Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Fourteen - Blake

As Aaron speaks, his face takes on the blank, emotionless look I've come to hate. Not because I find it unattractive, but because I now recognize it for what it is. It's the mask he uses to hide his pain. 

When he finishes, I've lost my appetite, and I'm fighting the urge to reach across the table for his hand. I'm pretty sure it would not be a welcome gesture right now.

He falls silent, and I look up from my cold, forgotten waffles.

"Didn't you tell people what really happened? I mean, those... those fucking idiots." I swipe my hand through my hair and blink back the sting of futile tears. "Why didn't you call them out?"

He looks up and meets my eyes.

"Blake... I was in a coma for a week. I had a concussion, broken ribs, and internal bleeding. I'm lucky I didn't break my back. By the time I woke up and was coherent enough to tell the real story, the Brad 'n' Chad version was gospel truth. Everyone knew I was gay, that I'd tried to give candy to some boy, and that it hadn't gone well for me. It made sense that I'd..."

He takes a breath and looks away.

"It's funny, but hurting myself never crossed my mind. Not until after everyone thought I already had. I know people meant well, but do you have any idea how hard it is when everyone thinks you're in danger of that?"

He takes a sip of coffee and exhales.

"They look at you differently, treat you differently. If I showed a hint of unhappiness or distress, suddenly everyone expected the other shoe to drop. I learned to hide my feelings behind—well, you've seen it, I guess. If I hadn't had my grandma, I probably would have fulfilled that prophesy a long time ago."

I can't resist any longer and reach across the table to touch his hand. To my surprise, he doesn't snatch it from my grasp. He just looks at it where it rests in mine. I run my thumb back and forth over his knuckles a few times.

"I've been there, too," I admit. "After the accident, you know. I felt like I'd lost everything. It took a while to realize I still had something to live for."

He looks up and meets my eyes, and for once, his own are unguarded. The blue expanse of his soul is right there, wide open, and I fall in.

"It took me years," he says. "My dad... I guess he didn't really kick me out. He just never came to the hospital to take me home. He gave my grandma guardianship and washed his hands of me. At school—when I finally went back—I was 'that gay kid who tried to off himself.' Someone to pity or ridicule, but not to be friends with. And every adult except my grandma watched me like hawks, waiting for me to try again. So I learned to hide, and not feel, and not care. I almost succeeded, and it almost killed me."

His eyes are still locked on mine, but now I feel like he's the one who's looking into my soul, and I'm not sure I can bear it if he doesn't like what he sees, but I owe it to him not to look away.

"Leaving for college—culinary school—saved my life, and when I moved back here to take care of my grandma, it felt like my chance to show everyone that I'd found my strength. That's why I named my shop Sweet Revenge," he goes on. "Because it didn't matter, in the end, whether you destroyed my fudge, or destroyed my heart, or whether Chad and his stupid friends destroyed my life. I was still alive, and I still make candy, and I still love it. And it's fucking delicious, and I know it."

A fierce look has come into his eyes, and he withdraws his hand from mine with deliberate slowness.

"So, is that what you wanted to hear? What you wanted to know?" he asks.

My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth for too long, and by the time I free it, he's on his feet. He pulls a twenty from his pocket and tosses it on the table.

"There. You can make up the difference. I'll see you around, Blake."

He leaves, and for a long time I just sit there, staring at my coffee as it goes cold.

~♡~

The following weeks are busy. My shop opens, and between the promotional deals and the excitement over a new store, my inventory starts to move. I barely have time to think about the man who now has my heart on a string.

I still manage it, though: at night, in the morning... in the shower.

I make sure Kate is working the front counter whenever I go over to buy myself a treat, and if I see Aaron on the street outside, I wave and smile, and then go about my business.

On the outside, I do a fair job of acting like I'm not desperate to see him wave and smile in return, and then walk straight into my waiting arms. On the inside, I'm a man slowly starving, forgotten in a lonely cell, and I carve little marks on the walls of my mind to count the passing days.

By day ten, my hope has started to flag, and I wonder if we'll be spending the rest of our lives separated by a narrow street and a gaping silence full of unspoken things.