The Oldest Joke

Kyle squinted open his eyes to a punishing abundance of sunlight, sending shock waves of pain throughout every cell in his body. His head felt like a wet sponge that had been trampled by a herd of wildebeest. The ache reverberated like a piercing echo, the epicenter pulsing on his right cheekbone, just under his eye. Attempting to raise a hand and touch the tender flesh, he met resistance. Another body. Heavy. Practically crushing his arm. His lips twitched involuntarily upward.

"Oliver?"

"Hmm?"

The body turned over, reaching for him with groggy fingers.

Not Oliver.

Of course not. The dream-fog, alcoholic haze enveloping his brain had momentarily detoured his synapses, blockaded his short-term memory.

He sniffed, a little too loud in his own ears, and tugged his arm. "You're on me... dude."

"'m sorry." His bedmate rolled onto his back and rubbed bleary eyes.

Kyle gingerly poked at his bruised cheek and tried to come up with a name. Bradley? Brandon?

***

Hand behind ear, stroking. "'m Braeden."

Pulls hands to chest. "This fine piece o' work... 's Kyle."

"Niiiiice." Warm lips graze ear. "Wanna get outta here, Kyle?"

"Mm hmm." Stands. Teeters.

Smells floor. Smells like rubber. And beer.

Numb face. Pain in face. Hands under pits. Lifting. Slipping. Steady. Up.

"You okay?"

"Preachy clean..."

"Tha's good."

Grips arms. Strong arms. "Got good arms. Like... Fish."

Laughs. "Fish don't have arms."

"Really, really nice ones, though."

"Uh huh. Where we goin'?"

Points... south? "Frat."

"Srsly? Tha's where you wanna go?"

Nods. Mouth open. Wants to close mouth. Can't.

"Innit a bit... dangerous?"

"'s fine. Whatever. Screw 'em."

"Screw 'em?"

"Hate those assholes. Let 'em see."

Laughs. Tongue on ear. "Kinky."

***

Kyle peered under his bed. "You seen a shoe around here?"

"What's it look like?"

He held up his sneaker. "Like this, but the other way around."

"Ah... nope."

They dressed in silence. Finally, Braeden cleared his throat. "Last night was... pretty amazing."

Kyle nodded. He picked at a piece of lint on his sheets. "I guess so."

Braeden laughed. "Wow. Guess I didn't make that big of an impression, huh? I'm hurt." His tone remained light. Casual. It made Kyle's head hurt a little less.

"Nah." He smiled. "Just the alcohol. Fuzzes things up, you know?"

"Sure." Braeden turned to the door, then stopped. "Here's, uh, my number. If you ever wanna get together again. For some more fun. Or whatever."

Kyle stood and walked over to him. He took the offered slip of paper and placed it on his desk. "Yeah. All right." He swallowed. "Sure."

Braeden touched his cheek, right under his bruise. "Looks sexy."

Kyle smirked. "Feels sexy. Like a sexy wrecking ball smashed my face."

"Or the floor of some sketchy bar where you meet strangers and bring them home."

"Yeah. That." Kyle didn't know what to do with his hands. He didn't know how to act. He grabbed Braeden by the forearm and gave a small squeeze. "See you around, I guess."

"Sure." Braeden turned out into the hall. "Oh, sorry. Coming through," he said to someone.

Kyle turned toward his open door where the new figure stood, pounding his fists together softly, nervously.

Oliver.

Because why not? Why not Oliver right this second to intrude on his hangover and just make life all the more awesome? Kyle dropped his head back in exasperation.

"What do you want, man?"

Oliver's eyes fixed on his face, on his bruise. Slowly, as if spellbound, he reached out a hand.

Kyle held his breath while the fingers gently brushed his cheek. Then he flinched away. "Don't." He could feel his mouth curling into a sneer. "You'll just have to wash your hands."

Oliver's arm hovered for a few seconds as he stared at Kyle, confused. Finally, he brought his hand to his own chin.

"Did... did one of the guys do that to you last night?"

Now it was Kyle's turn to stare, confused. "What? No. Why would they?" He shook his head. "Why do you care?"

"You don't remember?"

