Dreamer's Disease

Chapter Eight

Elliot's hands, rolled up into tight fists, shook slightly as he stared down at the pitch, watching the school soccer team practise. He was angry, of course he was. He had every right to be angry. But Blake was trying to act as though he wasn't allowed to be angry, wasn't allowed to feel anything, wasn't allowed to be anything that wasn't normal, that wasn't quite Elliot Stevenson.

A part of him wanted to pretend like perhaps Blake was just being his overprotective, usual self, maybe he had the wrong idea about Elliot wanting to be female and thought that meant he had to be delicate and extremely feminine and polite.

Well, fuck that shit. He didn't have to be anything. Blake couldn't control anything about him, and that was the exact thing that the larger, more rational part of his brain was telling him. Blake wasn't being overprotective or going over the top with Elliot's desired femininity. He was a disgusting, controlling bastard. Nothing would change that, nothing would glamourise that. He was horrible, and Elliot found himself wondering, as he watched the very boy play soccer more terribly than he had ever in his life, what had happened to his best friend, the boy he'd grown so attached to, the boy he'd grown to admire in a way that just wasn't acceptable.

He had lost his best friend, and not just on this day, either. He was certain that he'd lost his best friend the minute he'd told him he wasn't some normal, cisgender, straight, churchgoing goody-two-shoes, like Blake had believed for years. Maybe he'd scared Blake away? At any rate, the guy was a dickhead.

So, he was angry. He had to be angry, otherwise he wouldn't feel anything at all. It was bad enough losing Blake, because he was his lifeline, his rock. But everything at home was getting so bad again, things were disgusting and horrible and terrifying and he didn't think he could handle it. He had Matt, sure, but the problem was that he wasn't Blake. For years, things had been bad at home, and at school, and everywhere else too. But for years, Blake had been the one who had managed to make everything better, had managed to make everything okay again, even for just a few hours before he had to go home and face the hell that was his father and his disciplinary "techniques". He almost shuddered at the thought.

"Jesus, do you think he's alright?!" Matt's shocked voice snapped Elliot out of his reverie, and his eyes shot out towards the far end of the field, to see Blake lying face-down in the mud. If it had been any other day, and under any other circumstances, he would have been out there on that field in his soccer uniform, laughing along with the others but still pulling Blake to his feet as he did so. But today, something kept him glued to the bench, and he forced out a laugh, a painful and unwelcome smile pushing its way onto his face. If he didn't react to that, Matt would definitely know something was wrong.

Well, perhaps he did, anyway? Elliot had sat in silence for most of the time he had been at school; he hadn't had much to say, really. After what had happened the day before, he didn't really want to talk much. He was afraid that he would say something that would trigger the memory of the previous evening, the memories of every other evening when his father decided that there was only one way to discipline his only child. He had done it before, only once, when he had been in elementary school. He had been sent home after the teachers assumed he was too worked up to stay in school and learn anything. His father had only punished him again when he had gotten home and was hidden away "safely" in his room.

He didn't want Matt to know anything was wrong, and so he didn't speak, but silence itself was an obvious symptom of Not Being Okay. In the end, he couldn't really do anything without Matt realising something was wrong. And so, unsure of what he should do or say, he allowed Matt to sit with him in companionable silence. Matt's frown as he read his book, though, said that he knew something was wrong. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed behind his glasses. This guy never frowned, never looked so troubled. Elliot scorned himself in that moment, realising that it was his fault Matt looked so troubled. It was obvious he knew something was wrong, but Elliot was a tricky son of a bitch, and he wouldn't tell him what was wrong. He couldn't - who knew what would happen if anyone knew. They would think he was disgusting for keeping it a secret for so long, they would probably agree with what his father was doing to him, would probably laugh at him and tell him he deserved it. Because, hell, he did deserve it, for being such a piece of shit, for being so useless and hopeless and freaky and horrible.