Rated M for everything. You've been warned.

The Green Hall

On the last stall in the bathroom of the Green Hall, on the outside of the door over the bright green paint, Trevor D. wrote in black sharpie, "Shit."

The Green Hall was where all the special needs classrooms were. Nobody ever went to that bathroom for that very reason, since interaction with retarded children was, in many minds, grounds for contamination. Trevor loved that everyone thought that, because it gave him the privacy he craved.

Sometimes he would ditch entire class periods—sometimes more than that—in that bathroom, smoking cigarettes or pot, drinking the occasional booze when he could get his hands on it. Never once had anyone ever disrupted him, considering that all the special needs kids had their own handicapped bathroom just a few doors down and had no special need of this one.

Trevor hated school, so he considered this bathroom a godsend. He would get high and read books or doodle. Sometimes he would stare at himself in the mirror, trying to sculpt his own expression to exactness. Once, he went through with a permanent marker into all the stalls and wrote, "This is my bathroom. –T.D.," on all the doors. He wrote, "Piss," on the outside of the first two stalls and, "Shit," on the second two, if only because there were no urinals in this bathroom and, in the hypothetical occurrence of someone else coming in here, he wanted to be sure that they would use the correct stalls for the correct function. He drew a heart on the inside of the last stall, because that one was his favorite.

The bathroom was his own personal haven.

Until Kenny C. showed up one day. It became a whole new kind of haven after that.

Trevor didn't know Kenny that well. Mostly, what he knew about Kenny was what everyone knew about Kenny—that Kenny was handsome and athletic and popular. Kenny could make girls wet with just a smile; he could make guys cream with just a glance. He had three girlfriends now, and cheated on all of them with his non-girlfriends. He was an asshole.

Kenny didn't know Trevor that well either. He'd seen the boy around, and he knew they shared an English class together, even though Trevor never showed up for that. Typically he'd only see Trevor on the first day of school and sometimes in the cafeteria at lunch. Kenny hated Trevor because he was such a screw-up. Kenny felt that Trevor was a waste of the Earth's resources.

So, when Kenny got tired of waiting in line for the bathroom near the cafeteria to take a piss, he had wandered around until he found another bathroom. He didn't know this one existed until that day, when he had accidentally turned into the Green Hall and saw it written in thick, bold letters: "MEN."

Kenny was worried that the bathroom would be disgusting. He thought about all the retards who used this bathroom; he imagined all them pissing their pants and dripping onto the floor. Drool and shit and vomit would carpet the floor, he figured, because no one wanted to clean up after the invalids.

So when he walked in and saw a floor void of anything disgusting except for Trevor himself, sitting idly and smoking a cigarette, Kenny was surprised. He was taken so unawares that he automatically assumed that perhaps Trevor was one of the retards himself—just the rare one that was barely smart enough to be able to walk. But then he remembered that all the classes he shared with Trevor were regular classes, so he guessed he was wrong.

"Didn't know you were a 'tard, Trevor D.," Kenny said anyway. He stepped inside and was hit with a wall of chokingly sweet smelling air, and suddenly he realized that the cigarette in Trevor's hand wasn't a cigarette after all.

"Could say the same thing for you," Trevor answered, grinning wryly and staring at Kenny through his thick black bangs.

"Shut the fuck up, faggot," Kenny snapped, glaring at Trevor with all his venom. "Fucking pothead."

Trevor just grinned that insolent grin and sucked on his reefer.

"I came here to take a piss," Kenny offered insecurely, but still glaring fiercely at Trevor. Trevor shrugged, his smile still strong.

"First two stalls, man," he said, gesturing toward them. "If you are not a retard, as you so claim, you should have been able to read so."

Kenny's eyes flashed, but in fact the need to piss was greater than the need to assert his intelligence, so in a childish form of retaliation, he went into the last stall, locked it behind him, and pulled out his dick to do his business. He didn't put much effort into aiming, either, just to infuriate Trevor more.

Or, to infuriate him in the first place.