Oliver looked... was it sad? Whatever. He could look any way he wanted to. I didn't matter to Kyle.

"Kyle. This is serious. They—they want to kick you out. You sorta wrecked the place."

Kyle stepped back. Closing his eyes, he tried to play through his memories of the night before. He thought he heard... glass shattering? Plenty of moaning. Nothing concrete. No visions.

He sighed. His head pounded and Oliver being in here was frustrating him even more. He couldn't deal with this right now when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep forever and forget.

"You think it matters to me if I get kicked out?" he croaked. "You think I care what they think? What you think?" He turned around, hoping Oliver hadn't heard the crack in his voice. "'cause I don't."

He didn't. He said it over and over again. Repetition was the key. That's how memories were forged. Overwritten. Erased. He didn't care. Not about Oliver. Not about Oliver's high and mighty opinion of him. Not about their... time together. Like Oliver had told him, it was a mistake. He should have known from the start, getting involved with a closet-case. Textbook fail. And any feelings he had, well, they were doomed from the start. May as well put them out of their misery.

So he tucked his feelings back into the dark box inside his chest, packed them down into a hard, tight ball. Never again. No one was going to trick him with declarations and promises into picking open that box and exposing that... softness. That weakness. That desperation. That love.

It was a stupid business and he didn't want any part of it. He never had. He knew better. He'd learned his lesson this time, once and for all. Affairs of the heart were for people who hated themselves and loved misery. He'd do without. He'd done it before, and been happy—happier.

And Oliver... Oliver was confused.

No. No pussyfooting it this time. Oliver was a spineless dickhead.

The dickhead's stupid stuttering voice broke through his thoughts.

"Do—do you even remember what you—you did last night?"

"Not really, no." He looked at the crumpled sheets on his bed and smiled a bit perversely. "Well, apparently I had some amazing sex with Brandon. Braeden. Whatever. It was great." He turned back to Oliver. "I feel great. Leave me alone."

"Kyle. What are you doing?" Oliver had the gall to look concerned.

"What, you think getting wasted and sleeping around is some sort of Oliver Fish special? This is college. It's pretty much standard practice." He laughed, and it tasted as bitter as it sounded. "Don't know why I waited so long to try it. Shoulda been doing this for years. Best sex of my life." He noted Oliver's slight flinch with mean-spirited pleasure. "Oh, does that make you uncomfortable? You still think I'm dis—" He stopped mid-word. His mouth had gone inexplicably dry. "If that makes me some kind of degenerate, and if they wanna kick me out for it... fine. Whatever." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Dicks."

"It's not like that. This isn't because you're—you're... g-gay."

Kyle rolled his eyes, which only exacerbated his throbbing headache.

"I guess that makes sense. Otherwise they woulda kicked the two of us out a long time ago, right?"

Oliver's eyes went wide. His gulp was audible. "They don't know about... about us."

Kyle scoffed. "Oh, it's 'us' again, now is it? You're funny. What?" He flung his arms out. "You think these walls are made of concrete? You don't think they're paper thin?" He balled his fists and moved closer to Oliver, so close their noses almost touched. He could feel Oliver's unsteady breaths on his face. "You don't think every time I had you pleading and begging and whimpering my name the whole floor couldn't hear you? Don't be such an idiot, Oliver. They know. They've always known. Why do you think they sent you as their emissary? They know and they—don't—care. The only one who cares is you." He took a step back and turned his head toward the window, flinching at the brightness. The pain was starting to feel almost good. He welcomed it. "I certainly don't give a rat's ass."

Through the corner of his eye he saw Oliver shake his head and scowl. "You really don't, do you? Last night you... you attacked Daryl and Matt. You said some—some really nasty things to them, for no reason, and then you pushed Daryl when he tried to calm you down."

"That it?" Kyle turned his head.

"N—no. You—you started doing things with—with that guy on the stairs that were, uh, definitely breaching the code of conduct." Oliver shifted his gaze to the side, away from Kyle.

