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.
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Somewhere West of Atlanta, Georgia, Spring, 2023.
Tuesday, February 14th
I feel like a newborn puppy on a leash being dragged behind a first-time dog mom. Stephen leads me through the early morning throng of students and into the lecture hall. He beats me to our seats, as I stop to collect myself. My normal seat is the second seat from the left, third row from the back. Creature of Habit. Stephen always sits next to me. Should that make me feel so nervous?
He waves hello to a few friends and pulls out his notebook. A trained eye could tell most of his notes look suspiciously like mine. But really, how could I say no to him?
"You know, if you actually put in some effort to pay attention to the professor, you would actually learn something."
I say it with as much calm as I can muster. My voice shakes beneath the surface, hiding a tension I can't name.
I wedge myself into the tiny chair, bumping him slightly. These seats aren't built for guys like me---6'2", about 260. I'm not some gym rat, but between day trading and doing physical labor at construction sites, I stay active. Stephen says I look like Hugh Jackman in Wolverine. I think I look more like a divorced trucker with three kids and bad knees.
He sniffs dramatically and coughs like he's been poisoned. His jaw tightens, and he glares at me with mock fury.
"If you insist on waking up at the ass crack of dawn, you could at least use the soap I ordered for you."
His smirk creeps in, that same curl at the corner of his lips that always starts our banter.
"Your soap smells like butterfly farts and coked-out sorority girls."
"Your ass smells like a truck stop roller dog."
"You dress like an emo girl obsessed with '90s grunge."
"I hope you stub your toe."
"I hope your pillow is warm tonight."
"Blow me."
"You wish."
People think Hollywood gets male friendship right. I don't know. Me and Stephen? We've always been different. I don't want us to be like anyone else. He's perfect like he is.
I glance over at his eyes---mischievous blue whirlpools---and smile. He scowls back playfully and scrolls on his phone as we wait for the professor.
The banter grounds me. Makes things feel normal. I shift in the too-small seat. Half our high school thought we were dating by sophomore year. My parents were sure we were screwing under the bleachers by junior year. My dad had... opinions. Loud ones. We ignored them.
Professor Linnell finally shows up, droning on about the environmental impact of highways. Riveting stuff at 8:05 a.m.
I resign myself to note-taking.
Bzzzt
Bzzzt Bzzzt
Bzzzt
"Stephen, silence your phone."
Who the fuck is blowing up his phone at this early hour? Most of our friend group is in this class. It's not like he has a boyfriend. Right? *Right?
It doesn't matter. I don't care anyways.
Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt
Bzzzt Bzzzt
I clench my fist. The buzzing rattles across the desk like a mosquito in a bottle. Other students are starting to notice. I hate public attention.
"Can you please silence your phone."
The words hiss harsher than I expect from my mouth. My forked tongue lashing the air with an unknown emotion.
"Oh baby, you jealous that nobody texts you anymore?"
The faintest edge of a smirk can be seen from the side of his face, as he picks up his phone. He bumps his elbow into mine and looks up with those long lashes at me.
Cinnamon
Oh for fucks sake. Focus, Michael. The Environment. Pollution. Highways. Roundabouts. Fascinating. I should study this stuff forever. Make a name for myself. Michael James Worthington, PHD in environmental bullshit.
Bzzzt Bzzzt
A flash of... jealousy?... climbs in my body as I stare daggers into his phone. All of his attention is on that little phone of his, while his best friend is right next him.
I see him flick over to some other number that isn't saved. Maybe it's that little trashy art student from last week. The little fop threw his bargain bin hot topic self all over Stephen, while we were eating lunch together. He laughed at all of Stephen's jokes and basically begged for his discord. He might as well have just bent over and begged him to fuck him.
A rush of something ugly climbs into my chest. I sit straighter. I feel disgusted---but with myself. Why do I care?
Stephen is not my boyfriend.
