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Just beyond the slate-grey headstones of the Piffling Vale cemetery, on the very edge of the property before the sparse grass gave way to cool woods, was a large elm tree. It’s roots pushed out of the ground like a sea serpent, just brushing the edges of the graves. The trunk grew as one for a few feet, before splitting off into two massive branches. The leaves grew back densely in the springtime and into summer, like a sponge caked with green icing had been pressed onto the branches. When a breeze blew through, they rustled like fur on a large animal.
The best aspect about it was the privacy. The top half had branches that were sturdy enough to support the average human, and covered by leaves that allowed anyone behind them to look out, but concealed them from view. During the winter, the smaller branches created a crosshatch that still provided reasonable cover, unless you were wearing particularly bright clothing.
Rudyard had discovered this tree when he was five years old, after running away from home for the first time. His feet had begun to drag after the first block, and had naturally led him to the graveyard on top of the hill. It was the only place he knew how to get to reliably.
He had ambled among the headstones for a while, kicking halfheartedly at the bases in frustration as he wondered when- or if- his family would notice his absence. When that got boring, he had searched the area for something mildly fun for a gothic five year old to do, and narrowed in on a large tree near the edge of the property.
Rudyard was never the most athletic child, but he found it fairly easy to climb up the numerous long branches until he was several feet off the ground. He could see the whole cemetery from there, curving down the slope of the hill and into town. Curious, he glanced up at the branches above him. Maybe he could go higher.
From that day onwards, every time he had needed to be truly alone, Rudyard had climbed as high as he dared and hid in the tree for hours. When Antigone had screamed at him, when his father’s ghost had rattled his brain to a breaking point, when the world had seemed too long and too cruel to be worth living in, he would sit there. No one could see him, and he was perfectly content to watch the people below go about their stupid, perfect, normal lives. There was no taunting, no yelling, no people waiting for him to fail. Just peace and quiet. It was lovely.
So naturally, the two things that ended it were a) Rudyard’s remarkably substandard mental health, and b) Eric Fucking Chapman.
There had always been something wrong with him, he knew. His parents had never taken him to any kind of therapist, and the school guidance counselor had given up on him after he’d thrown a stapler at her head, but the verdict was always clear: his mind was broken. No other solution had been presented in the first place.
Antigone was halfway in his boat, but she was sad all the time, and really just screeched and mumbled a lot. Plus, she never left the house, and sure the outside world was horrible, but Rudyard found it hard to believe that anyone could venture into the woods beyond Piffling and not feel at home there. The true tragedy, he supposed, was that they were both in similar states of mental destruction, but neither of them could stop screaming at each other long enough to talk about it.
In Rudyard’s case he himself was halfway in said boat, and halfway drowning in the ocean. There were weeks, months really, when all feeling and awareness would just slip away, and all he would be left with was a dark, fuzzy abyss where his brain used to be. The world became dull and sluggish, and most times he could barely remember anything afterwards. Everything was black and white; cold and dirty slush from a February rainstorm.
Then for week or three afterwards, everything would suddenly snap into focus. Colors became almost brighter, somehow, the world was louder, and Rudyard was flooded with a surge of energy that frightened him. He rarely slept; his body kept him buzzing and awake with a roaring mind that swung from each emotions like a string of monkey bars. It was then that he felt his most confident, his most talkative, his most angry at the world and all its shortcomings. It was like his skin was on fire.
He could never tell when one of them was coming; they arrived like a legion of wildfires. He could only ride the days out and try to pick up the pieces of whatever disaster he’d created when it was all over.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? His fault. His disaster. Stupid Rudyard with his stupid plans and stupid brain and words like a deadly disease. He was a fucking poison, and even on his best days he knew it.
The pound of useless matter inside his head raged as Rudyard drew his legs underneath him, his chin resting on his knees as he stared grimly out at the radiant blue sky above him. It was a glorious sunny day, a warm spring breeze gently blowing through the village and coaxing a few lazy waves onto the shore. Summer was close enough to whisper, and the sun shone hotly on Rudyard’s wool sweater and dark hair.
None of this mattered, however, because the world was grey right then, so Rudyard was utterly miserable.
He twirled a leaf absent-mindedly between his fingers, contemplating throwing himself onto the rocky shore and seeing just what would happen. There were much kinder ways to off himself, of course, but right now he was leaning towards something much more gory and dramatic. His blood would spray onto the rocks, pooling between their cracks and whipping up a stench that would last for days. He gave a dry laugh. Yet another mess for the rest of the village to clean up.
