𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏 𝑷𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 - 𝗣𝗧 𝟮𝟬
WC: 13.5
Tags: Enemies to loves, academia, ocs, original characters, Rayna quinn, rowen graves, william lewis, fluff, hurt/comfort
TW: Mentions of death and grief
Credits: dividers by @cursed-carmine and @digilatte
Tagging: @twoandahalfdimes @sharlotscarletfox @apazwtsn @amethystandemma @trinketcollectingcrow @light-of-the-room
Author's note: IM SO HAPPY I GOT THIS OUT ON MY BIRTHDAYYYYY!!! IT'S EGGZERONI DAY YEYEYEYEYEYE APPLAUDSSS here's this as my gift from me to you <3 alert me of any mistakes and enjoy!! (my mum squealed when I showed her so, must be good.)
-You're the only friend I need,-
There is a certain importance to a promise, regardless of how it is made. It has become a way for us to show our devotion to a certain notion, or our solemn agreement to engage in an endeavour. It has become this due to the fact that the greatest way to fuel your faith is through someone else’s certitude.
There are many things that can be promised: your innocence, your presence, your action or your silence. Equally, there are many reasons to make a promise: out of desperation, out of deception, out of fear, or out of hope to gain one’s trust.
Promising something is not just filling someone with hope—it is filling them with unwavering conviction. It assures their faith; words of utter certainty reassuring them that something is, or will at some point become, the case.
When you break your own promise, you break someone else’s trust in you. A gap between the both of you is formed, and any attempt at gaining ethos will seem deceptive. Many don’t typically believe any promises made after that, no matter how sincere, and therefore it is important to know what you are swearing you will do.
Whether you manage a valid excuse for it or not, they will become perpetually suspicious of your reasoning, and you, perpetually rueful. Once you lose one’s trust, it becomes painfully difficult to gain back; harder than it ever was to obtain in the first instance.
That is, of course, unless someone feels so deeply for you, that your error changes nothing for either of you. Love that can be easily exploited, and often is. But are you humane enough to take the second chance, and make it the last you’ll ever need?
Or, better yet, are you trustworthy enough to only ever need one chance?
Rayna smiled as she clicked send in the group chat, a photo of her in the dress she had bought yesterday loading rapidly, preparing to be delivered as she lay back on her bed. She had promised both Francis and Enzo that she would send them a picture of the garment as soon as she got home—they’d heard all about yesterday’s adventures.
Well, the main parts, at least. They hadn’t heard about the secret moments of intimacy she had shared with William. They knew nothing about the hand holding, or the hand kissing, or the assistance she had gotten with buttoning up the dress.
Both boys were online immediately as the photo was sent, both typing out their own responses at a frankly alarming pace. Unsurprisingly, Francis’ reply was the first one to appear underneath the photo.
‘Holy shit, that looks so good on you! You weren’t kidding when you said it looked nice. Will has good taste 👀’
She let out a quiet snort as she read over the response, smirking in amusement as she propped herself up on one elbow, typing out a response.
‘Thanks!! I’m glad you think so. I haven’t worn a dress in ages, I’m starting to think that I should’ve worn one sooner 🙄’
Letting out a hum, she sent the message, adjusting her position as she waited for a reply back—she felt almost restless.
In the time she waited, Enzo had sent his own comment,
‘That looks really nice, Ray. Nes says it looks beautiful.’
Under the message, the boy sent a photo of his girlfriend and him on the bus, seemingly on the way home. Agnes had her thumbs held up, a large grin on her face as she looked into the camera—her eyes seemed to sparkle, even without any strong light source. Enzo was also visible, a small smirk on his face as he glanced over at the girl, his fondness for her obvious.
Rayna smiled at the sight of the photo, quickly typing back,
‘Thanks, both of you!! You guys are adorable :))’
As soon as the message had been delivered, she tossed her phone onto the quilt, falling back onto her pillow with a sigh as she stared up at her ceiling, her arms behind her head.
Rayna was quite sure that she could create anything in the world, her latest idea being an umbrella that served as a shopping bag. Although with every day that passed, she was becoming acutely aware of the fact that there were problems her skills couldn’t solve. Aspects of life that couldn’t be conquered using only a pair of goggles as armour. Issues that weren’t exactly physical.
For some reason, joy seemed to come effortlessly to those around her. People had either gained what it was they had sought, or had seemingly learned to be content without the presence of whatever they yearned for. She, however, had yet to do either of those things. She did not have what she desired so deeply, nor did she understand how to value what she already had.
She wasn’t irritated by the fact that these people supposedly had it all, she was irked by the fact that she didn’t. Perhaps she needed to work a bit harder, perhaps she needed a bit more resilience, but for how long must one retain their durability until it begins to be rewarded?
Many people work incessantly for what they ache for. Whether it be high marks on a test, recognition for something they have achieved, or even the affections of another, it is wrong to assume that everything they have in their lives came out of luck or chance—we cannot assume anything, especially not when our vision is being altered by the viridescent lens of envy.
Sometimes we itch for things not because we want them, but because we are called by the fabric of our being to achieve them. People yearn for glory because they have skill that deserves recognition, others wish for friendship because they have a full heart that is willing to share with someone out there whose heart may be empty.
There are people who long for love, and many will often assume that this is due to loneliness. However, sometimes we are filled with such masses of affection—enough to prevail our grief. Holding so much emotion in your chest can begin to hurt. Some people will spend a long time feeling alienated, yet they may have so much to give. However if they never gather the courage to give some away, or if they never receive what they endow, then such abundances of love can very quickly become large amounts of loathing.
Love is a fruit. Not always because it is sweet, or because it is tender, but because it holds the ability to rot. It can fall when ripe and never be eaten, it can fall when overripe and be perceived as sour and off-putting, or it can fall too early and be thought of as bitter. It may decay in your chest if left too long, leaving behind a corpse of hatred and jealousy in some. But for others, it may decompose without a trace, leaving only a residue of sorrow in its place. It is of the trickiest products to reap, yet sometimes the easiest to sow. At times, you are not even the cultivator, and yet your heart is the seed bed.
Many people harvest fruit in many different ways. Some stand under the tree and wait for a perfectly ripe fruit to fall into their hands, yet find that it never does. Others may walk by, picking up produce that has fallen too early—perhaps they like the sharp taste. One might find themselves passing through, and being presented with a fruit that has only recently fallen. It may look damaged, wounded, or soft, but perhaps they are not put off by what something seems to be—perhaps they only judge the product when they peel away its skin to see what is hidden away in its core. Some don’t enjoy fruit at all, and so they walk past, content to observe everyone else’s preferences.
All fruit will decay within time if it is not looked after. This doesn’t mean that it won’t grow back, only that it may take a while. The love in your chest will always regrow, and it may one day be met with someone who will pick it—this is something that we have no choice in. Our heart strings are tugged at unwillingly, no matter how much the thought ails us. Similarly, however, we too have the power to grab the produce from someone else’s heart, only we may never even realisethat we have taken it in our palms. This is why it is so easy for us to crush—it can take a long, long time for the heart to convalesce after such tragedy.
Rayna wasn’t exactly aware of the fact that this was the cruel truth, and so she harboured her affection. However, she had friends who, in this context, were different from each other, as well as from her—she knew of how Rowen was born content without any romance in his life. How he had to win his own sort of battle against what the world saw as ‘normal’, the outcome being a lack of insecurity, and a lack of shame in the fact that his future may look slightly different to everyone else’s just because of the way in which he loved others. She knew of how William had to fight to be alright with the fact that his sister was gone—in fact, she was sure he was still fighting. She was sure that in the midst of such grief, he had decided to keep all he had to give close to his chest.
The thought sent her deeper into her thoughts. It brought her back to the fact that she did not yet have what she craved.
She remembered Rowen’s words. How he’d told her to make a choice, or not to. Truthfully, she felt guilty for making him say the same things over and over again, and she had no doubts that he was likely sick of doing so. But no matter how regretful she felt, she still couldn’t shake away the fear that shrouded her every decision.
