#chris stanton

Nothing about Chris and him had ever been perfect. He knew that. He had always liked that in the other boy, the ease and understanding, where a simple look meant more than saying the words that went with them. Dr. Hawkins said that knowing the different between perfection and contentedness was something he needed to work on. He agreed. He was getting better at keeping people close instead of pushing them away.

“Don’t t-touch anything right?”

Henry nodded. “Right. Only for a few minutes though.” He absently reached for the television remote. “Tell me what you want to watch and I’ll drop popcorn in your mouth.”

Chris told him. Henry changed the channel and reached for the popcorn bowl. With a wry grin, he tossed a piece at Chris knowing it would bounce off of his cheek. An homage to a singular good memory from years ago. The other boy blinked in surprise, then dissolved into giggles right along side him. 

“Okay, here.” Henry picked up a few more pieces and dropped them onto Chris’ tongue. “I had to, you know? It was too easy.”

“You do that ev-every, every time.”

“Yeah, well. It wouldn’t do to forget how we became friends, would it?”

What surrounded that memory wasn’t nice. But remembering Chris was. Remembering that he could take those small moments out of a larger memory and see the good bits for all that crushing bad. Henry was learning to find relief in that. Chris and him still knew each other, still liked each other, were still friends after meeting briefly, being separated and put through the wringer, all before the age of 20. They were still here, a little rough around the edges, but happier. A lot happier. Period, end of chapter.

“Henry?”

“More popcorn?”

“Yes.”

“Open up then.”

Henry pulled a small handful out of the bowl and leaned his shoulder into Chris’. They had done this before, on another couch at another time. Henry stuffed a handful into his mouth and settled into the cushions. He’d been eating more since he quit drinking, had been gaining weight steadily since. He winced at the thought — he’d lost more weight than he realized and June’s dismayed realization still bothered him.

He slouched down and tucked his head to Chris’ shoulder. “Is it okay if I do this?”

Chris tilted his head so his cheek was resting on Henry’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s, it’s nice.”

“Let me know if it stops being nice,” Henry sighed. He glanced at Chris’ hands, fingers spread out over the glossy magazine paper. “They should be dry enough now. If you want to move around.”

Chris hummed back, focused on the television screen in front of them. When they discovered they both watched the same cartoon television, they’d nearly cleared the living room talking about their favorite episodes and characters; a near nonsensical back and forth of quotes and references that left them in stitches on the couch. 

It was easy. Too easy, Henry supposed. Chris hadn’t seen him at his worst, at his sloppiest. Henry didn’t have to redeem himself to Chris. He hadn’t taken the affection and warmth between them and twisted it up until it was unrecognizable. He hadn’t lied to him; hadn’t kept secrets and hid behind an impenetrable wall of sarcasm in front of him. Chris didn’t know these things, hadn’t witnessed Henry’s slide into something worse than rock bottom. He hadn’t ruined their friendship like he ruined his relationship. He hadn’t broken the other boy’s trust.

Yet, a voice in his brain piped up.

Henry blinked, catching himself before he got too maudlin. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye, stymying the sting of tears there. It was New Year’s weekend. He was with his best friend. They were watching their favorite show. He had no reason to get choked up and weepy.

Henry stuffed more popcorn in his mouth, then pushed the bowl closer to Chris. He motioned for the other boy to take more, mouth too full to talk as he intended.

“We, um. We talked about you in, in, in class,” Chris began in a soft voice.

Henry exhaled a laugh, more relief than humor. “My fifteen minutes of fame, I assume?”

“Y-your trial, last year.” Chris shifted. He grabbed a blanket and sunk down next to Henry, lowering his voice like they were telling secrets at the ski resort again. “It st-started a, a, an argument. I, I, I got sent out of c-class, this one g-girl she thought we, we, we were happy.”

“What class?” Henry asked, his words stuck in his throat.

“Political h-history.”

Henry let out a harsh laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth as soon as the sound was out. He glanced sheepishly over at Chris, a pink flush heating his cheeks to burning. He swallowed then spoke through his fingers. “Sorry, it’s just. It’s a little funny, in a shitty sort of way. I mean. If anyone’s talking about me at my school, no one’s told me about it and I hope they don’t.”

