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King's mind was focused on a singular point, like tunnel vision guiding his thoughts and sight, —completely fixated on the small jar in his hand. He was careful and meticulous in each move that he made, subconsciously scared that if he even so much as put a bit too much pressure on the glass that it might shatter into pieces right before his very eyes. A generous layer of coconut fiber substrate made a home for the plastic roots of three incredibly small decorative succulent plants, each with their own unique leaf shapes. Despite their small stature in everyday life, the succulents looked nicely sized amongst one another inside of their tiny jar, and King admired them fondly for the way they brought new life to the otherwise incredibly boring, unimaginative object they resided in.
He liked the way their differing leaf shapes and slight color variations gave them each their own personalities. The one with a slight magenta tint to the very edge of its arrowhead shaped leaves was bold, in King's opinion, —probably the type to be adventurous if it had the legs to walk and run on land with. On the other hand, the fully sea foam green decoration with the rounded leaves, bearing an uncanny resemblance to cabbage, was likely to be the most modest of the group, and undoubtedly the most mature. Lastly, the spikiest of the trio, its color mimicking that of juniper needles, was almost certainly the most aloof of the bunch, perhaps a bit cold, but confident nonetheless. King could find Ram in each of their assigned personalities, and if he hadn't been so attentive of the miniature mushroom pinched between his tweezers (red capped with white polka dots, as seen in all the fantasy movies he enjoyed in his childhood), that realization more than likely would have brought a light smile to his handsome face.
When it came to making his terrariums, King was good at pretending that the outside world didn't exist. He liked to think it was somewhat of a skill to be able to forget that reality is in fact just that, reality, —to be able to enter a world much smaller than his own and be one with the serenity of the succulents. He was so absorbed in his own activities that he hadn't noticed the door creaking open slowly, the sight of a chiseled face peeking through the gap with a hesitant look and doe eyes slightly puffy from tears shed only minutes prior a few rooms over with the bathroom sink running to drown out the noise. Ram was lost. He had been for quite some time, and he knew that he was avoiding the issue as he ran away from it day by day as if his very life depended on it.
Some days, it felt like it did. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that his family would fall back into place without struggles of any kind after his mother found out about what was happening right under her nose. It was more likely, given the circumstances, that nothing would ever be the same again. And Ram couldn't blame that on her. . . Heaven knows she'd done her best as a mother, and as a wife.
Eyes landing on his senior, gaze steady as King placed that tiny mushroom in the exact place that he wished for it to be, —Ram tried not to pay attention to the longing in his chest or the fleeting thought in the back of his mind that gave consideration to the curve of King's lips, the sheen of his hair, and the butterflies he set free within the younger male's gut. Somehow, it was easier to feel his anxiety at full force, easier to tear his heart open and feel every inch of sorrow than it was to look King in the eyes and tell him that he thought he was falling for the first time in his life.
Holding his breath, King released the little mushroom from the tweezers, praying for the amount of adhesive he'd applied to be enough to keep it in place. Unfortunately for him, it began to tip only seconds after he let it go, so with a hefty sigh of frustration King removed it and placed it back on a paper towel, letting his tweezers drop to the desk with a light clink. Leaning back against his chair, he let his eyes rake over the blank ceiling, —finally reentering his true reality with only slight reluctance. Ram saw that as an opportunity to enter the room without the risk of ruining King's project. He did so quietly, which was very seemingly his only mode of moving through life. Being loud didn't suit him in the slightest, and frankly, it would have been off putting to everyone if he were to one day do a complete one eighty and turn into a noisy individual with no apparent filter on his mouth.
King enjoyed Ram for what he was, in every sense of the word. Sure, there were times when he yearned to hear the tattooed boy express himself verbally, —but years of speaking to plants that didn't have the mouths to talk back had, evidently, been preparing him for the day when a perpetually silent young man would walk into his life and flip it upside down. And that he had, without a warning of any kind. Ram had caught his gaze in the library, just for a second between books and wooden shelves, before King was turning on his heels and reeling from the sight. Just that alone had had King intrigued, enthralled, and desperate to get closer.
Ram forced himself forward, ignoring the way that his knees had begun to feel like jello. He had to do this. . . There truly wasn't another option. He'd been struggling along for far too long, and now that he had someone who had promised to be there for him, he couldn't see why he shouldn't take advantage of that. Where was the harm as long as he trusted King to not reveal his secrets to anyone? (Which he very much so did, and wholeheartedly at that.)
With a shaky hand, Ram reached out and tapped King's shoulder, causing the elder male to jump slightly in surprise. Eyes widened, he looked up to catch Ram's gaze, where his starteledness became something more akin to confusion and minor worry.
