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“Why are they doomed?”
I intake a breath as I say, “He can’t touch her.”
Garrison’s chair goes still.
“Whatever or whoever he touches decays to dust.” He also wears only black, but I don’t mention this either.
Garrison blinks a few times, processing Wither’s superpower. I think he mutters something about being cursed and then he asks, “What about Elixir?”
“He can heal people. He’s an Omega-level, so his powers are even extraordinary among mutants.” I pause. “He’s also mean.”
Garrison begins to smile. “I already hate him if you think he’s mean.” He suddenly brings his phone up to his chest, and he lifts his brows at me like he’s doing something secret.
I take the time to log into my new username, and within the second, I get a new notification.
@garrisonwither: @willowaIIflower looks like it was time for a change for me too *gasp* we’re matching
I look up at him, my mouth ajar. “…is…is this your real account?” He could’ve made a fake one just to tweet me.
Garrison nods, slipping his phone in his jeans pocket before he stands. “Yeah. It’s my primary account. Favorite one.” His voice is so honest that I trust him.
I have a matching Twitter account.
With a guy.
Maggie wouldn’t believe me, even if I told her.
“So…” Garrison towers above me, his hands on the hem of his black shirt. He looks beyond hesitant.
He looks scared.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t freak about the bruises. Lacrosse gets rough and…” he trails off. “I tripped over some guy during last practice.”
I swallow hard and just nod, but I wonder if this was the reason why he didn’t want to take off his shirt. Or why he doesn’t want to dress as Ryu or even Ken Masters for Halloween.
As he peels the fabric off his head, my eyes trace the lines of his lean, toned muscles. In a sharp inhale, his ribs are apparent, along with his tightened abs. Most of the bruises appear faded, but the dark, dark purple welt by his right ribcage seems brand new.
When he tosses his shirt aside, I say, “That looks bad.”
He glances at the welt. “It’s nothing.”
“Garrison—”
“Don’t!” Panic spikes his voice, and he raises his hands like I sprung up from the bed and tried to touch his ribs. I haven’t even shifted.
He shuffles back, breathing heavily. Then he freezes and stares off for a second, attempting to calm down.
I hold up my hands to show him that I’m not coming at him.
He mutters a sorry but stays still.
My stomach twists. I’m just scared for him, of whoever did this to him. I’m not sure it’s just lacrosse. “You said…you don’t like your brothers, right?”
“It’s nothing,” he repeats, but he pauses and adds, “They play rough, but it’s just brother stuff. Football. Wrestling. They don’t mean it.”
“What if your ribs are broken?”
“They aren’t.” I don’t ask if he went to a doctor, and I can tell he wants to drop the subject. Especially as he turns his back to me. To show me the tattoo on his right shoulder blade.
It’s another gothic skull, only its jaw is wide open, screaming. It’s also inside the mouth of a wolf’s head, which looks violent, saliva dripping off its teeth as it roars too.
You can’t hear ink, and something about a silent scream guts me.
Everything about the tattoo is haunting. Everything about Garrison Abbey feels just the same. Like a boy you’d find lying on a tombstone, smoking a cigarette, a bundle of flowers on his chest. It makes no sense, but something deeper, something hidden, wants to crawl out. So I keep staring. I keep looking.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to find. I’m not sure if I’ll ever truly see what he’s expressing, but I don’t leave. Maybe later, I’ll know. The pieces will add up and I’ll see what he wants me to see.
Some things can’t be forced out of people. I wouldn’t want him to force things out of me.
Without even spinning back around, he picks up his shirt and tugs it on. He doesn’t want me to see the welt again. When he plops down on the chair, he shrugs on his hoodie, and then our eyes meet.
“Have you ever been hugged by a guy?” he asks me, so suddenly.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Will you stand up for a second?” He adds, “If you want to.”
I slowly rise, dressed in pants and a white blouse for my Vega costume. Then he stands from the chair, pushing it back into the dresser, away from us. He takes a step closer to me, until his chest is an inch from mine.
He mostly smells like citrus, spearmint and his pine car freshener. I once asked why he keeps his Mustang so clean. He never smokes inside, and the interior is always spotless, like a brand new car.
