River Stone

SLASH “It was the middle of July and the wind was warm, but still Simon felt chilled to the bone. He had been cold ever since the summer before.”

Rated PG13 – References to murder, homosexuality, and sex

River Stone

That night on the dock, with the wind brushing his face, Simon thought of Nikolas.
He knew he oughtn't to, not while he was in this state, while he had a rope and a stone in his hand, while he had the water lapping ten feet deep below him. But he couldn't help it. He stared up at the moon and he saw Nikolas there instead, with that stiff half-smile still plastered on his face, his eyes wide and staring, the red stream leaking from his ear to his jawline, where it broke free and fell into the bay below.
Simon knew they would find him in the morning, bloated and white. They would never find his note; he would leave it in his pocket, and the ink would run from it. He thought of Nikolas, waiting for him, somewhere.
It was the middle of July and the wind was warm, but still Simon felt chilled to the bone. He had been cold ever since the summer before.

It had been storming in August. The rivers were rushing and muddy. The little kids and the hoodlums were picking up rocks, building castles out of them or throwing them at the heads of passerby.
It was storming, and it was cold, and God, his hand was cold... so cold, so still... like the slick river stone lying less than a foot away... like the heart of that boy with the wheat-colored hair who had screamed and begged the judge that it hadn't been his fault, hadn't been his fault at all...
Simon thought of Nikolas. Nikolas had been so much larger than him, both in height and in brawn. His face had been broad and dark; he was every football coach's dream.
Simon was small and pale and useless. He played chess and never had to study for exams. He couldn't have put up a fight if his own life was on the line.
But it hadn't been his life.
Simon thought of Nikolas after he had won the last football game of the season. He'd grabbed Simon by his thin shoulders and slammed him against a locker, hard, knocking the wind out of him, and as he tried to breathe he found a tongue in his mouth, hands on his hips.
He hadn't complained.
And somewhere in all of that he'd dropped his glasses, and his mother wondered how on earth he had broken them, because he was such a careful boy, and Simon, refusing to sit despite his mother's insistence, pleaded that he'd tripped in the hallway.
He had the bruises on his knees to prove it.
Simon thought of Nikolas.
Nikolas was buried beside the river where he had died. It had been an accident, surely, the court had decided. His mother, the first few months afterwards, would kneel at that grave for hours until her fingertips were pruned and her dress was ruined, and her husband lifted her up and carried her away.
Nikolas lay near the water, and he was waiting.
So Simon tied the rock to his ankle, gazing up at the moon, and he smiled.
And jumped.
The water was cool.

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Author’s Notes: I feel as though I could have taken this much further and gone into more detail, and I don’t think it flows very well, but somehow the more I look at it the less I can know what to do with it.