kind of looked like a ghost, in raggedy jeans and an old burgandy sweatshirt that was worn at the cuffs. When he saw me, he didn't seem affected and only smirked up at Mike.

"What'd you say, Fag Boy," Mike cried, Carter only raising an ebony brow. He couldn't possibly be stupid enought to say something, I told myself. I was proven wrong.

"Hey, you're the one rolling around in a leotard with a bunch of other sweaty guys. I'm just saying, man, that sounds a little queeri-"

He was cut off by a swift punch to the gut. I winced, before grabbing hold of Mike and throwing him from Carter, who crumpled like paper into a ball. His groans echoed in my ears as I pushed Mike against the set of orange lockers on the other side of the hall. Daniel and Tanner had stopped laughing at that pont.

"Get out of here," I managed, glaring at all three of them. Mike glowered, and Tanner and Daniel looked very indecisively at each other before grabbing hold of Mike's arm and motioning for him to follow. He gave me one last eye roll before stalking off.

"Watch yourself, Fag Boy," he yelled over his sholder before turning the corner where I had left Stephanie. I turned, just in time to see Carter walking away, the only evidence of their fight the little droplets of blood on the tiled linoleum.

"-Carter Maxx was a good Christian boy who didn't deserve to go the way he did," Pastor Evans said into the mic, the speakers screeching in protest as the foam hit his handlebar mustache, drawing me back from my nostalgia. It was a total lie- Carter didn't believe in much- and made a wry smile creep up on my face. He'd be laughing at you, Pastor, I thought to myself, and your ridiculousness. The cherry wood casket was glossy under the lights, a single rose lying on top. A sick, swift kick in the gut that made my stomach hurt and eyes water. Ally's eyes burned holes into my forehead.

 It had been seven days, and I already needed him.

One

 

One Year Later 

Drew

My new room had light blue walls. Light blue was a good color, right? Neutral. It doesn't scream, 'A gay kid lives here, right?'

I'm an overanalyzer. The moment I looked at Ryan Lutes in eighth grade and thought, 'Hey he's kinda cute. I mean, for a guy,' I have managed to dissect every wrong thought from then on. My father preached about homosexuality being a sin, and I think he would die if he knew I was. If I don't think about it, I told myself, it'd go away. Those wrong feelings were like stray dogs- if you fed them, they'd never go away.

The blue walls were my newest obsession.

The dusty, dark paneled floorboards creaked as I crossed the room to my old bed, the striped sheets stretched across the surface of the mattress. The cardboard boxes, graffitied with my name in jagged scrawl and some short explanation of what was inside-- socks, trophies, comics, etc. etc.-- were scattered throughout the room, smashed ones lying in the hallway, flat as a pancake.
 

I cradled my soccer trophy in hand, one of the last reminders from my life in Pineswood, Minnesota. Pineswood was a little town where everyone knew everyone and everyone heard everything. They'd especially hear about the pastor's son being gay. I'd be the town's newest scandal, along with Mrs. Witicker having her third heart attack.

"Andrew," a rumbling voice called from the stairway down the hall. California was different though; gay marriage is accepted here, I reminded myself as I set the trophy on the awaiting shelf and headed towards the door to my new bedroom. One last glance at my life from Minnesota, and I smiled. Yeah, California was pretty nice.

 

Ally

A year ago today, my brother killed himself. Three weeks ago, a family moved into our old house. It was an icy slap in the face, reminding me that everything changes. A cool breeze whipped by me, tugging at my sweatshirt, smelling of rain. green grass whistled, tickling my ankles with each brush. The grey skies overhead rumbled with the promise of thunder. Oak leaves rustle and fluttered in the array of sounds and scents.

 Just a week ago it was sunny.

Like I said, everything changes.

