Waking up for another shitty day or going to sleep to forget about one—laying on a bed means either the beginning or the end, and, at this point, it doesn't feel like it matters much anymore.

A blow dryer hums in the bathroom, and Grey sits on top of the bed sheets, unsure of whether if the day is over or if Hugh has more planned, because, for once, Grey isn't being restrained while left alone.

It's hard to tell what's going on in Hugh's head. One day he could be sitting around doing nothing, having a drink, while Grey is babysat by the handcuff attached to a bedpost because Hugh is too busy knocking out beside him, fingers covered in spicy nacho Dorito dust, eyes not quite watching the TV. The next day, they could be holding hands, and Hugh could be on the prowl walking from one end of the city to the other, alley to alley, footsteps lazy but still too fast for a mutt to keep up with. His grip is always hard, and he often wears an unreadable expression, unwilling to let go for more than a moment, even though Grey is sure that it has nothing to really do with him.

And it's none of Grey's business though, because all he can think about is slowing down, because he's tired and his feet get so sore. They’re always in a new town, passing stores he’s never seen before. Lately he's been wondering, dang, if only they could stop at one for once—there was even a cute candy store today. Usually Hugh doesn't give a damn about anything Grey wants, but maybe the guy caught him looking, because about an hour or two ago, Hugh gave him some candy. It was sweet.

Watermelon flavored, yeah.

It tasted stale, or musty, or maybe it was something else. Grey appreciated the gesture, but they really were bad—even a little nauseating. He hopes he doesn't get sick. Maybe he was given freedom tonight because he was poisoned. That would be pretty bad. Before he dies, though, he needs to brush his teeth. And go to the toilet.

The bathroom door opens, and so do his eyes.

Hugh steps out of the bathroom, towel on head. He likes his showers hot, so a thick trail of moisture follows him as he walks back into the room. Quietly, Grey lifts his head and then his body, sliding his legs off the side of the bed. With a toothbrush in hand, Grey shuffles past Hugh and into the bathroom.

Grey sits down on the toilet, condensation sticking to his cheeks. He’s not allowed to have the door closed, and he still hasn't gotten used to peeing with it open. He peeks out and sees Hugh, leg dangling off the edge of the bed, flipping through channels on the TV while scrolling his phone at the same time. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Grey quickly tucks his head behind the doorframe again.

It’s unfair that a guy like Hugh can look so good—even when he's doing nothing. Something about that makes Grey feel nervous, and he cranes his neck to get a look at his own reflection in the mirror beside him, but the angle doesn't allow him to. He sits there for a time; trying to stop feeling, just listening to the channels flip. His mind wanders until his vision is strange and he starts sinking into the toilet seat, and that’s when he decides that he needs to get up.

He reaches to wipe, but his limbs are slow, almost melting. With heavy legs, he stands and flushes, hand like a mallet, slamming down on the handle, startling even himself. His mind begins to cave in on itself, and he realizes he must be a lot more tired than he thought. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this exhausted.

He turns on the sink and waits for warm water, a fingertip wet in the cold stream.

A summer breeze comes to mind.

Crickets, cicadas, and the smell of frenzied, annual plants. It's hard to tell if the sound of summer is filled with passion or fear. Songs are sung and stems grow, because the chill of winter will slow them down, turning them to dirt before the cold sets in. A strong pair of arms once held him, the time he ran away from home to finally unbecome.

Grey recalls the night he spent with [REDACTED] on the back of his truck, parked by a secluded nature trail on the outskirts of a nowhere town in the middle of Kansas. He remembered being happy—kind of—despite never needing a bath more in his life. Dirt underneath his nails, pit stains on his shirt, and he was sure people could probably smell the body odor trapped in his pubes from just a few feet away. But [REDACTED] didn't care, because he made him that way.

He got angry easily, asked Grey impossible things sometimes, and, honestly, he wasn't that nice, but it was those things that made Grey feel small, finally. It had to mean something, he thought, so Grey decided that he loved him. He leaned into him, listening to the coyotes howling in the distance, but Grey knew he was safe.

It was too hot for either of them to sleep, so [REDACTED] popped open their last bottle of tequila. Grey felt their skin touch, grease on grease.

A glass was placed into his hand. A clear liquid was poured in.