"Do you need something, cool boy?" King cocked his head to the side as he asked, ironically reminding Ram of a puppy in his innocent and inquisitive movements.
Silence reigned for a bit as the younger struggled to find his voice, —struggled to find the right way to even begin the conversation in the first place. He knew, deeply so, that it wasn't going to be easy for either of them. He knew that he would need to find the right words again and again, and though Ram was incredibly nervous about doing so, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather give it a try with.
Swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat, he took in a quick breath.
"Take a walk with me?"
It wasn't a suggestion or a demand, —it was a question. The inflection in Ram's voice was enough to portray that, enough to make King understand that he had a choice and that he didn't have to come if he didn't want to do so.
King's brows furrowed in confusion at the unusual request, and his perplexity was only magnified as he looked towards the digital clock on his desk.
"It's almost midnight," he noted, "do you need to go buy something?"
Ram shook his head with a small, almost nonexistent movement, and if King hadn't been paying close attention to the tattooed male's face, he more than likely would have missed it.
"Do you want something?"
Once more, Ram shook his head, but was quick to backtrack on that when he realized that a desire for non-material things is still a desire in itself. He did want something, and that yearning was nothing short of a long time coming.
"I. . ." Ram paused, and King feared that his questions had gone too far, feared that he'd been too inquisitive when he should have just stood and gone along with the younger male's requests.
"I want to talk about it."
King blanched. What was "it"? Perhaps their shared kiss in an uncomfortable tent, —the one they'd been dancing around, refusing to acknowledge since it occurred? Or the morning after, when they'd been stirred awake by the others movements, —King's head resting on Ram's shoulder, face nudging against the latter's chest? Maybe Ram wanted to talk about the games they'd been playing with one another, treading the heady line of friendship that they'd each, on their own accord, crossed far too many times?
The desire to run away from it all still lingered. He could have easily turned Ram away, insisting that he was tired and wanted to go to sleep. King could have lied through his teeth and said that he wasn't feeling up to it, —that his stomach was hurting, his head was aching (the second of which would be, candidly, very believable given just how prone King seemed to be at hitting his head on various things (or being hit with such.))
But the look in Ram's eyes wouldn't allow him to say no.
"Okay," he agreed, "lets go on a walk."
With step one out of the way, Ram allowed himself to breathe an internal sigh of relief. Unfortunately, he also suspected that the following steps would be that much more difficult, and he could only pray that he would be able to express himself well enough. He waited by the door as King retrieved a jacket from his closet, pulling one out for Ram as well.
"Let's not get sick tonight," King offered up a kind smile as he gave the tattooed boy a jacket as well, —proving to Ram that he was just as keen on taking care of him as Ram had been those past few weeks.
A curt nod and one jacket slipped on later and the two of them were heading out into the night. The sky was mostly cloudy, which was unsurprising given the day of rain that had come on and off throughout the previous twelve hours, but the brightest of stars still managed to shine through periodically. Ram supposed that was poetic, in a way, —supposed that he could take comfort in their gleam.
"So," King opened up the conversation, just as he always did, —even in a situation like that, "what do you want to talk about?"
Ram took another breath in, knowing that he was about to speak to King more in one night than he had throughout the entirety of their relationship, whatever it could be classified as. Strangers, friends, lovers, —maybe somewhere in between, somewhere in that misty, grey indifference that was choking the both of them.
"I just. . . Need to get things off my chest," Ram said, pulling King's jacket tighter around his slim (albeit fairly muscular) frame.
The ambiguity in his response still scared King, still made him nervous, —still made him want to run for the hills as he so often did when push came to shove. But he knew that he couldn't leave Ram alone that night with a clear conscious. . . So King stayed, despite the fear in his veins, despite the anxiety thrumming throughout every inch of his body, despite the nervousness that sank into his very cells.
"Okay," King answered softly, "I'm listening. Promise."
Ram almost cracked a smile at the elder male's willingness to be there for him. Although he still felt uneasy about revealing everything, King made it easier. Really, King made lots of things easier, —like friendship, and homework, and falling in love.
"My dad is cheating on my mom with my best friend, —ex best friend now, obviously," Ram vocalized, "and I don't know what to do. The damage is already done, and there's no turning back now, —but I don't want to be the one to tell my mom that it's happening. I know it's selfish of me, but I don't want to be the one that has to watch her heart break."
"It's not selfish," King was quick to respond, "you're not selfish, Ram. Your father is selfish. He's the one stepping out in his marriage instead of being honest. He's the selfish one for putting you in this kind of position."
"I still love both of them," Ram admitted, "even now. How wrong is that?"
It was phrased as a question, but it needed no direct answer. Rhetorical, King supposed that it was in the way that it was meant to be self-depreciating. Perhaps its purpose was to drill damning thoughts even harder into Ram's feeble mind.