A wayward leaf trailed it’s way down to land in Rudyard’s hair, and he plucked it out curiously. A strange little thought wormed its way into his mind; the tree was awfully tall. He was awfully light, too, and small enough to get up between the larger branches that blocked the way. With morbid wonderment, Rudyard pondered how high he could climb before one of the branches snapped and sent him plummeting to the ground. At his current height he would almost certainly break something. But what if he could do something more...
Almost trancelike, Rudyard lifted himself up from his spot and grabbed the closest branch to him. He set his foot on another one and pushed, pulling himself up to the next level with a grunt. He leaned over, brushing the tips of his fingers onto another branch, before grabbing it with both hands and scrambling onto it. Higher and higher, they never seemed to give way, although they certainly grew thinner and more precarious.
When he finally reached the top, Rudyard stared out at the horizon beneath him. If he thought of it that way, it was a rather pretty day to die.
The ocean stretched out below, endless blue and greens battering against each other in a crash of foam. The tangy scent of sea salt drifted up onto the hill, and a cool breeze blew through Rudyard’s hair. Up there, the world was made of soft green leaves and sunshine.
Rudyard shifted to the edge of the branch. He was about fifty feet up or so, he thought. High enough that a fall would certainly break something vital. And who on Earth would come to a graveyard on a beautiful day like this?
He closed his eyes.
“Rudyard? Is that you?”
The sudden voice sliced through the fog crowding Rudyard’s head like a knife through smoke. Startled, he scrambled back onto the branch, gripping the sides tightly. Opening his eyes, Rudyard saw a small figure standing at the base of the tree, staring up at him and waving.
“Hello! Lovely day, isn’t it?” said Eric Chapman.
Rudyard scowled. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Chapman? Don’t you have someplace to be?”
Chapman shrugged good-naturedly. “Not really. Lunch rush at the cafe isn’t for a few hours, and it’s too nice a day to be stuck inside, don’t you think? Say, you mind if I join you up there?”
“What? Absolut-” Rudyard began, but it was too late. Chapman tossed his bag down between the roots and began to scale the trunk of the tree with infuriating grace. Within a few minutes or so, he crawled onto the branch next to Rudyard, kicked his legs out, and shot him a stunning smile.
“Nice out, isnt it?”
With a sigh of defeat, Rudyard stared blankly at the crystalline blue of the sky above them. “I guess.”
Chapman shifted awkwardly. “Right. So… What brings you up here?”
“Can a man not climb his tree in peace, Chapman?”
“I had no idea you owned it.” His reply was light, but his voice betrayed worry. Rudyard looked at him oddly.
“Chapman, what exactly is your goal here?”
He frowned. “Nothing. I just- I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Rudyard stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Chapman said, choosing his words carefully, “you’ve been looking awful sad lately, and you were just sitting up here alone…”
“So you just came up here to make fun of me?” Rudyard snapped, eyes flashing.
Chapman balked. “No- no! I just thought you could use some company, that’s all!”
Rudyard held Chapman in a cold, heavy gaze for several moments. Chapman shivered.
With a sigh, Rudyard looked away. “Fine. Whatever. Just… keep to yourself, got it?”
Smiling a little, Chapman watched Rudyard turned away. The sun filtered warmly through the new leaves, casting panels of light onto his face. His long eyelashes fluttered gently as the leaves shook around them, thin streaks of shadow falling onto his cheeks.
Chapman let the quiet sit for a moment, watching the tension slowly leave Rudyard’s shoulders as he let his guard down. His stomach twisted at destroying the fragile peace they had achieved.
“So,” he said, casually stretching his legs out away from the branch, “we’re pretty high up, huh?”
Rudyard finally turned to look at him, frowning. “I suppose.”
“Sort of dangerous, being up this high,” Chapman continued. “If you were to fall, or one of the branches were to break… well, you might not get back up again. More than a little risky, if you ask me.”
Rudyard stared at him warily, worry growing inside him. “What are you getting at, Chapman? I imagine you didn’t climb up here just to berate me for my life choices.”
“I didn’t, actually. And really, I think you’re quite brave.”
Blanching, Rudyard asked, “You- you do?”
Chapman nodded. “Of course. Most people would be scared of being up this high. I mean, aren’t you afraid you’ll fall?”
Uncomfortably, Rudyard shrugged. “Well- maybe. Any normal person would be.”
“But you came up here anyway.” It was more a statement that a question, and Rudyard flinched. Chapman said, “So you’ve got to be afraid of something.”
Panic slithered in like a rope of ice. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What are you afraid of, Rudyard?” Chapman fixed him with a steely gaze that Rudyard had never seen on him before. His stomach dropped. “Falling? Or perhaps, letting go?”