Yet, when he came out without even flushing the toilet, Trevor didn't look the least bit bothered by his insubordination. He just stared so deeply at Kenny that Kenny found him quite unnerving, to say the least.

Trevor was immune. Trevor was high and happy, and the fact that his haven was invaded by Kenny the Douchebag was only a small stain. If he even thought about Kenny desecrating the system he had designed for the bathroom, he didn't probe too deeply into the intentions behind it, nor did he let it bother him even a smidgeon.

It was this very invulnerability of Trevor's that set Kenny off. Very few people were able to ignore Kenny the way Trevor could, and Kenny did not like it. So Kenny launched into a barrage of insults, trying, in some way or any way, to snap Trevor's temper.

But Trevor just smiled at everything Kenny said and drawled a laugh, which in fact lead Kenny closer to a snapping temper instead.

"You belong in a bathroom," Kenny said, "since all you are is the excrement of human existence."

"Hey, man," Trevor answered, smiling red-eyed, "everything's gotta have its place. Imagine a world without shit." His smile faded then, as he paused and seemed to consider the idea, and his eyes widened at the prospect and he shook his head before returning back to his smile.

"If I'm excrement," Trevor said, waving his joint around with each word, "then I've found my place. Have you found yours?"

"Don't pull that hippie crap on me!" Kenny growled, taking a menacing step toward Trevor, who still sat in the corner, back pressed against the wall, right next to the sinks. "Who would be proud to be shit?"

"I would," Trevor assured him sagely. "Are garbage men proud to be garbage men?"

"I wouldn't be!" Kenny asserted.

"And yet garbage men get paid more than teachers do. The question is, do garbage men who teach men to be garbage men get paid less than regular garbage men?"

"You're full of shit," Kenny told him.

"Seeing as though I am shit, I hardly think that's anything worth worrying about," Trevor replied.

"You're a fucking faggot," Kenny said, resorting to one of the most unoriginal insults.

"Shitty," Trevor drawled, grinning. But then his eyes, perhaps a bit too conspicuously, began to make their way down Kenny's body, from his broad shoulders to his slender waist, resting a moment at the zipper of his fly, and then down, down, until they reached his Nike sneakers, and then they slowly crawled back up. Every second they spent—every inch they studied—Kenny grew angrier and angrier so that by the time Trevor's eyes were back on his face, his hands were balled into fists and his eyes were narrowed, his teeth clenched and his breath hitched.

"Though," Trevor said, "as far as style goes, it does look like you got the shit-end of the stick." And then he started laughing, that drawling, breathy, slow sort of laugh, as though he thought what he said was genuinely funny but couldn't work up the energy to really laugh at it.

A stoner laugh. That, rather than what Trevor had actually said, was what snapped Kenny.

He charged forward, grabbed Trevor by the collar, and hauled him up so that the black-haired boy dangled against the wall, his body completely limp. He was laughing again, that laugh.

"You fucking piece of—"

"Shit?" Trevor finished, still grinning. "By the way, your fly's open."

Kenny punched him, smashing his knuckles into the other boy's cheek. He felt the flesh beneath his hand, skull padded with skin and muscle, and he heard the thud as Trevor's head smashed into the wall and flung forward again. Kenny tightened his grip on Trevor's collar and swung him around, flinging his limp body onto the floor and kicking the heap of scattered limbs that landed there. He felt the toe of his shoe make contact with hard but sickeningly forgiving ribs. He heard Trevor gasp out a breath, and felt good for it.

But then he heard it again, that laugh. That fucking laugh. Breathy and drawling, as though he had enough time to sit there and actually enjoy the world, unlike everybody else who rushed by it without looking.

Kenny hauled him up by his hair, taking pleasure in the hiss that escaped between Trevor's teeth. He dragged Trevor to the last stall, where his piss still colored the water yellow, and shoved the other boy's head in it, holding it down despite the struggle until he heard bubbles push their way through the surface. Then he yanked Trevor back, enjoying the boy's spluttering coughs as he lay on the floor, soaked with piss water.

