Lucy Loud was what the kids on 4chan would call a "horrorfag" meaning she was a huge fan of horror. She lived it, breathed it, and even pooped it (you'd be surprised at the horrors a tiny goth can leave behind in the toilet after Taco Tuesday). She watched only horror movies, read only horror novels, and played only horror games. She didn't actively hate on other genres (except for superhero movies) but they just weren't for her. She was born with an innate love of the unquiet coffin and the skeletal face of the harvest moon. Everyone has their thing, and hers was horror.
A lot of non-horror fans Lucy met assumed that her love of it came from a desire to be "edgy" or something, as though she based her tastes on shocking and offending other people. That was the definition of edge, wasn't it? Doing something solely to get a rise out of people? If it wasn't, it should be, because that's what edge is. Sid Vicious, bassist for 70s punk band The Sex Pistols, used to wear a T-shirt with a swastika on it...not because he subscrbd to a full and complex idealogy of hate, but because it would scandalize conventional British society, and he thought that was funny. That, my friend, is edge. Lucy didn't watch horror movies alone in her room at night because it would shock someone else; she watched them because it's what she liked. She didn't care what anyone else thought. If that's edge then fine, whatever, she was edgy.
Dab.
Normally, she watched horror and horror alone. Like a kid who would eat only chicken nuggets for dinner, she shunned and eschewed everything else.
Then she discovered gallio.
Gallio was a type of Italian crime film that played out like a cross between Hitchcockian mystery and 80s slasher. Gallio movies mainly focused on people being stalked by faceless killers and had so many twists and turns that you were sure to be dizzy by the time you found out who the killer really was. They were alternately gritty and stylish, full of violence, sex, and suspense, and Lucy loved them.
The morning, she was thinking of Gallio on her way to school and trying to figure out why she liked them so much - as a writer, she psychoanalyzed herself and others and was always fascinated by people's motivations, including her own. One thing she really enjoyed about Gallio movies was the fun of trying to figure out who the killer is. She was usually good about picking out the right suspect, but Gallio movies stumped her because they went out of their way to make everyone look guilty.
One thought led to another and inspiration struck.
What if there was a movie where everyone really was guilty?
The plotline of just such a story took shape over the course of the day, and by the time she got home that afternoon, she knew exactly how it would play out. She would call the story Gallio (until she came up with something better) and would load it down with all the Gallio tropes she could think of:
High class, artsy protagonists
A killer wearing black leather gloves
Red herrings galore
Lots of blood and gore.
She was so excited to get started that she ran all the way home from school, shouldering smaller children out of the way. "Move, loser," she grunted at a little girl in pigtails.
"YOU'RE MEAN!" Pigtails barked.
At home, she grabbed her laptop, crawled into the ductwork above her room, and took up residence in the widest and more comfortable spot near Lincoln's room. She booted up her computer, balanced it on her lap, and waited impatiently for it to boot up. "Come on, come on," she quietly urged. Nervous energy surged through her body and she practically thrummed like a transformer box.
At last, the computer was ready. She opened a fresh document in Google Docs and started to write.
"I saw you with that whore," the woman said sharply. "You were kissing her."
The man stiffened. "I wasn't kissing anybody," he said.
They were standing at a railing overlooking one of the many canals crisscrossing the face of Venice like old scars, him with his arms crossed defensively over his chest and her glaring at him with something close to hatred. A parade of richly decorated boats floated past, and a thousand people in porcelain masks and gaudy costumes thronged the street. Faint strands of music filled the salty air and the smell of food from the many street vendors wafted through the crowd.
It was early evening and the feeble orange light was rapidly draining from the sky, leaving it purple and cold.
Carnevale di Venezia, one of Venice's biggest and most anticipated events, had just started and a party atmosphere hung over the city. The ancient squares and courtyards were packed with tourists and the Piazza San Marco, watched over by the lofty domes and spires of Saint Mark's Basilica, teemed with life. Laughter, merriment, and drunken revelry rang from one side of the city to the other and wouldn't quiet until long after midnight.
The woman loved the beauty and culture of Venice and made the pilgrimage from New York every Carnival season. She usually brought whichever playboy or doctor's son she was seeing at the time and had a wonderful week away from the toil and rigors of New York high society. This year, she brought the handsome nephew of a senator and they had a lovely afternoon.
Until she found him kissing another girl.
"Yes you did," she hissed, "I saw you with my own two eyes. You were sucking her face off like your uncle sucks up tax dollars."
The man's jaw clenched and his baby blue eyes flashed with anger, making the woman laugh humorlessly. "Oh, you don't like that, do you? You don't like being caught and called out for being the cheater you are."
"She kissed me," he said. "It's a party, a lot of people kiss. It means nothing."