Rudyard’s eyes widened. He couldn’t breathe. Chapman knew- how did he know? Was it really so obvious? Could anyone have walked on by and seen him, sitting precariously on both the literal and metaphorical ledge? It felt as if his ribs were twisting into his lungs, pulverizing them into lifeless, deflated balloons.
Chapman noticed the growing panic in Rudyard’s eyes, and quickly reached out an arm to him. Rudyard flinched.
“You-” he stammered, “how did you- why would-” he paused, grasping for words. Finally he settled on, “What?”
With a heavy sigh, Chapman leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He closed his eyes for a long time.
“The funny thing,” he said, “about suicide, is that more often than not, it happens in the moment. The human body is tailor-made to keep living at all costs, despite what the brain may say. So, when you plan it out, you usually end up stopping,” He paused briefly. “Impulse, however. Impulse is a funny thing. There’s no planning, no time to back out. That usually results in some real danger.”
Chapman turned to look at Rudyard, his face unreadable. “So, something tells me this wasn’t exactly planned.”
Rudyard shrugged, shrinking into himself. His shoulders were tense again. “That… might not be an entirely inaccurate assumption.”
Nodding, Chapman stared at him, his eyes filled with concern. Rudyard twisted uncomfortably under his gaze, holding back tears. No one had ever looked at him before with such naked care and regard. He felt vulnerable, like those two eyes could see right through him, to every part he wanted to hide away behind a wall so thick not even light could see it.
Chapman reached out out a hand. “Rudyard,” he said, “I’m sorry. But I understand how you feel right now. Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are.”
Rudyard snorted. “No you haven’t,” he said bitterly. “You’re Eric Chapman. You’re perfect. If you’ve ever had a real problem, it’s having so many friends, you don’t know what to do with them.”
Chapman didn’t even have the good graces to look offended. Instead, he gave a weak smile and reached down to pull up the sleeves of his shirt.
Rudyard had never seen them before, but in the bright morning sunlight, they suddenly became clear: a faint pattern of track marks moving up and down his arms. Even though Rudyard had never seen any actual drugs in his life, he still knew what they were.
Chapman’s eyes were sad as they took in Rudyard’s shocked expression. He didn’t miss how the other man’s gaze flicked down to his own covered arms. He nodded at them. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Rudyard’s expression turned fearful, but he let out a long breath. With trembling fingers, he pulled up one sleeve halfway, revealing forearms littered with long, red lines. Some of them looked fresh.
Slowly, Chapman reached out his hands, waiting for Rudyard to flinch away. When he didn’t, Chapman took his arm with painstaking gentleness and brought it up to the light. He ran his fingers lightly over the raised scars, breath puffing warmly on Rudyard’s skin. It was a moment that felt achingly soft, yet fragile, like fairy floss suspended in midair.
Rudyard let out a small breath as Chapman turned to look at him. “I know you don’t believe this, but- you’ve got something inside yourself worth living for, Rudyard. I promise.”
He looked away for a moment, troubled. “Oh please. Everyone on this stupid little island hates me; they barely even knew I was alive. No one noticed. I mean, would anybody care if I just… disappeared?”
The warm hand holding Rudyard’s arm moved to rest lightly on his cheek. With a start, he looked up to see Chapman’s eyes, rippling like the warm blue waters lapping at the shore below, staring into his. They paralyzed him, sending a cool shiver down his spine. He was frozen as Chapman leaned in closer, his voice softer than a whisper:
“I would.”
And then Chapman’s lips were on his.
It was soft, chaste, the softest thing Rudyard had ever felt. A warm, tingling feeling spread throughout him; he could feel his face flushing. He didn’t dare open his eyes for fear that this might be a dream, that someone this perfect and beautiful and kind was kissing him so wonderfully. Chapman felt like the sunshine falling on the leaves above them, he was lingering summer. His other hand moved over on top of Rudyard’s, intertwining their fingers and creating a crosshatch of pale and warm skin.
The kiss was closed-mouthed, so Rudyard breathed in deeply, savoring it. He wanted to press this memory into his head forever, like a leaf splayed across the pages. All of him felt alive in this moment, stripped vulnerable and raw.
Chapman pulled away with a sigh, his eyes beginning to crinkle up in a smile. He rested his forehead against Rudyard’s. “That was real,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. I promise.”
Rudyard’s eyes were still closed. “People make a lot of those, you know.”
He felt the hand around his give a squeeze. “I’ll make more. As many as it takes to keep you here with me.” He sighed. “You are loved, Rudyard. You are so loved, I don’t know how you stand it.”
Finally, Rudyard opened his eyes and smiled for the first time that day. “I think I’ll manage”