IF YOU WANTED to know Will’s seventh-grade secret, it was this: a quiet retreat from the dinner table, the turn of a tap, and the sound of rushing water. It was thirty seconds, and the click of a lock. That night, he threw up three bites of chicken and a piece of chocolate cake.

For six weeks, he heaved into toilet bowls and did not lose an ounce of weight. Instead, he denied himself dinner, wrapping it in plastic and hiding it under his bed, to devour in the dead of night. Soon, he had a heap of rotting food under his bed, which he didn’t know how to dispose of. He cleared it out, buried it deep in the woods, and began creating a stockpile of sweets, instead. He ate until it felt as though his stomach were splitting open, and then, after wiping his tears, kept going, because no amount of food was ever enough to fill that emptiness inside of him.

And even when that first pound dropped off—even when it was five, ten, fifteen—no one knew not to trust Will alone in a bathroom. No one scolds a skinny boy for eating an entire box of blueberry waffles. No one tells him not to wash them down with two bottles of weight-loss tablets and a litre of chocolate milk. They never looked twice at Will, or considered that perhaps he wasn’t eating, because no one thought of him as anything less than an inspiration.

Ever since that first night, he lied. He lied about why he went out for a walk every evening, after dinner. He lied about eating the food he brought up to his room. He lied about the mornings spent on the bathroom floor, head spinning, hadn’t eaten since the day before. He hid his scars, and starving stomach, which was beginning to eat itself from the inside out, beneath layered shirts and heavy coats. But even when he fainted on the bus, even when his form group teacher had to call the paramedics, and even when he was forced to eat his lunch in a classroom, confined to his desk like a prisoner, he did not expect anyone to believe him.

HE LEANED OVER the toilet and spit out the last of his lunch, dragging a sleeve over his mouth. He flushed it and opened the door, turning on the tap and holding his hands under the steaming water. He stood there for a moment, letting it scald his palms, until a group of boys came in. He turned off the water and lifted his satchel off the floor, swinging it over his shoulder, when one of them called out: “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

The last bell had already rung. He was going to be late for his next lesson, which was starting in less than a minute, and across the campus. But he turned back, because he had no choice. He knew, somewhere deep within, that there was no outrunning this.

Maël pulled him back by the shirt and threw him into an open stall, roughly seating him on the toilet he had just left, with a hand on either shoulder. He told Will that it was his birthday, and his mother had made him a chocolate torte. But it was an awful lot for just one person, and he was feeling particularly generous that day.

He opened his satchel and took out a paper bag filled with chewed-up cake, sticky and glistening. He gave Will a plastic spoon and told him to eat it. They circled around him, taking out their camera phones to record his suffering.

Maël Renault had always been the centre of attention; always basked in the limelight. He was the star of the rugby team, with a bewitching charm that drew people in before they could think twice and escape. Everyone wanted to be his friend—more because they were afraid of him, and less because he was truly desirable. When he talked, they hung on his every word, and laughed at every joke he made. No one could keep up with him and Will. After years of searching, they had finally met their match.

He looked down into the bag, hesitating. When he shook his head, Maël took the fork away and held him down. The bag slid along the floor, and he was slapped across the face. His head clapped against the wall, mouth falling open, a long string of saliva dripping down.

Maël reached behind him for a handful of cake, stuffing it into Will’s mouth, so full he couldn’t breathe. He choked, spraying crumbs across Maël’s shirtfront, but he didn’t even notice. He was already scooping it up off the floor and cramming it back. Will bit his finger, but it slipped away before he could snap it off. The cake was infuriatingly sweet, and viscous with someone else’s saliva, closer to pudding in texture. He closed his eyes and focused on the movements of his jaw, thinking not of what was inside his mouth, but how to be rid of it. He swallowed it as quickly as possible.

He was pinned against the wall like Christ on the cross, head hanging before him. His face was smeared with chocolate and cherries, and he felt horrifically ill.

“How about some wine?” someone said, bringing him a cup of foamy, amber liquid. He drank quickly and gratefully, realising too late that it was urine, thick and sugary, like milk sweetened by rot. The cake that had been caught between his teeth absorbed it like a sponge. He began to cough, and before he knew it, he was bent over, head between his knees, vomiting across the floor. Hot tears slid down his face, and vomit dripped from his mouth and nose.

Maël ran from the sudden downpour upon his shoes. Without his support, Will dropped from the wall, slamming his tailbone against the toilet. He landed with his hands out before him, holding onto the seat. He kicked his satchel out of the way and bent forward, releasing the last of the cake onto the mess he’d made.

Then he lay there, exhausted, looking at the cherries he’d thrown up… like blood clots, or tiny, broken hearts pulsing on the ground.

“YOU KNOW, RAMY, you don’t have many good ideas—or many ideas, period—but this was one of the best,” Will said, as they crossed the threshold into the outside world. It had been a long, eventful day, and it was a special kind of pleasure to walk home on a cold autumn afternoon. “Thomas is cute, isn’t he?”

