Original Sin

Author's Note:

This is my first posted story in this genre... or any really. :D It's about two emotionally tangled college boys, one raised on strict faith, the other surviving by being louder than his hurt. If you enjoy femboys, romantic tension, yearning that aches, and stories about trying not to fall in love with your best friend, I hope you enjoy. Feedback encouraged in the comments.

Trigger/Content Warning:

This story contains themes of religious guilt, emotional repression, family trauma, and queer yearning. It's a slow-burn gay romance with a dumbass himbo and a beautiful femboy. It also explores the internal struggle of growing desire, shame, and forbidden closeness between two best friends.

There are a few homophobic slurs used in specific moments and some veiled references to Domestic Violence.

There will be a lot of angst and the spicy won't be too far down the road.

Thanks for reading! :D

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Somewhere West of Atlanta, Georgia, Spring, 2023.

Tuesday, February 14th

The spring in Georgia has often been described as bipolar. One week it goes from raining and 40 degrees to 85 and scorching rays of a relentless angry sun. It almost feels at times like the citizens of Georgia face divine punishment for daring to live in the endless oaken expanse of Appalachia... the long standing curse of the land against jacked up trucks, terrible drivers and historic suffering.

My Environmental Science 101 class is in the southernmost building of my small college campus. It starts at 8 am but I got to the student parking at 6:58... 7:00? The parking lot is nearly empty-- Just the usual suspects that park here overnight illegally, gym fanatics and a couple walk-of-shamers coming from the nearby student housing.

Luckily the suns rays only just started lazily crawling up the hood of my truck, while the morning dew glistens like post-workout sweat. The growing brightness begins to illuminate my knuckles gripping white on the steering wheel. The tension in my body is only a reflection of mental health this morning. A loud, buzzing nothingness has blocked out my thoughts and trapped my soul.

So why am I here?

My radio's been dead for 3 weeks, my air conditioning's been out for the last few days and its starting to smell a little ripe in the cab of my '15 Toyota Tacoma. The seat ain't particularly comfortable under my ass and I am not up to any tomfoolery with drugs or alcohol. I am just... sitting here and gripping the steering like my life could fade away at any given moment... like the last leaf of your favorite tree blowing away on a cool October breeze.

My face in the visor mirror looks haggard and strained. My eyes are bloodshot and the bags under them heavier than usual. My go to shirt for Mondays, a nice relaxed-fit XL Carhartt shirt, has grown slightly baggier on me. I skipped breakfast... again. I'm not hungover or sick. I'm just... off.

It's just that lately, home life has been a bit awkward for me.

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I currently live with my best friend of the last 6 years or so, Stephen Augustus Fisher in a crappy little 2 bed, 1.5 bath apartment west of Atlanta. We managed to find a cheap deal on an apartment, with its own washer and dryer after the previous tenant shot their boyfriend on the balcony. That idiot survived, lucky for him, and dropped our rent payment in half, lucky for us. We both really needed somewhere to live in college, as we really didn't have anywhere to return back to.

Let me give you some backstory here.

Stephen and I met during the first week of my freshman year at high school. I had moved closer to Atlanta from the mountains of north Georgia with my very religious parents. Stephen moved in with a grandmother who hated him down the road. His two parents were in the wind with warrants for some kind of federal charges. He rarely spoke of his sibling, who had been placed with a different relative. I should have known then we would be best friends... clearly we shared a penchant for... traumatic experiences.

In elementary and middle school I wasn't known for making friends. I typically came across as sarcastic, standoffish and sexist. You know... an asshole. Grade A USDA certified Asshole. Stephen later hit me with the "you were displaying signs of early childhood trauma" explanation, which, sure, maybe. But my mom always called therapists "medical quacks."

In my home I was allowed very little access to books tv or games and was frequently disciplined for 'my sins'. I spent most of my free time memorizing bible stories and bible verses to recite for my parents at dinner time. I know, sounds thrilling right?

My father had a tendency to be a little 'overactive in his emotions' as I heard mom once tell the cops. Never did understand how you get so 'overactive' that you put a hole in the wall and break a sink.