On the other hand, William seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He always knew what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do—he seemed so confident in everything. He had a remark for every situation, a solution for every dilemma, and an idea of how to achieve what he wanted to. She rolled onto her side with a sigh, staring at her phone that had been discarded beside her.
He was so perfect to her. Those dark eyes, those dark curls, yet that warm smile and gentle aura. She hadn’t known that a boy who was once her most loathed rival could become her most cherished friend. She could’ve sworn that academics were at the top of her priorities, but at some point, it seemed that school had moved down to second place.
She glanced towards the wall, her expression softening as she caught sight of the fox that he had drawn all those months ago. It was a fond memory that she was reminded of every single time she looked at that piece of paper. The night he’d escorted her home—the night she was allowed her first glimpse at what was behind that cocky, judgmental exterior; a glimpse at William Lewis for who he truly was, and not who he tried to be.
Truthfully, she had learnt, he wasn’t as confident and boastful as he seemed. Although he was somewhat competitive, he was far gentler under the surface. Painfully tender, and she adored him for it. He seemed to handle her like she were fragile. Not in a way that was mocking, but in a way that made her feel warm inside—a way that made her feel… extremely appreciated.
He seemed to know exactly how to do it—he never seemed lost, he seemed like an expert in every aspect, somehow. It always left her with a silent awe. How did he do it?
In her eyes, there truly wasn’t a moment where he was unsure of what to do.
─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
“Trust me, I’m fine,” William muttered, attempting to sound reassuring as he paced around his empty house, phone in hand.
Rowen snorted as he observed the boy’s frenzied mannerisms—even through a phone screen, the older boy’s apprehension was clear, “No,” he replied, taking in the scene with amusement, “I don’t think I will trust you, actually. Only because you look like you’re on the verge of some sort of attack,” he shrugged, “I’d say that’s fair, wouldn’t you?”
“No, no I would not say that is ‘fair.’” He huffed, making his way towards the kitchen, holding up the phone as he went, “Do I—do I make her food? Or—”
“Oh, come on, you’re being ridiculous,” the younger boy snickered, raising a brow, “She’s been over before, right?”
“Yes, but this is a planned visit. I asked her to come over, that’s different—” he protested, placing his phone on the counter and resting it against the wall, the selfie camera directed towards him. He narrowed his eyes at his friend’s amused expression, “This isn’t funny. Why am I telling you all of this anyway?”
“Nope, you’re right, not funny,” he agreed, running a hand over his face as if to compose himself, “Yeah, continue with your rhetorical questions.”
William ignored the dramatic, exasperated tone, instead pacing around his kitchen, “Do I wear anything different?” he muttered, glancing down at his joggers and half buttoned shirt, “Do I cook something?”
“Er, maybe start by buttoning your shirt up, mate. Otherwise, you look like you’re…” he trailed off, pursing his lips, “Er, never mind.”
“Ah, right—yes, of course,” the boy mumbled sheepishly, his hands coming up to do the final three buttons, his usually deft fingers now slightly clumsier.
“You know,” Rowen began, leaning back on his bed, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he snapped, crossing his arms as he finished buttoning up his shirt. He resumed his pacing, “Rayna doesn’t get nervous, does she? So why would I be nervous?” he paused, glancing at the screen, “She… doesn’t get nervous, correct? She always seems to have some semblance of composure…” he mumbled to himself, almost admiringly.
The brown eyed boy almost scoffed at the thought. Rayna, composed? “Er, no, no she does not,” he lied, not wanting to give him any information, partly because the girl would be utterly infuriated if she ever found out that he had done so.
The blue eyed boy nodded in acknowledgment, humming, “Should I wear a tie?…”
“Oh for god’s sake,” this time he did scoff, “Your crush is coming to your house—it’s not a business meeting.”
“She is not my crush.” William huffed, rubbing the back of his neck, “She’s a mere… trusted acquaintance.”
“Oh, right, yeah. Francis and Enzo consider each other ‘trusted acquaintances’ as well, you know. In fact, I saw them holding hands down in the shopping centre the other day, skipping down the fucking…” He paused for a moment, thinking of what to continue his sentence with, “Asda aisles. Then Enzo found Franny a pair of shorts down in Primarkand helped him do the bloody zip up in the changing rooms.”
The older boy blinked, processing his words before responding slowly, “That… never occurred—”
“Oh, And then Franny told En that he enthrals him. Crazy stuff, I know.”
William let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair, “As I was saying,” he deadpanned, “That is a pathetic, fictional rendition of what happened between me and Rayna, which, if you couldn’t hear me over your incessant mockery, was purely platonic.”
His friend sighed, shaking his head in mock outrage, “Listen,” he began, holding the phone closer to his face, “I’m gonna tell you something that might just shock you.”
Despite himself, the other boy raised a brow, prompting him to continue, “Go on.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Piss off.”
The younger boy snorted, raising a teasing brow, “You’re prepared to wear a suit and tie for Rayna Quinn of all people,” he mocked, his smirk widening as he held in a guffaw, “He wears a half unbuttoned shirt in front of an entire audience of students on a science trip, but he dresses up all for her.”
William’s eyebrows shot up at that, a light pink dusting his cheeks as he frowned, his nose wrinkling slightly, “Who on Earth told you about that?” he sputtered, “You weren’t even there!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he teased, “What matters is that you’re stressing because a girl is coming over to your house—that’s rich.”
“She’s not just a girl,” The older boy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and running a hand through his hair once again as he paced the kitchen once more.
“Oh, trust me, I know; Ray’s pretty awesome,” Rowen huffed, although his words were sincere, “But I didn’t think that she could bring you to your knees—that’s what surprises me.”
“Yes, of course—infinitely amusing, isn’t it?” he grumbled, “But yes, I agree. She is… ‘awesome’, as you put it so eloquently.”
“Oh, apologies for the fact I can’t write an essay on how I’m enthralled by her. I’ll try harder next time, shall I?” he scoffed at that, “When is Ryan getting there, anyway?”
His eyes narrowed at that, and he stared at the screen incredulously, his hands on his hips, “Since when do you call her Ryan?”
Rowen held his free hand up at that, “Right, sorry, that’s your nickname—how could I forget?” he mocked, “Alright, when is Ray getting there?”
His demeanour softened slightly as he shrugged, glancing down at the floor, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
The younger boy hummed, nodding his head as he paused. For a moment, the line went silent as both boys attempted to come up with a way of filling the silence.
Then, the brown eyed boy spoke up, “Can I ask you something?” he inquired, his tone having lost that teasing edge.
The other boy raised a brow, “Er, yes, I suppose,” he murmured, gesturing with his hand for his friend to continue.
“Why do you like Rayna so much?” he asked suddenly, holding the phone further away from his face, “I mean I get she’s objectively pretty,” he added, “But you’re not the type of guy to spout shitty poetry because someone has pretty eyes, as cheesy as it sounds.”
He sighed at that, his shoulders dropping and eyebrows softening just slightly as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt, “I don’t know,” he confessed, “She… makes me happy, I suppose—don’t they tell us to keep those who make us smile?”
The younger boy smiled at that, “Yeah, yeah I guess they do,” he mumbled, “I guess I’m just wondering how it feels,” he explained, “To like someone, I mean.”
A hint of understanding passed through the older boy’s eyes, “I… yes, I suppose that would make sense,” he murmured, “It… well, it feels good at times,” he began, “It feels like an… abnormally large pigeon… has been set loose in your stomach, and is affecting your entire system,” he chuckled slightly at the analogy, leaning against the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles, despite the fact that his eyes never met the camera, “Other times it… makes you feel a bit ill. Don’t ask me why, I’m not particularly familiar with this feeling myself.”
