bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter fourteen. ?

The Killers, 'Smile Like You Mean It.' One of Case's favorite songs. How? Case wondered, racking his brain for recollection if he'd ever shared that information with Sir. Why?

The phone's speakers were small and shitty, lacking the nuance that the song needed—but Case didn't care. It was music, something he'd been deprived of for weeks. Months? Too long.

Sir clicked along to the cymbal. He hunched forward, clicking clicking, as he eased toward Case. The vocals kicked in, nostalgic and moody, and Sir lazily shimmied his shoulders. Swayed his hips. Gave a coquettish grin, an invitation for Case to follow.

Recognizing an escape route to fun when he saw one, Case closed his eyes and danced to the beat. The music played, the chorus moody but upbeat, the kind of song that demanded to be sung. Case hollered along with the chorus, sensing Sir gravitating into his orbit.

Sir pulled Case into him, locking their hips into a slow grind.

Case giggled, a silly, nervous reaction. Even in his tipsy haze, he could feel a firm bulge against his thigh. He knew Sir was leading him to cross a boundary. Instead of following, he took the half-drunk whiskey bottle from Sir's other hand and took a swig. No need to inhale vapors. He swallowed, guzzling down liquid fire.

Here was familiar. This felt good.

"Easy," Sir drawled, lowering the bottle from Case's mouth.

He spun away from Sir, swaying to the music. His head swayed along. Spinny, hazy. Case collapsed on the bed, his head feeling as if he was still freefalling backwards. He gripped the mattress, needing something stable against the constant spinning. Even the stain on the ceiling seemed to be moving, shifting. Like a growth of black mold, spreading its infestation.

"I am easy," Case slurred. He heard himself, then laughed, spitefully. "I'm so fucking easy."

The bed dipped under Sir's weight. "I wouldn't say that."

The edges of his vision went fuzzy. Drowsiness crept in. Case sensed his consciousness, his control over his body, slipping away. Coarse mattress fibers scratched his skin as if he were laying across gravel. Cold. Strange cold. His skin prickled with goosebumps. His mouth went sour with the taste of raspberry vodka.

"This doesn't mean I'm giving you consent, by the way."

Sir gasped; even through the drunken haze, Case could hear the bullshit. "I'm offended you'd even suggest such a thing. Why, I'm a man of my word and I'd never do something so vile—"

"I know, I know," Case interrupted, scrunching his eyes tight. In the dark, he could feel the coldness of night, smell dirt and leaves and residual exhaust fumes and sickly-sweet perfume. Stop it. Stop, block it out. "I know. I'm just . . . I'm just saying . . ." Dubstep and chatter and laughter in the distance. Alcohol. Swirly brain, unable to move. Drunk, too drunk. His stomach churned with the threat of vomit. His lip quivered, his broken voice cracked with weakness, "I went to this party . . ."

No. The voice took command. The memory was forced behind heavy, white walls. Block it out, Casey, the voice told him, helping him. Case's focus was forced onto the discolored spot on the ceiling. A fine, hairline fracture like lightening slicing through beige water spots. If he stared hard enough, Case could see into the crack, into the darkness, could feel the plaster's need to burst open and suck him into the unknown.

"And . . . ?"

The white walls wavered. A high-pitched whirring rang in his ears. Sense-memories streamed back to him, bringing with them a jittery wave of anxiety and adrenaline. No. No, I can't do this. Case bolted upright. "I wanna dance."

Sir flinched. "What?"

Case got to his feet, pacing, restless. It was too risky, laying still . . . letting his thoughts wander.  "I need to dance," he repeated. "C'mon, play some music. Get drunk and listen to music with me."

Sir watched him for a moment, his brow creased with an answer Case didn't want. So, Case took him by the wrists, pulled him to his feet and tried to coax him to into a swaying dance.

"Play something. Please. Anything. Anything, please."

Case held Sir closer, wanting to entice him to say yes. His face pressed into Sir's button-down shirt. Sir's big, grown-up man body was warm, solid and soft. The sharpness of cologne and alcohol and the undefinable human smell filled his nostrils. A plastic button dug into his cheekbone.

"What's your favorite song?" His voice was muffled against Sir's torso. His tear ducts burned with the threat of emotions he couldn't bury. "What's the worst thing that's ever happened to you?"

"Hey . . ." Sir wrapped his arms around Case. "Shhh," he hushed, as if he were the gentle breeze rustling through treetops. "Talk to me," he said, the low hum of his voice reverberating inside his chest and into Case. "What are you thinking about?"

Case's hitched breathing shuddered to a stop. Instead of the unwanted thoughts, his brain had gone blank. All he could think of now was Sir's thumb, softly circling his back.

This is real, the voice told him. This is real and here and now. Focus here.

"Tell me," Sir pushed against the silence.

"I can't."

"You have to. We're building a relationship now, and that involves having uncomfortable conversations. Even if we don't want to."

Case gave a miserly laugh. A relationship.

Sir's hold tightened. "I want to know everything about you, Casey. I want to know every joy you've felt, and every hurt you carry. I will see the deepest, rawest parts of you, and I'll never leave you . . ."

Look how much he cares about you, Casey, the voice told him. Look here, feel how good he is to you.

Case bit the inside of his cheek. If he opened his mouth he wouldn't speak, he would scream. Through the drunken haze, he tried to attach himself to reason. He tried to convince himself that maybe this was one of the ugly truths found only in growing up: relationships weren't the soft and happy things found in the movies; relationships were carnal at their core, and held together by the fear of loneliness. He wanted to accept that truth. After all, it'd been the thought lurking in his mental shadows since he was 16-years-old.

But instead, his fingers tightened around the whiskey bottle's neck. He pushed away from Sir, snatching the bottle along with him. He lost balance, nearly faceplanting into the concrete. He stumbled upright, laughed then screamed, unhinged. He took another drink.

Still familiar. Still good—destructive, but good.

Case kept drinking, kept dancing and bouncing from the walls, even when he couldn't hear the music anymore. Finally, his brain was untethered—from the basement, from the bullshit—and he was floating up and up, into the oblivion of space. He flew beyond the stars, spiraling into a blackout. When he woke up the next morning, he was on the bed, nursing a headache but fully clothed. Untouched, unharmed (so it would seem). He was alone, in the quiet. Nothing but a splitting hangover, the voice, the basement, and everything he didn't want to face.