But then there it was again. Heh, heh, heh. Smiling despite the filth that dripped down his face and hair, onto his shoulders, into his mouth, Trevor sat up and said, "How picturesque. Shit and piss. Like we were made to be together."

That was the last straw. Kenny kicked Trevor back to the floor and continued to beat him until the bell rang and he was forced to leave.

Still, Trevor never quit laughing that horrible, horrible laugh.

Trevor had green eyes, the color of spring grass, and they always shone with such delight whenever he laughed—which was a lot, because he smoked so much weed, and he smoked so much weed because for a while it was the only thing that made him happy.

Now, though, now everything made him happy. That was why he grinned when Kenny C. walked into his haven of a bathroom in the Green Hall for the second day in a row.

Trevor only had one green eye today, as the other was swollen shut from the black swelling. There were bruises all down his ribs, but in fact he liked the feel of them—he liked how they felt when he stretched, because he was so bruised up that every part of him hurt—even parts he had forgotten he had, until this reminded him of them. Without those parts, he would be incomplete. So he was grateful to be reminded of them, despite the pain.

That was why he laughed as Kenny started to beat him again amid shouted words. Shouted insults. "Pothead. Hippie. Shit. Faggot."

He lay on the floor and laughed, until the bell rang and Kenny left again.

Kenny had such dark blue eyes, they looked black. He was ugly in the way Trevor was ugly. Ugly on the inside.

If all people could see was others' inner beauty, he and Trevor would be going to class in the Green Hall too.

Two weeks, now, five days a week, he had been going into the bathroom of the Green Hall and beating all the shit out of shit itself. He aimed for the dark spots on Trevor's skin, and when he did that, sometimes Trevor's drawling, breathy laugh turned into a high-pitched shrieking laugh.

But he was still laughing, and Kenny was still beating.

Today, Kenny had beaten Trevor so hard that he himself had grown tired, and he plopped down on the floor next to Trevor, looking at the spent form. Trevor was on his side, succumbing entirely to gravity with his arm and leg draped over himself. His temple was pressed against the ground, and his eyes were closed.

Blood was pooling on the ground around his head, slithering its way there from his nose. Red, red, red.

But his mouth was smirking, so Kenny reached over and poked a bluish bruise on Trevor's waist so that Trevor moaned.

He poked another one, and this time Trevor laughed, as if it had tickled, and jerked away in response, flopping over onto his back. Kenny moved closer, until he was hovering over the other.

He pressed his thumb into a black shadow on the skin, and Trevor half laughed, half moaned. He partly choked on the blood in his mouth, spitting bits of red wetness into the air. Kenny decided he liked that sound, and pressed the entire bruise at once with his whole palm, and Trevor moaned completely, gurgling the blood, this time.

But the grin was on his face still.

Kenny slid his hand along the skin of Trevor's waist and pulled up Trevor's shirt, looking for a darker bruise that would hurt more. He found one, just over the ribs, and pressed down so hard that Trevor moaned and squirmed, brushing his leg against Kenny's.

Suddenly, Kenny felt anxious. His fingers were tingling and his stomach was flipping. But he ignored it and pressed on the bruise again, with the very tip of his pointer finger, to hear the moan again.

Trevor unwittingly humored him and then some—the green-eyed boy spread his legs and arched his back against the pain, and the very sight of it sent Kenny reeling. He felt a stirring under his fly, and immediately threw himself to his feet and stumbled out of the bathroom and away from the Green Hall.

For the very first time, Kenny left the Green Hall before the bell had rung.

Trevor had gotten spectacularly high the next day in expectation of a no-show from Kenny. And yet, when the lunch bell rang, the door flung open and in strode Kenny himself, all brown locks and flashing eyes and clenched teeth.

He grabbed Trevor's collar and threw the green-eyed boy to the floor, onto his palms. He jammed his heel in between the boy's shoulder blades until his chest was pressed flat against the floor. Kenny took his place over Trevor's thighs, reached under the boy's hips, and opened his jeans before dragging them roughly all the way down.