The other boy paused for a moment, taking in the information before he bit the inside of his cheek, “Sounds tricky,” he commented, glancing off to the side before looking back towards the camera with raised eyebrows, “Wait, you’ve never had a crush? Ever?”
“Er… well no, I haven’t,” he confessed, slightly sheepish, “I just haven’t ever really been… focused on anyone but myself before, to be honest.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he joked with a smile, “I dunno how you do it, but Ray—” he stopped abruptly, quickly backtracking as he realised that he was about to reveal something quite personal, “Never mind.”
“…What is it?” William prompted, cocking his head slightly.
“Listen, all you need to know is that whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” Rowen’s smile widened, as if attempting to look more believable.
He blinked, “And… what is it exactly that I’m… doing?”
“Dunno,” the younger boy shrugged, “Being yourself, I guess.”
“And she likes that?”“You have no idea.”
For a moment, they both fell into a comfortable silence, pondering over the words that had been exchanged. It wasn’t often that they conversed like this, and they always found themselves enjoying their conversations more than either of them would ever admit.
“You’re good for each other,” Rowen broke the silence with a small chuckle, “Take it from someone who’s dealt with the incessancy of Rayna Quinn for longer than he can remember,” he mumbled, his voice gaining a slightly reverential edge, “Never seen anyone treat her the way you do. And I’ve… never seen her treat anyone the way she does you.”
Despite himself, the older boy’s features softened, “Rowen…” he shook his head, “You… you are… just as important to me as Rayna is,” he confessed quietly, “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve forgotten that.”
At those words, Rowen paused. He fixed his gaze on the screen with an unreadable expression on his face as he swallowed, as if the confession were one that he only ever really heard of in some frivolous fantasy. As if he were unused to entertaining the notion of his own significance.
When you watch the whole world pass by, you might be what is labelled an observer. When you play a part in someone else’s life, you may feel that it is not a very crucial role. Perhaps you might wonder if you are not fit to play the part, or if you were ever even a decent actor to begin with. It may appear that no matter where you have been, where you are, or where you go, you will always be less significant than you would like to be.
When you wander, you’re only ever really lost if people never come looking for you. Most of the time, we’re not just dawdling, we’re searching. But when you travel so far, you are bound to find things that remind you how far you have left to go. Sometimes, we search for clarification, others, we search for clarity. But no matter where you plan on going, you’ll find that you aren’t ever truly aware of when to end your exploration.
When someone tells you that you’re allowed to rest for once, it’s natural to feel sceptical; you’re so used to walking that you’ve forgotten it was possible to rest your feet. You’re so used to working behind the stage that when the spotlight falls upon you, you haven’t a clue what to do under it. We all see the same things, only with different pairs of eyes. What one may perceive as an opportunity, you may perceive as a fault—an accident.
When someone informs you of your importance in their performance, you suddenly find yourself questioning your self-abhorrence. Of course, you have your own personal show, but when you’re told you’re also valued elsewhere, it’s nice to know. When someone appreciates your lack of conformance, it’s nice to know that in the face of someone different, the show no ignorance.
“Pasta,” he muttered, smiling slightly as he observed his friend, “She likes pesto pasta,” he was unfamiliar with the feeling his friend spoke of, but he wanted to help nevertheless.
William hummed, crossing his arms with a small sigh, “I see,” he murmured, “I’m not the greatest of cooks, but I’m sure I can boil pasta,” he joked.
Rowen huffed in amusement, and for a moment, they fell into silence once more. The younger boy could tell that his friend wanted to say more, and was patiently waiting for him to do so. He ran a hand through his hair, stifling a yawn, although far from apathetic. He was still processing the boy’s earlier words behind those watchful eyes.
“Why are you helping me, anyway?” The older boy asked suddenly, “I assumed you’d mock me, however you’re proving to be at least partially insightful.”
“The whole catching feelings thing sounds tough,” Rowen shrugged, pursing his lips, “Besides, that’s what brothers do.”
“Brothers?” he questioned incredulously, though not harshly, “How can we be brothers? We don’t share blood.”
“No, but we share grief,” the boy countered.
“But we aren’t related.”
“We relate to each other.”
William exhaled, as if already giving up with his argument. He shrugged his shoulders, placing his head in his palm and massaging his temples, “Yes,” he conceded, “I suppose we do, don’t we?”
“So are you gonna take my advice or not?” the boy asked impatiently.
The older of the two rolled his eyes, looking back up towards the screen, “What advice? You’ve given more than one piece.”
“Be yourself and stop overthinking it?” Rowen deadpanned, “Maybe make that pesto whilst you’re at it?”
The blue eyed boy grumbled, “Yes, I will be doing all three of those things, or at least attempting to,” he assured him, “But tell me this, kleiner bruder, will you be taking my words to heart as well?”
The younger boy knew exactly what he was referring to. Despite this, he chose to hide this fact behind a facade of obliviousness, “Which words?”
He huffed, “You know exactly which words. Don’t make me repeat them.”
He almost winced—he did know, and he was still processing the fact he’d even said them, “Uh, yeah, I’ll take them to heart, thanks,” he muttered, scrambling to get away from the boy’s scrutiny, “Are you making the pasta or not?”
“Yes, yes, I’m making the bloody pasta,” he grunted, “I’ll start when she gets here, alright?”
“But then you might burn it,” he teased, beginning to regain his composure, “Anyway, I’ll text Ray for you, see if she’s nearly there.”
William nodded, although his eyes narrowed, “Burn it?” he reiterated, “What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” he queried.
Rowen snorted with a shrug, tapping at his phone as he typed out a message to send to his friend, “You either get distracted easily, or you’re a bad cook.”
He raised an unamused brow at that, “Distracted,” he repeated, as if daring him to elaborate.
“By Ray.”
“That boiling pot of pasta will very promptly be going over your head.”
─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
There’s a soft kind of feeling that accompanies the years of adolescence. Not everyday, but some days. The days when we don’t have to be students. The days when we don’t have to be learning, or reflecting, or pondering—the days when we just get to live. Those are the days that reward us for all of our hard work, whether you believe you’ve been doing your best or not, whether you believe you deserve a reward or not, life will give you one. Just because the fact you’re still standing shows your tenacity. Just because there are as many blessings in the world as there are adversities. Just because life is on your side, and it hates to see you struggle, even though it is the reason for your pain. But if every day came easy, then you would never feel the need to move forward.
For every mistake is a lesson that no school will ever teach you, because there are certain things that only the past can educate us on. Despite this, there was no one who ever said that good things can’t be the result of our errors.
From doing wrong, you understand what is incorrect and are taught what to do instead. From doing right, you only understand that what you are doing is correct—you aren’t even sure if there is an even better way to do it, you only know that the way you are doing it is good.
So, some say make mistakes, which is not a bad piece of advice, but be aware that your actions will have consequences.
As Rayna lay on her back, she glanced at her phone as she felt it gently vibrate, alerting her of a notification. She stared at it for a few more moments, before sighing and rolling onto her side, picking up her phone and turning it over.
The dim light illuminated her features, and her brows furrowed as she read over the notification. It was a message from Rowen.
‘He’s making your favourite!!’
Who was making what? Her favourite what? She raised a brow, her vexation rising as she quickly tapped away at her phone, eager for a response.
‘Is this a threat?’
There was an obvious undertone of joviality to her words, though her point still stood; she was highly confused by his cryptic text.
Thankfully, the boy didn’t take long to respond.
‘Lol is his cooking that bad??’
She really wished that her thoughts could be more coherent in that moment, however, truthfully, all she could think was: ‘What the fuck?”
He’d established one thing; this mystery person was cooking her favourite food. However, there was still one pressing question nagging her.
‘Who’s he? Is Jesus cooking me fish or something? Be more specific.”
She knew her sarcasm was poor, but it was the only mildly amusing reply she could come up with. It were as if she were attempting to cover up how baffled she actually was by using the strange sense of humour she was able to conjure that never failed to make him laugh.
But as she read his response, her expression dropped, as did her confusion.