It reeked, and he knew what was going to happen, so he smiled.

[REDACTED] poured himself a glass too, smiling back.

Clink.

Cheers, little girl.

Stubble brushed against his forehead, and Grey's eyelids lowered, chest softening.

Don’t worry, it’s low-alcohol.

You can chug it. That’s right.

Chug it.

Yes, yes. Drink it all.

So good for me. Isn't nice to only have one purpose.

Take Daddy nice and deep.

The glass is gone.

That’s right.

You’re so good.

Good.

Hey, Grey.

Say thank you.

Good girl.

Are you okay?

Grey.

Grey.

Grey.

“Grey.”

Hugh’s face is frozen. No, it’s moving. It’s been moving. His mouth is moving. Hurry up and say something. Wait, no, slow down. Slow down. Fingers prick into his head, or maybe it was his sides, or maybe now he’s floating above air.

Grey’s head hangs, gaze locked on the toothbrush lying against the cold tile. He stares in fear for about an hour, fingers beginning to twitch, but it keeps moving further away. Come back, little toothbrush, don't leave. He needed to brush his teeth yesterday and the day before that.

Time stops, and then Grey falls for a minute, before realizing he’s going to die once he hits the ground, before realizing that he’s fine, actually. Hugh is talking. His mouth isn’t moving. Stop talking, move your mouth!

Please.

What’s going on. What’s going on. Hugh has been talking for weeks, and it's scaring him. With his jaw slack, neck spasming, Grey realizes he can’t even ask for help.

Laying on a bed is the beginning.

Day one. Hugh is probing Grey’s skull with his fingers. It feels good, but Grey can’t smile right now. Hugh’s fingers are bigger than Grey’s, it feels like his entire head fits in the palm of his hand. His chest is filled with hot puke. His head is probably too heavy. Hugh’s arm is going to get sore, and then he’s going to get bored, and then he’s going to drop him, and then he’ll die. He doesn’t want to die like that, so he decides to die on his own.

Day three. Grey opens his eyes without opening his eyes. Hugh looks at him with an expression he has never seen before. Or maybe he has always worn that face. Grey can’t tell, so all he does is stare. Hugh is kind of ugly right now. Maybe it’s the angle. It’s better this way, though, because pretty people are scarier.

Week one ends. Grey wakes up, and his leg won't stop twitching. The noise of lips sucking on his face is too loud. Too prickly, too sharp like stubble. It pops in his eyes. Hugh is here, right? That’s why he feels so warm, chest so heavy. No, no. He can’t let Hugh see him like this. He’s going to find out how disgusting he is. He probably smells. He hasn’t brushed his teeth for a month.

Existence cuts.

Week two, and a new slideshow begins.

First slide: Hugh is hovering above him, face dark and red, eyes half lidded.

Second slide: Grey can see himself with his arms raised. His mouth won’t close. He hopes he isn’t drooling.

Third slide: Black, can’t see, can’t see. Can’t breath. There’s an earthquake in his ears. He can only smell himself, and the darkness feels forever.

Fourth: Hugh smiles. Ow. Light slices his nipples, or maybe they’re just someone’s fingers. Too many parts of him are being touched. Grey isn’t sure if Hugh had just kissed his nose, or if he’s going crazy. Who kisses a nose?

End of month two.

Now, Hugh is taking off Grey’s pants, and Grey doesn't want Hugh to take off his pants. But there goes the underwear too. Grey doesn't want him to look. With the strength of a century-old corpse, Grey pushes Hugh’s hand off of his stomach, then shakes his head, realizing Hugh had already pinned his hand down. Don’t look, it's disgusting. His eardrums rumble.

“Haha, aww. Poor thing.”

He can feel Hugh’s eyes. Please, stop looking. A heat burns through Grey’s body. What was once a haze is now a wet forest fire in his chest.

Why can’t he turn into something small, and then turn even smaller, and smaller, and then disappear. Why does his body have to be so large, so swollen and so seen, but not by his eyes.

Grey hates boys his age. He hates Hugh.

Sitting in the passenger seat that he has yet to grow into, with an oversized pretzel hanging on his ring finger, he looks at the driver, taking him home from school for the first and last time. His eyes trace the stubble along his jaw, and the aching never stopped since. It's a love that nobody will never be able to taint.

