Boy Toy

Marshall’s mom was in the Marines for twelve years before some douchebag soldier raped her and she was removed from the military. She’s got the house running like a platoon, everything on time, set schedule, do what I tell you, when I tell you.

Yeah, Marshall’s mom is one of those combat bitches you don’t want to start shit with. So, when his foot catches the window’s metal screening, and falls, pulling the whole fucking window down with him, his mom is in his room, waiting for him.

“Hey Marshall,” she says sternly, her voice like salt on an open wound, “how was your night?”

She notices the tears still streaking down his face as he lays on the green carpet on his back, his fists clenching at his sides and she softens, just a little. She’s not a terrible mom, she loves her kid, she’s just not cut out for parenthood.

“It sucked dick,” he says back, his voice strained.

“Watch your mouth!”

She shouldn’t be in his room, she shouldn’t control him like she does, she’s a fucking terrible mom. But Marshall knows that he’s not even remotely pissed off at his mother, which makes him all the more pissed off at himself. He knows how his mom is and if he’d just stayed
grounded like he should’ve been, he would be ungrounded in a week.

When his honey glazed eyes start to tear up again, he could almost fucking swear that he was born a girl. Guys don’t cry, and when they do it’s because of sports of something equally manly. Guys don’t cry for a week straight because of some other dickhead that took his virginity, took his heart, and took basically everything from him.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Marshall says quietly and flips over onto his stomach, smashing his face against the carpet as a shield.

“Honey… what’s wrong?” she asks, slowly and cautiously.

This is why Marshall loves his mom; because she’s not the pushy let-me-be-your-BFF kind of mom, nor is she the kind that doesn’t give a flying fuck about him. She’s right in the middle, right where a good mother should be.

He wants to spill it all to her, right then with his face smashed against the Febreeze smelling carpet, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He hasn’t told her about Nathan, simply because he hasn’t told her about the whole liking boys thing. He doesn’t really feel the need to come out, see, because he still likes girls, just… not as much. So his mom wouldn’t understand and if he simply says that he got his heartbroken, she’ll be slightly upset in the way that she does, where she tries to brush it off but he can tell it hurts her, because he didn’t tell her about a love in the first place.

For this reason, he simply shrugs in response and sniffs loudly.

“Nothing, Mom, I’ll be alright. Sorry for sneaking out,” he says quietly and sits up, getting his feet under him. He wipes at his eyes hastily and runs a hand over his face, hoping to brush off any trace of hang-over that might be lingering there.

“I know, honey. I can smell the way you’re paying for it over here. Just don’t drink or sneak out again, ‘kay?”

Marshall knows the only reason he’s getting off so easy is because he’s fucking crying, and for the first time in the whole ordeal, he’s happy for the tears. Marshall feels like apologizing again and again and then just telling his mother absolutely everything but he holds his tongue.

As she stands to leave, he’s biting his lower lip to hold in the tears and the words on the tip of his tongue, just threatening to spill out so hard that he feels his teeth pierce the sensitive skin and the blood flow into his mouth.

As the door clicks shut behind her, Marshall’s stomach is churning like a fucking rollercoaster and his top half is back out the window, puking up the blood in his mouth and stomach acid into the bushes there.

-

And then it’s Monday again and Marshall is up, dressed, and totally ready for human contact again, when he realizes that he’s fucking suspended and not going back to the hellhole that is Lincoln High until Wednesday.

So he’s alone and pissed off and he’s just sick of everything. Marshall slips a plaid jacket on over his slim shoulders and lanky chest and just leaves, slamming and stomping the door as he goes though no one’s home to hear him.

He has no fucking clue where he’s going or what he’s doing and he knows that even tears won’t get him out of a severe bitchfit and everlasting grounding, but he’s leaving anyway.

Twenty minutes pass and Marshall’s pale cheeks are now alive with color, the red blush seems permanent on his chilled skin. He wishes he’d brought mittens, or his hat, or something because he’s pretty sure his ears are three minutes away from falling off in the frigid November wind.

When the fancy, pale, eye-attracting lights catch Marshall’s brown eyes, he’s ready for the warmth that coffee shop is sure to provide.

He lets out a deep breath, watching it float up in the air and then disappears in the small building.

The warm air hits his face like a freight train and he isn’t even aware of the little smile that makes its way onto his face as he shoves his cold hands deep into his fleece hoodie pocket.

“Hey cutie, wipe that smirk off your face,” says a deep, smooth, and soothing voice to Marshall’s left and Marshall turns startled, to face the speaker.

His seafoam green eyes seemed to sparkle and his jet black hair stand out against the pale lighting of the cozy coffee shop.

The dark and intricate tattoos also seem to glow against the contrast of his half unbuttoned white button up. As Marshall is blatantly checking him out, the speaker is doing the same, grinning to himself when he looks back up to meet Marshall’s glowing eyes.

“You want a seat? A cup of coffee? Hot chocolate? A date?” he’s asking and Marshall is blushing, which only intensifies the pink color in his frozen face.

“Seat first, then a Coke, and we’ll see about that date,” he almost whispers and wishes his voice could be confident even when he isn’t.

“A Coke it is,” the brilliant and gorgeous boy says, grinning his madly adorable grin again before appointing Marshall a seat in the almost empty café and wandering off behind the counter.