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“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind"
Naveed had a way of making it into Cory's dreams. Technicolour and vibrant, glowing like some kind of angel. No matter the dream's content, Naveed would appear, and outshine everything else. The dream would transform; from concrete and ugly to soft and beautiful; from loud and fearful to quiet and comforting; from hateful to loving, all in his presence.
The night after his dad had kicked the shit out of Jordan, after Cory had done nothing but stand and watch, frozen to the floor in leaden shoes, he could barely sleep. For hours, he tormented himself with thoughts of what he could've done. What he should've done. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were plagued with shouts and fury. It was as if he were reliving the event, over and over. A videotape that wouldn't stop rewinding, and each time he did nothing more than act a statue; the likeness of a big brother, but never playing the role.
But, in what felt like the thousandth iteration of the event, something changed. Amid the fiery heat of his dad's anger, a different light emerged. Not red hot, but golden and warm. The stoney hold his fear had over him released slightly, and he turned his head towards the front door, away from the scene before him that he was now so very well versed in. There Naveed stood, a sympathetic look in his eyes. He reached out his hand, as if inviting Cory to run away with him, to escape the hellish moment before him. Part of him felt obligated to stay. This was his family, his own little brother. He should stay, should stop his father, should make it right. But this scene had become all too familiar to him. And there stood Naveed, like a welcoming haven away from everything else he knew. He took Naveed's hand and the rest of the dream fell away.
When Cory saw Naveed at school the next morning, he found himself avoiding his gaze. Not because the dream was dirty or wrong, but because it was embarrassing. He was embarrassed for wanting to run to someone and let the inky nightmares spill out of his mouth.
The idea of the play stirred something within Cory's mind. He started finding himself dreaming of red curtains and stage lights. Kisses and hundreds of eyes, watching. Naveed would always be there, of course. He was usually centre stage, bathed in the spotlight, and looking like something Cory had never seen before. Other times, Naveed would be in the audience, his eyes following Cory, and his face the only one Cory could pick out.
Often, before the dream ended, before the hungry gaze of the crowd, Cory would find himself having to kiss someone. He could never distinguish the person he was kissing. They seemed so faceless, blurred almost, through Cory's nervous lens. The kiss would always drag on, much longer than Cory liked, but the audience would cheer and clap and beg for more. He didn't want to disappoint. It just felt so performative, so unnatural; he usually woke up with a bad taste in his mouth.
Despite this, Cory never paid much attention to these dreams. After all, they were just dreams. There was no use in carrying them from the dark into daylight.
Until one night, the dream was different. It went through the normal motions of red curtains, stage lights, and Naveed centre stage. There was music, applause, laughter, as usual. And Cory found himself poised to kiss his faceless co-star. Only they weren't faceless anymore. Before him was Naveed.
Cory awoke with a start, his breathing shallow. The off white of his ceiling glared back down at him, condemning him for whatever his mind was trying to tell him.
He now sat next to Naveed, their backs to the wall, play books in hand. 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. How ironic, Cory thought. His own dream had been playing on his mind, making it difficult to look at Naveed for too long. He could not allow his eyes to idle, even if his brain lingered.
"Is there any kissing in this play?" he asked suddenly, biting back any nerves that threatened to quieten his voice. He hoped Naveed would put his question down to Cory's... notoriety with girls.
"I don't think so," Naveed laughed, and Cory dared to look at him. Naveed stayed focused on the book in his hands.
Cory took a deep breath. "Would you be able to kiss a girl?"
Naveed looked up at him then, a smirk on his face, but gave no answer.
"Y'know, like, in front of your parents," Cory elaborated.
Naveed turned his eyes back to the play book, and Cory dared to let himself look at his face. Whilst he certainly didn't glow like he did in Cory's dreams, he did poses something that made him more striking than any other bloke Cory had ever seen.
"The story's meant to be a dream. They do weird things, things they wouldn't dream of doing. Then they just forget about it."
Things they wouldn't dream of doing. His lips quirked up in a sarcastic smile. "Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse, "Fancy a bit of that meself sometimes."
