CHAPTER SIX: an artist's proof

Ty had been psyching himself out all morning. A thousand possible outcomes and a thousand possible reasons.

There was no way to predict the result of what he was about to do, so instead of fretting about it any further, he took a deep breath and crossed the corridor, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. She was rummaging around in her locker, searching for a book or a folder or a reason not to turn around. "Hey." Ty greeted confidently. At least, he hoped he sounded confident.

Velvet jumped, twisting around to face him, her back pressed up against the wall of metal lockers. "Shit, you scared the life out of me." She laughed, holding her hand to her chest, as if trying to shield her heart.

Shield her heart. Good idea, Ty thought. Because this was bound to end in heartache. He was bound to rip her to shreds, chew her up and spit her right out. He was going to break her, ruin her, hurt her. And yet, he was certain that he was already in love with her.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He smiled softly. "I was just...just wondering...what are you doing this Saturday?"

Velvet rose her thick but tamed brows, "I'm not sure." She said simply. "Probably checking up on my friend, making sure he doesn't accidentally walk off a cliff or something." She joked.

"Oh." He deadpanned. "Okay, well, have fun then. I should go—"

"Ty." She stopped him, gripping onto the sleeve of his denim jacket, forcing him to stay rooted to the spot. "What did you want to ask me?"

"Um..." He gulped, "Do you wanna grab a drink sometime? Or lunch, y'know, if you like food. I mean...yeah, you probably like food, everyone likes food, I just meant—"

"Sure." She chuckled.

"Really?" Ty's eyes widened in surprise, barely able to contain his utter disbelief.

"Meet me at the arcade on Saturday. One o'clock." Velvet decided. If she was going to let herself be vulnerable, even for a second, then she needed to ensure that she was in charge. If she let herself be open to the idea of dating someone, then she was going to control the pace. "Oh, and bring a friend. Corey's coming with me."

"Uh...sure. Yes. Great." Ty grinned. "I'll see you then." He spun on his heels and glided off down the corridor, trying to keep the joy off his face and contain his excitement. He wanted to explode in hysteria, right there and then. He didn't even care that they wouldn't be alone. It was progress, it was something, it was a date. Plus, if he brought Dorian, he could give him careful instructions to drag Corey off somewhere and leave him alone with Velvet, at least for a little while.

"Velvet, you've got to be kidding me." Corey complained with a groan. She'd broken the news to him over lunch and he hadn't taken it as well as she had hoped. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because you do." She rolled her eyes. "It will be fun — Dorian'll be there."

"That's your selling point?"

"Oh, please. For me?"

He rolled his eyes. "I never said no."

An ecstatic grin spread across her face, lighting up her features and deepening her dimples. "Thanks, babes. You're the best."

"I thought you didn't like Ty anyway." He reminded her.

"I never said I didn't like him. I need to give myself a chance to fall for him. And he's hot, what've I got to lose?"

"Your dignity." Corey murmured.

Luckily, she didn't hear him, but while her ears needed adjusting, her eyes were working just fine. She studied the food in front of him, barely touched, being prodded and moved around with his fork. "Eat something." She urged gently.

Corey tried not to think about the screwed up post-it note in his bag. The ones stuck onto his walls and tucked under his pillow. The ones he kept pinned to the fridge and right in front of his toothbrush. He'd gone through two stacks of sticky notes this month alone. It was turning into an obsession, a disorder, another fucked up thing in his life that was slowly getting out of hand. And they all said the same thing.

eat

And now, Velvet was saying it too.

"I can't, I'm too nervous. Me and Dorian are doing our presentation after lunch. No way are we prepared." He was doing what he always did. Changing the subject, distracting her, diverting her attention. It worked, but the guilt only sunk further in his stomach, heavier and more painful every time.

When Corey arrived at English after lunch, he was greeted with a smile. "Hey. I hear we're going arcading this weekend." Dorian beamed. "That's a word, right? 'Arcading'?"

"Yes, but you're using it wrong. It's to do with architecture." Corey corrected. "Have you got your memory stick?"

"No. I left at home. We'll have to present next lesson instead."

"What? Dorian, Miss Safar said we're doing ours today. You can't just—"

"Relax, I do this all the time—"

"She's going to deduct points from our final grade for this—"

"Let her. It doesn't mean anything—"

"Yes, it does."

"I'll tell her it was my fault. It was my responsibility to remember the memory stick and I let you down — you won't lose any points then. Yeah?"

"Dorian—"

"This is good. It gives us more time to prepare anyway. My house after school?"

And then Corey felt it. The first hint of his conscious fucking him over in the most agonisingly, gut-wrenching way possibly.

He felt a tugging of his heart. His body feeling lighter, his brain going numb for a split second, his fingers tingling with anticipation. He found himself actually wanting to go to Dorian's house. It wasn't an obligation any more, it wasn't for a project he knew he was going to fail. It wasn't because he had to.

He wanted to.

Because although he was terrified to admit it, he liked Dorian.

And that would surely kill him. It would be painful and torturous and he'd regret it for as long as his infatuation lasted. But for now, he didn't mind the warm throbbing beneath his ribs or his brain urging him to smile. For now, he could bear it.

"Okay." He agreed. "I have a free period last, can we go straight after English?"