“I wish they h-hadn’t…” Chris mumbled something that sounded like golden retrievers then went quiet for a few long moments. “I know you and, and, and-… And I was, um, right there. I c-could have s-said I was too, but-.” 

He let out another breath as his fingers found the inside of Henry’s wrist, tapping that exact pattern. The one Henry would know anywhere. The one that, once or twice, he found himself replicating under the table at his trial.

“Why are you telling me?” Henry asked, hoping his sounded curious more than worried.

“You w-wouldn’t ask me, um, why it was fucking awful to, to listen to,” Chris said. A little tight, a little sour. He raised his hands over his face, waving his fingers so the glitter polish would sparkle in the light. Henry nodded against Chris’ shoulder. He didn’t need to ask how awful. He already knew in his gut. “It was on th-the final exam.”

Henry leaned into the touch, into Chris’ side and the soft scent of his blue hair. “Did you get the question right?”

“I d-don’t know.”

“Are you, um…” Henry’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. He knew he brought it upon himself, but the idea of people talking about him when he wasn’t in the room made his skin crawl. The idea that people were, all over, calling him Nicholas Aldersky and talking about whether or not he deserved what he had earned sent a small shiver through him.

Tell him, a voice in his head said again. Tell him how much of a mess you are.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on the pattern of Chris’ fingers on his skin to block it out, to put it in a box and push it away. Dr. Hawkins was telling him that the more he talked about it — even to himself, so long as it was out loud — the shame of it all would lessen. The sting would diminish and soon it would all smooth out into just another part of him, like a freckle or dimples.

Tell him. He already knows everything else. More than you know about him anymore, you know. You’ve been splashing your photo all over, so of course he’s seen.

The voice didn’t sound like Hawkins, but it was tempting. So very tempting. A little vestige of the self-destruction that had put him there to begin with.

“What?” Chris asked gently, somewhere above him.

“I, um…” Henry cleared his throat. He opened his eyes, quickly finding the green and yellow sticker of the T. Rex dressed up in lights on Chris’s pointer finger. “If you’re ever in a class where they bring me up again… if you want to tell them all the nasty bits, you can.”

“Nasty bits?”

“Yeah… nasty bits. Lots of nasty bits.” Henry swallowed hard. Dr. Hawkins voice still hadn’t come to him, and he silently willed it into existence. “I um… I’ll tell you. If you want. It’s a lot though, and I don’t want to… to ruin the weekend.”

Chris was quiet for a moment, fingers still dancing. Then, all of a sudden, his fingers stopped tapping and slide in between Henry’s to squeeze tightly. “It can’t be, um, worse than what happened to us, um, before.”

There was a certainty, a confidence in his voice that Henry felt himself latch on to. Gripping fast and tight, soaking up the strange kind of safety in that simple acknowledgement. He took a steadying breath, feeling the tightness in his throat loosen. Chris understood, Chris would always understand. It was an unfortunate core in them, but it helped now more than it hurt.

How did stand this much empty, open time without tearing their hair out, clawing their skin open, or just plain losing sense?

I don't… don't know. I'm, I'm not allowed… the, the tree outside his bedroom had white flowers when, when, um, when I… was, was-was brought there...

Henry’s head popped up in surprise, his brain latching immediately onto a memory he had misplaced. Three or four years earlier, somewhere up in the mountains surrounded by snow and pine trees. A long weekend with one of Alexander’s work friends -- a privileged friend. The first time Henry had ever crossed paths with another pet.

You get to, to, um, to pretend… to be their, their son, right? Like… normal?

Henry cast a glance around the bathroom. The voice was so clear and bright in his brain that he was starting to wonder if he was imagining things. If he was cracking, hallucinating to fill the impenetrable silence. 

But no, the small room was the same as it ever was. No other shape or shadow filled his vision. No figure of the redheaded boy he had known all too well all too briefly crossed his gaze.

Henry huffed in annoyance. He slid down into the bathtub, laying on his back and glaring up. Imaginary or no, Henry could have used Baldur’s company, his cheerful smile, maybe his advice.

I wish I, I got to be sixteen for cameras. I have to, to-to hide under his desk all day...

