PINE
Tony wasn’t always the prettiest thing in Teddy’s mind. The former was trivial knowledge—a boy whose existence was only denoted by laughter in Freddy’s backyard pool party, whose snickers ended with words like “loser” or “nobody”, his hair a bottomless, bottomless pit for ridicule. It’s not like Teddy formed opinions before he met the person himself, but he sure laughed over the joke. Or two. It was easy to laugh at him, because—Tomy Blanco simply didn't seem to exist. He seemed like a trope, an inside joke. A classroom myth. It presents itself like so because Tony belonged to nobody. And that was harsh, because Oceanside was divided into circles. Tony couldn’t place himself in any of them. And nobody pitied him enough to let him in.
It’s cliché and a mean thing to say that there was simply so much more to the odd-haired boy than Teddy ever thought—or rather, had only thought until now. And ‘mean’, because it’s only when Tony was vulnerable and beaten into blood and bruises that Teddy ever bothered finding out that Tony… was extremely nice. Helpful. Too helpful—he was always following Mrs. Carter like a lost puppy, shyly inquiring if she needed any chores to help with—none like the standoffish, stony and doped-out rock that the class makes him out to be. He wasn’t ignorant (frankly, the opposite); he was simply quiet. He wasn’t lazy—he often optimised to the other converser, and worked a rather demanding job.
Funny how the weird kid isn’t really all that weird until you know them more than by their name.
Tony wasn't always the prettiest, but Teddy thought—maybe he is, from now on. The haircut was peculiar, sure, but Teddy couldn’t help but eye at the way the strands fell over his temples. Maybe the way that was phrased made him sound as if he’s three feet deep in infatuation (perhaps he is), but it was true. Tony’s fingers tucking a stray hair behind his ear suddenly became the most fascinating thing to watch, so fascinating that Teddy almost snipped at his mother’s flowers as they tended to the garden to pass the time until dinner was ready.
And as he did this, Tony—whose fingers were full of dirt, and had smeared it onto the hair he’d tucked in—blinked at Teddy, before gazing at the almost-cut flowers like a forlorn bird, as if he momentarily embodied his mother’s hypothetical sadness if she’d found out Teddy trimmed her posies. It was a soft warning, a reminder of a precaution; but Teddy took it as an opportunity to gaze into his eyes, hoping to lose himself in it forever. Were they grey? Were they blue? Teddy wanted to guess it for the rest of his life, for it meant that it would mean he’d spend an eternity for sixty further years with Tony Blanco.
If he lived that long, anyway. And if this wasn't just a teenage crush.
Tony shied away from his gaze and his fingers busied themselves with tulip bulbs, but Teddy’s eyes were fixated on the smear of dirt on his cheek, and the way they looked so dark on his skin. Tony was a ghost, his innards so poorly covered with transparence, born not to be seen or heard. But Teddy sees him now, his dear little ghost, planting his mother’s flowers—and Teddy always heard how Tony’s voice lit up when Teddy conversed with him as if he was anybody else, instead of just the butt of the joke at a party at Freddy’s.
Teddy’s job was to tame the hedges near the flowers, but how could he when Tony’s earth-covered hand were suddenly on his? There was no precursor to it—Tony hadn’t spoken for the last two hours. But there was Teddy’s ghost, and he felt real. Warm. Close. His spindly fingers were on Teddy’s scab-encrusted knuckles, and he was brushing over them as if Teddy’s wounded hands from football practice happened a minute ago and not a week in the past. Tony was biting and letting go of his upper lip—a habit well-honed and well-observed by Teddy—done whenever he was trying to say something.
Then with wobbly syllables, he said:
“You’re my world.”
Teddy was struck with awe.
Tony never said ‘I love you’. Maybe his own mother taught him it was an abhorrent phrase to say, and so he always danced around it—except Tony always found a way to express it tenfold, somehow. Yesterday, out of the blue in the middle of a homework collaborative, he announced (quietly)—’You’re my favourite person.’ Then two days ago it was ‘I’m glad you’re here with me.’ Or, Teddy’s favourite: ‘I’m happy’, followed by a little guilty smile. It set his heart abloom. ‘I’m happy.’ Teddy wanted to hear it over and over again.
“Tony’s world,” Teddy gestured to himself, mouth opened in amusement, and Tony gave him a shy little smile. Teddy could kiss him now—but they were out in the garden, and he didn’t want the neighbourhood to condemn him to hell yet. He could wait until after dinner, when Tony was much more inclined to open his mouth for other purposes.
Teddy smirked at the thought.
“I love you,” he said in the end, to echo the other boy’s sentiment—and also because it’s true. Teddy does love him, and he does so with warm passion. Immediately, Tony’s face burned bright red—a funny thing to watch, since the rest of him was pasty—and he hastily retracted his hand, scratching his neck with muddy fingers. Teddy laughed; though Tony’s reaction to the L word was always as if he’d dipped his hand in a scathing bath, it was endearing to see Tony process the words, understand what they meant, then reacted as if it was his first time hearing it. Every time.
Tony, Teddy thought, was the prettiest thing in this world. He looked so whole, so real—and maybe the world wouldn’t think the same, but it’s not like Teddy needed anyone else’s opinion in the first place.