I loved my mother. I hated the fear she tended to radiate in the house. I tried to stand up to my father once in 8th grade and quickly joined my mother crying on the floor in pain. I took a week off school for the so-called flu while she iced the swelling and we pretended nothing happened.

For a long time as a kid, I just believed my father to be... mistake prone. He just had... bad days. All fathers had bad days right? He had never raised a hand to me before that day, and when he did, it changed my perspective on our family forever. Bitterness and rage moved in, replacing anything good I still clung to. I came back to school shorter with people, slipping in grades, mouthing off to teachers. I became someone else. And when I nearly broke a kid's eye socket over a pencil sharpener, the school got involved. My father decided it was time for a "fresh start." As I became a stranger to myself, I became a haunting prophecy to my mother.

On the last day in that house, I sat with my mom on the rotting bench under the old oak. My initials were carved into the trunk next to notches for every inch I'd grown. I didn't love much about that place--but I'd miss that tree.

My mother wore one of her trademark floral dresses and I could see the outline of a bruise under expertly applied makeup. For many years my mother had always been my strongest supporter, and frequently my only friend. I was very practiced at being able to tell what things she wanted to hide with makeup, and what things she hid with smiles. We sat in silence as I stewed over my raging emotions. Shame and Pain fought as a tag team partnership against Hatred and Scorn in the wrestling ring of my soul. I couldn't know who would win the fight, but I just wanted it all to be over.

She reached out to hold my hand and started a conversation that I can remember visibly all these years later, and probably will for the rest of my life.

"Honey," she said softly "You are the only thing I will never regret in this life. When I go to the pearly gates and receive my heavenly crowns, I will be pleased at knowing that I brought you in this world. I love you son."

Her sincere words drew my attention and I stared at this beautiful woman who bore her own cross every day.

"You are going to be this family's north star, guiding us through troubled waters. I need you to learn how to be the man I thought your father would be. Learn to live like Jesus and maybe your example will make him better. Kindness is always free and hatred costs everything honey. Don't fall into that trap--it's taken more families than just ours. Help me lead this home into something better."

Her tears freely flowed down her face, destroying her disguise as she laid the weight of the future at my feet. I was young, angry and lost in my own suffering, but the quiet pleading in her voice held tight to me like barbed wire. I didn't know how to be the man she asked for--but I wanted to try.

"I love you honey. Please be better. Don't let this be all that our family comes to be... another victory for Satan."

She'd given plenty of sermons before. But this one stuck. Branded my soul like a red-hot iron.

That spring, in a new middle school, I was quieter. Less angry. More detached. No friends. No real identity. I stumbled across Machiavelli for a social studies project and latched onto him like a lifeline. Better to be feared than loved. From there I went on to other famous figures. I devoured history books--biographies, wars, empires. I was desperate for a blueprint of manhood.

By high school, I had no clue where I fit. Sex crossed my mind--like any teenage boy--but mostly, I was just... lonely. I tried to make friends that first week, but nothing stuck.

The only thing anyone cared about that first week of high school was some guy named Stephen. Rumors about his parents. Snickering about his petite girly frame. Although I distinctly remember a few girls jealous of his ass. Universally though he was outcast over his weird 'goth' style. To be honest it wasn't even that over the top. Dude just had a fetish for black clothes and combat boots. Seriously... it wasn't that big of a deal.

But this was Georgia. We weren't close enough to Atlanta for city sensibilities to save us. By Wednesday, he'd been dubbed a "raging faggot liberal communist who wanted to blow football players under the bleachers." Charming.

Mel Brooks would've called those people idiots. My grandpa called them "idjets." Me? I saw another lonely kid in a new place, haunted by something deeper than these ignorant assholes could fathom.

At first, I said nothing. My dad's sermons about "the homosexual abomination" still had a grip on me. It took time to unlearn that. I apologized to Stephen later for not stepping up for him in those first days.

"You stepped up when I really needed it," he told me. Still doesn't stop the guilt.

Stephen lived just a few houses down. We shared the same bus stop, the same first-period math class. We said hi a few times, but that was it--until Friday.