Shame leaks from his pores, and Grey closes his eyes. Shouldn’t Hugh know that he’s already married? He can’t be tainted before his wedding night. Please. There's a hiss coming from his own lips.

“Speak louder.”

“Ss…”

“Louder.”

“Ssto…p…”

“Why?”

“S…”

The fifth and final slide: Grey wakes up one last time. “Wh…at?”

“Tell me why you want me to stop.”

“Sss…cared.”

Having been straddling Grey, Hugh sits up, fist clenching the fabric of his own shirt. Half a day passes, and he leans back over, forearms framing Grey’s face, breath heavy. It smells like cool mint and yesterday’s fries. The scent of charcoal conditioner wafts in right after. He’s so warm, but too close. Grey feels sick, but Hugh just keeps looking down at him.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I’m… sca…red.”

“I know.”

“It’s… been really… long.”

“It’s okay. I’m here”

“I want to go home…”

“This is your home.”

If Grey could cry right now, he would. This is not home. Home is where he is. But he doesn’t say that.

Something is pressing against his pubic mound, causing his pubes to jab into his skin.

His heart is expanding, and tears are leaking from it. There’s weight on top of him. Warmth against warmth.

His shirts were always so soft, maybe because he never bought many new ones.

Hugh’s are only soft before he goes to bed.

Huh, are they about to have sex? Grey normally wouldn't mind, but they can’t do that tonight. He hasn’t properly cleaned yet. He tries to push Hugh. He’s going to get dirty. Grey doesn’t want him to get covered in shit.

“Stop…”

“Give me a good reason why.”

“Poo…”

“What?”

“I’m going to…” The world blinks. “I’m…”

“You’re going to poop?”

“Yes… No sex.”

“Because you’re going to poop?”

“Yea…”

“Girls don’t poop, silly.”

“I do.”

“Don’t worry, even if you poop I’ll forgive you.”

Grey’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

A loud, brain-splitting squeak slices the air as Hugh opens his bottle of lube.

When had he pulled down his pants?

Oh, he trimmed his pubes.

Oh, he’s really hard.

Oh, oh god, he’s about to stick it in now.

At the moment, English isn’t Grey’s specialty, so he doesn’t try to say anything anymore, despite the beating in his chest. He’s going to get ripped apart, die, and then get poop on Hugh’s dick. This is the worst night of his life.

As Grey’s mind races with the infinite ways he’ll die—heart attack, guilt, and embarrassment, just to name a few—Hugh slowly pushes himself in. It doesn’t hurt, not yet. But it takes an hour before Grey can feel himself splitting apart. He can feel every stretch, every rip of pain.

The next stage of panic sets in, and an increasingly loud groan from Grey’s mouth begins to drone through the room. He feels a hand placed on his head, sliding past his ear, cupping his cheek, then covering his mouth. He hears soft hushing, the kind of sound you make when you’re calming a child making stupid noises.

Erratic groans, an attempt for his voice to escape, if not his body.

The hand over his mouth presses down harder, and Grey stops making stupid noises. Time stops for a moment before Hugh pulls himself out a mile before pressing back in, deeper. Grey’s asshole is going to tear. He tries to pull Hugh’s hand off of his mouth, because he can’t tell him how much it hurts. He can’t tell him to slow down. He’s going to break into a million pieces, or cleanly in two. Either or.

Between everything, there’s a soft sound.

Shh.

It sits in his ears like a breeze on a window sill.

Grey can’t move. A frame larger and warmer than his holds him tight, numbing his burning flesh, even if only for a moment.

One last rupture of pain. It goes, it goes, like lights popping in his mind, until it finally dulls. Until he feels nothing except for Hugh, inside and out. It's almost like they’re touching for the first time.

“Good…”

“Ghm…”

“Good girl.”

“Mmgffgghhmm…”

Playdough for brains. He must look and sound ridiculous right now, and that’s why Hugh is holding him—hiding him from the world so Grey can’t embarrass him any more than he already has. It feels nice though, and the world sways like a cradle. He’s never been in a cradle, probably, but he’s been held like this before, and it's nice.