‘William?? ;-;’
Shit.
It was then that yesterday flashed through her head, and the promise she had made whispered its presence and importance into her ear. It didn’t even occur to her that Rowen was somehow aware of the fact that she was supposed to be at William’s house—she didn’t even have time to overthink this mistake. This wasn’t the kind of error that caused her to mull over her decisions for the next few weeks, this was an error that needed fixing now. An error that she was likely face the consequences of just as quickly.
She scrambled to her feet, her fingers frantically tapping at the screen as she sent a text back.
‘HOLY SHIT I FORGOT HELP ME PLEASE’
‘lmao that might be your fuckup of the year you dolt💀’
She groaned, running a hand over her face as she threw her phone onto the table, quickly opening her closet door and rummaging through her options.
Fuck-up indeed.
She needed something nice. Not too nice that it seemed like she was trying too hard, but not too chilled that it seemed like she didn’t care at all. Internally, she was aware of the fact that her clothes were probably the last thing that William was focused on, but she was panicking. Pathetically.
As she continued her frenzied search, she could barely focus. All she could think about was the months of trust she’d built up with he boy. How in what felt like the blink of an eye, they’d gone from enemies to… whatever this was called. This weird stage between friendship and something deeper. This stage where it felt like everyone around her knew what was going on except for them. This stage where she couldn’t tell if he was apathetic towards her or not.
But as much as she hated all of those factors, she hated the idea of losing it all even more. Because losing those cons would also mean losing his trust, losing his friendship, losing him. As much as she hated herself for it, the idea of carelessly handling his fragility and his trust shattered her. The idea that in that moment, her forgetfulness could be what put a crack in that receptacle which held his trust in it. The idea that she’d have to watch it all slowly seep out with no clue how to save it from pooling at her feet. The idea that she’d have to watch such abundances of memories be tossed away all because she handled a situation that was clearly so, so fragile as if it were a dinner plan that could just be cancelled. Because this wasn’t just something you forgot about—what kind of fool forgets about such an intimate promise?
As she buttoned up the shirt she’d chosen, the thoughts in her head refused to leave her alone. They were relentless. How on Earth could she have forgotten about this?
As she sped down the stairs, the faint sound of the kitchen tap running filled her ears. Although she paid no mind to it, she called out, almost instinctively, “I’m going out!”
“Wait a second, Rayna!” she heard her mother’s disembodied voice exclaim in response, the sound of the tap squeaking shut punctuating her words.
Her daughter groaned quietly, throwing her head up impatiently as she heard her mother’s footsteps, a clear indicator that she was exiting the kitchen. A few moments later, she emerged, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah? What is it?” she questioned, her voice coming out slightly sharper than she originally intended; she was already annoyed with herself, she didn’t need anything else getting in the way of her and her promise that she was now determined to fulfil.
Sarika ignored her tone, taking a step closer to the girl, “I just wanted to… talk for a moment,” she confessed, her tone sincere.
Rayna raised a brow, “About…?” she prompted.
She sighed, “Listen,” she began, “On the night you went to the bar? I.. I was worried. Really, really worried. I know what I said was…“ she trailed off, “Wrong.”
Despite herself, Rayna felt her expression soften slightly, her shoulders relaxing just barely as she shook her head, “No, it’s alright—”
“Having said that,” she cut her off, taking a deep breath, “I wanted to ask if you’d like to… throw a Christmas party this weekend?”
Her brows furrowed at that, “A Christmas party?” she reiterated. It wasn’t the notion of the party that baffled her, but rather the fact that her mother was even asking, “But we throw one every year. Why are you asking me?”
“Yes, I know,” she assured her, “But this one will be different.”
“…Different?”
Sarika nodded, sighing as if the words pained her to say, “I’ll…” she paused, as if mustering all of her courage, “I’ll let you invite your friends,” she muttered, “Just for this year.”
Rayna should have expected it—her mother’s strange, strange way of apologising. The word ‘sorry’ didn’t seem to sit in her vocabulary. So instead, she’d say it through gestures. Although her daughter would’ve appreciated that one word a lot more that any action, she still smiled slightly.
The only friend who had ever been allowed in her house was Rowen, and it only took four years for Sarika to even allow that. So her daughter knew that she had to be truly remorseful if she was willing to let a whole group of her friends into the house.
“Really? When? Saturday or Sunday?” Rayna could feel her excitement building with each moment, had she finally hit the jackpot when it came to her mother and her strictness?
But her mother’s expression remained strangely solemn, “Saturday, starting at six thirty,” she responded, “Ask around, see if anybody wants to come.”
Ask around? It were as if she were apologising for something that hadn’t even happened yet. Her daughter grinned, yet her eagerness to get out of the house was still nagging her, “Alright—I will,” she promised (which was becoming a bad habit), “Thank you so much.”
Her mother nodded, watching her continue towards the front door, “And by the way, where are you going?”
“Rowen’s!” she called over her shoulder—she didn’t hesitate when telling lies to her mother any more, she’d given the same answer for years now, and always gotten away with it.
She heard the woman hum, satisfied with the girl’s answer. As Rayna opened the door, she couldn’t help but smirk as she shut it behind her and stepped out into the cool afternoon air—it was too easy to fool her mother.
As she put one foot in front of the other, her thoughts immediately took off once more. She kept up her pace, as the idea of being any more late than she already was bothered a lot more than it should’ve.
Her smirk faded slightly as her mind engulfed that momentary spike of excitement she’d just experienced, somehow finding a way to twist it and squeeze the enthusiasm out of it as it always did—why did her mother seem so reluctant, so sombre? Was there something she wasn’t telling her? She doubted it—her mother often told her everything.
Her mind was split between her worries concerning William, and her doubts concerning her mother. Whilst her feet were walking one way, her mind was walking another. Both emotions chewed on her heart strings—on the wires connecting one part to another, and that one to the next.
The mind is often made to withstand pressure that it piles upon itself.
Curiously enough, we aren’t made of wires. Curiously enough, we don’t run on oil, or diesel, or petrol. Curiously enough, our heart is not an engine. Our skin isn’t cold or made of metal, we don’t have screws to attach our ears to our cranium, or tape on our fingers from where we had to stick them back on. There’s no wires underneath our muscle; no multicoloured cable to redirect our current and disconnect our power for when we go into shock. There is no specific purpose engraved or coded into our minds, no specific task we were created to carry out. Our limbs don’t need oiling every once in a while, there are no bolts lining our spine to keep it straight.
So then why, if this is the truth that is fanciful to doubt, why do we still treat ourselves as if our existence is dependent on another’s genius?
It is too often that we are all in need of being reminded that it’s blood, not fuel. There is no iridescent puddle pooling at our feet whenever we find ourselves injured. Under that skin and under that muscle is veins and arteries. Whilst our anatomy is intricate and complex like that of a machine, there is a clear distinction between flesh and metal.
And so why is it then, that we task ourselves with anxiety? Why is it that we reprimand ourselves for our doubt and fear, when that is what sets us apart from machinery? If a machine was tasked to end its existence, it would do so without a second thought because it lacks the ability to even produce a thought at all. Us, however, would think twice—thrice, one thousand times, coming up with different outcomes, new pros and cons. We rock ourselves to sleep whilst a machine just has its batteries replaced—we are not robots, so why do we condition ourselves to be ones?
Why do we fear being afraid, overthink our second thoughts, stress over our anxiety, just to tell ourselves not to? Why are we apathetic towards emotions if our existence is dependent on how we react?
Out of everything we could fear, we choose the ability to feel?
But then again, man will fear anything that jeopardises his existence. How fascinating it is, how man will fear whatever may cause him harm. He will build himself a cage and throw away the key, all because he fears what exists behind those bars. And if man wanted to kill the sun, he would most certainly find a way to do so, still confined by bars, yet still so able to destroy the world all whilst avoiding reprimanding. if man killed the sun, she would fall to his will, the strength of his passion would burn brighter than her flames, and the stars would fall when met with his negligence; the soul of his wit. He is so able and so untouched, that he would watch the flares of God paint the sky in a raging display as the Lord attempted to prevent man’s carelessness from wrecking his world.