That morning, we walked toward the school together. Three jocks took their usual harassment up a notch, shoving him around. I stopped and watched. I wanted to act, but I froze--until the lead idiot shoved him too hard and Stephen's head hit the brick wall. His black sunglasses flew off, revealing bruises under hastily applied makeup.

I snapped.

I remember nothing of what I did in the following moments. I only knew what happened later on because someone got a shaky video capture of me slamming the JV quarterbacks head through the glass front doors. Three boys ended up in the hospital and one idjet that should have done something earlier.

I barely dodged charges--my dad being sheriff helped. They technically started it.

From that moment on, I knew I'd never be liked. I'd lost the chance to be seen as the "sweet, quiet nerd." Instead, I was the broody weirdo with the twink butt buddy.

But I'd also gained something.

White scars along my right knuckles.

And a best friend.

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The Present

I heard him before I saw him. The stomping of those silly black boots I bought him 3 years ago. The jingling of chains and rings from his jacket. The popping of pink hubba bubba that he bought two weeks ago and left forgotten in his car until yesterday.

Normal people can't figure that kind of shit out ya know. I shouldn't be able to recognize him approaching like I'm spiderman scanning the city streets for crime. Pattern recognition is kind of my thing, Lord knows I make good money stock trading, but I wonder at when I subconsciously memorized him like this?

His knuckles hit my window and shake me from my thoughts. I can see him point to his obnoxiously black watch.

7:51.

I shift into gear, grab my bag, and step out of the truck with a tired smile. A swirl of familiar scents hits me.

Cinnamon--his online perfume that smells like cinnamon rolls. Earthy spice from his new lotion. Strawberry facewash from Japan. Medium iced vanilla coffee from McDonald's. One hashbrown. All of it wafts over me as I step into the accusing rays of morning sun.

"Earth to Mikey! We got to get to class dumb dumb." Stephen's teases, pulling my focus to him. He's always had a lighter more feminine voice, but his practicing of vocal pitching for his twitch stream has been showing recently. Those viewers eat that shit up.

Stephen is what many would refer to as a 'Classical Femboy'. I have no clue who those 'many' are, but I have been emphatically told by many people that is the case. Stephen is about 5'7" and maybe 140 something pounds. Most his weight seems to be in his ass and thighs. I usually try not to notice the shape of his body, but his outfits at home tend to be a little more risqué.

He has naturally black hair that swoops down to his shoulders, sparkling blue eyes and a sweet little button nose. I didn't used to pay that much attention to those kinds of details. Nor do I think I usually refer to his nose as 'sweet'.

Today he came in one of his signature black outfits that clearly show his penchant for the dramatic. His boots blend upwards into thrifted skinny jeans, a black leather jacket and a thin white sweater that leaves just a sliver of pale neckline visible under his shoulder length black hair. Looks like a goth wannabe, but it suits him.

"If you don't stop staring," he says, smirking, "I'll suck your dick in this parking lot."

I blush. He laughs. I grumble. It's a whole thing. We've been playing the same song and dance for years at this point.

My notions of public propriety are regularly trampled by his wild jokes. And I swear he does it on purpose.

His laughter is light and melodic--free in a way that makes you wonder what he's survived to sound like that.

Would my father still call him an abomination if he heard that laugh?

"Come on Michael, we actually need to pay attention today. There's a quiz next week and you are supposed to help me make sense of all this science mumbo jumbo".

He grabs my bag and heads off. I double-check my truck, then glance left--to watch him walk away.

There's definitely a sway in his hips.

I'm not going to hell for noticing. That's not a sin. I'm just tired. I'm just... confused?

I recall my mothers words from all those years ago, and wonder..

What is my North Star?

What do I believe in?

What kind of man am I?

A wild cocktail of emotions churn inside me, and I follow him into the morning light.

Whatever this is, I know one thing for sure--

It has everything to do with Stephen.

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Thanks for reading. :D There will be the next part posted within the next 48 hours.

Text your best friend tonight.

-YearningStories <3