chapter 39

The bus ride was silent.

The sound of clattering and rustling disturbed the peace. Tyres bouncing over uneven roads, an old man coughing, the stairs leading to the top deck creaking. It was a cluster of noise which only added pressure onto Corey's pounding headache.

Dorian hadn't brought his bike to school with him. He'd come straight from the hospital that morning, taking the bus with the rest of the commuters. So now he and Corey were on a short but sweaty journey home, sharing uneasy glances but no words.

When they reached Dorian's house, Corey was surprised to see it even more neglected than usual. The sink was piling up with unwashed dishes, the bin overflowing with rubbish, the table cluttered with empty beer cans. Dorian quickly swiped the table clean, tossing the tins into the bursting bin. "Sorry." He apologised sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sometimes when I don't know how to cope, I just...drink." He admitted bashfully.

He was suffering from a hangover as well, Corey deduced. "Why don't you have a nap? You look tired." He suggested.

Dorian shook his head dismissively, "It's okay."

"Why not?"

"You're here." Dorian shrugged. What he meant was, I can't waste your presence. I like you too much to sleep through your company.

"So?" Corey frowned, propping himself up onto the kitchen counter, suppressing a wince after putting too much weight on his bruised arms. "I don't mind. I'm not going anywhere." He shrugged.

"Do you want to stay?" Dorian asked abruptly. He was overcome by a sudden burst of boldness, and the words spilt out without his consent. "I mean...you can stay here for a few days...if you want." He offered. "My Mum will be in hospital all week and your Dad...your Dad..."

"Dorian—"

"It's fine if you don't want to. I get it." He covered his tracks quickly, trying not to reveal how much he actually liked the boy stood in his dirty kitchen, watching him with such bright green eyes they were almost blinding.

"Do you want me to?"

"I..." Dorian gulped. "Yeah. I do."

But Corey didn't reject his offer, nor accept it. Instead, he asked a question that caught Dorian completely off guard. "What would your friends say?" He whispered, adverting his eyes to his feet, swinging back and forth from where he was sat on the worktop. "If they knew you were hanging out with me, I mean." He added after a short pause.

Dorian smiled, leaning against the dining table, opposite to where Corey was sat. "Since when do you care about what other people think?" He grinned. "I thought all that mattered was beauty?"

"I don't care about other people." He assured him. "But you do. And I'm not an arsehole, I consider other people's feelings, okay?"

Dorian's heart warmed at the statement and his smile grew. "We're not in a cringeworthy movie about defying the stereotypes. I'll be friends with whoever the fuck I want and you should too. If people care enough to judge us, then let them. Fuck them."

Corey smiled.

Corey smiled.

Corey fucking Winters fucking smiled.

And it wasn't like before. It wasn't a flash, a glimpse, a moment. No, it was bright and beaming and happy.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

His dimples deepened, his eyes shone, his face lit up. And suddenly, Dorian wanted to do everything he possibly could to keep that smile on his face. To see it every day, to never stop catching that light shining in his eyes. It would be hard, but he was going to try. He had to try.

"Yeah. I'll stay." Corey nodded, the remnants of the grin still evident on his face. "Thank you."

Dorian smiled brightly in return. "You hungry?"

Corey's heart sunk and he swallowed hard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Not this morning, not last night, possibly not at all yesterday — he wasn't sure. "Not really." He lied.

eat

"You sure? I skipped breakfast so I'm gonna make something. My omelettes are to die for, you'll be missing out." Dorian persuaded lightly.

eat

"No, I'm okay."

EAT

"Whatever you say." He shrugged. "You can put your stuff upstairs if you want. Just make yourself comfy."

Corey nodded and followed the familiar route up to Dorian's bedroom. He'd only been there a couple of times but it was enough to realise that his room was messier than usual. His bed was unmade, his desk suffocated in papers and incomplete homework. Clothes were strewn carelessly across the floor and his cupboard door hung open.

Corey kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag to the floor. He hadn't quite realised how tired he was until his gaze landed on Dorian's scruffy bed, and suddenly, his eyes felt heavier than steel. He yawned, rubbing his injured face and perching on the end of the bed. He was overcome with exhaustion and a craving to dream and forget. Before he knew what he was doing, he was curled up in Dorian's sheets, already halfway to unconsciousness.

And fuck, it smelt like him.

That familiar scent he caught every English lesson, every time he leant over the desk, every time he brushed against Corey. It smelt like...well, him. Like lavender and mint and coffee and cigarettes and laundry powder and shampoo and daisies. All at once.

It sent him drifting off into an abyss of dreamless sleep, peaceful and undisturbed.

When Dorian finished eating, he headed upstairs to find Corey. He felt guilty about everything that had happened. Corey was bruised and beaten and hurt, and yet, all Dorian cared about was talking about his own shitty problems. Corey had been sweet, caring, loving, generous. He didn't judge him, after everything he had said, he didn't judge him.

But Corey didn't let people worry about him. They weren't allowed to be concerned, it was like a rule of being Corey's friend. A rule Dorian had broken more than once. But right now, all Dorian cared about was getting Corey away from him abusive Father. Keeping him safe. Keeping him protected. Keeping him happy.

He froze at the doorway once he noticed the sleeping boy in his bed. He smiled softly at the scene in front of him, taking it all in. Corey's head was buried between the pillows, his arm curled under the sheets, pulling them closer. There was something inexpressible in the way that he slept. His bright, curious eyes were concealed and his features were softened into a peaceful and relaxed expression. Despite the bruises littering his body, he looked almost undamaged. Almost like he could wake up and offer Dorian a glowing smile and an angelic laugh. No one would be able to tell that he was so broken, or that he didn't even have to energy to pretend to be okay.

Dorian crept in quietly and tugged the curtains shut to expel light and drown the room in darkness. On his way out, his foot caught on something and he almost tripped over, cursing under his breath.

He glanced down through the shadows and noticed Corey's bag. It had tipped over and the contents were spilling over the floor. Dorian leant down to try and hastily stuff Corey's books back into his backpack, but paused curiously. There was a crumpled up sticky note, and another one, and another one. Corey had at least twenty of these post it notes hidden in his bag.

At least, they were hidden before Dorian practically kicked his bag and sent them flying.

He hesitantly picked up the first one he saw and guiltily pulled the corners to flatten it out. He felt like an intruder, spying on someone else's life. Barging into a place he didn't belong, peering into the window of Corey's mind. But despite his entire consciousness telling him not to look, he took a deep breath and read the three letters scrawled onto the paper.

eat

He picked up another sticky note, one of the many that were stuffed into his bag carelessly.

eat

And another one. 

eat

A few more.

eat

eat

eat

EAT

Dorian gathered the sticky notes back up and tossed them into Corey's bag. He fastened the straps and tucked the backpack into the corner of his room so he wouldn't trip on it again. He didn't think anything of the notes, he refused to think anything of them. He was already violating Corey's privacy, overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. 

He couldn't interfere.

'Their friendship'. Was that what it was? They were definitely more than acquaintances — Corey was staying at Dorian's house, that had to count for something. But friends? He didn't know. He knew that's what he'd like them to be, possibly even more. But he couldn't meddle with what they had. Corey was like a wild animal who's trust had finally been gained. If Dorian did or said anything risky, he'd scare him off. And it would take time and dedication to build that bond again.

It was the same reason which prevented Dorian from being able to confront Corey about what he'd found in his bag. Corey would do what he'd done his whole life; run. He'd leave, he'd return to his Father, he'd get hurt. He'd get hurt and it would all be Dorian's fault.

He couldn't interfere.