"I don't really care much for expensive things." You say, almost boring me with how much I saw that response coming. I think you wanted it to surprise me, but it didn't work. I try to look shocked for you, but I think it wasn't convincing. You laugh. "You might have guessed that from me shopping at a thrift store?"
I shrugged, trying to suggest that it was obvious. But I'm too cool to admit that to your face. Nothing really matters to this Axel I've built up to you.
You sat on my bed, holding a Diet Coke, your eyes still rapidly avoiding mine as much as you can. We've been together for an entire day at this point, and it's getting harder and harder to control myself. You part those two beautiful fucking raspberries and start talking again, but truth be told, I'm finding it hard to even focus on your words. I'll focus on them, though. I'm gonna be more to you than those other guys. I desperately want to ask you if I am like them or not. I hope you'd say no. You would, I think.
"I'm starting to feel a little self-centered." Your face turns red. That's cute. I think you probably don't feel that way when you're around your friends. Of course you're always self-centered, it's just that my modest and homely look is really making you think that there's something wrong with it. I'm good for you. I compliment you. I bring out the best in you.
"You're not self-centered." Even if I didn't believe that, really, I needed to reassure you. I want to be your rock. I will be. "Why would you think that?" I'm sitting far from you, on this stupid window seat that looks like it's barely holding itself together. I wish I owned this fucking place so I could fix it up. To be honest, you don't live far from me, on the same floor, but I imagine your living space as something grand and textured. Not the same kind of textured that my room is bleeding, but the kind of purposeful texture that only a great master could cultivate. I wanted to clean up before we came back here. I wanted you to think I was effortlessly cool. Like I didn't live off of chinese food and pizza. But the evidence is everywhere and I think you know that's true. I can only hope that you think it adds to that character. A messy guy with a messy room, I guess that checks out. I hope you think it checks out. I really do.
"I've basically been talking about myself this whole time and I barely know anything about you."
"That's okay." I say, a little too eager and I need to reign myself back in before I spill up everything I've been thinking. "You can always ask more whenever you want."
"Oh?" You say, trying to seem coy. I like coy. I like coy on you. "You'll do that for me?"
"Whenever you feel like it, I can try and fit you into my very busy schedule."
"Okay," You cross your legs. I didn't notice until this point how small and thin your legs are. Not too thin, but effortlessly slender. A healthy weight but a petite figure. I want to scoop you into the palms of my hands and hold you there. You're that petite. Did any of those other guys ever want to do that to you? Brandon? Brenden? Brad? One of those names. Those fucking stupid names.
I think if you were to ever name a child Brandon, Brenden, Brad, whatever, you're basically automatically signing him up for varsity football. He'll automatically tear his ACL and he'll automatically want to become a surgeon or pediatrician or something "helpful" like that. He'll also be some kind of sex offender or murderer or man-slaughterer. Can't wait to hear about Brandon on the latest Wondery podcast or something like that. "What's your major?"
"That's not a good question. I don't even know your major." I lie again. I keep lying to you. Honestly, it wouldn't be a great look if you were psychic. You're not running away from me or challenging me outright about these lies, so I guess I can consider that a reliable tell that you aren't psychic.
"I'm a polisci major." You say, leaning back on my bed slightly, putting your dainty hand on your chest. "Now you know. What's yours then?"
I smile. "English."
"Why does that not surprise me?" You cock your head back and raise an eyebrow. You can do that? I've always tried to raise my eyebrow like that but I end up just raising both of mine...Maybe one day you can teach me how to do it. I sense that it's a point of pride for you that you can do that. Did you practice that in a mirror? Does it make you feel a little more powerful?
"It surprises you?" I say. Dammit, I tried to raise mine again and I just ended up raising both. You don't seem to notice and instead think I was looking shocked that it surprised you.
"What? You don't think you're that good at not looking like an English major?" You snort.
Honestly, I had never really thought about that. I'm working in a thrift shop, and I dress mostly like I don't care. I imagine that might be what an English major would do. "You work at a thrift shop. You're wearing vintage Doc Martens and-" You pause for a moment. I like where you're going with it, even if you're telling me I fit into a stereotype. Great minds think alike, I would say. "Your hair is shoulder length." Your eyes cut around my hair. Wow. I can't actually tell if you like my hair or if you think it needs to be cut. I'm a little hurt. I guess it's not normally the type of thing you see on men you are typically drawn to.
"Okay." I say, picking up a water bottle and unscrewing the cap. "So, I guess that-"
"And you have hair ties on your wrist!" You smile wide and lunge forward, pointing a finger to my black hair bands.
"Don't be ridiculous. This could totally be a tell for art students." I say, taking a sip and rolling my eyes back. I admit, I fit the mold, but don't act like I couldn't be another type of man.
