Alright~ apparently, when I have hayfever/a sinus infection/whatever the hell sickness this is, instead of writing South Park fanfiction like I'm supposed to do, I end up playing Zelda: Ocarina of Time for a few hours and then watching Stand By Me. Great movie. …And then I get a nosebleed in the middle of the movie, which is only bad 'cause I'd taken Advil and thus the bleeding wouldn't stop .__. And then, presto, this happens.

The movie Stand By Me is not owned by me, nor is the novella on which it was based ("The Body," by Stephen King).

As a final note—bloody sneezes are not cool. Eww. =__=

The only times my father ever seemed to give a shit about me was when he felt that I was making an ass out of myself. I'd never be able to live up to Denny's standards—he and I both knew that, even without saying anything. Even so, I had expectations of me that I was supposed to surpass. I was supposed to grow up, get good grades, ditch my no-good friends (whom, even three years later, when I was 15, were labeled as a "thief and two feebs." Dad wouldn't even listen to my protests that I barely hung out with Teddy and Vern anymore), and get a scholarship somewhere to a good school. Preferably a sports scholarship. Like that would ever happen. I was supposed to go through college, start a career, get married, and have a handful of children. In other words, if I, "even thought about becoming a God-damned faggot," I'd get my ass handed to me on a plate before you could say "knuckle sandwich."

Now, I wasn't too worried about that. Sure, most other guys my age were ogling tits and making lewd jokes left and right, but it didn't mean that I was a homo just because I felt no urge to join in. I'd make affirmative grunts now and then if someone got real excited over some chick's giant tits on some TV show—who didn't notice those kinds of things now and then?—and I figured that was enough. It didn't worry me that my eyes seemed to stick more to the flat chests and broadening shoulders of my fellow male peers than the females; I chalked it up to simple comparison. I myself was starting to fill out, after all. People were telling me more and more often that I looked like Denny.

It didn't even worry me that my best friend and I seemed to be a lot closer, physically, than most guys our age. Chris was a touchy-feely person, and that was that—not that I'd ever call him that to his face, of course. He'd probably give me a beating and then tell me to stop making him sound like such a fucking pussy. It was true, though. Chris was always touching us—Teddy, Vern, and me—when we were growing up. A touch on the shoulder, a quick hug, a mussing of hair. Of course, now that it was just me and him that were still friends, I was the only one getting that attention. And so we went on with life, kicking butts and wrestling just as we'd always done.

It didn't worry me when he started sneaking into my bedroom more often, to sleep on the safety of my floor when his old man was in one of his drunken rages. We both preferred it when he wasn't showing off black eyes and busted lips.

It didn't worry me when he started touching my hair and my shoulders more often, even in public. He was just showin' affection. It wasn't like either of us got any at home.

It didn't worry me when he started holding my hand sometimes. Usually only for a second or two, if he was upset, and only when we were alone. Hell, it wasn't like he had a girlfriend to comfort him.

It didn't worry me when he started sharing my bed with me when he slept over. It was cold on my floor, after all. Plus—I wouldn't admit this to him, but he probably knew it anyway—having him so close to me when I was sleeping made me have nightmares less often.

It did, however, worry me when he leaned over one night—hands on either side of my shoulders—the full moon shining directly into my half-open window, and kissed me full on the lips.

I punched him then.

He looked up at me from the floor, eyes wide with shock, indignation, and then worry. Blood gleamed in the silvery light, oozing down one nostril and onto his lips. He wiped his nose with the back of one wrist.

"Gordie…" I interrupted him.

"What the fuck, Chris?! What the fuck are you playing at?!" He stood up, panic crawling into his expression.

"Hey, Gordie, listen—"

"To what, Chris? Are you making fun of me?! I'm not a fucking faggot, you know!" My face probably looked just as horror-stricken as his did.

"No! I'm not making fun of you! …Just listen, Gordie, alright? You know I'm always honest with you, right?"

