Three Whole Words, Eight Letters Late

They are fourteen years old. Zack Merrick has just crawled into bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He wonders if his parents will ever stop fighting, if they are aware that he can hear them. He can hear it every time his father calls his mother a ‘filthy slut’, and he doesn’t need to ask anyone to know what it means. At fourteen years old, he knows. There is surprisingly little he can do to stop them. After all, they are adults and he is barely a teenager. His one consolation is knowing, whatever happens between his parents, that he will always have his best friend to lean on. Zack wonders whether his father will storm out that night, slamming doors behind him and causing the framed pictures in the front foyer to fall and shatter. A particularly large storm front is blowing through, freezing everything over and making the roads shiny with sleet and ice. It’s too dangerous to drive anywhere. The wind whistles through the loose eaves on the house. His parents are always fighting. Some nights it seems as if they will never stop.

Sometimes Zack wishes his father would just leave, and put all three of them out of their misery. He wishes that he would leave and never come back, so he would never have to lie in his bedroom with a pillow clamped over his ears again to try and pretend that nothing is wrong. Though his hearing is muffled, he hears the phone when it rings. It’s strange, given the lateness of the hour. Zack’s thoughts immediately turn to his grandmother in Anaheim. He closes his eyes, wills himself to fall asleep. A few moments later, Mama is rapping on his bedroom door.

She says, “Zack? Honey? Are you awake?” The hinges squeak as the door swings open. Zack tries to make himself as small as possible; he just knows something horrible has happened because his mother is crying. Even in the darkness, he knows the sound of her voice well enough to be able to tell. “Zack, wake up,” she murmurs, shaking his shoulders to rouse him. Annoyed, he bats her hands away. He isn’t a child anymore. The air is still as he pushes himself into a sitting position, pretending to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks stupidly, jumping at the squeak in his still-unsteady voice. He was deep in the throes of puberty still, a fact not forgotten by his small group of friends. “Mama?” She sits down at the foot of the bed, mattress sinking under the weight of her plump body. Zack’s stomach tightens uncomfortably. He toys with the hem of his threadbare t-shirt anxiously. Why won’t she tell him?

“Alex’s brother was in a car accident,” she says softly. “He didn’t make it...”

Zack feels a terrible wave of sadness wash over him. He had liked Daniel, thought he was a good guy and looked up to him almost as much as Alex did. Despite the hour, his first instinct is to go to Alex’s house to comfort him. There must be something he can do. It doesn’t seem real – this is something that happens to other people. Wet, angry tears stream down his face. He stumbles out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans over his boxer shorts. “No, no,” he mumbles. “This isn’t happening, this can’t... Mom, I need to go over there.” He pulls on a hoodie, ignoring the zipper when he can’t get it to work because his hands are trembling too badly. She is still sitting there, crying and not doing anything. It’s making him angry. Why isn’t she doing anything?

Angrily, he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Maybe he is just like his father after all. He stomps down the stairs, pounding his feet into the floorboards hard. Without any regard for jackets or shoes, he’s bounding through the knee-deep snow, trying to get next door. It has never snowed this hard in the twelve years they’ve lived in this house. He walks right into the house without knocking. The kitchen light is still on, flooding the narrow entryway with light. Zack brushes past Mrs. Gaskarth, taking the stairs two at a time until he is at the top landing. The door to Alex’s room is wide open, although the older boy has all of his lights turned off. Alex is lying on the bed, curled in a ball with his knees tucked tight against his chest, just sobbing and making a peculiar keening noise low in his throat.

Zack sighs and lies down next to his friend, unsure of what to do. “I’m right here,” he says finally, reaching out and rubbing Alex’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort him. The dark-haired boy whimpers softly, rolling over and clinging to him desperately. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Zack murmurs. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” He fights back his own tears for Alex’s sake, holding his best friend close until, sometime much later that night, his sobs finally subside and he falls into a light, fitful sleep. Zack does not sleep at all that night; he lies awake watching the boy sleep and wishes there was something more he could do. It hurts him to see someone he cares about so much in such obvious despair.