I almost missed him, huddled in his expensive, meant-to-look-worn leather jacket, floppy brown hair hanging in his green eyes. He looked hulking compared to the gravestones and miniature flags poking out of the ground, like Godzilla in Tokyo. He jogged down the paved path, his Nikes slapping against the asphalt.

"Ally," he murmured as he neared, his cheeks rosy and eyes red. He had been crying. A sad smile tugging at his lips, he wrapped his long arms around my middle, holding me close to him in comfort. I breathed in deeply, hoping to catch a hint of Carter remaining in the leather. It just smelled like rain water and hair gel.

"Hey, Ashton," I sighed, closing my eyes. Disappointment ate at my stomach. Black strands of curled hair falling out from beneath my beanie cap, and I broke away, my eyes wandering to the gravestone we stood by.

Carter Rhys Maxx, b. May 14, 1996, d. October 23, 2012.

That was all it said, and yet it seemed to tell his whole life story. Carter was simple, and yet he died young. He would have been seventeen. My eyes burned, with tears and anger and sadness, and I watched the granite words blur into oblivion. Instinctually, I grabbed hold of Ashton's hand, wondering how many times my brother had done the same thing.

"Ashton," I whispered, tears beginning to brim and brighten my eyes, black hair whipping  as the wind gust around us.

"Yeah?"

"He loved you... he was crazy about you. I-I'm... glad, you agreed to come with me. I-I couldn't have done this alone," I finished, the words lodging in my throat at first. He nodded, kissing his his teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I know."

"Ashton?"

He didn't say anything, only nodded and looked down at me with sad green eyes and dark lashes.

"I'm glad you're the last person he saw."

"Me too," he choked, tears falling down his cheeks in big fat droplets. I squeezed his hand once more. As selfish as it sounded, I was glad someone else was miserable. It meant I wasn't the only person, in all of Grafton, California, that was sad he was gone. I was just the only one anyone saw mourning.

Two

 

Carter

 "Hey! Hey, are you okay," I heard his voice call from somewhere behind me. It was the day we met, the day Mike King kicked the shit out of me.  i didn't know where I was going; I just needed to get away. I rolled my eyes, and shouldered my weathered backpack, my Converse sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. My stride was slow, hoping to look casual despite the raging pain in my ankle, and I didn't look back.

"Hey, you, are you okay," he asked again, the sound of his Nikes hitting the floor echoing down the hall. The feel of a hand on my shoulder stopped me cold, and I glanced behind me to see his tentative half-smile and worriedly knit dark brows.

"I'm fine," I muttered, stopping just long enough to show him I wasn't suffering any broken limb or internal bleeding.  He didn't seem very convinced, and dropped his hand from my shoulder quickly enough to make it seem like I had imagined the action.

"You don't look fine. You have, er, blood on your lip," he insisted, the crinkle in his brow deepening. That was one of my favorite things about him, the little wrinkle that formed between his thick, dark brows.

I used the back of my sleeve, running it across my bottom lip quickly, pain radiating from my piercing. Just fucking great.

"Are you sure you don't need anything? Or I could walk you to the nurse-"

"They'll ask what happened. I'm fine just walking back home," I mumbled, my eyes flickering from the little kink in his hair to the letterman jacket to the expnsive tennis shoes on his feet. A weak smile tugged at his lips, showing off straight white teeth.

"Well, let me give you a ride or something. I was going to skip fifth anyways," he shrugged, shifting awkwardly. He offered me another weak smile that I didn't bother returning it.

"You don't have to. You've already bruised my ego, at least let me live through the humility of walking home," I insisted, the joke making a small chuckle bubble from within his chest. He smiled, nicely, showing off those white teeth, and held out a hand.

"Ashton Grey. Savior and chaffuer," he grinned, waiting for me to clap my hand in his. Tentatively, I shook it, a small smile tugging at my lips before I could stop myself.

"Carter. Carter Maxx. Otherwise known as Fag Boy."

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.07.2013

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Widmung:
To Brandon, My favorite gay senior bitch!