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

chapter twenty-three, part two.

This is way better than a blowjob.

Case didn't read the blurb, but he did read the inside of the cover. There she was again: Sophie.

A dozen pages later, Case was celebrating Bilbo Baggins' eleventy-first birthday. Case may have missed his 18th, but at least he could live vicariously through the hobbit. He imagined the party lights, the food, the drinks, and the fireworks. All the things he should have done that Fourth of July weekend. A chapter later, Case realized this book wasn't going to be following Bilbo after all. Instead, the main character was Frodo. And instead of a simple adventure to retrieve stolen treasure from a dragon, the journey ahead seemed far more important. Fiery letters engraved on a ring, a Dark Lord, and a great evil threatening to enslave Middle-Earth. For a moment, Case had the daunting feeling he was crossing a threshold; reading about this great evil outside of the sleepy Shire gave Case the same twisty-uncomfy nervousness in his belly he used to get when he was a kid and he thought about becoming an adult. And yet, at the same time, Case was drawn deep into the book. Attracted by the danger, the darkness. By the intuitive knowing that what lay ahead would ruin Frodo, the way growing up ruins everything innocent.

Case was almost a hundred pages in (the four hobbits having escaped the Black Rider in the forest and now under the protection of the Elves) when he was disturbed by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He lowered his book, watching as Sir descended into the basement. He grinned, realizing Sir was carrying a small pizza box.

"Hey." Case put his book on the floor beside his bed, face-down to mark his page. He pulled up his feet to make room on the bed, but Sir didn't sit. He stood by Case's side, trampling the book.

Sir opened the pizza box, keeping it above Case's line of sight. There was no fresh steam, or the hot smell of basil and tomato sauce. Case's pulse quickened with anticipation, and he chewed his lip to remind himself to be patient. Sir stared down at him, his expression softened with affection. Case kept waiting for Sir to give him the pizza, to say good game, and they'd forget the whole blowjob thing and they could stay in this warm nest they'd made together. Sir brushed his fingers through Case's hair, and Case leaned into the touch. Sir's large palm moved to tenderly cradle the back of his head, guiding Case to tilt back as Sir leaned in . . .

Oh my god. Case's heart hitched in his throat. This is it. Is this it?

"Open your mouth," Sir said, his voice so low it seemed to purr inside his throat.

Reacting on command and instinct, Case parted his lips.

"Wider."

Thinking Sir was about to hand-feed him a slice of pizza, he obeyed again. Case opened his mouth, and Sir's fingers dug into the back of his neck.

Something cold and wet splattered across Case's face.

He recoiled, Sir's fingers tightening at his hair roots. Case blinked, the suddenness and shock frazzling his brain. There was something cold on his tongue. Cold and frothy. The warmth in Sir's eyes was gone—his brow furrowed with contempt. The pieces started to fit together, and Case felt a sickening twist of shame.

Not a kiss. Spit.

Sir pinched Case's jaw, his thumb roughly pushing the stray saliva into his mouth. "Swallow it."

Humiliation burned in Case's tear ducts. A pathetic little sob escaped him, before he scrunched his mouth closed. The spit collected into the pocket of his cheek, bubbly and cold. Sir wasn't letting go—his grip hurting as if it would bruise. Case swallowed, tasting the acrid bitterness of coffee and nicotine, gritting his teeth to keep himself from crying.

Sir dumped the pizza box on the bed in front of Case, its lid flying open. Case's brain short-circuited trying to process the toppings: golden cheese, slightly browned near the crust; pale wedges of pineapple; large chunks of meat . . . a strange meat, definitely not ham or spicy sausage. Case fixated on a piece that looked like a rotisserie chicken wing, wondering why that'd be on a pizza. And then, as if his brain had finally finished buffering, he recognized the curled hind claws of a rodent. A rat.

Gary.

Case retched, his nose filling with the permeating stench of rancid meat. He flung himself away from the pizza box, unintentionally knocking it off the bed. His stomach clenched, the threat of vomit abated by shock. He gripped the mattress, hyperventilating, his brain refusing to admit his only friend in the basement had been served to him chargrilled.

This is your fault, the voice scolded, cutting through the senselessness of shock. You're getting cocky, entitled. You're a brat that needs knocking back into place. You brought this on yourself, Casey.

It's my fault. It's my fault, he chanted, slowly regulating his panic. By the time he regained some of his senses, Sir had already left. But Case kept repeating himself, the remorse and need to repent burned into him like a still-blistering brand. ". . . it's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."