The next morning, when Alex wakes up, Zack’s expecting him to want – no, to need – to talk about what has happened. When he doesn’t, everyone is concerned. They assume that he is in shock. For weeks, Alex says nothing about it to anyone, and it is Zack who discovers that Alex hasn’t been talking at all. Why? Because he can’t. Somehow, the trauma of having his brother taken from him so suddenly has robbed him of the ability to speak. He is mute. Zack cries about this alone in his bedroom for many nights, wondering what can be done. It all hurts too much. The memory of Alex lying there, scared and broken and unable to speak, pains him more than words can ever say. He can still remember how excited Alex was the first time they rode in the car with Daniel, the excited stream of chatter he’d kept up until they’d reached their destination. He can still remember the last words Alex ever spoke in his awkward, cracking pubescent voice: “I can’t believe he’s been so fucking selfish. It’s not like it’s that much of a stretch for him to take us, too.”

*

Zack wakes with a start. Sweat is slicked across his back; he’s been having nightmares again. It always happens to him as soon as the weather gets colder. He glances at the clock on his bedside table, thinking that he is late for homeroom until he realizes that it is Saturday, and furthermore, school has just let out for the holidays. The cold air kisses his skin as he drags himself out of bed, ambling downstairs in search of breakfast. Neither of his parents has woken yet, though he hadn’t figured they would. He likes the stillness of morning. It allows him to sort through his thoughts before he starts his day. On this particular morning, he’s looking forward to a jog on the treadmill to make up for his forgetfulness the previous night. After he finishes his cold cereal, he steals away downstairs to the oft-neglected treadmill and sits at the end, lacing his shoes.

This is what the therapists taught him to do when he begins to feel stressed out. The endorphins from the exercise never fail to make him feel better about everything. He starts out walking lazily, enjoying the bounce from one foot to the other as he channel-surfs for something other than infomercials. There is no such thing as Saturday morning cartoons during the holiday season. Finally, he gives up and just runs hard. The belt of the treadmill whizzes under his feet, occasionally stuttering and jerking. His father still hasn’t fixed the goddamn thing, and it’s been off-kilter for months. Zack likes running. It is a good distraction. And if he runs long enough, hard enough, he’s too tired at night to do much more than collapse in a heap on his bed, all thoughts of masturbating long gone. He likes it that way. His body, all hard muscles and sloping planes and corded tendons, is an escape from the chaos in his mind.

It’s not that he is ashamed of anything. His parents know that he is gay; his best friend knows he is gay. What they don’t know, and will definitely never find out about, is the embarrassingly huge crush he has on Alex Gaskarth, otherwise known as his best friend in the entire universe. That would not be fine. He’s been running for maybe twenty minutes when he hears familiar footfalls upstairs, and a moment later the muffled thud as Alex lands at the bottom of the staircase. It’s not unusual for Alex to let himself into the house. Zack’s already fluttering pulse quickens when the boy grins, flopping onto the decrepit couch Zack’s mom leaves downstairs for them. He slows his pace until he is speed-walking, allows himself to slide off the back of the treadmill and stumbles. “Good morning,” he pants, wishing he had at least put on a shirt or something. He always feels a little embarrassed when Alex sees him without one.

Alex looks up at him, raises an eyebrow. He pokes Zack’s abs and makes a face, which Zack assumes to mean something along the lines of, ‘You work out too much.’ Zack sprawls out next to him, still sweating and breathing hard. Alex wrinkles his nose and begins writing what will be the first of many sentences on his notepad that day. Once he’s done, he shows Zack. ‘Your abs are really beginning to creep me out,’ he says.

Zack frowns and replies, “You’re just jealous because there’s no one lusting after your awkward little British body. I’m sexy as hell.” He can barely contain his laughter, though, so the effect is ruined. Alex smacks him on the bicep, giving him a sour look. It’s so adorable when he’s grumpy.

‘If there are so many people lusting after your “hot bod” then why don’t you have a boyfriend yet?’

