first year: tentative glances, shy smiles. robes that are slightly too big, scars as prominent as the quiet laughter in his eyes. four boys, one compartment, their words drowned out by the whistle of the train, the squeaking wheels of a trolley. friendship, real and fierce.
second year: full moons, half-hearted lies, pranks and hexes and youthful folly blossom into questions without answers, climax into a revelation. he prepares for the inevitable, feels his scars burn, lets the ashes of his secret spill from him in shame. but the blow never came. third year: usual shenanigans and stolen glances, warm bodies next to him now on his infirmary bed, soothing words recited into his hair like a mantra. but now he finds himself with a bias on whose body is directly next to his, whose warmth he wants to feel, mantras he wants to etch into his being. he did not know whether the feeling, should elate or unnerve.
fourth year: a wanted, constant presence. a yearning. he feels it in his bones now, striking him with every laugh and smile and everything in between. it was somewhere around this time when he found himself falling in love.
fifth year: he hides his secret with all his might, keeps it in the back of his mind, fights off the flush in his expression, the flutter in his chest. here, he is no longer alone during his runs, finds himself happier than he’s been in years. he stays in this bubble, relishes the feeling. a year of maps and celebration and what should have been confession. instead he finds it tainted with betrayal.
sixth year: a time of runaways and broken friendships. most importantly, a season of forgiveness. but the forgiveness, like broken friendships and unlike the path of runaways, is quiet. it starts with willingly returned glances, the brushing of pinkies and shoulders the occasional dialogue, and ends with tears, an overwhelming feeling of relief, is sealed with a kiss.
seventh year: laughter and love and friendship all around him, promise after promise unfolding. he prays to the gods, to anyone listening in the skies or the ground or the droplets of rain, that if they cannot give, cannot keep promises without tragedy and blood, of happiness and hope and love, at least sear this memory into him, let him wear these years, burn them into his mind, bind his and these people’s souls to one another’s for eternity. please, he thinks. please please please. take everything, promise nothing, at least let him have this.
- d.c & v.d.c