"I have sociology but I can miss it." Dorian shrugged. "So, sure."

And suddenly, that charmingly beautiful smile meant so much more than a smile.

When the bell signalled the end of the English lesson, the boys packed up their things, threw a 'cheers' over their shoulder for the teacher, and left.

This time, they couldn't avoid Dorian's Mother. As soon as they entered his cramped house, she emerged from the other room to greet them. Corey took in her appearance with bated breath, his lip caught between his teeth. She had the same dark, mystifying eyes as her son, but her greying hair was wild and frizzy in comparison. Her face was weighted with age and alcoholism. The wrinkles and creases in her olive toned skin were scars of past trauma and the glass of gin gripped between her bony fingers was her way of forgetting it all.

"Who's your friend?" She slurred.

To say Dorian was embarrassed would be an understatement. His face tinted pink and he was growing more conscious by the second. "This is Corey. We're going upstairs."

"Nah, stay and chat. I love getting to know Dorian's friends." She wobbled as she spoke, gripping onto the doorframe for support.

"We have work to do—"

"Do you smoke, Rory?" She interrupted her son. "Come have a fag with me."

"It's Corey." Dorian corrected. "And were going upstairs." He reached for Corey's arm, noticing the flinch he returned. But Dorian never made the same mistake twice; he wouldn't touch his wrists again. He grabbed a handful of Corey's sleeve and tugged him towards the staircase and up into his bedroom. "Sorry about that." He apologised once they were alone and the door was safely locked. "She's not usually like—"

"You don't need to make excuses for her." Corey said quietly, sitting tentatively on the bed rather than at the desk like last time. "I get it."

"You do?"

And just like that, Corey's barriers were straight back up. "Where's the memory stick then?"

They worked in silence for a while, fleshing out their speeches, picking a few more quotes, even if they weren't directly relevant. After disappointing Miss Safar today, both boys wanted to impress her next lesson. Failure wasn't an option. "Corey?"

"Hmm?"

"Why won't you enter that poetry competition?" Dorian asked randomly. They were sat side by side on his single bed, his laptop resting on Corey's lap while Dorian flicked through the play for the hundredth time. Their thighs brushed together and their elbows clashed, but neither moved away. "I know it's none of my business, and I know you don't want to talk about it, but—"

"No artist desires to prove anything." Corey quoted. "Since you're such a fan of Oscar Wilde all of a sudden." He murmured as an afterthought.

Dorian recognised the quote immediately, and a small smile ghosted his expression. "But you have such a talent." He argued.

"And I don't see any point in showing such a thing off." Corey shrugged, brushing a curl of blond hair out of his mossy green eyes.

And then Dorian saw something. Something that changed everything about the boy who hid his entire life in poems and beautiful words.

Where the sleeve of his cotton jumper, frayed with love and age, had slipped to reveal his bare forearm. A ring of bruises blossomed around his wrists, like a bracelet of brutality. Dark, harsh purples and browns against snowy white skin.

"Corey." He whispered, his voice losing its ability. The boy looked up at him curiously. So innocent, so pure, and yet, so fucking corrupted. So hurt, so used, so ruined. "Tell me more about your Dad."

Corey didn't answer, just turned back to the laptop and continued typing. "I have nothing to say about him. Nothing of interest to you."

"Does he hurt you?" Dorian's voice was so gentle, but as sharp as a blade to Corey's perfectly constructed lies. He might as well have ripped apart his fake life with his bare hands. Because with that simple statement, everything came crumbling down.

Corey chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to remain calm and composed. But inside, his whole world was falling apart. "Why would you ask that?"

"Is it true?"

"No."

"Corey—"

"Stop trying to figure me out, Dorian. Okay?"

"Please, Corey, just—"

"My life is none of your business. Just leave it."

"You're right. But while that's true, I'm not going to sit back while you get hurt. I don't care if you're my friend, my enemy or someone I'm completely indifferent to, I can't let that happen."

"Nothing is happening." Corey slammed the laptop shut and slid it off his lap. He pulled his boots back on and grabbed his backpack, leaving a cold void where his warm body once sat beside Dorian. "I should go."

"What? You just got here half an hour ago—"

"I should go." He repeated, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it in agitation. It didn't open and Corey groaned in annoyance. "Fuck! Open the fucking door, will you?"

It was the first time Dorian had seen such emotion swimming in his words. The boy was never happy, never sad, never angry. Always just indifferent, simple, bored and monotone. It wasn't to say that all those emotions didn't exist just beneath the surface, but Corey was better at hiding them than anyone else Dorian knew. He smothered them, concealed them in a layer of false disinterest. It was all an act. But it was fading, and Dorian was finally seeing a glimpse of the real Corey. The emotions he hid beneath blank expressions and cold stares.

Dorian twisted the lock out of place and pushed the door open for Corey, "I'll see you tomorrow at the arcade—"

"Yeah." Corey snapped, marching down the stairs and out the front door before Dorian even had the chance to follow. The sound of the door slamming shut jolted him out of his trance.

Corey was in trouble and he needed help. Real help. But he would never accept it, especially not from Dorian. It was painful to watch; someone so desperately lost, refusing to ever be found.

"Fuck." He hissed under his breath. "I need a fag."