"It's not wrong," King answered anyway, "you don't control who you love. Even when we feel hurt, there's not an off switch for love, —or for any emotion, really. They come and go however they please. We don't get a say in it ninety nine percent of the time."
Their hands touched, accidentally, just a brushing of innocent skin, and yet it set King's insides aflame. That was the best way he knew to describe it; —like fire sparking inside of his intestines. Not the kind that brings now homeless families to their knees, not the kind that devastates wildlife and natural habitats. . . Rather, it was a bonfire, kept safe within the confines of his flesh and bones, kept at bay inside of him with ease, burning with a purpose and the foreknowledge of how it had ignited in the first place. It didn't hurt, just warmed King from the inside out, —made him even more aware of Ram's presence beside of him.
"It feels wrong," Ram said, desperation seeping from those three words alone.
He craved an answer to all of his problems, —yearned to wake up from the nightmare his family had been thrust into. It was far too obvious that Ram was tired of feeling like the world was always seconds away from ending at his fingertips. He was tired of feeling like he was caught in the eye of a hurricane.
"You think too much," King stated bluntly, "definitely too much for you own good, anyway."
Ram gave him a glance, one that said "do I?" without the tattooed male even having to open his mouth and say as such.
"Way too much," King continued on, "and you do this, —this thing, where you won't let anyone in, and you won't let anyone help you. You're the first person to be there for everyone else, but you never stop to think about yourself, and it terrifies me. One day, I'm scared you're going to have given everything away, because you don't save any of your kindness for yourself. You don't save any of your love for yourself, and you pour it all into the people around you, —silently, because you don't want anyone to love you back in the same way. You hold everything inside so nobody has to hurt the way that you do. And it's admirable, Ram, but it'll kill you one day."
King wasn't used to saying things like that, especially not to Ram, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Once the first sentence had been uttered, everything spilled out like word vomit, and he lost himself in the sound of his own voice giving the best advice he could muster to someone that he cared a great deal for. It was King's way of saying "please share your pain with me and let me carry it with you, —for you."
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Ram said in a small voice that was barely more than a whisper.
"Everyone hurts someone," King noted, "and we all get hurt by someone one day. It's just a matter of when, how, and who. And all we can hope for is that the one who hurts us the most is someone worth feeling that pain for."
Once more, King could have gone on, but he figured that saying "please hurt me, make me feel everything all at once, put my mind and body through the wringer because you're worth it to me," would be a bit too much for Ram to wrap his mind around.
Suddenly, Ram stopped in his tracks and reached out, —gentle hand wrapping around King's wrist. That fire inside of the elder male roared a bit louder, slithering up his throat like a serpent from the red-hot depths of hell. Their gazes kissed, two pairs of brown irises meeting under skies of murky clouds, softer than the way their lips had met some time ago. Ram's eyes told the story of a young man stuck between a rock and a hard place, —heart in the right place, but lost in direction. King's eyes were bright, loving, and they gave him the comfort of a compass, swearing to guide him home in due time.
"Am I hurting you?" Ram asked.
"No," King answered firmly, "you're not."
"Have I ever?" The younger male ventured further.
"Yes," King replied, "you have, —and I'd let you do it again."
Ram faltered, in every possible way. His grip on King's wrist loosened, his gaze flickered to the ground, and though it couldn't be heard, the flipping heart in his chest was disastrously implicit.
". . . I don't want to hurt you," Ram said, letting go of King as he did so, (which was, ironically enough, the most painful thing that had happened that night so far.)
It was cold without Ram's hand blocking out the frigid night air from attacking his flesh.
"What I'm saying," King expressed himself, his own hand locking itself around Ram's willing wrist, "is that I don't mind if you hurt me from time to time, because you're worth it, and I'd like to think that we could always work things out between us."
"I feel. . . Comfortable with you," Ram said, "and I feel like you understand me. You listen to me, even though I don't talk much. You're here for me when it matters the most, —just like you are right now, and I hope I can do the same for you and pay you back one day."
"I don't want this to feel like debt to you," King said, "I want you to know that I'm here for you because I care for you, and that's it. I just hope you feel the same way."
"I do," Ram confirmed, far too quickly for it to be considered normal, but neither of them could bring themselves to care.
Slowly, King released his grip on Ram's wrist. However, the grip that the elder male had on his heart was something that was going to last the test of time, it seemed.
"Come on," King prompted, "let's keep walking for a bit. Say as much as you want, as little as you want, —whatever the case, I'll listen to you, or I'll just be here with you if that's what you want. I just need you to know that you're not alone at all, and that I want to be here for you every step of the way, —no matter how much or how little you say to me."
Falling, falling, falling. . .