“Shut the fuck up.” I don’t turn around, but there’s that distant sort of fuzz of him. It’s like some bad radio line, tzzhhh—khhhh—tzzhhh, and he smells like burnt plastic. Sharp, toxic. (Fuck him.)
The skiffs on the docks are disturbingly still. There’s a storm-front off the coast, just creeping up the horizon like a fat, gray cat. No one in town but the sailors knows about it yet, but the waves are already livening up. I’m on my stomach, head propped up on my fists, with the spray spitting in my face; it feels nice because it means that there’s something else out there beyond me and myself.
The Argonaut says nothing—that’s what I call him between my friends and I, the Argonaut—and I can hear the mental processor whirring. Nothing comes up, though, so he sits next to me.
“Go away.” I say. He touches my hair, hand catching on the flyaways and they snap. Thanks a lot, but I won’t say anything.
Whirr, whirr, whirr goes his mind. Chink. Clunk.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Gee, thanks. Such a fucking comfort. He’s not looking at me as he speaks, so I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The Argonaut’s pretty in that too-pretty way that rather diminishes him, pearl-gray eyes and a marble smooth face. His lips are colorless and I see the hair on his arms standing up like cactus spines. “I never quite know what to say to you. I’m sorry for it, too, but it’s not all my fault. You’re not exactly the easiest kid to talk to. It felt so—so good?—to be your friend, someone you trusted because you didn’t do it with anyone else.”
Silence, again. It’s my turn this time, but I have nothing to say to him. After awhile, his hand stops, a pause where he’s unsure whether not to continue or not. I give him no encouragement, but he starts again anyway. My mind makes up.
“Yeah. Well. Your timing sucked, a lot.” I say it softer, now. Like it might matter, but it doesn’t. There’s more confidence in his hand, rising and falling quickly but he’s taking care to untangle his fingers now.
“Sorry.” He offers, and it’s only part of what he’s offering. I know this, and I think he does too.
“I know,” And I finally turn my head. Eyes are closed, so he can’t get inside my head, can’t make any connection. Still that fried plastic smell, underneath the sea-salt spray.
There’s a careful sort of stillness to him now. His hand on my hair slows, thoughtful almost. I am almost asleep when he finally speaks, “So what did you tell him, anyway?”
Should I tell him? I think. And then: does it matter? “Not too much. He was more interested in the other things going on. I don’t even think that he really cared much.”
“Oh.” The Argonaut sounds carefully blank. “Okay. That’s good.”
“I guess.” I mutter into the sweatshirt cotton gathered in the crook of my elbow. A moment, two, and I hear the rapid scrape of movement over the seawall stone. He’s right next to me, head propped up on a fist and level with mine.
“Wes, I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“But I really am. Really, really am. Don’t be mad at me—I’m not even sure if I deserve it anymore.” He says; I know that, stupid, I think. His warm breath ghosts along my cheek, raises the hairs on my neck. “What can I do to make it better? I’m sorry I said anything to Carrie at all. I think she didn’t mean any harm by it—yeah, shhh, I know!—but she’s just an idiot.”
“She’s a stupid bitch.” I crack an eye at him, and he’s looking all strained and earnest. Suddenly, I just want to make him laugh so it can all be over.
“I am not your sassy, gay friend.” The Argonaut says, vaguely scandalized. He snatches a lock of my hair trailing over the wall, and tucks it into my hood. Frowns, purses his lips—it’s a pity he’s so gorgeous. I think I might love him better if he weren’t, maybe.
“I don’t know. You dress a little too well sometimes, Joseph. I’m sort of the opinion that a lad shouldn’t dress better than his lady friends.” I’m trying to change the subject, now, and but he’s got the bit between his teeth. This subject is going to be talked out, so help him God.
“Jesus, Sarah. Don’t you even want to know what I said to her?” He smacks the stone next to my face and I startle, glare at him. What? “You should! I mean, you only caught a bit of it, not all. Only the scuttlebutt version.”
“Don’t call me Sarah.”
“Wes.”
“Fine. Tell me.” I hold his gaze, even if his eyes are too gray and lovely. That earnestness again! And when he speaks, his voice is low, sweet, and positively throbbing with emotion.
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