“Christ, Will,” he sighed. “How many boyfriends are you going to have?”

“One.” He bit his lip, looking down at his feet, and the fallen leaves crushing beneath them. “But I can have a boyfriend and still think someone is cute, can’t I?”

Ramy clutched the straps of his satchel tighter. “You do know he’d never… well. All I’m saying is that you deserve better than that, Will.”

“Says the one that screws him for drugs.”

“There’s a difference between sleeping with someone and sleeping with someone you love. Love isn’t about what you get out of it, or about giving them what they want.”

“But if it did happen…” He trailed off, eyes focused somewhere far away, and Ramy knew that he was gone. “It would be—”

From then on, Ramy cut him off internally, not listening to a word he said, because there was no point. Sometimes, he wondered if Will was truly grounded in reality, and if he stood with both feet on the same earth as him. Most of the time, he thought so, but other times, it seemed as though he were in another time and place entirely—one where shadows run and darkness reigns.

After rambling on for what seemed like forever, Will said: “I could dye my hair blond, like—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he sputtered.

“I’m kidding!” he laughed, shoving Ramy’s shoulder. He was feeling bubbly and bright, despite what happened earlier that day.

Ramy mumbled a string of obscenities under his breath, taking Will’s hand and dragging him forward. He was beyond outraged that Will was taking this so lightly, pretending that nothing had happened, when neither of them would ever be the same again.

They stopped at the corner until the light turned, watching the cars rush by. This was the part where Will stepped into the woods, and Ramy continued on through the downtown traffic. Except this time, he couldn’t bear to let him go, clutching his hand tighter than ever.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Come over for dinner,” he said, voice tight. “I know what happened today. I know you don’t want to go home.”

Will nodded, suddenly deflated, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. “I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I can stay over tonight.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He paused. “Do you want to tell me what happened, or shall I guess.”

“Nothing! I just—” But he didn’t finish, because he was backing away from Ramy, who hadn’t let him go. Now they were standing there, hands raised between them, both pulling in opposite directions. He leaned back with all his weight, but Ramy stood his ground.

“Come with me,” he begged. “Mum will make you a nice, hot cup of chai. You’ll feel better right away.”

“Okay.”

He finally gave in, and followed him, head pounding harder and quicker with each footfall, body slick with a cold sweat. By the time they made it to the house, his stomach was in so much pain that he had begun to cry. Ramy released him the second they stepped through the door, and he ran upstairs to the bathroom, where he heaved up bits of chocolate, and the apple the nurse had made him eat after cleaning him up.

And when he was finished coughing up everything in his system, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and face, and went to lie down on the sofa, not bothering to take off his coat. He was asleep from the moment he closed his eyes, and it seemed only a second more before Azra was leaning over him, touching his forehead with the back of her hand, checking for a fever.

“Is he all right?” she whispered to Ramy, who was standing behind her. He cracked open one eye to look at her. “Will? Are you feeling okay?”

“Mm…” She put an arm round his back, lifting him into a sitting position. He held her close, breathing her in as she shucked his coat and handed it to Ramy. “I’m sorry. I got sick in your toilet,” he croaked.

“What have you eaten today?”

“An apple.”

“Well, no wonder you’re not feeling well.” She gently laid him back, covering him with a blanker. He was shivering so violently his teeth had begun to chatter. “Ramy,” she ordered, slipping back into her native language, “take off his shoes. I’m going to make him a cup of tea.”

He did as she asked, then found Will something to wear, careful not to stare at the fading bruises on his thighs and hips. He pulled out a pair of loose cotton trousers and a long-sleeve shirt, which would hide the scars laddering up every inch of Will’s skin. Then he hurried back down the stairs and dressed him, before his mother returned with a steaming cup. There was a small smile pulling at her lips, despite the situation that lay before them. He thought she must enjoy having someone to take care of, as mothers do—particularly those who are also nurses. She held the cup to Will’s lips, and he drank, despite the churning of his stomach, because he could not bear to waste a drop of her kindness. And when he had finished it, she returned to the kitchen, where she had been preparing dinner when they walked in. Ramy sat down beside him, holding his hand as he drifted off into a dark and painful sleep.

“I NEVER ASKED you, but why do you insist on wearing that skirt?” Ramy asked him that night, once he was awake, back in the world of the living and breathing. His tone was reminiscent of Maël’s, when he had asked Will if he was a boy or girl, and it made something inside him shiver.

“Because I’ll wear what I want to wear,” he snapped.

In the end, he had stayed for dinner. They were setting the table with chipped plates and tarnished flatware, which had been in the family for generations. There was something oddly… charming about their imperfection. His father would never stand for such a thing.

“Fine. It’s not like you ever listen to a word I say.”

Will glanced up at him. For once, he wasn’t wearing his hoodie, but the button-down his mother had wrangled him into, although she hadn’t managed to coax him out of his jeans, which were held together by raw, white threads. He was already in a foul, black mood, and Will knew he was jabbing at the beast, but still he didn’t stop. He was walking around the table, setting plates down on the bare wood, while Will followed behind him with the silverware.

