The Feeling's Mutual

"When you walked out on me to basically date any girl that would return your phone call... I never stopped thinking about you."

Kyle lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, forcing himself to not think; instead he chose to observe things, feel things, tangible things. Sensory details. Empirical data that would distract him from abstractions. The metered ticking of his watch. The cold sheets under his arms. The slight indentation in the mattress, leftover from... No. That was a thought. Had to put a stop to that. Once the textbooks were closed and the lights went out, thoughts were expressly forbidden, as they often unwillingly led to that subject.

He sucked in a deep breath. He needed more distractions. The howl of wind. Tree limbs scraping against his window. He laid his hand on his chest. The soft cotton of his t-shirt. The raised silk-screened lettering. The beat of his heart.

It was his nightly ritual, this cataloging of his surroundings—and it didn't do a damned thing to help him sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw those blue eyes staring back at him. Sometimes they were playful, sparkling with joy, relaxed. Sometimes they were hard, squinted, clouded with anger, with pain. Sometimes they were empty, distant, the eyes of a stranger, eyes that refused to recognize him, to look back at him like he was someone worth knowing. Those eyes were the worst, most frequent visitors to his thoughts.

No. Kyle sat straight up and rubbed his hands over his tired face, trying to scrub out the images that seemed imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. Why couldn't he let it go? Why couldn't he escape the thought of him? This was torture. His mind was his enemy. He wished he could hollow it out; it would be a comfort, finally, to empty it of all vestiges of that... that coward.

Oliver.

Just the thought of those three stupid syllables and his eyes burned, his lips trembled. He wasn't going to cry though. That was Oliver's thing—crying. Which was just hilarious for all his talk of 'real men' this and 'real men' that. No, Kyle didn't cry, not when Oliver walked random girls upstairs, parading them past Kyle's open door, practically flaunting them. Oh sure, he got the message. It was just a friendly reminder between pals that everything was back to normal again after their little... aberration. He wouldn't cry, not when Oliver avoided looking at him. All the time. When Oliver pretended that they barely knew each other. Kyle didn't cry, ever. Instead, he got angry. He burned with anger.

He lifted his palms to his temples and shook his head, attempting to cast off all thoughts of Oliver. Oliver wasn't important, wasn't worth all this drama. He was just that dipshit, weak-willed, ex-whatever. That—that lying dickhead he used to sleep with. Kyle made it a point to never think about him.

Except every time he closed his eyes....

A single, heavy knock on his door brought him back to himself. He swung his legs over the mattress and looked at the clock. 2:43 a.m.

Unless the house was on fire, only one idiot would barge into his room in the middle of the night. He wasn't in the mood for this. He was so damn tired.

"Kyle—" The door slammed open and Oliver stumbled into the dark room, dragging his shoulder against the wall to keep from falling.

"Damn it, Oliver. What is your problem?" Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're drunk again?"

How was he ever supposed to get Oliver out of his head if he wouldn't leave him the hell alone?

Oliver slouched against the wall, running his fingers slowly over the plaster. "I wish you weren't here."

Kyle scoffed. A lump formed in his throat that he tried to ignore. "This is my room, genius," he croaked. "So you can suck it and get out."

Oliver attempted to straighten himself off the wall, but he lost his balance and lurched sideways, his legs knocking into Kyle's desk with a loud thump. In the moonlit room Kyle barely saw the outline of his lamp wobble, back and forth, and then finally tip. But he could hear the crunch of ceramic breaking clearly enough.

"Great. Exactly what I need tonight." He pushed himself off his bed and grabbed Oliver around the waist, steadying him. "I'm not your fucking keeper, you know that?"

"Shut up," Oliver murmured. He brought one hand up to Kyle's face; the other hand gripped Kyle's shoulder. Suddenly Oliver shifted his weight and Kyle found his back pushed up against the wall, Oliver's mouth on his, kissing him roughly.

Without a second thought, Kyle closed his eyes and angrily kissed him back. This is how he wanted to feel with Oliver, to attack his mouth, pull at his hair, claw at his skin, grip his arms so hard they'd bruise. To show him how much he didn't care about him. It felt damn good to be this angry. It felt right.

