❝ WAS PLANNING TO . ❞ his dad might have been looking for him by now , but as long as he didn’t show his face back in the house , . . — he could deal with the brewing storm later . right now , he’d decided that the time was reserved just for him & parrish , there was no intention of ruining the hard reached peace .
he was no stranger to june’s unconditional concern & care for him , & often enough , she was more of a mother towards him than anyone else . her care was overwhelming , a thing that no matter how long he spent his time around parrish , that he could become used to . he would often forget the ways to respond , only responding with a silent nod or a small , shifting grin towards her . & with that too , june always appeared to be more than pleased .
reaching over , he takes the container of food from parrish , one scribbled so neatly with his name in a sharpie . ELLIOT . gently he presses a thumb over his name before running it down the length until the last letter of his name finally ends .
❝ didn’t want to go back anyways . heard it was going to storm today . what if i was walking back & it started pouring ?❞ it was a lame - found excuse , & he’s certain that parrish knows as well . but he only tilts his face up , offering a lop - sided grin before clacking the container in his lap open , & spearing through the mac & cheese with his fork .
the truth was that mary anne had already texted him prior to his coming to parrish’s house . you big fucking lousy idiot . pissed him off again didn’t you ? don’t come back to the house or he’s going to break your neck for sure . stay somewhere safe , i’ll take care of it . & he’d left it at that , decided he would hang about until he would receive the safe OK from his sister again . quietly , he digs through the food with his fork , wincing at the sharp aches across his jaw .
❝ he was throwing shit about something my mom did . dunno what , it’s always something irrelevant . & i knew she wasn’t going to fight back . ❞ so i did . naturally , he would . it was something he’d always done , & parrish was aware of it as well . countless of times he’d thrown his fist across the jaws of threatening faces against parrish , which included his step - brother . the sensation & memory was still clear as daylight . the cold kiss of the gun - metal across his skin , & the momentarily panic that bloomed somewhere deep down in his chest at the realization . he had been lucky that the bastard wasn’‘t smart enough to pull the trigger on him fast enough .
he’d been afraid —- although it had been just for a moment , he had been . it was something he would never tell parrish ,
❝ tell your mom i had some horrendous fall down a staircase . ❞ the last time they’d used the excuse , june had better mind not to reason or argue with them . she however , had her eyebrows raised in question , arms folded as she examined the darkening bruises near elliot’s eye . a staircase that fights back ? she had asked , & smiled kindly . she knew , & elliot only nodded his head meekly . she didn’t ask any further .
❝ i know she won’t believe it , but she’ll pretend that she does . ❞
Parrish simply leans his head against Elliot’s shoulder for a moment, the smell of the food in his container wafting up to hit his nose as his eyes flit over to his open window. Clear blue skies rolling overhead, not a cloud for miles. He could pick Elliot’s excuses apart like clockwork these days, like prying faux meat back to expose the bone, the truth hidden underneath. But right now, he doesn’t mind the flimsy lie, and he nuzzles his face deeper into Elliot’s shoulder to prove that. He’d rather Elliot tell a small bad excuse, if that meant he wasn’t going to leave just yet.
“I wish things were different.” His tone is somber, words that he’d spoken so often that they were somehow feeling stale drifting through his mouth. He means them, though, and tries to make their meaning stronger, each and every time. Not only the situation with Elliot’s father, but with everything. He loves Elliot, but he loves having Elliot safe and sound at home even more. Whenever he went on his signature punching sprees, whenever he arrives on his doorstep, covered in bruises, sometimes nearer to death than he even realizes, Parrish is afraid. He tries not to show it, but he knows Elliot can see the widening of his eyes and the slack of his jaw (he still shudders when he remembers Elliot recount the story of his step brother. He’d wanted to punch Elliot himself, for acting so reckless that night. But, hug him, too. Such was the struggle between what he thought was best for Elliot, and what Elliot thought was best for Parrish).
He wraps an arm around Elliot’s torso, brings his lips to his cheek, tries to forget that the kiss will probably sting because of his cuts. He doesn’t want to think about such a thing, knowing that the scrapes and scars would become a physical barrier, separating them with the promise of pain and a knife-sharp ache. He’s quiet for a second, pondering the last segments of Elliot’s words. June wasn’t dumb, but she was also not one to pry.“It’s not my place, P,” she’d told Parrish one night, in between mouthfuls of her favorite take-out food, “If he wants to say something, I’ll let him. But… I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
And he’d hated that mentality, still partially did. How could a person just stand by, willingly let something continue when they knew it was hurting someone they love? God, he couldn’t begin to count the nights when he’d let his fingers hover over the emergency numbers on his cellphone, knowing it would only take that much to possibly help, and he couldn’t count the times when he’d held himself back, imaginary audio of Elliot screaming at him, so angry because “what, you think I can’t handle this myself, Parrish? What the fuck, do you think I’m not tough enough?”
He’s taking a risk when he speaks now, his voice partially muffled by Elliot’s shoulder, as he murmurs, “And I kinda wish she didn’t believe every word out of your mouth sometimes.” He reaches closer, goes to take his own fork and stab a piece of macaroni onto it, gingerly bringing it to his mouth. “El, don’t you get tired of making excuses? Don’t you want to do something, bring that bastard to the cops? Something?”
Do you want to die in your own house? Do you want the last thing you see to be your father, punching and kicking you to death? The rest of his questions are stopped up in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to speak anymore of the increasingly awful thoughts in his mind. He feels weird even posing those questions, like he’s somehow going against Elliot, but he can’t help it; they were eating him alive, wracking his brain in a way that made it near impossible to keep any of it in for much longer.
“I’m just… afraid for you. I’m afraid to ever find out the hardest way possible what your breaking point is.”