Harlan

Crunch. 

It’s been fifteen minutes now, and no sign of the golden boy. Ledger’s eyes are wide open scanning the room for Harlan to no avail. His hand instinctively goes to the side of his head, fingers wrapping around a dark curl, fidgeting, tugging, twisting.

Crunch goes the apple as he bites into it.

A tray clatters, some boys laugh. His eyes flicker from one side to another. Where is he? If there is one thing Ledger knows, it’s that Harlan would never bail. But he already did, didn’t he? 

Crunch.

Ledger had stood in the cold, waiting for him. An hour straight, he thinks bitterly. Harlan didn’t show up. Which was strange. Yes, it was strange. Harlan had no way of knowing. He’d shown no clue, no previous suspicion. Why did he bail? After all, it was the record store he so loved, the one that he raved about, called his safe haven. And he’d promised to buy Ledger a copy of his favourite record, so he could ‘share the experience.’

Crunch. He hasn’t noticed how his leg bobs frantically under the table. His heart beats a little faster, matching pace with his thoughts.

Is Harlan truly onto him? No, Ledger can’t afford that. He tells himself he needs that record. And the speaker too. Harlan’d said he’d give him his old record player, now that he has a new one. Ledger wants it, and badly. That is usually enough for him.

Crunch. 

The people in the cafeteria filter out, and still no Harlan. No text telling Ledger he’s sick. No excuse for missing. Or bailing. Then he must know. Think, he tells himself. What gave you away?

He closes his eyes and blocks the cafeteria noise. He thinks about last week. Harlan’s room. 

He’d been playing guitar, he recalls. An absentminded arpeggio, over and over again. He rambled on about soccer while he played, giving Ledger no room to make conversation with him. Not really paying any attention to Ledger at all.

He’d been wandering around the room with wide eyes. He was always surprised when he went to Harlan’s house, even if he’d been there a million times before. The lights were always different, or some new piece of furniture seemed to catch his attention. And the gadgets, oh, the myriad of useless gadgets in that home. It drove Ledger crazy with envy.

Maybe it had been the figurines, he thinks. 

Crunch. The waxy red fruit reminded him of them, the ‘toys’, as Harlan had phrased it.

Had he been ogling them too much? Maybe Harlan had been paying attention, after all. Did he see when he put one in his pocket, pulse racing with adrenaline, heart glowing at the sensation of sharp vinyl on his fingertips? No, it couldn’t be. He’d been very careful not to show it.

Crunch. 

Or was it something different, deep-rooted from the first day? The first time Ledger felt the envy and the rot settle heavy on his chest. When he decided it was better to feel bitter than to feel nothing at all. 

That one night out, when the whole gang cheered for Harlan. When he paid for everything with a warm but distant smile. Had he noticed Ledger ordering the most expensive drink on the menu? The way he hesitated before taking a sip, not quite believing he’d actually done it, innocent as it was? No, Harlan was too busy chatting with someone else.

Crunch. He bites into his apple. The saccharine fruit clings to the back of his throat, thick enough to make him sick. But so, so sweet and wholesome.

The books. It had to be the books. Entire sagas that Harlan lended him with the dismissive wave of a hand. Too many times he hadn’t given them back.

Crunch–

Ledger winces. His tooth bites something hard and bitter. He snaps out of his daze for just a moment. He has reached the core. Eaten half of it already.

He stares, gaze unfocused and mind reeling. If Harlan were here, he thinks, then he’d give me his apple. And just like that he’s lost once more.

He forgets to spit out the seeds. The apple seems whole, delicious and inviting. He bites again, and he doesn’t flinch when the bare core snaps into two.

Was it the pool? The friends? The videogames? 

His eyes are wet. His hand continues twisting that single lock of hair, pulling and tangling it as he bites into the remnants of the once-apple. 

Ledger wants it all. The house, the outings, the luxury. He wants Harlan’s big, lovely family. He wants Harlan all to himself. His endless chattering and upbeat tunes, his social ease and quiet nature. His pulse is everywhere, his breath short.

He knows he’s lying to himself. He knows he does it for the things. Things that don’t ever heal him, but feel so good.

Crunch.

“Agh–”

A searing pain shoots through his hand, and he sucks on the wound. A familiar metallic taste fills his mouth, and one lucid thought makes its way through the racket in his mind: Stop.

But he can’t, he can’t. He wants more. He wants to keep tasting the mellifluous fruit, he wants Harlan to come sit at the table and talk and talk and talk him into oblivion.

Crunch. The flesh is almost as sweet as the apple, and the bloody tang becomes as addictive as sugar. 

Harlan. Harlan. Harlan. Harlan.

His teeth tear through skin as his thoughts chant the godforsaken name, the beautiful, perfect name. Harlan.

No, Ledger doesn’t want Harlan. He doesn’t want to live in his shadow, watch his perfect little life unfold from afar. He wants to tear open his skin, zip it over his own bones, wear his voice and his manners. He wants something more than just envious, anxious Ledger.

Crunch. For only a moment, he considers the possibility that his index must be gone. He still has nine more fingers. He keeps on biting as he tries to make peace with the truth:

Ledger steals. That’s what he does. He steals money and books, friends and moments. He steals, steals, steals, and it is miserable. He wants, envies, and hates. It eats him from the outside in.

He bites, and bites, and cries, and heaves, and grunts, and hurts.

He needs.

And when for just a moment, he is able to see through the tears and plead for help, he finds exactly who he’s been searching for, looking down on him with a sneer on his face.