Henry curled his nose in disgust at the idea, then sniffed. He was suddenly very lonely, Painfully, desperately lonely. And Baldur’s voice was so close, the other boy seemed real, touchable, floating just out of sight. Henry hadn’t thought about the redheaded boy in years -- not his bright green eyes, the dangerous things they had talked about, or the honey-warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when they were allowed to be close.

A bright, safe spot in an awful weekend.

A small, kind memory in the middle of a dreadful week.

Henry huffed to himself and reached to pinch hard at the meat of his thigh. He had to check his self pity right then. Had to rein in the hopeless attitude before he lost sight of what he had been attempting to do. Baldur had spent months confined to a single hallway, crammed under Oliver Branch’s desk, or stashed away in the basement of the governor’s mansion. He had told Henry -- well, Nicholas -- all about it in quiet whispers after the older men had fallen asleep. Henry had listened while playing with the other boy’s fingers and moved as close to him as possible, hanging on every word.

Henry had lasted five days. He could handle two more.

He could do it.

So what’s the plan then, kiddo?

Henry smiled to himself. “I don’t know, Caleb. What’s next?”

No, you tell me. Remember this is your life now. You get to pick. So. What do you want to do, Henry?

Henry knew it was the conversation they had had while picking out college classes months and months ago. Just an echo of Caleb Garcia, of his family, and the care they had given him without question. Henry’s heart ached, but he couldn’t help answering back. It was the closest thing he had gotten to a conversation in days.

“I want to get out of here,” Henry murmured, as hushed as a prayer in an empty church. “I want to go, I want... I want to come home.”

Then come home, Henry. June’s voice now, gentle and sweet. Like she was kneeling next to his bed, trying to wake him up when he slept until noon. Come home safe, okay?

“I want to...” Henry took in a shuddering breath. “I tried. I tried, but I... I got caught. They’re going to watch me closer now, I know it. It’ll be harder, I-.”

Sometimes it seems like you’re sent to us perfectly braindead...Go on, then, darlin’, how do you talk to the press? Pretend I’m a reporter rather than Alexander’s devilishly handsome friend...

He nearly choked as a fourth voice invaded his brain. It caught him off-guard, frightening him out of the comfortable lull he had been in. It stirred the banking embers of his anger, whisking them back to a small flame. A dull roar, but still. It was something. 

Something invigorating.

Something electrifying.

Something that would grow and strengthen.

“I’m not braindead,” Henry answers in a dull echo of what he had said way back when. “I’m not brain-dead. I’m smart, I stayed hidden, I could do it again.”

The thought strikes him across the head.

“I can do it again,” he repeats. “I can do it again...” 

Henry thinks for a moment. He could do it again, but he was going to have to be smarter. Running into town after slamming the front door was a little ham-handed. The librarians would have probably snitched on him once they had found him. He would have to be smarter, sneakier. He would have to play the chess game, just like Mariana.

“Play the game... play the game...” Henry murmured. His stomach growled but he ignored it. He just had to get back into the house. He just had to behave. To be as perfect as he had been. Gently prod Mariana and Alexander into believing he was just as he was, that he had learned his lesson, that he was a good boy again. 

You're good for him, aren't you? You're not too rebellious or defiant, might give him second thoughts?

Henry sneered quietly at Oliver Branch’s voice. A much younger him had protested and argued, insisted he was really good for everyone who wanted him to be. A much younger him had cared. Henry didn’t care anymore.

“Don’t change the subject, you bastard. I have thinking to do,” Henry hissed. Then it hit him. “I’ll send letters. I’ll be perfect when I’m next to them, but I’ll send letters to him... I can find the newspaper’s address, that’s not hard. But I’ll be perfect for everyone else, so they’ll never know.”

Yes, that was it. That’s what he would do.

Henry smiled to himself, a grin that quickly transformed into the one he would give to the cameras and interviewing journalists. He stuck out his hand to no one, smiling to the ceiling.

“Hello, I’m Henry Aldersky. It’s very nice to meet you.” Henry began in the easy, bright tone Mariana had trained into him. “What paper are you from?”

We learn from out past mistakes in this house, Henry.