"Nah." You say. My eyes shift back over to you. Please defend that one in a way that makes sense or I may turn my back on you. I'm joking.
Defend it properly, though.
"If you were an art student," You lean back again, getting comfortable. A sly smile spreads across your lips and I am one hundred percent engaged. "It would be more obvious that you're into guys."
"Would it?" I say. I need time to process this and I need to cover while I do. "Isn't that a little too stereotypical?"
"I'm just saying. If you were an art student, you wouldn't need any guess work to figure out if you were into guys or girls or both or whatever. You would just come out and say it basically right as you met me." You look so confident and I'm choosing to accept this as a really good thing. I'm taking it as a sign that you're still hung up on my sexuality. You're hung up on me sexually. And I'm definitely not upset about that reality.
"So you're still thinking about my sexuality." I choose to let that slip with a smile.
"NO!" You spring to life again and that confidence drains from your face. "It's just that I think it was unfair that you knew my sexuality right off the bat and I didn't know anything about yours!"
"I think you might be jumping to conclusions there. Who said I knew anything about your sexuality?"
Your face froze and I think you got flustered again.
I actually did feel bad about hurting you this way. I didn't want to leave you hanging there forever, holding yourself up with those tiny little hands.
"I have heard you were gay, though." I shrugged. It's not a big deal. I hope you understand that.
"You did?" You seem relieved right away. I'm glad I could make your heart beat slower. As much as I really hate saying that.
"Yeah." I affirm. I want really badly to talk shit about all of those Brandons you've dated. I wanted to ask you so badly why you pick fuckers like those guys. I hate that for you. I want to tell you badly how much I hate that for you.
"I guess you've seen me around with guys before? Or was it just rumors and stuff?" You ask. Rumors? In this current year, who would run around a college campus spreading rumors about you being gay? That doesn't make too much sense so maybe you're worried about how your being gay effects your family's business. Do they have some issue with it? I'm starting to think maybe from that comment but it's also entirely possible I'm spinning things up in my head. I do that.
"I've seen you around." I say. "With guys before."
"Oh." You look a little embarrassed. Does Brandon embarrass you as much as he embarrasses me? Second hand embarrassment, anyway. Yours must be stronger. Maybe you're ashamed that such a worldly and unique guy like me has seen your shallow and shitty tastes in men.
"You have some-" I hesitate. You might think of me as nasty if I make the comments I really want to make and to be honest I'm really starting to wonder why we haven't kissed yet. It's been a full day and we haven't kissed yet. "-interesting tastes. From what I can tell." I bet you kissed those other guys right when you met them. Maybe at a party or something. Am I not worth that physical testing? Don't you have to make sure we're compatible first before you start this up with me emotionally?
"I haven't always picked the best guys, that's for sure." You say sheepishly.
Or maybe the fact that you haven't kissed me yet proves I'm better than those other guys. You want to make sure I'm right before you go all in with me because you know that once you start, you can never stop.
"Really?" I feign ignorance. Shocked that you agree with me. "Why's that?" I'm banking on this sounding like a natural way to lead into that conversation.
"Well, I guess I'd rather say that the best guys haven't always picked me." You're trying to take away your responsibility in those choices and it doesn't sit well with me. This is the first thing you've ever done that really left a sour taste in my mouth. You wanted them, Roxas, everyone knows you did so why not just man up say that. It's the truth and I'm not going to think negatively of you just because your lust has led you down some wrong paths. I'm actually hurt that you would assume that of me. I'm not a shallow Brandon and you need to trust me on that fact.
"What do you mean by that?" I say, gritting my teeth after I speak. I'm sorry if that looked aggressive but I'm really having a hard time not getting angry with you about this.
"The guys I've been with in the past can be a little…" You sighed, looking down. It's a sensitive topic. Maybe more sensitive than I expected. A lot more sensitive than I hoped. They will not be having a good future if they've done anything to hurt you. "...I guess you could say, they've been all kinds of different assholes of varying degrees."
"Tell me about that." I say. I've calmed down for you and my tone is gentle and soft. You need a gentle and soft place to land and I really want that to be me and not another Brandon that could hurt you.
You look conflicted.
Just tell me. I won't hurt you with what you tell me, I promise. Please just finally learn to trust me the way you know you want to.
"I don't normally like talking about that…" You say quietly. "But I guess I feel comfortable telling you…"
This makes my heart skip a beat and I'm not prepared for shitty little feelings like that. Around you I think I feel more comfortable if my heart just pumped directly into my dick. This feeling kind of makes me sick in a way I'm really not used to. But it feels almost like a pleasant sickness. I want more of it and I think that makes me a different person than I'm used to looking at. I'm still not sure if that's good or bad. I think it's good. Most people would say that's a good thing. I'll stick with good for now. I shouldn't be debating this stuff when you're about to spill your heart and soul out on the bed for me. I want to be able to lick it all up without any hesitation or distraction. All of your heart and all of your soul. I know I would eat you whole if I could, and I want you to be aware of that truth.