“Shut up, you little monster,” Zack laughs, elbowing Alex’s skinny frame lightly. “I haven’t found someone who deserves me yet.” He leans in, wondering what it would be like to kiss Alex’s soft lips, but stops himself. That is definitely not a safe train of thought to be having. Instead, he pulls back, gives Alex a little shove, and takes the rest of the space on the couch for himself. Alex glares at him, scrawling something quickly below his previous note.

He smirks as Zack reads it. ‘And I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re slowly turning into the Hulk? Maybe boys would like you better if you’d stop abusing the most important man in your life.’ He then adds, ‘You’re so egotistical.’ He underlines the last word, looking extremely satisfied with himself. Zack huffs, reaching over Alex for the television remote. It’s merely coincidence that in doing so, his arm brushes Alex’s, sending tingles creeping across his skin. Coincidence that he can smell Alex in this close proximity, taking in the familiar scent of Old Spice and... Something else, something that Alex does not smell like every day and that he cannot place. This is something new; it’s something that makes his muscles clench uncomfortably. He would like nothing more than to find an excuse for his lips to graze Alex’s skin so he can take in more of that exquisite scent. However, it’s not likely to happen.

“I am not egotistical,” he says sulkily, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re one to talk... Or not, as the case may be. It’s easy for you to sound good; you get to think about everything you want to say before you write it down. Some of us could only wish to be so lucky.” Alex ignores this last comment, choosing instead to put his feet in Zack’s lap and lie across the couch looking smug. He’s doodling on his notepad, apparently bored already. The scritch-scratch of his pen across the page is irritating. Zack flicks his kneecap out of annoyance. The boy recoils, looking quite pissed, but still says nothing. He never does. It’s been three years. They watch the morning news in silence; Zack absently rubs the mute boy’s feet, kneading the bare skin with his thumbs. Alex sighs complacently, placing his notepad and pen on the coffee table. Within minutes, Alex has dozed off, leaving Zack to one of his favourite pastimes: watching Alex sleep.

It’s irresistible, really. Alex’s dark bangs flop in front of his eyes, making him look totally innocent. Coupled with Zack’s already overwhelming desire to hold and protect him, it’s like kryptonite. He wants to reach out and stroke the boy’s cheek, to feel the soft skin under his fingertips. A sliver of pale skin is plainly visible where Alex’s shirt fails to meet with his jeans; Zack can just see where his sharp hipbone is exposed, making his mouth feel totally dry. Fuck, why does Alex have to be so pretty? He is all soft skin and dark hair and pouty lips, and it drives Zack crazy. The knowledge that he doesn’t reciprocate, that he is totally off-limits, makes moments like these even more precious. Zack sits there, openly staring at his best friend’s sleeping form for as long as he can bear it. He is a very patient person.

*

They are sixteen years old. It is raining; they are in Alex’s bedroom. Zack is perched on the windowsill, saying nothing. He’s been staring out at the street for a while now. Alex is lying on his bed, worried. This has been going on for a few weeks now. It’s nothing he can pinpoint exactly, just that Zack hasn’t been acting quite himself and it concerns him. Sighing quietly to himself, he grabs one of his many notepads and begins to write. He isn’t sure exactly what he wants to say, yet, but he needs to know what is going on with Zack. Seeing the blonde upset really bothers him. They are best friends. They’re supposed to talk about the things that are going on in their lives. What if it’s something really horrible? It’s especially alarming because Zack never cries, and he looks like he might be about to.

He writes, ‘I know that something is going on with you, and I’m really worried about you. I don’t even care what it is, Zack. I just need to know... You’re like my brother. I don’t like it when you’re upset.’ With shaking hands, he tears the page out and hands it to Zack, pacing the length of the messy room anxiously. Zack looks at him with tear-filled hazel eyes. Quickly, he scribbles, ‘Please don’t cry...’ and shows it to Zack. Now more than ever, he wishes he could speak. He feels so stupid having to write everything down, but anytime he even attempts to voice his thoughts, it feels as if his throat will close up on itself. If he could say something to anyone, though, it would probably be Zack.

