The Eyes Of Wonderland

#Chapter14-03

#Chapter14-03

Grabbing a hand towel and drying off, I ruffled his hair before gently steering the frames of his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Come on. Let's do something before the prick gets back."

"Eyes," he whined, stamping his foot. "Don't be mean."

I enjoyed the time we spent together, just he and I. It was a luxury that I rarely gained anymore. Blake was always there like a bad smell, and I f*****g resented the way he'd steal my thunder whenever he was around; Oz used to look at me like I was responsible for the stars and moon in the night sky, but now it was Blake he looked at like that. It was nice. We raided the cupboards. We flooded the coffee table in the living room with junk food, and together we motored our way through a feast of tooth-decay. Oz chose a show called The Hollow, a goofy Netflix cartoon, and we goofed around watching it.

It felt almost like old times.

Blake ruined it. He turned up just after the first episode had finished and my traitorous little brother ditched his place next to me and ran into his waiting arms.

Trying not to puke in my mouth as Blake twirled Oz around, kissing him all over his face, I glared at the telly, my mood instantly souring.

"What the hell happened to your face?" Blake's eyes went wide as he strode into the room, freezing once he copped sight of me. His lips parted before he closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head, as if he already knew the answer.

"A kitten did it," Oz informed. "It . . . whose kitten was it, Eyes?"

"A friend's," I said.

Blake wasn't as gullible as Oz. He didn't even entertain it as a possibility. Holding each other's stare, words of an unspoken language passed between us.

Then Blake looked away with another sigh. "Oz, you know you're not supposed to eat that much junk before your dinner." His eyes lingered on the crumbs and half-eaten packets of Cheetos and jelly babies that sat on the table, among other sweet treats.

"Eyes said it was okay."

"Blame me then, coward," I teased, poking my tongue out at him. He grinned and returned the action.

Blake glared at me. In turn, I gave zero f***s. Blake didn't scare me. Not now. Not ever.

"Go and start yourself a bath running while I clean this up. And put your clothes in the hamper this time," he said at last. Oz, the obedient little puppy that he was, nodded and bolted.

"So, what did you do?" Blake made no effort to clean the mess up. Instead, he dropped down heavily beside me. The pungent scent of dusty straw and horse manure assaulted my nose. He offered me a job alongside him at his uncle's farm a few months ago. But as it meant stinking like a s**t sack, as well as shoveling the stuff like we were mining for gold, I'd promptly refused.

"No idea," I replied, eyeing his socks. He had taken his boots off outside the door as he always did to avoid trampling in farmyard crap into the carpet. Bits of hay had stuck to the material, a breadcrumb trail marking his journey from the doorway.

"You know what I think?"

Smiling grimly, I shook my head. "No, and you know what? I don't want to know, either."

Silence fell, broken only by the distant hum of Oz singing some dumb nursery rhyme about an old lady with a s**t load of kids.

"Have you called him?" Blake asked, finally voicing the question that he had put off for the last few weeks.

"Called who?" I sneered, pulling the ignorant card. Yup. Cuz he really f*****g bought it. The green of his eyes rolled in such an exaggerated flick, I was more surprised that the things stayed in his head more than anything else.

"Don't play dumb, Eyes. It doesn't suit you."

"Why the hell won't you let this go?" I growled. "You got some dumb skank pregnant. You don't hear me insisting that you're still straight, do you?"

If my life mounted to no other success than the mastering the art of pissing everybody off, then I would die happy. Seemed like I was already halfway there. The impact was instant, as it always was when I paraded that delicate little bomb.

Lip curling, eyes narrowing, his anger, barely contained, seeped through. It was a sore subject. I had once used that information like a loaded gun; I had dropped it on Oz in hopes that he would dump Blake.

It hadn't worked and despite him saying everything was all good and he forgave me, like I gave a damn, I knew Blake still held a grudge over it.

"It wasn't mine and you know it, Isaac," he said cooly. "You've been a pain in the arse all week. You're making everybody else miserable because you can't handle your own emotions. You want to know for sure if you're gay or not?"

"I'm not," I snarled, smacking him on the arm. Hard. He winced but his own glower didn't falter.

"Go to his house and kiss him completely sober. If you feel nothing, you're fine. You get to carry on with your life and you can finally move on from this instead of beating yourself up over it. If you do feel something, anything at all, then get the f**k over yourself, stop torturing yourself and do something about it. There's worse things to be in life than gay, Eyes."

In a way, I did take Blake's advice. I went to his house, taking my bitterness and resentment with me.

Partly to prove a point: Blake was wrong. Partly because it was a Monday night, my insides felt as though they had bumped and grinded against a blender, and what the f**k else did I have to do?

Except I didn't kiss the guy.

I didn't knock on his door and put Blake's theory into motion.

Instead, I sat brooding outside his house. I sat seething. With the day setting, the winter nights creeping in early, I eyed the squat building with utter hatred. The weather-beaten roof, slightly lopsided, the paint peeled window frames, I wanted to take a sledgehammer to it all. I wanted to swing away until every piece of the building, every single thing that Deacon Baxter had touched, owned, or even thought about remained a mangled piece of nothing.

My demons fed that anger, nurturing it until it all but consumed me.

I didn't knock his door to kiss him; I put a brick through his f*****g window.