“Sorry. It’s just… I get asked that often enough at school. And something happened today because of it.”

“Then why do you keep wearing it?”

“Because I want to.” He looked down at his feet. “Because you told me I looked pretty.”

AFTER DINNER, AZRA let them try her baklava, which she had drizzled with honey and topped with clotted cream. He had seen her eating it on fresh fruit, and out the jar with a spoon on more than one occasion. Will found it strange, to say the least. He’d never had clotted cream on anything but pastries before, but it was actually rather lovely. It was sweet, heavy, and made him sleepy. He knew he’d have to be sick later, but in that moment, it was a small pleasure simply to eat, and to pretend he was a normal person, with normal habits.

Azra spent a long time talking to Ramy about school, and marks. Will was silent, listening to him li, as he sat in a sugar-induced catatonia. It had been so long since he’d had anything sweet, and now it was a shock to the system.

The conversation turned to the topic of Ramadan, which was beginning the next day. This was the final meal they would be having until the sun set tomorrow night. Will didn’t know a great deal about Islamic customs, but he did know that Ramy wasn’t allowed to eat until it was dark outside, and that he spent all of September hiding in the library during lunch, where he wouldn’t be caught eating food bought from the cafeteria. Thomas and Will kept him company as he hid from the Almighty, and brought him all the croque messieurs he could ever eat.

Will wished he had a mother that cared about him even half as much as Ramy’s did. He would’ve listened to her; would’ve obeyed everything she said. He wouldn’t have thrown it all away on drugs, and sex, and… whatever else Ramy did when his mother wasn’t looking. All he ever wanted was someone who would hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. All he’d ever wanted was someone who loved him.

“Will,” Azra said, breaking him from the darkness, “does your father let you wear that?”

He sat there, lips parted, but saying nothing. Ramy put down his fork, commanding silence at the table, and Will knew that she was talking about the skirt. He had grown so accustomed to wearing it that he no longer saw it as anything more than an article of clothing—a sexless one. But he had made the mistake of believing that others did, too.

Will drew in a sharp breath. “No. But I wanted to look nice tonight.”

She smiled at him, and took another bite of baklava, laden with clotted cream. It was a strange sort of smile—a sad one. She had seen the bruises on his face, and knew who had put them there, just as she knew why Will didn’t sleep when there was a man in the house.

But then Nasreen broke the silence, and she turned her head. Slowly, the conversation resumed without him.

Will pushed back his plate and excused himself, hurrying off to the bathroom. He closed the door and locked himself in.

The walls were mounted with paintings of sunrises; soft shades of red and orange, which were startling against the white behind them. They brightened and closed in the already suffocating room. He tried not to look at the sunsets as he kneeled before the toilet and emptied his stomach. It was too much like looking into the eyes of God.

After he was through, he disposed of the evidence and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the door and felling very much as though it were staring back at him. He heard crows tapping at the window, but ignored their call.

Someone knocked, and he flinched. The key rattled in the lock, and the door opened slowly, revealing Ramy, who was standing there, looking down at him. He knew what Will did when he was alone in a bathroom, and hadn’t hesitated to interrupt, although he was afraid of what he’d find on the other side. But this time, it wasn’t a rampart of bloody tissues, or a rusty razor blade, or a sink full of vomit. It was only Will, sitting there, looking back at him with tired eyes.

“Hi.” He glanced down at Will’s thumb, from which he was slowly pulling away a strip of skin. “My mum wanted me to check on you. You’ve been in here a while.”

“Have I?” It felt like it had been only a few minutes since he left the table. The skin came away from his thumb, and he curled his hand into a fist, to hide the blood weeping from the wound.

“Will, it’s been almost half an hour.”

“Okay,” he whispered, but didn’t move. He was waiting for Ramy to leave. But he didn’t. He stayed there, clearly expecting him to come with. He stepped to the side and opened the medicine cabinet, taking out a box of plasters. He knelt on one knee, gently taking Will’s hand and wrapping up his thumb. And just like that, it was over. They were together again, like nothing had ever happened. Will folded his hands in his lap, staring down at Ramy’s shoes.

“I’m sorry about what she said.”

“At least she lets me at the table. My father didn’t.”

Ramy’s expression changed for a moment, and then it was as if the door had closed between them once more. “At least you have a father.”

Will looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“Ramy, I—”

“Forget it,” he grumbled. “Come down whenever you’re ready. I’ll drive you home.”

The door closed. Will sat there a while longer. He thought about telling Ramy how he’d been treated by his father—his real father—and how badly he’d been hurt; how it hadn’t mattered to him, but he wished it mattered to someone. He imagined that Ramy was a different person. He wished that when he went downstairs, it was to watch a film on the sofa, wrapped up in the same blanket he’d slept in earlier. He wished that John had come to fetch him at midnight, and that as they drove down the motorway, he’d see that it was misty, and just beginning to rain.

But none of those things were the truth, and so he rose to his feet, closed the lid of the toilet, and flicked off the light. The door whispered shut behind him.