Work Text:
“Kylar, can we hold hands together in English class today?” You ask, because you look at him and in spite of everything, feel love. Someday, this could be a shared house on Danube Street, maybe a cat, his tired, loving gaze— his voice pulling you back to this reality.
“What?” Kylar asks, but continues before giving you a chance to respond “Yes.” Kylar says. “Yes,” He repeats “Of course we can, my love.”
You smile. If you could be happy with anyone in this small, fucked up town, it was him.
-
You and Kylar hold hands in English class, interlaced fingers visible to the rest of your peers. They hate Kylar, in the performative way high schoolers hate someone who everyone else hates too.
You can’t bring yourself to care much about what they think. It was annoying, sure, the guilt by association Kylar brought, your newfound fear of sparsely populated hallways.
And to a degree, you understand their disgust. Kylar’s greasy unkempt hair and acne-scarred face aren’t something you’re oblivious to. He is a freak. They’re right about that.
What they don’t seem to understand is that he’s a freak who’s desperately in love with you. You, who lives in an orphanage and steals other student’s bus fares from their lockers. You, who has been raped in dimly lit alleys and sees a therapist on Friday’s. You .
So of course you’re in love too. You’ll ask to hold his hand in English class, endure the ridicule and dirty looks. You’ll suck him off in the boys bathroom during lunch.
You’ll hold his hand and you won’t let go.