Chapter4

#Chapter4

Until . . . I sniffled. It was like a chain reaction. The sound was the only pre-warning that came before a lone tear gained enough weight to force itself free of the prison of my eye. It also had Blake taking a step forward, a frown distorting his face. He stopped once I took a step back, his frown deepening.

I didn't think he would hurt me, but I knew that if he wanted to, he could. Blake and Isaac had gotten suspended once for fighting at school, and as I was only a year below them, I had witnessed the whole thing happen. I had seen the way he had drawn his fist back with so much force that as soon as he rocketed it forward, connecting with the guy's jaw, the fight had been halfway over.

I knew him well enough, had always felt safe enough around him to be reassured that him hurting me like that would never happen. But the box of exposed secrets that was sprawled on the bed had changed everything.

It had changed everything, and now I wasn't certain of anything.

/"I'm sorry about the other day, Ozymandias. I should have—/" He paused. /"I should have stopped and listened./"

Which was so not what I had been expecting.

It was also the first time I had ever heard him use my abomination of a full name. It almost seemed a mockery that my parents had named me that.

Ozymandias: the king of kings.

It was quite ironic how I had turned into the complete opposite: Oz the weasel.

It was hard to understand what had been going through my parent's head when they had gazed down at my little face and thought, 'hey, why don't we subject the poor kid to a lifetime of misery and name him Ozymandias. It really just goes soooo well with a nice, normal name like Isaac!'.

And as though just to be even crueller, I was dyslexic; it was as though learning to spell my full name in pre-school simply hadn't been challenging enough.

/"I—/" In my head, I hadn't even been able to picture a scenario where this played out. Even in my imagination, I had found the situation far too embarrassing to let progress. Which meant that I had absolutely no inner-monologue prepared, and all I could do was stand there like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing, but nothing besides choked noises spilling out.

/"Oz, I —/" Sucking in a sharp inhale, ragging his hand through his hair, Blake's eyes flicked back over to the heap of secrets. My pacifier, which unfortunately was one aimed for tiny babies that I had bought one day on the way to school out of my lunch money, and my princess bottle, which I had 'borrowed with no intent of returning' from Chloe a year or so back. I would have felt bad about stealing, but I had convinced myself it was just me being an awesome brother; she had been five at the time and her mother had been trying to get her to stop drinking from it before she wrecked her teeth.

There was a mix-and-match of items. There was a tiny lollipop stick that had googly eyes on and a felt-tip smile. His name was Benny. I had made him during one of the occasions that I had been free to be as Little as I liked. Pens and crayons were bound together by an elastic band, paired up with a trio selection of colouring books.

The box itself had been decorated in cut out pictures of all the things I liked or wanted to try. Images of cute stuffed animals, of Tootsie Pops, rainbows and ponies. There was even a cut out of a pull-up that I hoped that he hadn't noticed.

/"I shouldn't have reacted the way that I did, Oz./" Blake finally tore his eyes away, letting them refocus on me. /"I was just shocked. I wasn't expecting it. It caught me off guard./"

/"Do you think I'm weird now?/" I whispered, finally managing to find enough willpower to croak out a sentence. /"Are you going to tell Eyes and my mom, and everybody in town?/"

Because despite neighbouring the city, our town was still surprisingly small, and the people in it had a way of talking everyone's business.

/"I won't tell Eyes,/" Blake reassured, using the silly, childish nickname that I gave Isaac years ago when I hadn't been able to pronounce his name properly. /"I won't tell anybody./"

/"But . . ../" He hadn't answered whether he thought I was a weirdo now. As though the question had been written all over my face, his expression softened. His eyes gained a gentleness to them and for the first time, he smiled. It was small and wry, but it was a smile nevertheless.

And that simple, tiny action made the mountains of worry that had settled down on my shoulders seem less monstrous and more like boulders.

/"I've always thought you were weird, Oz. I call you Odd-bod for a reason. But I care about you — like a lot. I don't think I could ever think that you're weird in a bad way./"

Which was a good thing, right?

It had to be!

/"But I do have some questions./" And just like that, the inflating sense of hope at a bad situation avoided had the pin jabbed into it. /"I need to understand. I promise I will try to . . ../" He broke off, blowing out a deep breath. /"I promise to try my best to listen and not judge./"

/"Okay./" Swallowing hard, it felt more dream-like than reality. /"And you super duper promise, pinky-swear promise, that you're not going to tell Eyes?/"

A small nod followed my question. /"I promise, Oz. Those things in the box—/" He jabbed a finger behind him at the bed, his eyes never once leaving my face /"Do you use them?/"

He knew I used them. He had witnessed me using them. Some, at least. It was hard to tell if it was a test question, just so he could see how I would reply, or if he was asking something else and I was being too dim to click on.