He heard Trevor laughing and ripped open his own jeans.

He was hissing at Trevor as he thrust into the boy. No preparation. No lube. No condom. Trevor just half laughed, half moaned. His body tense but his lips curled into that grin.

"Fucking….shit," Kenny growled as he thrust again, in and out. Dragging and tearing. Trevor laughing. Trevor moaning.

Moan. And some laughing. Moan and some laughing.

"Pothead," Kenny growled. "Fucking hippie."

Trevor arched his back and clenched his insides, and it would have sent Kenny over the edge had it not been for that harsh, "Ha!" that came from the back of Trevor's throat.

"Fucking…piece of shit!" Kenny snarled, slamming his hips against Trevor's thighs. He clawed his fingers in a trail down the skin of Trevor's back, leaving long red streaks that blossomed pinpricks of shiny red blood.


"You realize," Trevor said, his voice breathy from his high, "you're using your pee-pee to fuck my shit-hole."

"Fucking…asshole," Kenny growled and thrust, earning a moan from Trevor. And a slow, deep, drawling laugh.

"That's right," Trevor said, and he probably would have laughed again, but Kenny thrust forward, snatching Trevor's breath away. And then Kenny slammed his fist into Trevor's back, just to make sure it stayed that way.

"You and me, Kenny C.," Trevor said, and paused as Kenny thrust again, before continuing. "We belong together."

"Fuck you," Kenny hissed, thrusting.

"Yeah," Trevor agreed. "Fucking me. Forever. We're a match made in the septic tanks of Hell."

Kenny felt his own body clench and release. He expelled himself into Trevor's bleeding asshole. He felt a warm liquid heat envelop him, a rank heat, but soothing, washing over him and staining him black, black, black. He pulled out suddenly and roughly, enjoying the moan Trevor let out as he did it. Enjoying it until Trevor started laughing again.

Trevor's hands were covered white with his own sticky, gloopy cum when he buried his face into them, saying in between choked laughs, "It fucking hurts man. God, it fucking hurts so…fucking…good." He was on his elbows and knees, his bare ass, bloody and white, stuck in the air. And he was laughing.

"You're such a freak," Kenny growled, wiping the blood and the semen and the shit off his dick onto a paper towel he had taken from the dispenser. He was sweaty and spent, but he was so angry at Trevor he wanted to snap and force himself upon the other boy again.

He had been certain that that would have stopped that breathy laugh, slow and satisfied, once and for all. But it hadn't. Trevor lay violated on the ground, laughing with everything he had.

Kenny just beat Trevor again next day in the bathroom of the Green Hall, and Trevor just lay on the floor, laughing again. But the day after that, Kenny had Trevor's pants off and was thrusting into him again with every bit of his strength, trying to pack every last bit of hate into that shit-hole.

Trevor bled again, but still he laughed.

Every day went like that. One was a beating, and the next was a fucking. Alternating again and again. Sometimes Trevor moaned; sometimes he hissed. But he always laughed.

"I think we belong together," Trevor said one day. "You are the piss and I am the shit. You are the sadist and I am the masochist. You complete me."

"Shut the fuck up," Kenny said.

"No," Trevor replied. "I think I love you."

And even though he still laughed, it was never the same after that.

It took Kenny C. a week before he could tell Trevor, "I think I love you too."

It was a Tuesday in the Green Hall bathroom, and Kenny pressed Trevor's back against the floor, straddling his hips. Kenny leant down and kissed Trevor. He kissed his mouth, touched his face, ran his fingers through silky black hair. He rocked his hips forward, and Trevor moaned, but he wasn't laughing.

Kenny shifted back and gently split Trevor's legs. He pulled Trevor's jeans slowly down his legs. He asked soft questions, whispered soft words. Because he was in love with Trevor, and he knew that people in love didn't beat their lovers. He had learned that from his father well enough.

Trevor didn't say anything. Trevor didn't do anything. Trevor let him have his way, and then when the bell rang, Kenny stood up and left in silence, smiling softly.