"Uh huh. Like no one's ever done that before." Kyle's shoulders fell. Now that they were in it, fully submerged in that sensitive subject, Oliver refused look at him; but Kyle was almost glad, because if Oliver did look, Kyle was afraid of what he'd see. What Oliver's eyes would tell him. Again. He felt himself... shrinking. "Hypocrites," he said, meekly.

"You—your friend exposed himself and then some stuff happened, right there in the open, Kyle! On the stairs!"

Kyle's tapped his fingers against his thigh. All the noise in the room was making him twitchy. He was picking up Oliver's nervous energy, and it filled him with a sudden itching venom. He didn't want anything from him anymore. Especially not his neuroses. He had enough emotions swirling inside him, making him nauseous. He didn't need any on loan. He decided to stick with indignation.

"So, those pervs wanted a show, huh?" He looked down. "Were you there?" He didn't know how he wanted Oliver to respond.

"No. I was... out."

"With, who is it now? Krista?"

"Christine."

"I'm sure she's real nice."

"Kyle. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry they sent me up here to do this. But you—you threw your shoe into the trophy case, and now there's glass everywhere and Joel got his foot all cut up. He's getting stitches. You made a real mess of it."

Kyle scoffed. "Well, I guess I'm just a little pissed off right now."

Oliver sucked in his lower lip and looked toward the window. "Do you know... what you're gonna say? In your—in your defense?"

Kyle laughed, but the sound was too heavy. It settled in his stomach like a bitter seed. "That I got shit-faced? That I brought someone home for a little anonymous fun just like they do?" The heaviness moved to his lungs, to his throat. He wanted to hold it down, to stop it all from spilling out like sewer sludge, but he couldn't. His body craved release. "What? You want me to spin some sad tale of—of broken hearts and broken promises and—and complete and utter betrayal?" He ran his hand through his hair and turned away from Oliver. "I don't think they'd buy it, do you? It's a little far-fetched. Never happened, right? None of it."

God, he felt tired. His head throbbed. His eyes stung. His chest ached with each hollow breath. He wanted to scream, to punch someone, but he was so damn tired. He could barely move.

He heard Oliver rifling through some papers on his desk.

"Are you gonna... keep seeing this guy?"

Kyle turned. Oliver was fiddling with the scrap of paper with Braeden's phone number on it.

"Shit, Oliver." Completely drained, he collapsed onto his bed. "I don't know. Maybe. How 'bout you stay out of my business? Then it doesn't matter if I keep seeing him, right? Especially if they kick me out for throwing a shoe."

Oliver remained where he stood, his fingers rubbing the bit of paper absently. Kyle gave him a few moments, but he still wouldn't leave. Finally, Kyle heaved himself off of his bed and slogged toward him.

He plucked the paper out of Oliver's fingers. "This—this has nothing to do with you."

Oliver blinked, as if waking from a daze. He looked at Kyle with hard eyes. Kyle tried to stare him down, to stay strong, but he saw it there. What he dreaded. What he hated. He had to turn away from that look. That confirmation.

"We done here?" he said to the floor.

He heard Oliver turn for the doorway. "I said what I came to say. They want you downstairs in twenty minutes."

Kyle rubbed his hands over his eyes. Some moisture had gathered there, a defense from the overpowering rays of sunlight streaming in from the window.

"I'm ready now," he said, pulling an old pair of sneakers out of his closet.

***

"You cool with this?"

Shirt gone. Cold air. Nipples licked. Earlobes sucked. Hands, hands, hands.

"Mm hmm. You want me, right? Don' think I'm—I'm disgustin'."

Hot breath on cheek. "I think you're hot."

"Canya say it?" Fingernails in chest. "I don'—I don' disgust you."

"Needy little drunk, aren't cha?" Tongue running up the neck. "Mm, I like it."

"Jus' say it, a'right?"

"You don' disgust me. At all." Bites. "What else you gonna beg for?"

"Mmm. Lower."

Laughs. Pinches. "If I go any lower, I'm headin' back up again."

"The voice. Say it—say it lower."

"Oooookay. Weird." Clears throat. Pitches down. "You don' disgust me."

Eyelids close. "S'okay. 'm ready." Deep breath. Pain in chest. Aches. "You can go 'head and fuck me now."