Zack is quiet for a long time before he speaks. He begins with, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to be my friend anymore after this.” Alex shakes his head, trying to make Zack realize that nothing is going to end their friendship. They have been friends forever; does he actually think that Alex would leave after so long? Considering they’ve already been through hell together, there isn’t much that could tear them apart. Zack clears his throat softly. “I, um. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately...” He inhales deeply, pressing his fingers to his temples. He sits down on the floor, cross-legged with his head in his hands. Whatever is wrong, it’s obviously bothering him a lot.

Alex writes, ‘It’s going to take a lot more than something stupid to make me want to stop being friends with you. Unless you tell me that you’ve been moonlighting as an axe murdering psychopath or something, you have nothing to worry about. You’re pretty much stuck with me for the rest of your life.’

Breathing shakily, Zack looks him in the eye and says something so softly Alex can’t make it out the first time. “I’m gay,” he repeats. He looks absolutely terrified. Alex feels so, so relieved. This is something he can deal with. In the few seconds before Zack said anything, he had been so afraid of being abandoned again. He throws his arms around his friend’s neck, pressing their bodies together in a tight embrace. Once again he is filled with resentment at the knowledge that he can’t speak. What would he say, if he could? Maybe there are no words for what he’s feeling at the moment; his body is buzzing with anticipation and adrenalin and relief. He hugs Zack so hard he can feel the other boy’s heart racing. “You’re not... freaked out?” Zack asks. Alex shakes his head. He goes so far as to flick Zack’s ear before scrabbling around for something to write on.

‘You idiot!’ he scrawls quickly. ‘I was so worried that it was going to be something horrible!’

Zack sighs. “It feels pretty horrible,” he says softly. He wipes the tears from his eyes, looking terribly self-conscious. Alex reaches out and ruffles his hair affectionately. It’s going to be alright. Zack smiles sadly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he falters... “I wanted to tell you, but I was so scared... After I told my parents, I started freaking out about it and then I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be friends anymore.”

This is breaking Alex’s heart in ways he doesn’t fully understand. All he knows is that he’s got this tugging feeling in his chest, and he wants to hug Zack again... He shakes it off, and they play video games for the rest of the afternoon like always. It’s coincidence that his skin burns every time Zack’s arm brushes his. They’re best friends; it’s inevitable that they’re going to be affectionate with each other. He shouldn’t think anything of it. After all, it’s not like Zack is interested in him in that way. When the pizza guy arrives and Zack gets up to answer the door and pay him, Alex slips into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. Something is wrong with him. He should not be thinking this way about his best friend. This is definitely inappropriate. Maybe it’s a good thing that he can’t speak, because otherwise he might accidentally say something stupid that would make Zack hate him for life. If this is something he’s going to be saddled with, he is just going to have to find a way to cope.

He spends the rest of the evening peeking over at Zack shyly, wondering if Zack is doing the same when he’s not looking. Of course, that is wishful thinking at its finest. Zack has a really cute smile, now that he is taking the time to think about it, and gorgeous eyes too. Alex is glad that they’re only watching movies, or his blush would be totally obvious. He leans into Zack’s side, half because he is sleepy and half because he really, really wants to cuddle. It’s a pleasant surprise when, after a moment, Zack’s arm is draped carefully over his shoulders. “You cold?” Zack whispers, and though he’s not, he nods anyway, knowing that if he pretends to be cold Zack will pull him closer. This is something that Alex very much wants. He knows by the feeling in his chest that this is more than a crush. He feels very stupid for not realizing sooner that he’s in love with his best friend. Although, he’s never really given much thought to his sexual orientation before now. When Zack’s hand comes to rest on his hip, he pretends not to notice.

*

Alex wakes up, slightly disoriented until he remembers that he is in Zack’s basement. His feet are in Zack’s lap; Zack’s left hand is resting on his ankle. This fact alone is enough to make him blush, but then he realizes that his best friend is still not wearing a shirt. He immediately averts his eyes. Not that there is anything to be embarrassed of, exactly... It’s just that looking at Zack’s body tends to have a certain effect on him. Especially after last night, and that dream he’d had where they had been fooling around on this very couch. Alex has a surprisingly dirty mind for someone who has never even had his first kiss. He totally capitalizes on the fact that he is scrawny and defenceless, something which he isn’t likely going to be able to get away with after today, no matter which way his plan unfolds. For a few weeks, he’s been trying with no luck to determine whether Zack only sees him as a friend, or maybe – hopefully – something more. It’s frustrating, because they are normally very affectionate with each other, so it’s next to impossible for him to tell.