He closed his eyes, leaning back into the wall, with the way Naveed looked, centre stage, lips poised, projected onto the inside of his eyelids.
That night, when his mind's eye found himself once again on the hardwood floor of the stage, he didn't hesitate. He kissed Naveed before the baying crowd, and didn't stop, even after the curtain fell.
Nothing was the same at home after his dad kicked Jordan out. The air felt different, the food tasted different, even the silence sounded different. And Cory felt guilty. He was older, so he should've gone first. He should've been the one surviving on one meal a day, being sneaked clean clothes in the corridors, and keeping it all a secret. Jordan should be in his place, and he in Jordan's.
There was no point trying to tell his dad that though. In their father's eyes, Jordan was a mouthy waste of space, and Cory was a winner. Cory was someone to be proud of; Jordan was someone to be ashamed of.
Of course, this found a way into Cory's dreams, his subconscious punishing him for not doing more to help his brother. In one dream, he was kicking Jordan on the rugby pitch, echoing his dad's actions. On his left stood his dad, egging him on; on his right, Mr Bell was demanding that he stopped.
And suddenly he was Jordan, looking up at himself. Feeling every kick of his rugby boots. Helpless. He woke up, feeling sick with guilt. Like he really had been kicked in the stomach.
In another dream, he was walking down to the rec when he saw Jordan sat on the pavement. He was wrapped in a grey and dirty blanket, with matching bags under his eyes. Instead of stopping to help, Cory just walked on. He turned a corner, and there stood his dad, smiling like Cory had just won him the lottery.
"Well done, lad," he said, patting Cory on the shoulder, "you've done me proud."
When Cory awoke this time, he could not pinpoint what he could've done to make his dad smile so wide.
The third dream stayed with him longer than the others. He had been walking with Naveed, down some street he couldn't recognise, and talking in sentences that he couldn't quite understand. The metre felt similar to that of the play, but the words were completely different. As always, Naveed stood out, the rose among the thorns, and Cory didn't feel wrong for noticing how beautiful he was. The dream seemed to blur and warp every so often, and before Cory's mind could catch up to the events, he was kissing Naveed.
But this was more authentic, unlike the dream on stage where they kissed before an adoring audience. This was no performance. This was real. Or at least, as real as it could get in a dream.
Unlike most dreams he had starring Naveed, which usually spun nightmares into fantastical visions, this dream began to spiral into a nightmare. The spell was broken when he heard what sounded like his dad, shouting with the same vehemence that he usually reserved for Jordan. Cory pulled away from Naveed and there was his father, running towards him, eyes ablaze. Like with Naveed, Cory couldn't make out the words his
dad was spitting at him. It all sounded like his head was underwater. But he could see the shape of the words frothing on his father's lips. And they sent his heart into his throat.
The scene dissolved and he found himself stood in his hallway, in the place where Jordan stood as their dad rejected him as a son for the final time. Jordan was instead sat on the stairs where Cory himself had been, observing the scene before him, but not changing anything. And there was his father, screaming incomprehensible words and pointing the all powerful finger towards the front door.
This dream had no mixed messages. No, this was clear; Cory was not allowed to think of Naveed in any of the ways his brain was begging to. And he carried this nightmare around in his pocket, as a warning.
Despite the red flags and warning signs his mind was putting up before him, Cory still found himself being carried away on the gentle lilt of Naveed's voice. Whenever they brushed against each other in carefully orchestrated accidents, his body would hum with the fluttering of 100 butterflies, fresh out of their chrysalis. He decided he could indulge in his forbidden desires, as long as they remain covert; if he pretended not to notice them, then they didn't really exist.
However, no matter how far down you push these feelings, eventually they're all going to come back up. And with everything swirling around Cory's head like hungry mosquitoes, he knew it was going to all spill out of him. It was like bile, itching the back of his throat.
He had to let Naveed know, no matter what the cost.
“If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
T hat you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
If you pardon, we will mend.”