Trevor hadn't laughed once. Kenny had done the trick.

Trevor D. only did booze and pot and cigarettes, until that Wednesday. That Wednesday morning, he sat down in the Green Hall bathroom and looked at his artwork on the stalls. "Piss," and "Shit," side-by-side. Kenny had pissed in his favorite shitting stall.

"This is my bathroom. –T.D.," it said, on the inside of every door, as a reminder. Love Trevor D. Loved by Kenny C.

He and Kenny mixed like shit and piss. Like sleeping pills and stomach acid. He swallowed the whole bottle and laughed as they went down.

When Kenny strode in at lunch, gentle in everything he did, Trevor was on his back, on the floor, staring at the ceiling with dull green eyes, the color of autumn grass. In his hand was the empty pill bottle. He wasn't laughing.

He wasn't breathing.

Piss and shit pooled on the floor around his legs, as such excrements have a tendency to do when one dies. His mouth was open, and frowning. His green eyes were red from the high.

His fingers were black, black, black around the pill bottle.

Kenny approached slowly, cautiously, expecting the other boy to let out a breath. A soft, slow breath. A laugh, a drawling laugh. Slow like he was the only one in the whole wide world who could sit back and enjoy it for what it was.

There was a note on the door of the last stall. Underneath "Shit," it said, "You were my last dangling thread. Why'd you have to go and fuck it all up, you piece of shit?"

Kenny kicked the body, once, hard in the ribs, but there was no laugh. No grin. Just blank, dull green eyes. He punched the solar plexus, and there was nothing.

"You fucking pothead!" Kenny growled, and ignored the blur in his eyes. He slapped Trevor's face, but the boy didn't even blink.

"Fucking…hippie!" Kenny hissed, beating his hand against Trevor's chest as if it were a drum. "Fucking piece of shit!"

The pill bottle rolled out of the black fingers. The knees of Kenny's jeans were soaked with Trevor's excrement.

The only excrement Kenny had was the liquid that dripped down from his eyes.

"You goddamn fucking faggot shit-hole!"

Trevor wasn't laughing anymore.

They blocked off the Green Hall for two days after Trevor left. They blocked off the bathroom for two weeks.

No one seemed to know who Trevor D. was.

When Kenny went into the bathroom again, it didn't smell like weed anymore. The stalls were painted a dark blue instead of a bright green. Trevor's graffiti was gone. The bathroom was no longer his. The piss and the shit were gone. All of it.

Sometimes it felt like even Trevor's suicide note had never been there, written in black, black, black on the last stall. The heart on the inside of the last stall had vanished.

Sometimes if felt like Trevor himself had never been there, dragging on reefers and laughing, laughing, laughing his head off.

It was a year before Kenny beat up and fucked someone in the Green Hall bathroom again. It was a boy he found. A freshman, with silky black hair and blue eyes rimmed red from a high. Kenny dragged him into the bathroom and threw him against the wall, shouting at him.

"Pothead! Fucking goddamn hippie!"

The boy covered his face and curled into a fetal position. He sucked in gasps of breath, but it wasn't because he was laughing.

"Fucking piece of shit!" Kenny yelled. He landed a punch on the boy's back. The back of his head. His side. His spine. But he couldn't make anything on the front of the boy, because the boy wasn't getting out of his ball.

The boy had excrement streaming down his cheeks and he wiped his eyes.

"Fucking goddamn faggot!" Kenny shouted, and ripped the boy's pants from his hips. Pushed the boy onto his hands and knees. Pulled his own jeans open and thrust into the boy, no preparation, no lube, no condom.

The boy screamed and cried, flailed and gasped. But, no matter what Kenny did, he couldn't make the other laugh. No matter how hard he hit him, the boy just cried and groaned.

He never even grinned.

Kenny wanted to call him Trevor, but he couldn't. Because Trevor was always laughing. Always.

On the last stall in the bathroom of the Green Hall, on the outside of the door over the dark blue paint, Kenny C. wrote in black sharpie, "Shit."