But the sky would fall despite his efforts, as not even the omnipotence of God ever stood a chance. Man would stand in his cage and watch those flames dance. He would tear the world apart because of his own fear, and not spare it a second glance. Even when he has decimated the land, he would still go up against the the remains of his idiotic wrongdoings with a rigid stance.
Oh man, oh man, oh fearful man; to keep yourself safe, was decimation of the cosmos your great, great plan?
As she went, she was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts as she felt her phone buzz. Her pace didn’t falter as she pulled the device out of her pocket, although she did raise a brow as she looked at the screen.
Rowen was calling her. She contemplated picking up for a moment, wondering if she truly wanted to subject herself to his teasing. She watched it ring in her hands for a few moments before grumbling to herself and accepting the call.
Who was she kidding? She always did.
“Rayzor! How are you doin’?” the boy beamed at her through the screen, sitting comfortably on his bed.
“What do you want?” she deadpanned, “I’ve got places to be, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah I do, I just thought I’d make sure you hadn’t forgotten how to walk as well,” he grinned.
“Shut up,” she muttered, although her tone was light-hearted.
“Have you been remembering to respire regularly?”
“What do you want me to do next, photosynthesise?”
Rowen snorted, leaning back in his bed, “You okay though?” he questioned, his voice softening ever so slightly, “It’s not your fault you forgot, y’know.”
She didn’t even want to ask how he knew where she was headed, “Not my fault? I was lying in bed for like half an hour thinking about him and still somehow forgot that I was supposed to meet him,” she mumbled, glancing up at the path ahead of her.
His expression turned incredulous at that, “Half an hour?” He reiterated, “How much time do you waste thinking about him?” he questioned, his brows furrowed.
“Okay, that was an exaggeration—not half an hour, maybe like… fifteen minutes,” she corrected herself, as if she were making it sound any better.
“That’s still a lot,” he told her, shifting in his bed, “What do you even think about? Do you like… think about cuddling him or something?”
“No.” She assured him, “Even if I did, you can’t judge me—you search your house to find Ace just so you can cuddlehim every ten minutes.”
“That’s nice, Ray, I’m glad you’re expressing your desires through fantasies,” he deadpanned, “Anyways, Lou Lou is gonna make you pesto pasta, so… be prepared to help put out a fire.”
“Who the hell is Lou Lou?”
“William, duh.”
She blinked, sending a dirty look towards the phone screen, “Where’d you get that nickname from?”
“So you see, I thought: William Lewis, then take away the William and you have Lewis, then Lou, and then just double the Lou.”
Her eyes narrowed in bafflement, huffing before she spoke, “What is that, your McDonald’s or something?” she smiled slightly at the stupidity of the conversation.
He rolled his eyes at that, “That’s more your order, Ray,” he short back, “I prefer my McDonald’s without a side of snark and natural charm that only seems to work on Rayna Quinn,” he quipped.
“Did you call just to bully me?”
“That’s literally the only reason I ever call you.”
She huffed, falling silent for a few moments. Rowen went quiet as well, listening to the sound of her footsteps against the pavement. He glanced out of the window, as if to check how dark it was—it was December, after all. He worried for her, and he’d happily admit it.
“Oh, by the way,” she started, “Guess what?”
The boy perked up at that, pushing thick locks of hair out of his face, “Yeah?”
“Before I left the house, mum was talking to me about the Christmas party we throw every year,” she informed him, stopping in her tracks at the traffic lights. As she clicked the button, she took a step back from the road, as if having formed a habit from past experiences, “She asked me about throwing one.”
“You’re really being held up by everything today, aren’t you?” he muttered, a tinge of empathy weaving its way into his tone, “But that’s… weird—usually she just throws one. What’s different?”
At that question, a smile graced her features, “Well,” she began, “According to her, I can invite anyone I want,” she revealed, beginning to cross the road as the cars stopped for her.
“Wait, what?”
Everyone who knew of Rayna knew of Rayna’s mother. They knew she was strict when it came to house rules, and they knew that she held a terrible amount of authority over who came in, who left, and what went on inside the house. So to hear that she had decided to grace her daughter with a choice in that matter was baffling. Perhaps even a miracle.
But miracles don’t just happen with no reasoning behind them.
“Yeah, I know, that’s what I thought,” her smile widened, “But it seems the universe wants to reward me.”
“When is it?” he questioned.
“Saturday, starts at six thirty,” she informed him.
“Awesome, I’ll wear my best clothes, I promise.”
“I haven’t even invited you yet,” she muttered, pretending to care about the fact that he’d just invited himself to her house.
“No, but you were gonna,” he smiled brightly, almost sarcastically, “Besides, I invite myself.”
“Then show up at six to help set up.”
“Sure, but question; are you gonna kiss under the mistletoe?” he asked, his question partially genuine.
“Am I gonna kiss my mum under the mistletoe?”
“No, idiot, are you gonna kiss Lou Lou under the mistletoe?”
“Will you stop calling him Lou Lou? It’s weird.” she muttered, turning the block onto William’s street, “Second of all, mistletoe is like ten pounds. Third of all, my mum would kill me,” she mumbled.
“But you don’t seem against the idea,” he teased.
“Haha,” Rayna scoffed, although she did smile slightly.
“Still not beating the allegations, Rayzor,” he smirked, just to irritate her, “You’d spend ten pounds on mistletoe, I know you would.”
“No, Rowen, you would,” she corrected him.
“Oh, alright, deepest apologies, maybe I would,” he paused, “But you’d want me to as well, so…” he shrugged.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Have fun at Lou Lou’s, then!”
She grumbled, hanging up the phone and stuffing it into her pocket as she attempted to shake her friend’s incessant teasing from her mind. Instead, she tried to focus on the house she was rapidly approaching.
As she stepped up to the door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking, as if ashamed for turning up so late. However, she pushed her nerves to the side and rapped at the door.
“Am I gonna kiss Lou Lou under the mistletoe,” she muttered to herself, imitating Rowen. Leaning against the wall of the patio as she waited for the door to open, she rolled her eyes, “No I won’t—”
The door opened far quicker than she’d expected it would’ve, and her head shot up in surprise. It only made her feel guiltier for being so forgetful. She let out a soft sigh as she looked up to see exactly who she’d expected to.
Speak of the devil.
“You’re going to kiss… who?” William inquired, cocking his head to the side as he braced his arms on either side of the doorway.
“Er…” She scrambled for a response, “Doctor Strange?”
“Oh for god’s sake, don’t start—just get in.”
She shrugged, watching as he stepped back, motioning for her to cross the threshold, which she did. As he reached over to shut the door behind her, she sighed slightly, the weight of her guilt finally settling upon her.
William wasn’t the greatest when it came to social cues, but even he could pick up on her tense behaviour, “What ails you, Ryan?”
She blinked, “What?”
He exhaled, rolling his eyes with a hint of fondness, “What’s the matter?”
“Oh—right,” she pressed her lips into a line, shoving her hands into her pockets, “Nothing.”
He raised an eyebrow at that, his gaze boring into hers, very clearly unconvinced. Although he simply shook his head, “Thank you for coming,” he mumbled gratefully.
“But I—” she cut herself off and sighed, nodding as if to restrain herself from saying everything she actually wanted to, “Yeah, no problem. I promised I would, didn’t I?”
“Finish your sentence, Rayna,” he said, his tone almost teasingly reprimanding. As if correcting a bad habit, “Please?” His tone would have been scolding if it weren’t for his quiet plea.
“I just mean that… I’m here…” she began, glancing down momentarily, “But am I not a bit late?”
“Well what would be considered early?”
“Like…twenty minutes before you got home from school?”