"…Yeah, I know." I felt myself calming down, despite the situation. Chris always just had that effect on me. He leaned against my wall and crossed his arms. I was suddenly glad that my parents were away for the weekend, visiting distant friends. With all the yelling, Dad surely would've come stomping down to my room. I would've had it, then. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

"I know you're not queer, alright? Well, now I do…" he bit his lower lip and looked down at his bare feet, refusing to make eye contact for the moment. I felt my hands wringing themselves—some habit that I picked up from my mom at one point. I know, it's a pussy thing for a guy to do. "But, Gordie, maybe…maybe I am. Okay?" He looked at me, straight in the eyes. Determination, self-criticism, and pain were filling up the corners of his eyes, making the green shine out as tears threatened to fall. I felt winded, like I couldn't get enough air. My heart sped up. I felt sick. I wobbled on my feet, and then sat down on my bed again, heavily. He hesitantly came to sit by me—I noticed that he kept more distance than usual, though.

"Chris…God, Chris, you can't tell anybody else, okay? What if Ace and Eyeball and the rest of the guys found out? Jesus Christ, they'd kill you!" My voice rose in pitch of its own accord.

"Like hell I'm gonna tell them! I'm not even telling my dad—you know he'd throw a fit. Probably try to beat it out of me." His voice soured at that, before dropping to a whisper. "I trust you, Gordie…you're the only guy I'd tell, you know?" I did know. It put butterflies in my stomach, just then, as the shock of it all dissolved into the silence. I touched my lips, felt heat burning on my cheeks—goddamn, I could be such an emotional pussy, not even Chris was blushing. My first kiss. From a guy, no less. And, looking back on it now, it hadn't been that bad. At least once the immediate panic was dismissed. It had been soft, warm, and clumsy during those few seconds. And, with a shock, I realized that I maybe—just maybe—wanted to try it again. Well, Dad be damned. If I wasn't a faggot before this, I sure was now. At least, that's what it seemed like.

"Chris…" I licked my lips, hesitant, before scooting closer. Our thighs bumped against each other. "It's okay." I put my hand on his knee and squeezed lightly. His nose was still trickling blood, and I used the back of my free hand to wipe his upper lip clean. He wiped tears from his eyes and looked at me oddly, and I pretended not to notice.

"No it's not, Gordie. You don't understand. You're the only person who gives a rat's ass about me, and now I've fucked that all up too…" He sniffed wetly. "Ugh, God, I'll just leave, you don't need such a fuck-up hanging around you like this." He turned to the window, pushing it farther open and beginning to climb out. I stopped him by launching towards him, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist and pulling him back down onto the bed. He twisted around, disgruntled, mouth opening in protest.

"Shut up, Chris." I needed to try something. I surged forward, pressing my mouth against his. Our teeth knocked together painfully, and I winced. But, then, it became softer. He didn't pull away, and I allowed myself to explore. His body was tense beneath mine, eyebrows furrowed and eyes tightly closed, but he wasn't stopping me. He made a small sound as I licked the roof of his mouth, and I could feel myself blushing again. He tasted salty and metallic, like blood and tears, with a faint hint of tobacco. Finally, when my lungs burned and I remembered that I had to breathe, I pulled away. Chris just looked up at me, face pink and confused.

"Gordie…what? But, you're, you're not queer…" I sighed and plopped down next to his side, curling up against him and hiding my face under his chin. I didn't care if his skin was blood smeared. My face was probably already messed up from it already.

"I don't know Chris. I don't know anything anymore. I just wanted to try it, okay? To see if it felt nice." We both knew that it did.

"So…what now?"

"I don't know. We just see what happens, I guess." I felt him hugging me tighter, and I closed my eyes. It was too much to deal with right now—it was too confusing. Maybe we'd figure it out in the morning, after we had the chance to sleep on it.

"Okay. We'll just see what happens, then."

~*~

You all know what happened, of course. You read the paper. I ended up growing up, going to college (for writing, not for sports, much to my father's disappointment), starting a career, getting married, and having a handful of children. I became interested in girls; Chris didn't. We lasted a couple of weeks before deciding that we were better suited simply as friends, and then we grew apart. Such things happen. Chris went on to have a couple of long-lasting relationships—the majority of them kept well in secret. And now, as of last week, he's dead.

I miss him more than I thought was possible.

I know, the ending sucks =/ I was thinking about leaving it drabble-length, but I decided to push it farther. No beta, so mistakes and such are completely my fault~

I also know that I have no talent in naming things =P Oh well~