What's Left Unspoken

“I didn't mean that.”

The words come out soft, meek. Riley is curled into himself as he speaks them. The towel in his hands has become the most interesting thing in the room, picked from the pile of laundry that surrounds him on their living room floor.

“It sounded pretty convincing.”

These words are plain. Spoken with a raised brow and crossed arms, but very little inflection comes from the hall doorway that Rhys leans into.

Riley shrugs. Folds the towel. Refuses eye contact, picks up a t-shirt. Rhys watches him for a minute, searching for something. Riley just keeps folding.

“Now’s your chance to help me understand.”

There’s a small sigh, then more soft words, “I don’t even understand it myself.”

Riley’s hands don’t stop the motions of folding as a tear slips from his eye, finding an easy path to a pair of boxers making their way into a tight square.

Rhys moves from the doorway, crouching on one knee at his roommate’s side. “Riley.” He grabs one wrist, uses his other hand to place the boxers on one of the growing piles, and waits for the other man to meet his eyes. “You said you hated me.”

“I don’t.” These words are firm, if a little desperate.

“Then why say it?”

Riley’s eyes drop to the hand on his wrist. “I wanted it to be true.”

“You want to hate me?”

Those words are choked through.

“Yes,” Riley carefully pries Rhys’s hand away, only to examine it like something fragile, “or I guess… I wish I could.”

Rhys’s eyes have yet to stray from Riley’s face. He wants to take in every micro-expression. He wants to see past the layers of skin and muscle and bone. “You’re not making much sense, Ri.”

“I know.” Riley lets go of Rhys then, breathes deep. He turns a shoulder and goes back to folding piles of fabric, the creases a little less tight than before. “Sometimes I wish that I was capable of hating you. It would be so much easier than the things I do feel. Because I feel way too much, more than I should allow myself. Even now.”

“Oh,” Rhys falls back to a sit, sliding back half a foot – creating distance. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Yeah, Rhys.” Riley is most of the way through his folding.

“We talked about this, though. I thought we resolved it.” These words come out clipped, short.

Riley refuses to let his gaze stray from the clothes. His movements quicken.

“We did. I confessed my feelings; you didn’t reciprocate them. We agreed that nothing would come of it, everything would stay the same. We would continue to be roommates, friends. And now…” Riley places the last item in its pile, “now I can’t figure out how to feel nothing for you. I’ve been trying to be fine with the way things are, but… I just can’t. So instead, I wish that I could hate you. I focus on that – it’s all I can manage, finding a way to make that true.”

Rhys hugs his knees to his chest, watching as Riley stands up and loads each pile neatly into a basket.

“But,” The words don’t want to come out, “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Riley picks up the basket, placing it against his hip. He pauses to stare down at Rhys. He searches for something, doesn’t find it.

“I didn’t get what I wanted. You might not either.”

This set of words feels final.

Rhys stays planted on the floor, his limbs not quite cooperating anymore. Riley struts down the hall to his room. Rhys listens as he flings the door open. He finds a way to make filing clothes away as loud as possible. Drawers open and shut. Metal hangers scrape across a wooden bar. Finally, a bedroom door slams closed – almost an afterthought.

Minutes later music starts up. It’s muffled through the walls, but the songs don’t sound quite as angry as Rhys anticipated.

Rhys stays on the living room floor.

He doesn’t have a good sense of time, having developed a slight headache from the way his face has tightened, brow furrowed.

The house is darker when the music eventually fades out. The silence and lack of light coming through the window are what shock him out of his stupor.

Rhys can see Riley’s bedroom door down the hall from where he sits. Theres a soft light glowing through the crack at the bottom.

He stands up, pads his way to the door, knocks softly.

A small sound comes from the other side, so Rhys opens the door. Riley is on his bed wrapped in soft blankets. He doesn’t offer Rhys any acknowledgement other than a slight glare.

Rhys makes his way over to the bed and sits gingerly on the corner. The two boys share silence for a little while. Eventually Rhys reaches a hand out to Riley.

“I still care about you. A lot. You’re my best friend, Ri. I don’t want that to change.”

These words are whispered.

Riley takes his hand out from under the blankets, hesitating for a moment before grabbing onto Rhys. He brings their clasped hands close to his chest, still lying on his side.

“I don’t want to loose you, but I’m afraid that’s the only way out of this mess.”

These words are mumbled, barely audible.

Rhys soothes his thumb across the back of Riley’s hand. He looks down at his friend, but the boy won’t return his gaze. Riley’s eyes stay on the wall, almost empty.

Something inside Rhys cracks.

There are no more words.

Rhys shifts so he can use his free hand to brush Riley’s hair off his forehead. His gaze is fond, but full of grief when Riley finally turns his eyes up to meet it.

Riley chokes out a sob, and in the next moment he finds himself tugged up into Rhys’s arms. Riley still clutches one of the other boy’s hands between their chests and lets his face burrow into Rhys’s shoulder.

Rhys just wraps his other arm around Riley, soothing it up and down his back, letting his friend cry out all the words he cannot say.