Hugh is breathing hard against his ear, heating his skin, making sure Grey knows exactly what’s happening. It makes his heart beat fast. Or maybe it was already beating fast. It’s hard to tell, especially when Hugh’s racing heartbeat mixes in with his own. They're out of sync, for the most part, but their beats find each other every once in a while. Against his pelvis, Grey can feel every texture and bump on Hugh’s skin. Unlike the other times he’s been fucked like this, Hugh feels clean. Too clean.

Oh, god, wait, no, the poop.

“Th… The…”

A grunt. “Shut up.”

“I’m… grfhh… gross.”

Hugh’s hand meets Grey’s mouth for the second time, along with a pause.

“I already said I forgive you.”

Before Grey can react, his body is turned from head to toe. He’s dizzy from being thrown so suddenly. Hugh climbs over his face, his cock hanging in front of Grey’s field of vision.

“If you’re so worried about that then clean me off.”

The magic words. Grey opens his mouth on command, eyes glossing over. Hugh’s cock slides in, and Grey almost gags from the smell of his own intestinal flora.

Hugh forces himself in quicker than Grey can keep up with, driving the scent deeper into his throat, but not quite hard enough to make him choke. He’s being a lot more gentle than usual. Despite that, Grey’s eyes water, and he strains to keep his jaw open. He can’t scratch Hugh with his teeth. That would hurt him. That would be bad.

Hugh places a hand on Grey’s chest and buries himself deeper, sighing as Grey’s gag reflex swallows him. He leans over, resting his chest against his torso. A one-sided sixty-nine, the only barrier being Hugh’s white T-shirt.

Tears roll down the corners of Grey’s eyes, and he tries not to throw up. He can’t coat Hugh in both shit and vomit.

Stop—be good, be good.

This is all that you’re capable of, because every man you’ve ever talked to has been right about you. They know you better than you ever will, so if you be good, then maybe they’ll have a place for you on the surface of their hearts. Grey’s own chest is heavy with those thoughts, and he doesn’t notice his legs being spread apart. He only realizes when he feels a hot breeze against his pubes.

Don’t.

Grey tries to push Hugh off with weak hands. He thought he had already reached the worst of his panic earlier, but he realizes now that this is the worst, worst thing to happen. Anything but this, please.

Frenzied hands push at the weight above him, but he’s stupid and forgot that a girl can never win against a boy. Cock is slammed into his throat, and his failure of a body gives in.

Gagging, coughing, and a spasm of teeth digging into flesh. Hugh flinches.

“Ow, what the fuck—”

Hugh throws himself off—the warmth between them disappearing.

“I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorry I’m sorryyyy.”

Grey’s chest convulses as he wheezes and coughs and chokes on his own saliva, and he realizes he’s crying for the first time since he died.

“Please don’t be mad please please pleaseplease I’m sorry I didn’t mean it sorry I’m sorry.”

There’s no longer anyone touching him. Hugh says nothing, and Grey’s world crashes. The back of his hands frantically rub his tears and face off. Hugh is going to kick him off the bed, he's going to throw him out, just like that time, when the bed was so warm, and then the wood below him felt so cold that he cried. His clothes were thrown at him, because men hate seeing girls cry.

Grey learned that night that he isn’t the type guys keep around. He’s not the kind of girl worth looking at unless he’s on his knees. He’s not the kind of girl you settle down with and love, for better or worse, in sickness and in health.

He's given up on that stupid dream, and he knows better than to try to fool himself. He’s found his place now. It's safer there. He doesn’t want Hugh’s eyes nor his pity. He doesn’t want to feel his hand held by his, he doesn’t want to be pulled into his chest, and he especially doesn’t want him to place a kiss on his head. He really, really, really doesn’t.

But Hugh never cares about what Grey wants.

One moment there’s hushing, then next there’s rocking. Hugh’s arms are wrapped around him, and pressed against his chest is where Grey’s sobbing shoulder beats quickly and strangely.

Hair is brushed away from his wet, open mouth, tucked gently behind his ear.

A hand covers his eyes, and the whole world transforms into his palm.

Grey's body is finally small and finally clean. A stupid girl’s heart spills, and that’s how a man can become a universe.

A thumb caresses his temple, and Grey continues to cry as Hugh holds him for another hundred years.