In the Closet (boy x boy)

31. Crash from Canada

Sunday, April 30th

I didn't know I hated buses until now. As my train of thought melts into the ambient chatter, I hate buses. As my body rocks with every smooth curve, I hate buses. As my heart lurches with motion sickness, I hate buses. The retch that has me double over is unexpected. I press my mouth against my forearm to muffle the noise but it's too late.

"Didn't know people could get that green," the guy next to me says.

Dizzy and exhausted by the sickness, I can't really think properly. So, out of habit, I mumble. "What?"

I bite my tongue. Interacting with buff guys who could destroy me in a snap of their fingers is a bad idea. I would know. He doesn't respond, rummaging through his backpack. I assume he didn't hear me and resume watching the road in hopes I don't empty my stomach soon. Something crackles next to me. The guy nudges me just like I nudged him when he was sleeping before we left. Warily, I turn towards him. To me surprise, he holds out a pack of saltine crackers. I blink at him. He smiles.

"It helps with motion sickness. I have medication too."

It takes me a while to understand what he's saying. Then it clicks and it doesn't make sense.

"What?" I reiterate without much creativity.

This time it makes him laugh.

"Salt," is the only explanation he gives.

Despite me, my brain goes from salt, to fish, to the smell of said fish. And it makes me so sick.

"Ergh," is all I say to him before running to the bathroom, kneeling and hurling into the toilet.

I rinse my mouth, wipe it and flush. I like the relief, I hate the vile taste on my tongue. My reflection in the mirror is hard to avoid. But I don't want to know how crappy I look, bruised and a seasick green. In a couple minutes, I'm out of the bathroom. People watch me, some only glance at me, occupied by whatever they were doing on their phones. I pretend I can't feel Tavish's heavy gaze on me. Sheepish, I return to my place. The guy looks at me and why is he looking at me anyway?

"Feel better now?" he asks like it mattered.

"Kind of."

I settle down comfortably, hoping the sickness doesn't return too quickly.

"Crackers?" he offers again. I gaze at him in disbelief. Who is he and why does he care?

"I'm good, thanks." To show my general disinterest in interacting with others (him qualifying as others), I pluck my headphones out of my bag. Just as I'm about to wear them on my ears and officially isolate myself from the whole world, he speaks again.

"Then at least take medication." He hands me an orange pill and his water bottle.

With a sigh, I accept to shut him up, not knowing it would just prompt him to yap even more.

"I'm Crash," he tells me. I swallow the pill with a gulp of water before replying. He waits. 

"Billy." He puts away the bottle once I return it. I'm surprised he doesn't ask about my numerous bruises.

I intend to go back to my occupations, which are listening to music and doing my best effort no to throw up. But he has other plans. He sticks his hand out for a handshake. Although I don't like hands anymore, I have to admit his are pretty nice. Not the rough, deft, Tavish kind of nice because Tavish is unique and there's only one like him and thank God for that because this world could not handle two of them. Crash's hands are more delicate and slender, like they have never been used before. I can't really believe he works out when looking at the fineness of his skin. Even my hands are rougher than his and my favourite hobby is staring at my fish. Seeing me curiously peer at his hands, Crash feels the need to explain himself.