I'm waiting patiently for you. I'm not going to push no matter how much my gut is screaming at me to scream at you.
An eternity passes before you open your mouth and I can't tell if I want to shut you up right away or mute every other sound.
"Well, the last guy I dated was not exactly the nicest to me."
"What was his name?" Brandon. Brandon. Brandon.
"His name was Brent." God dammit. "But we broke up not too long ago."
"Did you love him?" Fuck. FUCK. I wanted to kill myself immediately as I asked you this. Fuck.
You look just as shocked as you're supposed to look when a practical stranger asks you that. "I'm gonna be honest with you and say I'm not sure."
Oh. You looked shocked because you had never asked yourself that.
"Go on."
"Anyway," You push that sun kissed golden blond hair behind an ear. "I met him through a friend. He was actually her RA." You looked up at me for approval. I gave it to you. "We hit it off and kissed like the first time we even spoke." I knew it. "That was basically the last time we got along."
I'm shocked. I look shocked, I can tell from your reaction and you're not sure how to respond. You think I might be mad so I reassure you again. "How long did you stay with him?"
You look comfortable again. "We were together for about six months. I tried to make it work even though he was kind of an alcoholic type." You look ashamed now. "He got drunk a lot and I think I barely ever spoke to him sober. He was really only free at night after all his classes and responsibilities were over."
"And he was only really nice during the day, I assume." He saw him at night. Sex. That meant they basically only had sex. And it was sex with a drunk man who treated you like shit. Are your standards low or is it just your self esteem? Does it make you feel like you're important to be loved sexually? Does it make you feel like you matter?
You're trying to wait and make it mean something with me, then.
"Yeah." You start fidgeting with your hands. "Though I imagine you never saw us on campus together."
"I might have."
"But you probably really saw me and Riku together the most." You suggest shyly. Riku. Him? I vaguely know of this fucker. I know that he's way under your league. That would be like an A list celebrity dating a Minecraft let's player or something like that. He's tall. Not as tall as me. And he's sporty. Gross. Do you actually like the sporty type or is he just someone who gave you attention? I think you're the type to enjoy when someone vaguely handsome of any variety gives you attention. Especially sexual attention. "We dated for over a year." I knew that. I also knew he was the 'Captain' of the soccer team. He was alright, I heard. But sports don't really matter, do they? You might say so. But I know you wouldn't really mean it if you did. "We were roommates freshman year and we were really, really close. When we broke up, I took it really hard and I had to move off campus into these apartments to try and get away from it, spiritually." You gestured.
He broke your heart. And I'm torn between wanting to figure out where his stupid fucking soccer field is and striking him down or leaving him breathing. On one hand he destroyed your self worth (it would appear) and on the other hand, him breaking your heart is what led you into this building in the first place. Maybe you wouldn't have been drawn to me if you didn't see my walking down the hallway to my shitty apartment every day. Suddenly I don't feel so much hate towards this fucking guy.
Brand- Brent, however, I can hate freely. At least I'll always have Brent, right, Roxas?
"That sounds serious." I say, trying to sound calm. "Are you over him completely?" I will help you get over that quickly if you just let me break this touch barrier that you've set up. Why haven't we kissed yet, Roxas?
You smile. "I think I'm finally over him." What? WHAT? Are you suggesting that I'm getting you over him? That I've GOTTEN you over him? That better be true, Roxas. And if it isn't, this is probably the rare, and only instance in your life of you being cruel.
"Prove it." I push you.
Your face turns red again. God, it's so easy. "How would you want me to do that?" You look almost scared. This is a big step for you, I can see that. I appreciate it. I really do.
"Come here." I gesture to you.
You listen to me perfectly, getting up from my bed and treading cautiously towards me. Your steps are light and airy, I can feel you shaking at the knee, it's vibrating my chest or maybe that's just my heart. You make your way through my piles of clothes until you're standing between my legs. You rest your hands on my thighs, and that contact alone feels like it's powerful enough to make me cum. But I don't.
My energy is finally released. My hands wrap around your cheeks and for the first time I can truly feel what the heat from your red face feels like and it's like the back of a phone while it's charging or the carpet in the midafternoon, post sunbathing. My fingers glide across your skin like ice slipping down the side of a hot pan. You feel like a plush carpet or a puppy. The softness feels like I've never touched anything but concrete my entire life until now. The steam coming off of you opens all my pores.
Before you can close your eyes and rethink what this would mean, I crashed my face against yourself, injecting my passion for you, my want for you, into this fucking kiss.