The clock read 11:58 pm.
Moss knew he shouldn’t have been staring at it. His hopes soared a little too close to the sun on Thursday nights, waiting for the clock to strike twelve. He had these nights memorized, anticipating the sounds and that crooked smile. His heart leaped against his rib cage, knocking him back into reality. Moss shook his head and cursed himself for ever thinking he’d ever get what he wanted. That typically put him straight onto a path for disappointment.
Forgetting all about the clock and how it just turned 11:59 pm, Moss fell into his bed and grabbed the book from the night stand. The only man I needed to keep me company tonight, he thought, is Dickens.
The bed was set inside the corner, under a few book shelves. There was another shelve at the foot of the bed and only stacks of books against the wall. His supposedly good shelf broke last week. He said he’d go with Moss to get a new one, but Moss never put a lot of worth into what he said.
His roommate, Ezra took no comfort in sleeping in beds and rarely showed up for curfew. His bed sat neatly made and Moss took over the two desks, setting them together and creating as much clutter as one person could physically produce.
Over the page of his book, Moss spotted the lock above the window. It was a double wide window and moon light spilled onto the wood floor.
There’s a golden latch in the middle of the white wood in the shape of a rose. All the dorm rooms were a little too posh, a little too crafted as if Moss was going to do anything but study, binge watch TV, read books, cry and masturbate in here.
The clock struck twelve and from one of the many unnecessary grandfather clocks in the dorm, the bells chimed and echoed and all the light sleepers groaned. His chest clenched, tensing with every ding. Swallowing, he dug his body deeper into the mattress and he read the same line for the hundredth time.
And like clockwork, a familiar tune knocked against the window. The shadow of a man stretched across the floor. He wasn’t even in the room yet and Moss was nervous. Small sparks wriggled around his heart, but Moss managed to set his book down and find balance on top of his jelly legs.
Moss took a moment to check his appearance.
Hair: Not horrible.
Long sleeve shirt: Only one stain.
Sweat pants: No embarrassing holes.
With an assuring breath, he hurried to the window and froze seeing Beckett Wilde through the glass. Beckett held onto the top of the window, tilting his head to the side. It must be his lop sided smile that weighed him down. His bottle green eyes caught the light and glimmered. Damn him. Damn all Wilde’s for their good genes and perfect teeth.
Averting his eyes, Moss unlocked the latch and opened up the window for him. The gust of autumn air spun through the room, joined by excited leaves. One hit his cheek, leaving a bit of dew but another hand beat Moss to the droplet. Beckett grinned, caressing his almost blue fingers over Moss’ cheek. “Good evening.”
“Your hands are freezing,” Moss scolded, yanking him through the window. Inevitably, Beckett dragged chunks of mud inside with him. Tomorrow morning Moss would be stepping in the mess. He’ll probably grimace then too, cursing Beckett’s mother for having him and the shoe factory that created the vessels for bringing mud into perfectly clean rooms.
Beckett shut the window while he laughed, “I’ll admit it. I’m not perfect. I can’t climb the vines with gloves on. You try.”
“I’d rather not,” Moss mumbled and turned around, seeing the towering teen. He was shrugging off his jacket, snorting that Moss said ‘rather.’ He could see his shoulder blades move under the cotton of his shirt. He had wide shoulders, a muscular build. He kicked off his boots, further spreading the mud.
Beckett yanked off his cap and feathered out his floppy black hair. It never behaved, no matter how many times Moss watched Beckett’s fingers brush back his hair. He had big joints, fingers like a skeleton and his nose was bent from one too many fights last year. Before they met. He was so different than all the other guys at Laurette Academy. This young man was made to climb through windows, created out of things like star light and dark coffee.
Beckett yelled a little childishly, before belly flopping on my bed. Confused a moment, he yanked the Dickson's novel from under his side. "Who's on the agenda tonight? A Christmas Carol? Are we getting into the Christmas mood Mossy Green?"
"No, no, no," Moss said as he hurried to the bed and grabbed his ankle, yanking him down the sheets. Beckett had a good laugh, springing upward. He clutched the edge of the mattress, refusing to give on Moss’ pull. Moss frowned at him, "You can't leave your stuff lying around and you! You're soaking wet!"
As soon as the words left his lips, Moss knew Beckett’s lips would twist. "Please Mr. Kapoor,” he begged, “I'm only a boy-"
"Hey, you need to listen to me," Moss crossed my arms. "That's my window you crawl through. Those are my warm sheets. This is my domain."
"I like it when you're bossy," he purred, sliding his fingers from my elbow up my arm. His touch unfairly warmed Moss, soothing him and turning him into honey. Beckett grabbed hold of Moss’ arms as he rose to his knees. He led Moss around the mattress. His hands glided back down and their hands strung together. "Let's just relax, please? I'll be sweet, if you'll be sweet."
Moss leaned closer, studying the hesitation in his eyes. Where did all that fire go? He asked him, "Did something happen?"
"Kind of," He shrugged, but he came back smiling. "Now ask me if I want to talk about it? Spoiler! The answer is no." He released his hold, taking his cold fingers with him to slide under the covers. He crowded the corner by the wall and presented the open space just big enough for a Moss shaped person. Moss’ heart quickened and the nerves set in again. Beckett probably had no idea what he did to Moss.
With a forced sigh, Moss got into bed and Beckett laid his head on Moss’ chest. He'll be the first to know when Moss’ heart explodes. Beckett slid his hand around Moss’ waist and suddenly Moss felt like one of those human sized pillows. Still, Moss relaxed, his hands drawn to Beckett’s hair like magnets.
"What do you want to talk about then?" Moss posed, fearing the silence. Silence opened the door to his thoughts. Moss twirled the tuffs of Beckett’s dark hair into curls.
"Nothing," He said. He reached for A Christmas Carol and opened it to the dog-eared place. He read on, but Moss had trouble paying attention. He was so wrapped up in the sound of Beckett’s velvet voice, he forgot to focus on the words and soon, he was falling asleep. Whatever happened must have been serious. Beckett liked to talk as much as he liked to rant about the injustice of his life. Silent Beckett raised fear.
Eventually Moss’ hand dropped and his heavy eye lids won the battle against exhaustion. Beckett stopped mid-sentence. Slowly, he set the book aside and shut the light off. Moss snuggled deeper into the bed, laying his cheek onto his head. Moss breathed in Beckett’s earthy scent and his heart bloomed like the moon flowers and by morning would return to a sleeping bud.489Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPv9VXITUhN
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