Today he is going to try something either incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish. He’s been practicing for about a week now, trying to work up the nerve to do it. Zack leans over and brushes his bangs aside, which is just enough to make Alex’s breath catch in his throat. He mentally counts to five, trying to prolong his embarrassment at least a little while longer. “Wake up, dork,” Zack says. Alex bats pathetically at his arm, not wanting to move. He knows it’s pointless to fight; a few seconds later he finds himself thrown over Zack’s shoulder, and Zack carries him upstairs that way. Secretly, he’s pleased every time Zack does this, largely in part because he gets to check out Zack’s butt. He still pretends to put up a struggle. If he could say something, it would probably be along the lines of whatever teenage girls say when their boyfriends are being stupid and messing around.

When he realizes that his notepad has been forgotten downstairs, a momentary panic grips him. Zack sets him down carefully on the bed. Unfortunately, right after that, he pulls on a t-shirt. Alex frowns; he was enjoying the view. He tugs on the hem of Zack’s shirt and pouts his lips, trying to indicate that he has no way to communicate at the moment. Zack flops down on the bed beside him, grinning stupidly. Mentally, Alex is shouting at him. This is not in the plan. Nowhere in his plan did he account for being in Zack’s bedroom, on Zack’s bed. He had kind of been planning, in all honesty, to take the band-aid approach – say his piece, and then slowly die of embarrassment for weeks afterward.

“Stop pouting,” Zack says. “It’s not like you ever say anything interesting anyway. All you ever do is talk my ear off about stupid things I don’t care about.” Alex scowls, prodding Zack’s side with his index finger grumpily. He knows Zack is kidding, but he’s still annoyed. Zack makes a face. “Why do you smell like a male prostitute?” he asks.

Alex pinches him hard.

“Fuck! What was that for?” Zack yelps. When Alex gives him a smug look and digs his nails in harder, he says, “Okay, fine. You smell like... uh... Why do you smell like Abercrombie and Bitch? It’s weird; you don’t even smell like you. Now stop fucking pinching me before I make you regret it.” This does nothing to deter Alex from his current plan of torturing Zack; quite to the contrary, he’s praying that Zack gets annoyed because he’s just thought of a way to carry out his mission without a notepad in hand. He continues bugging Zack, poking him and pinching him and being generally irritating, until Zack gets annoyed with him and pins him to the bed. Alex’s heart skips a beat. He gazes up into Zack’s hazel eyes and smiles innocently, pouting and blinking his eyes slowly. He has been thinking about this for a week.

So he swallows hard, willing his body to cooperate with him for once. It’s not like the thing he wants to say is that difficult, but it’s still enough to make his heart race and his palms go sweaty. He can’t do it. Already, he can feel his throat tightening, his airway restricting and his breathing coming in ragged little gasps. This is embarrassing. Frustrated, he mentally kicks himself. How hard is it to say three stupid words? Well, four if he can find the courage to say that many, but regardless. It should not be this hard to say them. All the preparation has been for nothing, because he can’t do this. He is never going to be able to tell Zack how he feels, and even if he does, it’s not like Zack feels the same way. Zack deserves to be with someone normal; he deserves someone he can have a real conversation with. Now he feels stupid in his tight clothes and vaguely he wonders if his cologne is really making him smell like a prostitute.

“You’re weird,” Zack mutters, shaking his head. Alex groans, staring at the ceiling and hating himself for being a coward. Zack climbs over him, wandering out of the room. He’s probably hungry again.

Once he’s left the room, Alex rolls onto his side and whispers, “I love you...” This is the most words he’s said since they were fourteen years old. It’s not that difficult. He’s scared, though, of what his voice will sound like after years of neglect. What if it sounds awful? He says it again, this time a little more confidently: “I love you.” Just the thought of saying it when Zack is actually in the room makes him feel sick with nerves. This is a terrible plan; why did he think it was a good idea?