He knew that they were fucking. That they were even in love. He knew that what they were doing could probably be considered dating—was considered dating. Fuck it—he knew that they were lovers. He loved her, she loved him.
And yet he'd wiggled his way in there anyway.
He'd crawled inside their happy little nest, and smashed it to pieces. Ripped the rug out from under their feet.
It wasn't fair.
Not to them.
He knew that what he did with him was kept a secret. That no one knew, not even her. He knew that when he put his pants on after fucking him and made his way out of his house—he was betraying her. He knew that it hurt to see them at a party, kissing and holding hands. It hurt. Too much.
He knew that he wanted to be her.
He knew that it was wrong to think like that.
So he'd kissed him harder, ended the lease on his apartment and packed up his bags. He told Zeff he needed to study cooking— away for a bit, he needed to leave, but he'd be back.
He broke his rule not to leave.
He broke himself.
He knew that it wasn't fair to him, to leave like this. To kiss him goodnight after fucking him. But he also knew that the way he held him—it was more than a quick fuck. He knew feelings were involved, never discussed but always involved. He knew that he loved him.
So despite the fact that he knew how unfair, how selfish and hurtful it was to disappear and not tell anyone at all where he was going—to not even fucking say goodbye, that's just what he did.
Because deep down he knew that it was for the best.
No matter how much it hurt.