He paused for a moment, cocking his head to the side, “I didn’t anticipate an actual response,” he smiled to himself slightly, “But I don’t remember telling you the time at which I expect you to be at my doorstep.”
“No, but it kind of depends on whether you were pacing the house stressing or not,” she shrugged, knowing he hadn’t been, yet the mental image was still amusing.
He pursed his lips, that comment making him wonder whether Rowen had told Rayna how anxious he’d actually been, and he found himself silently praying that this wasn’t the case. As soon as the words left her lips, he recognised the fact that she was most certainly stepping into dangerous territory, and ridiculously close to discovering something that he definitely did not want her knowing. And so in typical, typical William fashion, how did he avoid this?By changing the subject, “I’m still curious as to who you were talking about kissing,” he reminded her, referring to her muttered comments that had been made on his doorstep, “Because I’m positive you aren’t deranged enough to be mumbling about kissing a fictional sorcerer,” he teased, pausing before adding, “Or at least I hope not.”
She gripped the inside of her pocket, her hands balling into fists. She couldn’t tell whether he knew the answer to his own question or not. But technically, she hadn’t been mumbling about kissing him, she was just… expressing her reluctance towards the notion. Despite the fact that this was what she was telling herself, she could still feel him stepping into dangerous territory, and stupidly close to discovering something ridiculous; something she certainly didn’t want him knowing. So how did she decide to avoid this?
By changing the subject, of course, “Wait, before I forget—” her eyes lit up as she remembered something she was glad not to have forgotten, “Guess what?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, partially dismayed because of the fact that his question remained unanswered, “Please don’t start conspiracising about the next Doctor Strange movie; I’ve heard enough about that,” he pleaded.
“…What? No—that’s not what I was gonna say—” she assured him, “I was gonna say that my—my mum’s throwing a Christmas party.”
“Ah, dreadful,” he smirked at her, “Enjoy that, hm?”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated with him, “I’m wondering,” she started, “If you want to… come.”
He huffed out a laugh, “Very funny.”
“I’m being serious, Will,” she uttered, her tone sincere, yet disbelieving.
He hummed, staring at her as if daring her to tell him she was joking. However, as she looked back at him, eyes twinkling with sincerity, his smile faded slightly, “Hold on—what?”
“Wen’s coming,” she informed him, as if expecting him to take her up on her offer, “I’ll see if I can get Francis and Enzo to come too.”
“No…” he muttered, not in rejection, but in incredulity, “With all of your family? Your mother, whom I barely know, Francis, Enzo, Rowen, and your relatives?” he questioned, still unable to believe what he was hearing, “You want me in a room amongst those you love?”
“Well… yes. Exactly. A room full of people I love—my family—you’ll fit right in.”
She gave him a small smile as the words left her lips; Rayna had smiled at him thousands of times. Whether it were mocking, reassuring, grateful—he’d seen her dimples. And every time she smiled at him, he always found himself smiling too. He’d never had an issue, but yet this one felt different. This one, he felt his heart thud a bit—he felt it skip.
That earnestness is what got to him. He knew she meant every word. Family. He was part of a family. Not one he was born into, but rather, one he’d found.
“I can’t… invade that intimacy,” he told her, yet also himself, shaking his head and glancing down, “I… don’t like social gatherings anyway—I wouldn’t be missing anything. Neither would you.”
And as he watched her face drop ever so slightly, he hated the small ache in his chest. He hated the way he cursed his own words, “Please,” she mumbled, meeting his gaze, “Please come. I want you there.”
The name William means strong willed warrior, and the name Lewis means renowned warrior. Yet if you put both names together, you are left with a man who doesn’t quite fit either of those terms. A boy who sees a contradiction between himself and his name.
In his eyes, at least, he was the opposite. Since when did a boy become a weapon? He didn’t like the people around him, because he thought he was too good for them. He didn’t like the sun, because he thought it was trying to assert authority that it would never have. He didn’t like God, because he saw the Lord as a threat to his intelligence. There was only one thing he ever really liked, and that was himself.
Barely.
It wasn’t until recently that he began to expand that list ever so slightly. He liked the cosmos because it seemed knowledgeable in a way that you could only ever be if you were ancient. He liked getting back after school whilst his parents weren’t home, because it was the only time that he he felt he wasn’t surrounded by incompetence.
A boy who associated humanity with idiocy; a boy who would avoid necessary conversation whenever possible. Yet, despite it all;
“Alright,” he breathed, “Fine.”
Her eyes widened at that, her pleading expression being replaced with one of excitement, “Wait, really?—”
“Yes, yes, now come on, let’s focus on what you’re actually here for.” he grumbled, starting for the stairs, his tone slightly sharper than intended.
She huffed, her expression still bright as she quickly slipped her shoes off and followed him upstairs; it always seemed so easy to convince him to do anything. However, even with this knowledge, she was still slightly shocked by the fact that he’d even agreed.
As they reached the landing, they walked through the hallway, and Rayna was reminded of the last time she’d been there.
The last time she’d been there, in his house, in his bed, in his lap. So intoxicated and emotional that she had no control over what she said or did. And yet, from what she recalled, he didn’t seem to take advantage of that. He never teased her about it, he acted as if it had never happened, even though she knew he recalled it vividly. And in a way, it was comforting, knowing that her vulnerability was safe with him.
Spotless walls, refined decor, all was as it had been on that night. And as he reached the end of the hall and pushed the door to his room open, her eyes landed on the bed. She was reminded of how warm it’d been, whether due to his body heat or the alcohol settling in her stomach, she wasn’t sure. All she remembered was that, in one of her most desperate moments, he’d treated her tenderly. Even when she’d been reckless, he was kind.
“Welcome back,” he murmured, as if envisioning exactly what she was as he stared at those rumpled sheets. His expression was reverent as his gaze flicked across the room, as if his thoughts were moving to a place she didn’t know of.
“It’s a pleasure to be back.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you.”
She smiled slightly at that response, watching him move towards his wardrobe and slide it open, “Remember,” he began, searching through the hangers, “You haven’t got to keep any of this,” he told her, glancing over his shoulder at her, “You haven’t even got to try any of it on if you don’t want to.”
That consideration made her smile, “No, it’s fine,” she reassured him, “I really appreciate that you’re trusting me with something that means so much to you—especially something this sensitive.”
He said nothing, although a small smile crossed his face—one that she couldn’t see, as his back was turned to her. However, it was there. As he took a hanger off of the rack, he schooled his expression and turned around, showing her the garment.
Draped across the hanger was a long, knitted scarf. It was a mossy green colour, charcoal blue weaved into it. It was clear that it had been worn a lot, as it was slightly matted. Despite this, however, it still managed to maintain a charming look. If it were something she’d found in a shop, she would’ve purchased it without a second thought. However, the story behind it made the item so much more mysterious—so much more meaningful, that it made her wonder if it were something she could afford. It was priceless.
“Do you… want to try it on?” he questioned gently, smiling at her awed expression.
She nodded, “If it’s alright,” she murmured, glancing up at him, searching his eyes thoroughly for any hint of hesitation.
However, as he took the scarf and held it out to her, the doubts dissipated. She quietly took it from him, mumbling words of gratitude. She held it as if it were an artefact. In a way, it was; a relic of his past. A slight, imperceptible shiver ran through her at the sheer meaning this garment held. Worn by someone who was now no longer. Worn by someone who had long since lost ownership of their own life.
As she wrapped it around her neck, it were as if Judith’s being was still attached to the wool. Like her spirit was entangled in the matted fabric. She glanced into the mirror, shifting on her feet slightly as she gripped the end of the scarf.
“What do you think?” she inquired, turning towards him.
William smiled, “She loved that scarf,” he said, his tone becoming reminiscent, “I always thought it looked slightly strange, you know,” he paused, glancing up to look her in the eye, “But it doesn’t look so strange on you.”
