Summary - A late night conversation leads to Darryl finally being honest with you.
Word Count - 776
Warnings - darryl and reader are teens, angst, comfort, darryl crying, mentions of school pressure and bullying, no use of y/n
A/N - This fic kind of came out of left field, sorry about that. Yes, this is technically a Michael Jackson fic. I just have so much love for this short film.
July, 1986
Music played from a speaker, filling in the long stretches of silence. Clothes were strewn around the hamper, a wrinkled t-shirt hung off the rim of the basket. A stack of textbooks were piled high on the desk beside you, with loose sheets of paper cluttering the surface. His coat was haphazardly thrown on the chair, crumbled in a ball. One thing you could always count on was Darryl’s room to be a mess.
In the beginning, when you first started visiting, he made sure to keep his space tidy. Now with all the familiar years between you, the worry of keeping up appearances slowly dwindled. The thought made you feel fuzzy, knowing he was comfortable with you.
His head fell against your shoulder, as you two laid back on his bed. The sheets were tossed back, as the dull green comforter was bunched up beneath you. Darryl’s curled black hair tickled your cheek, smelling of sweet hairspray.
“You could at least make your bed.” You complained, staring up at the ceiling. His shoulders shook as he chuckled, further leaning into your side. Darryl’s body was warm, it radiated off of him like a heater. You sank deeper into the mattress, that squeaked with the tiniest bit of movement.
“Yes, mother.” He snorted, nudging his elbow into your ribcage. You scoffed, smacking him in the chest. An infectious smile grew on his lips, bright as July’s full moon peeking through the window. His wide eyes met yours, sparkling with amusement.
“Are you excited for the new school year to start?”
Darryl’s eyes dimmed, becoming unfocused as he weighed his answer. He folded his hands as if in prayer, and rested them on his chest. You waited, watching as various thoughts crossed over his face. The disc jockey's voice came through the radio, interrupting the stream of music.
“And that was Sweet Love by Anita Baker, from her new album-
Darryl shrugged. “I guess so.”
“That’s not really much of an answer.” You said, shifting onto your side. You propped yourself up, placing your chin in the palm of your hand. Darryl stared up at you, his dark eyes tracing over your features. He sighed, finally caving.
“I can’t wait for it to be over with, you know.” He softly said, avoiding your gaze now. “The classes are fine, and all. I just want to graduate already, and get out of there.”
You silently listened, feeling the confines of your heart slowly crack at his words. He gnawed on his bottom lip, struggling to keep the words hidden behind his teeth.
“I just-
He swallowed harshly, clearing his throat.
You grabbed his hand, interlocking your fingers with his. The music streaming through the speakers faded into the background, as you gave your full attention to Darryl. He rapidly blinked, fighting back the prickling sensation of tears swelling in the corner of his eyes. A tear slid down his cheek, landing on the collar of his blue sweatshirt. You reached out, the pad of your fingertip brushing against his cheek as a sob racked through his body.
“I want to get out of Brooklyn, as soon as it’s over with.” He confessed, taking a shaky breath. He squeezed your hand, ensuring you were really there.
“Darryl?” You whispered, staring down at him. He refused to meet your eyes, choosing to stare at your interlaced hands.
“Is there something going on at the prep school?” You finally asked, pushing past whatever barrier there was. Your heart clenched, as his big wet eyes glanced up at you. They reminded you of a child when scolded, as if he had done something wrong. As if talking to you like this was wrong.
“Just guys being guys, is all.” He sniffled, wiping at his nose.
You frowned. “That shouldn’t be an excuse for them.”
He nonchalantly shrugged, as if nothing could be done. The skin around his eyes were red, as he harshly rubbed at them. He clenched his jaw, biting back a new fresh set of tears. They clung onto his eyelashes, yet didn’t fall.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
You nodded, laying back down by his side. His hand never left yours, keeping it pressed against his chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your palm. He was quiet now, listening to the radio, if only to find an excuse not to speak. Darryl began to hum along, but it didn’t follow the song currently playing. You snuggled into the crook of his neck, listening to his melodic humming.
Outside the window, Brooklyn’s desolate night sky never looked so black.