With that resignation, he let his guard down for a moment. Suddenly, all the thoughts he'd been desperate to keep away, been denying himself, came flooding back: the first time they were together, how gentle and tentative it was; rushing into open arms as he waved his MCAT scores in triumph; strong hands caressing his face; sober declarations of love. A future that seemed to stretch into the horizon. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging the memories to retreat, to hide again. He stopped attacking back, going almost limp in Oliver's grasp. He placed his hands on Oliver's chest and pushed.

Oliver pulled back, only to pin Kyle against the wall again with his full weight. He pressed his forehead against Kyle's, swiveling his face jerkily as he spoke.

"I just—just wanna like girls... to be normal... but I can't... and then there's you. Always you. In my head. All I see. The way you make me feel—" He pulled back and twisted his face in anger. "I hate it."

Kyle turned his head away, disgusted. Breathing became difficult; his chest ached, his throat dried up, his eyes stung. All of his anger seemed to drain out of his tired body as the reality of their situation hit him. None of this was right. The whole damn thing between them was just... sad. He was sad.

Oliver's hand stroked his neck, practically encircling it, moving up and down slowly. "I hate that I love you," he whispered.

He tightened his grip on Kyle's neck, not hard enough to hurt him, but with enough force to turn his head back toward him. He dove forward and tried to kiss him again.

Kyle pressed his lips tightly together, denying Oliver access. Lifting his left arm, he pried Oliver's hand off his neck. Oliver grabbed hold of Kyle's wrist and brought it to the back of his own neck, trying to lever them closer together.

"Please, Kyle," he begged.

"Let go of me."

Kyle gently pushed Oliver off of him. Oliver let go of Kyle's wrist and stared at him, his mouth slightly open. His eyes moved back and forth, as if he were seeing Kyle for the first time. Then he emitted a small, anguished noise and fell against Kyle in a plaintive embrace, wrapping his arms around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle felt Oliver's sobs before he heard them.

He closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. Oliver was too heavy and limp to hold up for long, and, braced against the wall, they slid down to the floor together. Kyle's arms encircled Oliver while he shook and trembled.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't wanna feel this way anymore."

Kyle exhaled heavily. "Yeah. I get that." He leaned his head against Oliver's. "Right now, I hate that I love you, too."

They huddled on the floor until Kyle's legs began to cramp. Urging Oliver up, he guided them both to the bed.

"Come on. You need to sleep this off." He readjusted his grip around Oliver's waist. "You drink too much, you know that?"

Oliver grunted in response.

The mattress creaked under their familiar combined weight. Oliver, like someone caught in a daze, moved his hand down Kyle's chest, his fingers stretching for the elastic of his boxers.

Kyle reached down and gently removed the wayward hand, curling it toward Oliver's chest instead. He shook his head and spoke softly. "Not tonight, Oliver. Not that."

Oliver sniffed loudly and nodded, though who knew how much of the situation he was comprehending in his messed up state. He closed his eyes and Kyle, cradling his head, holding him, shushing him, watched him slowly drift asleep. In the silence of the room, he resumed his nightly ritual, cataloging his surroundings to stave off thinking.

Oliver's soft hair under his fingers. Oliver's hand, slightly calloused, resting on his arm. The scent of Oliver's skin.

It was too much. Oliver snored next to him, well and truly blacked out. Kyle nudged him onto his side so they faced each other. He pulled Oliver's arm around him, then buried his face in Oliver's chest, just breathing him in, needing to be held. He finally let himself go, unshackled his thoughts, and as the memories crashed over him his entire body shook with sobs, his lungs constricting, his breath choppy and strained. Hot tears spilled out of him uncontrollably onto Oliver's shirt. For the first time in weeks, he cried, finally gave it a good cry, so sad and desperate and lost, even as he wrapped himself in Oliver, in that vacant embrace.

And as he choked and gasped into Oliver's broad chest, he took very little comfort in the realization that he'd finally gotten what he wanted, what he'd struggled to achieve every night for weeks on end. He closed his eyes and saw nothing, was met with blackness. Even as Oliver's steady breaths stirred his hair, as his arm lay heavy on Kyle's side... he felt empty, hollowed out. Alone.