She chuckled slightly, the two falling silent as the magnitude of it all settled on their shoulders. Rayna didn’t even know why she was feeling so thoughtful, she didn’t know Judith Lewis. But perhaps because she knew her brother so deeply, it caused her a strange sort of hurt whenever he looked so pained.
But it caused her a strange sense of warmth whenever he looked so peaceful. As he glanced towards the floor, his lips slightly downturned and his brows furrowed ever so slightly, he was of the most fascinating creatures to her. He intrigued her. Whatever emotion he felt, she seemed to adopt. His joy brought her glee, his sorrow brought her sadness.
You are an arrogant boy. Yet kind. Loving.
“I’m going to make us food,” he stated, as if it were what he had been thinking about all that time, “And I’ve been reliably informed that you enjoy pesto pasta.”
William hated pesto. He wasn’t the greatest fan of pasta, either. Yet he wanted to eat with Rayna. So despite his disdain, he’d cook her favourite food and then he’d eat it with her. He’d do so happily. He’d even do it daily.
“What? No, you don’t have to,” despite the fact that Rowen had already informed her of the older boy’s plans, she was still reluctant to allow him to go through with them, “Seriously.”
He rolled his eyes good naturedly, throwing the hanger onto the bed, “Take what you want, if anything,” he said, a small smile on his face, “You can even have some of my clothes if you want,” he joked.
She smiled, grateful, yet she felt guilty that he was going to cook for her, “I can help,” she suggested, watching him walk towards the door.
He shook his head, laughing quietly, “It’s fine, I can do it,” he promised her, “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
As he opened the door to leave, she huffed, watching hm gently close it behind him. The sound of creaking floor boards alerted her that he was indeed making his way down to the kitchen. He’d really left her all alone in his room? Where he spent his worst nights, and where there were perhaps items that he didn’t want anyone seeing?
Did he really trust her so much, to the point where he’d just… left her there?
She pulled the scarf from her neck, laying it on the bed and crossing her arms as she stared at his open wardrobe. She could see his clothes—shirts, jumpers, trousers, all a shade of brown and the occasional green and blue. Perhaps one or two long coats.
And at the very end of the rack were Judith’s clothes—she could tell. They stood out amongst the simplicity of William’s clothes. Hers were patterned and had no trend to them—some were bright, some were duller, yet all of them had some sort of unusual colour. Still, to Rayna, they were fascinating.
She wondered if Judith Lewis had been as curious as her brother. However, from her clothes alone, Rayna could tell that she was quite peculiar. From the words that William had spoken about the girl, she was sure that there was something about her that was undoubtedly special. Perhaps she was wise beyond her years, kind without a reason, or crafty even when there was a lack of resources; perhaps she were all three.
As she stepped towards the wardrobe and began to look through the clothes, she wondered if she and Judith would have gotten along. Perhaps they could have been friends; she got the feeling that anyone who knew the girl was quite blessed. If William spoke highly of her, she must have been great.
Or perhaps he just loved her very deeply.
As she carefully rummaged through his clothes, the faint sound of pans clattering filled her ears. It was a domestic sound, but a comforting one. A simple sound, but a reassuring one.
She took a hanger. On it was a navy blue jumper—it was William’s, and for some reason, had caught her eye. It wasn’t the type of thing she’d typically wear, however, she was curious about it. So, to feed her interest, she took it off the hanger and slipped it over her head—not that he’d mind, anyway. He had told her that she could take a peek at his things, too.
She snorted to herself as she took in her appearance in the mirror. The jumper was slightly too big for her, but it looked nice—cozy. It smelled nice too. She had already got a jacket that belonged to him, but she didn’t mind having another garment to sleep in. Besides, she’d never seen him wear it.
She glanced at the wardrobe’s contents. He had far more jumpers, anyway. There were many different items of clothing, and she was intrigued by a tie that was draped over a hanger. It was red, and had blue stripes. Rayna grimaced slightly, it wasn’t the prettiest garment in the closet. Perhaps it was from a time when he hadn’t yet found his style. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d been in that boat before.
At the bottom of the closet were a pair of brown walking boots. She raised a brow—they looked nice enough, how come William never wore them? Perhaps they were too small, or even too big. Maybe they held some sort of sentimental value—with him, you could never really be sure. To her, however, they looked as if they’d go well with any of his outfits.
As her eyes flicked over the hangers once more, they drifted back and forth—from Judith’s clothes on the right, to William’s clothes on the left. She played with the sleeves of the jumper, her gaze paused on the far left corner of his wardrobe, as she spotted what made her heart skip a beat in recognition.
A black dress shirt, blazer, tie and trousers, all one shade of black. She’d recognise that outfit anywhere. That was what he’d worn on that school trip all those months ago. She remembered that science trip, and how he’d appeared on stage back when they were each other’s biggest haters. Some nights, she’d think of that day. How he’d hurt her, how she’d hurt him. She thought of his words sometimes.
“You’re quite strange, you are aware? Always have been. It’s not likely that I would like anyone, let alone you.”
And every time those words clawed at her mind, what she’d said in retaliation always snapped back:
“You’re a bastard. I knew you were from day one. You really think that I would ever like someone like you? That I would even dream about loving a workaholic boy, obsessed with his strange hypothetical scenarios? So scared to go out into the real world that he just sits in his little bubble all day. Maybe that’s why you have no friends.”
For some reason, however, thinking of what she’d uttered always hurt more than what he’d said. The recollection of how his eyes had narrowed, a flicker of irritation and perhaps contempt in his eyes. She couldn’t stand the thought. She couldn’t remember a time he’d been truly frustrated by her ever since that day. That thought always soothed the memories that ailed her.
But beside the garments that held so many memories, was one that was foreign to her. A suit that looked rather smart. Not the type that you wore to a meeting, this looked more important, more intimate than that. The button up blazer, the white dress shirt, it looked elegant, yet formal. Rayna raised a brow at the sight, gently taking the blazer off of the rack and holding the hanger in front of her.
She wasn’t looking for clothes she wanted anymore, she was pursuing her curiosity. And right now, it was telling her to investigate this suit. Her gaze flicked over it, as if doing so would tell her what she wanted to know. The garment held a sort of sombre air, almost stern.
Taking it off of the hanger, she draped it onto the bed, placing her hands on her hips as she stared at it, scrutinising its appearance. It seemed untouched, but there were no tags attached to it. Perhaps it had been worn once or twice, but no more than that. Perhaps for an event that only ever happens once.
But her mind only got that far before her eyes interrupted it, focusing on the front pocket. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing things, however there was a miniscule speck of white peeking out of the pocket, almost like a piece of paper. Instinctively, she reached forwards to tug at it, ignoring the guilty pang that hit her heart as she did so, feeling that she was crossing a boundary.
The paper was folded deftly, and she hesitated a moment before unfolding it, nervous about what she may find. Perhaps it would be something she didn’t want to see, or, worse, something he didn’t want her to see. The thought of hurting William killed her, and yet her fingers opened the paper as if daring her to stop herself.
But her heart dropped as her eyes took in what was written on the page. She almost didn’t recognise his handwriting, which was typically hard to read and carelessly written. This was written with care and precision, hardly any words out of place. He’d tried his hardest to make this readable, and that’s what made it hurt even more.
In her eyes, there was always a glimmer,
Out of ever star in the cosmos, it was her that truly shimmered,
I knew this all too well, but I also knew that no one could make her shine any dimmer,
For everything she did was done with vigour,
Knowing just which jokes to make, whilst still never lacking in rigour,
Calm yet brave,
Looking at the path ahead of her, deciding it was hers to pave,
She was full of joy and full of love,
Now her heart has grown the wings of a dove,
Now she has flown into the sky above,
She shared with us her spirit,
She relieved us of our pain,
Any attempts to interfere with her adventures were all in vain,
Yet her quests have not ended, in fact, they have only just begun,
For every time I glance up to the darkened sky, the evanescing stars are being outdone,
As she is always there, radiating beams of light, and challenging the sun.
