[When she reaches out, curls her hand around his scarred one (their hands are almost the same size now, Will realizes, realizes how much he's grown) it's almost enough for Will to crumble into pieces. He's played out this conversation so many times in his head, ended it half a dozen ways. Anger and confusion and denial and exasperation. And acceptance. He'd ended it that way, and pushed the thrill of hope away, because what if, what if.
He looks down at her hand over his, breath tight in his chest.] Since forever. ["Forever" being probably kindergarten, when he was old enough to a) realize the existence of other boys and b) realize that him realizing this was bad.] I didn't want -- to make things worse. [Make them harder. Will knew what people said, what they called him and Jonathan and Joyce in too-loud whispers. Any bit of ammunition would've been hurtled against them nonstop.]
no subject
He looks down at her hand over his, breath tight in his chest.] Since forever. ["Forever" being probably kindergarten, when he was old enough to a) realize the existence of other boys and b) realize that him realizing this was bad.] I didn't want -- to make things worse. [Make them harder. Will knew what people said, what they called him and Jonathan and Joyce in too-loud whispers. Any bit of ammunition would've been hurtled against them nonstop.]