He Will B.O.Y.
✖✖✖
Damir remembered it being his fourth year as an instructor at NYU that he met Kim. The boy was just a freshman then, painfully gifted like the other hundreds of students he had the privilege of teaching.
Here was the truth: he wasn’t anything special. Kim was painfully gifted, and painfully normal, and he wore sweatshirts every day of the week, and he never bothered to put a brush to his hair, and his freckled face was pale and dry, and he liked to smoke after lectures; he didn’t stand out. Never did, never would.
Yet Damir found himself just the littlest bit intrigued. Maybe it began when Kim was ten minutes late to morning lessons on the third day of the fall semester. Or it was most probably when he began to come in almost an hour into lessons on week three, his sunken cheeks swollen like sacs and eyes a terrible blood red. All he’d say was, “Sorry,” and then his scrawny legs would stumble to find himself a place in the tightest crook of the class, unseen and unheard.
“Start coming to class on time,” Damir would tell him in his best stern tone, and Kim would blink, nod, and soon after disobey. Most days he stopped coming at all. His grades dropped to shit levels. His instructors grew increasingly concerned.
Then Kim was in danger of being removed from NYU. See — he never showed the passion the other students did for any of his classes. He slept in Calculus 2, was caught passed out on the desk in Ortho Chemistry, and could barely keep his head up in Damir’s class. He was fantastically pitiful in everything he lacked passion in, and the only thing he could ever accomplish was barely passing, smoking, and stinking of barf.
Second semester he’d been given the nickname Bootleg. Damir doesn’t understand where it came from, nor did he really care; his main concern was keeping Kim afloat. He ignored the puke smell, the lack of passion, the messy hair and passing out and obsidian eyes full of death. He just wanted to see Kim succeed. And this urge only intensified every moment he saw him cast off, always by himself, always seconds from crumbling to the city’s sidewalk and never waking back up.
✖
The affection came later. Fall semester, sophomore year Damir was keeping himself involved in Kim’s studies and his overall wellness. The boundaries were being pushed with every minute he spent with him outside of instructional time, but he felt this was what Kim needed; someone to make sure his sanity wasn’t completely lost.
Kim never seemed to mind. He’d grown numb to changes long before they met, and whatever Damir wanted Kim gave.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
+
“Right.”
Kim couldn’t get any worse than he already was. He’d hit rock bottom long before they met.
Here was the truth: he wasn’t anything special. Kim was painfully gifted, and painfully normal, and he wore sweatshirts every day of the week, and he never bothered to put a brush to his hair, and his freckled face was pale and dry, and he liked to smoke after lectures; he didn’t stand out. Never did, never would.
Yet Damir found himself just the littlest bit intrigued. Maybe it began when Kim was ten minutes late to morning lessons on the third day of the fall semester. Or it was most probably when he began to come in almost an hour into lessons on week three, his sunken cheeks swollen like sacs and eyes a terrible blood red. All he’d say was, “Sorry,” and then his scrawny legs would stumble to find himself a place in the tightest crook of the class, unseen and unheard.
“Start coming to class on time,” Damir would tell him in his best stern tone, and Kim would blink, nod, and soon after disobey. Most days he stopped coming at all. His grades dropped to shit levels. His instructors grew increasingly concerned.
Then Kim was in danger of being removed from NYU. See — he never showed the passion the other students did for any of his classes. He slept in Calculus 2, was caught passed out on the desk in Ortho Chemistry, and could barely keep his head up in Damir’s class. He was fantastically pitiful in everything he lacked passion in, and the only thing he could ever accomplish was barely passing, smoking, and stinking of barf.
Second semester he’d been given the nickname Bootleg. Damir doesn’t understand where it came from, nor did he really care; his main concern was keeping Kim afloat. He ignored the puke smell, the lack of passion, the messy hair and passing out and obsidian eyes full of death. He just wanted to see Kim succeed. And this urge only intensified every moment he saw him cast off, always by himself, always seconds from crumbling to the city’s sidewalk and never waking back up.
✖
The affection came later. Fall semester, sophomore year Damir was keeping himself involved in Kim’s studies and his overall wellness. The boundaries were being pushed with every minute he spent with him outside of instructional time, but he felt this was what Kim needed; someone to make sure his sanity wasn’t completely lost.
Kim never seemed to mind. He’d grown numb to changes long before they met, and whatever Damir wanted Kim gave.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
+
“Right.”
Kim couldn’t get any worse than he already was. He’d hit rock bottom long before they met.
♠ ♠ ♠
4/5