Life will always have a peculiar way of making us do what it wants us to. A strange way of leading us through both fields of flowers and fields of war, only to hand us over to the outstretched, skeletal hand of death—an eternal rest after all we’ve endured. Perhaps one is no worse than the other; perhaps the thrill of running through life is just as much of a blessing as the tranquillity of slumbering through death. After all, we’re the ones who get to experience a first breath, a last breath, and every other breath in between. Being born is an enviable adventure, just as much as the mystery of death is. We’re not the ones who have to die, we’re the ones who get to—in order to die, you must first live. Death implies that there was once life, and that is the legacy that time will never erase, because of the simple fact that time cannot eradicate what happened within its own boundaries.
Saying hello is scary when said to someone whom you have never met, and yet, saying goodbye is scary when said to someone whom you’ve known for all eternity. Time will always exist, and for as long as it does, new beginnings and old endings will too. The end will always be punctuated with goodbye, just as the start will always begin with hello. But what hurts more; saying goodbye to what you’ve always known, or leaving it all behind to greet what is new and foreign to you? Is pain standing in front of an audience and speaking about an individual whom you all loved, or is it standing and speaking to that individual, knowing that one day you will never have the chance to? Which hurts less, knowledge or experience? Everything that walks is alive, but not everything that sleeps is dead. Yet despite this, death is the only thing that is permanent; life forces us to die.
Some of us die when we’re sixteen, but we still turn up to school the next day. Some of us only begin to live when we’re thirty, but a lot of us were dead long before we even had our graves dug. But life will still drag our corpses to the end. Sometimes life is the thing that kills you—death just buries and mourns you.
Judith Lewis was dead long before her brother ever stood in front of their extended family, whom were wearing all black. She was dead long before she stood on the windowsill and spread her arms out wide. Long before she hit the street below, before she was declared clinically dead, she had already died and no one mourned her death until many years later, when the hospital informed them of her physical passing. In her joy was a feeling that no words, spoken or written, could describe. Empty is a word that carries emotion, this was an emotion that carried not even emptiness. It carried the weight of itself, and that was all. Not even an emotion—just a state of being.
She would have rather writhed in pain than felt nothing at all.
Rayna clutched the paper in her hand, staring down at the words with an unreadable expression, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly. The sound of water running in the kitchen filled her ears, but she didn’t react. She read over the bittersweet poem again and again. No wonder the suit seemed so important and untouched; it had only been worn once. He didn’t wear it to a wedding.
He wore it to Judith’s funeral.
She thought of William standing and delivering the words in her palm. How his voice would have faltered slightly, how his sharp eyes would have been temporarily softened, blunt because of all they’d been through at such a tender age. How he, the cockiest she knew, would have wavered in front of an audience not out of nerves, but out of sorrow.
She folded the paper up tentatively, slowly hiding it in the front pocket of the blazer just as she’d found it. She was filled with a mix of guilt and solemness. She chided herself for her error, as she’d invaded his privacy. She didn’t want to bring any bad memories back to the front of his mind, so she merely rehung the blazer onto the rack, and shut his wardrobe.
Having forgotten she was even wearing his jumper, she approached the door, glancing back for a moment. It was so difficult to leave as if she’d seen nothing at all, but deep down, she knew it was probably for the best. She stepped into the hallway, gently closing the door behind her and sparing it a final glance, almost reluctant to leave, before making her way downstairs—she desperately needed to see him, to know that he wasn’t burdened by his past as much as she was.
As she quietly made her way down the stairs, she felt strangely… domestic once again. The way her socks felt against the floorboards, the sound of him cooking, it all filled her with a fuzzy warmth in her stomach, despite how morose she was feeling, still reeling from the words on the folded paper.
Padding into the kitchen, William was alerted of her presence. He smiled at the sound, and turned away from the pot of pasta. As he laid eyes on her, in the hoodie that he typically wore around the house, he raised a brow, “I was joking when I said you could take my clothes, you know,” although his smile did widen slightly at the sight, “But I’ll let you have it if you want it,” he desperately wanted her to keep it.
Her shoulders relaxed at the sound of his voice. At the sight of those tousled locks and inquisitive blue eyes, she smiled back at him, “Thanks,” she breathed. She’d certainly be doing that now that she was armed with his consent.
“What’s wrong? You look tired,” he observed, “And slightly sombre—what happened?”
She thought to herself that if she denied his words, he’d only press further, and by doing that, he’d likely get the truth out of her very easily. So she settled for a vague reply, “Just remembered something.”
“Homework…?” he questioned, his voice slightly quiet. The words were intended to make her laugh, although the way in which he delivered them made her eyes soften further. It were as if he hoped that it was nothing too serious, for her sake.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, “Something like that.”
“The food is ready,” he informed her with a reassuring smile, “Does pesto often soothe your negativity?” he questioned, leaning against the countertop.
“Sometimes, yeah,” although it would likely be him who soothed what ailed her. Her shoulders sagged slightly, as if weighed down by her regretfulness—she wished she’d never read that paper, for she was now burdened with guilt that would likely never leave her.
He observed this with a frown, “Keep the jumper,” he repeated, though he hoped it would make her feel slightly better, “You can wipe your tears on the sleeves whilst you’re doing homework,” he joked, “Think of it as an early Christmas present and a… late birthday gift.”
She laughed slightly at that, shoving her hands into the single front pocket of the jumper with a smile, “Thank you,” she repeated.
He hummed, glancing at the pot of pesto pasta beside him, “Have some, Ryan,” he offered, looking back towards her, “I’m not the greatest cook, but I’ve tried it; it doesn’t taste so bad.”
There was something about his concern and kindness mixed with her sorrow and rue that made for a very tender heart thumping in her chest. She didn’t care how bad it tasted, she’d eat the whole plate. Stepping towards the pot, she glanced from it to him.
“It looks nice,” she murmured earnestly, “Like really, really nice.”
He smiled gently, taking a fork from the utensil drawer he’d forgotten to close and handing it to her, “Try it,” he said quietly, “But it might be hot,” he added.
She murmured words of thanks as she took the utensil, taking a forkful of pasta and blowing on it cautiously before placing it into her mouth.
It tasted as good as it looked. Her smiled widened, “Minty,” she uttered through the mouthful of food, “How’d you get so good at cooking?”
He chuckled, shaking his head and glancing at his feet, almost shy, “I just boiled the pasta,” he told her.
“But the pesto tastes really nice,” she swallowed the food.
“It’s store bought.”
“Still tastes great.”
He huffed, “Thank you, mein liebling,”
She placed the fork on the counter, feeling strangely overwhelmed by many sensations. She felt sorrowful due to what she had read, yet warmed by his thoughtfulness and kindness, as well as the pasta. She was truly grateful in a way that she couldn’t express. He’d cooked for her, forgiven her lateness, and trusted her in his room unattended. Even after she’d messed up a hundred times, he was still kind to her.
In a moment of spontaneous affection, she wrapped his arms around him, desperately praying that the gesture would convey her thankfulness.
His eyes widened a fraction, his arms encircling her instinctively as he stumbled back slightly. Now he was sure that something was wrong, but still, he said nothing, though his surprise was evident. Despite this, he held on just as tightly as she held onto him. He was reminded of Rowen’s words, of how the girl in his arms supposedly enjoyed it when he acted as himself.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, thanking him for far more than just the pasta. The word was becoming a sort of chant at this point, but she was just trying to push her guilt down.
“You’re… welcome,” he muttered in response, resting his chin on her head softly, “It’s no issue.”
In that moment, there was no William and there was no Rayna. Just one boy and one girl who weren’t too sure how to express what they were feeling in that moment. Two hearts fluttering wildly, hoping the other couldn’t feel it. For a moment, life allowed them bliss. Life allowed them just a second of peace, and they basked in it.
Even if it were only for a moment.
-sharing beds like little kids.-
