"we were living in" - short fiction

his name was paris, and he was something else. 

his name was really sebastian, but nobody ever called him that. just paris. he wasn’t fancy enough for something like sebastian, or even seb– it clashed with his long black coats, didn’t fit into his scuffed-up size nines, banged into his cane when he walked. so paris it was. his parents weren’t anything flowery, but the way he acted would have made you think they were artists or poets or authors or something. i loved him. you had to love him. everyone loved him. 

his dad hated him. 

he'd never tell you that. he didn't tell me, either. but i could tell. he was always doing these silly little things to try and spite him, like wearing drugstore mascara and giving himself sharpie tattoos and taking photography instead of advanced maths. it was cute. i liked it. i always helped him. 

i loved paris. he loved me too. i'd do anything for that pretentious bastard. i really would. this one time, my mum came to get me. i’d been having a nap, and she came into my room and shook me awake and told me i’d better get downstairs because 

–that boy of yours is about to go off the rails. 

she always called him that. i guess she was right, in a way. anyway, i went downstairs in my lifeguard shirt with the holes and my old yellow pyjama pants and my hair sticking up every which way, and yep. paris was there on our couch. except the weird thing was, you could see he’d been crying. 

paris didn’t let you know he had feelings. he was always so goddamn happy. when his goldfish died when we were seven? we had a funeral in his backyard and kept on playing like nothing was wrong. when he failed his maths exam? he didn’t say a word, just carried on eating popcorn and bingeing dramas with me. anyway, paris crying just didn't seem right. he didn't even try and hide it when i came in, just turned to me and said 

–you’re taking me. i’m coming.

–where? 

–synagogue. 

–thought your family was christian?

–i'm not. 

so that was it. he wanted me to take him right then. i looked him up and down: he reminded me of a bird that had fallen from the nest, dishevelled and all mussed up, mascara lines all down his cheeks from crying. 

–sure, paris. we can go.

he wiped at his face until most of the mascara was gone. then he stood up, one hand on his cane, the other held out palm-up to me. i took it. of course i did. 

we took his banged-up mini cooper downtown, where i normally went. he parked somewhere that was probably illegal. i told him so. 

–not my problem. he's the one paying for the ticket. 

he was really fired up. i didn't know what his dad did to him, but it had to have been big. he was usually so calm. seeing him like this scared me a little. 

anyway, i took him down the street, and we went in. he kind of stood there, once we were inside, spinning in a slow sort of circle and looking at everything with this funny wonder in his eyes. he always said he didn't believe in anything– not magic, not God, not love, nothing. now it looked like maybe he did. he looked so weirdly right, standing in the entrance in his long black coat and patterned button-up and jeans and gloves. i wanted to scoop him up into a hug forever and ever. i really really did. but i didn't. not there. it didn't feel like the right thing to do. 

when he was done looking, we went in. he was so quiet, which threw me for a loop. he always had a whispered comment for me. not today. today, he just sang. when we left, this old lady came up to us. she looked at him, and he looked back at her and she smiled. it was crooked, just like his. he kind of reached out to her and she pulled him close for a second and hugged him. 

–take care of him, she said to me. he’s got soul. 

–i will, i said. i promise. 

the second we got back to the car he opened the passenger side door and then just stopped stone-still. something shifted in his face and he just stood there all helpless and just cried and cried. i didn't know what to do. finally he looked up at me with all this smudged mascara again and these huge wet eyes. 

–i don't like crying, he said eventually. 

–sorry. me neither. but you looked like you needed it.

–it helped. don't be sorry. look, i’m me again. 

and he gave me that same old crooked smile, and i threw my arms around him and held him for a while there on the sidewalk. then we got back in the car and i drove him back to my house. we went into the kitchen and i made him a hot lemon and honey in case he was cold or he was dehydrated from all the crying. he sat at the kitchen table and kicked his legs like he was three again and we were sharing cheese crackers and chocolate milk for snack. when i gave him the mug, he drank it down dutifully. 

–good? i asked. i was sitting on the countertop picking at the formica. 

he nodded. 

–good. 

there was a pause. 

–so what now? 

he turned his chair to face me. 

–what do you mean? 

–i took you. what did you think? what do you want to do now? 

he sighed. 

–it was good. it made sense. i liked it better than whatever my parents dragged me to. i want this more than that. 

–okay, and..?

–and would it be too much trouble for me to stay with you for awhile? he asked. he was avoiding looking at me. he never liked asking for things. suddenly i didn't think synagogue was what we were talking about anymore. i got up off the counter and pulled him into a hug. 

–stay forever. please. 

so he did, until he didn't, which was okay. he wasn't meant to stay here, i think. he was always kind of floating away, so i wasn't scared or sad when i woke up and he was gone. i figured he’d be back one day, singing with the rest of us at synagogue or sitting on the counter stirring honey into a mug. 

he wasn't, which was okay. 

i figured it was best to let him go.