Caleb lay on his side as he sleeplessly stared off into space. His eyes followed the particles of dust that occasionally danced through the light of the small bedside lamp that cast a dim yellow glow across the sparse furnishings of his cramped bedroom. He watched as each speck swirled and hovered in and out of his field of vision.
He curled up, tucking his knees beneath his chin as a slight shiver wracked his body--partly from the autumn chill that flooded his small apartment and partly from the desolate feeling emanating from the gaping hole in his heart. Caleb felt lost.
He had tried crying. Hell, he had even tried throwing up again. Nothing could ease the pain he felt. Nothing could hide his shame. Nothing made him feel any less alone.
So he just stayed in bed, eyes wide open, trying to force his mind out of thought or into sleep.
He reached over to his nightstand and turned on the FM radio built into his too-large orange plastic alarm clock. He tuned away from any actual broadcasts, instead opting for a soothing rush of white noise. To anyone else but Caleb, this would probably seem cacophonous and irritating, but for him, it was like a current--like an auditory undertow in the atmosphere that would pull him down into the depths of sleep. He buried his head under his pillow and let the static carry him off into what he hoped would be a dreamless sleep.
He had no such luck.
Caleb slept soundly, but not comfortably, dreaming of nothing but that face, streaks of tears and bloodshot eyes marring the utter handsomeness that was Thom. Those crystalline blue eyes looked into his, filled with regret. Oh god, he regretted it.
Thom's face filled Caleb's mind. He could make out perfectly the angle of his sharp nose. The smooth point of his cupid's bow and the pillowy soft lips, now cracked and chapped. The wash of scruffy stubble that painted his cheeks and the curve of his jaw. The soft dark hair, more of a mess than usual, begging for Caleb to run his fingers through it. Then he looked into those eyes. The eyes normally somewhat dulled by his glasses, now shone with a brilliance that would be almost difficult to look at if they didn't possess that sparkle that was guaranteed to draw you in. Even when surrounded by red halos, those eyes were stunning.
Caleb looked in silence as Thom's eyes slowly closed, dark lashes fanning out across his cheek. When Thom's eyelids opened again, gone were the tears and inflammation. It was like being in the eye of the storm--complete calm. His eyes glimmered with their regained clarity as the corner of his mouth turned up in what looked like a small, kind smile. Caleb watched in slow motion as those now smooth and soft lips parted and Thom drew in a breath. Absolute serenity.
"I love you too," Thom whispered, still smiling.
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Caleb awoke with a start. His breathing caught in his throat as he fought through the murky depths of his heavy sleep and taunting dreams, to the surface.
He couldn't do this anymore. He was going insane.
He sat up with a struggle, the twisted sheets wrapped around his sweat-coated body like a Chinese finger trap: the harder he struggled, the more he got stuck. Calming down, he slowly extricated himself from his prison and sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. The city was bathed in a warm orange glow as the sun began to set.
"Fuck..." he groaned aloud as he rested his head in his cold and clammy palms. One entire day had gone down the drain. Twenty-four hours he could never see again. And he didn't even want to think of the years he spent completely infatuated...
And it was all due to his stupidity and credulity. Those moments (especially the last few) with Thom were some of the best of his life. But now--now they meant nothing.
He reached out a hand to his nightstand and unplugged his charging cell phone. "29 missed calls." Looking at the list of unfortunate callers, his friend Elliott had phoned three times. The other twenty-six? None other than Thom Glass. "Fucking wonderful," Caleb groaned, clicking off his phone as he shook himself physically, running one hand through his hair. He couldn't stay like this. He had wasted so much of his life up to this point hung up on Thom, he wouldn't let himself waste a minute more.
And twenty-six attempts at telling him "I thought you knew we were just friends!" wasn't exactly going to fucking help.
He stood, stretching his stiff limbs in the fading light before hobbling into the bathroom. He shed his clothing that he still wore from the night before and stepped beneath the hot shower spray. He silently thanked whomever was responsible for his unbelievable water pressure as the firm jets of water massaged his sore muscles and attempted to keep all those unwanted thoughts at bay.
Above the hissing rush of his hot shower, Caleb could make out faintly the sound of The Clash's "The Guns of Brixton" reverberating off the walls of his undersized bathroom. Caleb let out an exasperated groan. Elliott was calling again.
Caleb loved Elliott dearly. Really. But right now, he just wasn't sure if he could put up with his antics.
Though Caleb wouldn't call them "close", Elliott really had influenced his life in profound ways. He was the one who had convinced Caleb, after years of nail-biting and anxiety, to finally come out to his friends (who were essentially just Elliott and Thom) and family and, well, the world.
From the moment Elliott bounded into his sculpture class, his wild air of spontaneity and liberation had sort of sucked Caleb in. He loved his tendencies to be so excessively enthusiastic over things that most would find so mundane and his constant hectic pace. Elliott always had a full schedule. He never just had a night in, which is why he and Caleb had such casual friendship. Though he could appreciate someone else's hustle and bustle, Caleb preferred things much more low-key and laid back. Like things were with Thom...
And it wasn't just the difference in pace that put a distance between Caleb and Elliott. Elliott had always been very forward with his attraction to Caleb, despite Caleb's constant "just friends" deflections. Though Caleb couldn't say that he was unattractive or any aspect of his personality or appearance was a deal-breaker, he couldn't help his downright infatuation with Thom. Because Thom had always been on his mind, there was no room left for anyone else--not even the man who was so up front and honest about his desire.
Caleb's constant rejection never seemed to affect Elliott, either. For every pinch of the ass or wink of the eye that was met with the crossing of arms or a harsh word or two, Elliott was always able to bounce right back, as if nothing ever happened. And it wouldn't stop him from trying it again either.
So Caleb tended to keep his distance.
And as Caleb peered around the shower curtain at his glowing phone on the sink's edge which continued to sound, he was presented with a dilemma: Answer Elliott's call, put up with him, avoid thinking of... well, you know who, and possibly have some fun on a Saturday night? Or ignore it, avoid Elliott and his high-strung world in favor of a night in of stewing in his misery? Or as Paul Simonon and Joe Strummer seemed to ask, "With your hands on your head or on the trigger of your gun?"
'Surrender it is,' Caleb thought as he turned off the water and stumbled over the edge of the tub, grabbing a towel before snatching up his phone.