It meant something to her. Being cheated on was a slap in the face, an unforgivable insult. She did not love the senator's nephew and would probably be done with him by the beginning of summer. She did not love him and couldn't see herself ever loving him. That wasn't the point, though. How dare he kiss another woman? How dare he not be completely satisfied with her? She had everything, was everything. What could he possibly want with another woman? Was she as wealthy? Was she as beautiful?
Leaning in as if to chomp his head off, neck muscles straining, the woman said, "You mean nothing. If it wasn't for your uncle you'd be making pizzas in some shop somewhere. You should thank me for wasting the last three weeks of my life on you."
The man's face darkened. "Fuck you."
"Go fuck your greasy slut."
For a second, she thought he would hit her, but he brushed past her and stalked off instead, his hands clenched at his sides. "Go on!" she called after him. "Find your way back to New York!"
He disappeared into the crowd and the woman let out a shaky sigh. She turned back to the canal, dug a gold case from her purse, and opened it. She took out a cigarette with trembling fingers, lit it, and leaned against the railing for support. She hated him for what he did, hated him for making her doubt herself. She was beautiful and she knew it, so why would he do this to her? Was she too overbearing? Was she too demanding? What failing on her part could have led him to cheat?
None, she decided, it was his fault. A real man wouldn't have done that to her. A real man would have bought her diamonds and made her feel like a queen. The senator's nephew wasn't a man. In fact, now that she thought about it, his penis was small which instantly made him inferor.
Feeling better about herself, she dropped her cigarette into the canal, pushed away from the railing, and started back to the hotel, her heels clicking on the cobblestones. People in elaborate masks and Renaissance plumes and waistcoats danced around her and she flashed a terse smile at one of them. Closer to the Piazza San Marco, the street became impassible and careless revelers bumped rudely into her.
She was just getting to the good part when a soft sound penetrated her brain. Her fingers faltered and she cocked her head to listen, a slight frown creasing her lips.
It sounded like…
...crying.
And it was coming from Lincoln's room.
Setting the computer side, she got on her hands and knees and crawled toward the vent at the end of the shaft, making as little sound as she possibly could. When she reached it, she stretched out on her stomach and peered through the grate.
Below, Lincoln lay on his bed, fully clothed and curled up in a miserable little ball. His cheeks were slick with tears and his eyes were squeezed shut. He wrapped his arms around his knees and sobbed desolately, his body quivering. Lucy's frown deepened and a sick, heavy feeling ballooned in her stomach. If she had a heart, it would shatter into a million pieces at the sight of her brother's misery.
She was hurt, but not exactly surprised, per se. Lincoln had been acting strangely over the past few days; he was quiet, withdrawn, and looked like he had a lot on his mind. Lucy didn't now what was going on with him but it was definitely something.
Should she go down there and talk to him?
No, no, if he knew she overheard him crying, he might feel even worse. The best thing to do was give him his space and then approach him later, not letting him know that she'd eavesdropped on him.
Sighing, she lingered for a moment, then slithered back to her computer on her stomach. She picked it up, sat it on her lap, and went back to writing.
Finally, she turned into an alleyway to get away from them. It was full dark now and stars twinkled overhead like leering eyes. The next street over was less crowded and not as well lit. She crossed the street and followed the sidewalk to a cross lane, turning left. She was still fuming over her boyfriend's infidelity and didn't realize she was lost until she found herself on an unfamiliar avenue. She stopped and looked behind her. The street stood empty and dark save for the weak, rusty light cast by an iron lamp. Something flickered in the corner of her eye and she whipped around, her heart lodging firmly in her throat. "Hello?"
That single paragraph, barely over 100 words long, took her almost ten minutes to write; she could no longer hear Lincoln crying but her mind kept drifting back to it.
Sighing, she closed her laptop and went back to her room.
Maybe she would write more later.
Lincoln Loud had never known the bitter sting of heartbreak until now.
It was late Friday afternoon and he was lying on top of his covers, his cheeks wet and his eyes staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. He had cried so much over the past week that he simply didn't have any more tears to give. He let out a watery sigh and rolled onto his side, his knees drawing to his chest. Had it been a week? He tried to think back but couldn't be sure. His days had been an agonized blur, each blending into the next, and he couldn't tell where one ended and another began.
How ironic that the worst days of his life should follow his best. The time he and Clyde spent together was magical and whenever Lincoln went back to it, he smiled. He had wanted Clyde for so long, longer than he even realized, and finally, he had him. He kissed his lips and touched his chest, he bent and took his length, hissing in pain at first, then rolling his eyes in pleasure when his body adjusted. It was so perfect, so satisfying, so amazing.
And then it was over.
Clyde rushed out and wouldn't return his calls or texts. At school, Clyde went out of his way to avoid him, and when he couldn't, he mumbled and wouldn't look Lincoln in the eye. On Tuesday, Lincoln sat across from him and lunch and stared down at his tray, fighting to hold back tears. "We should probably talk a-about the other day."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Clyde's body went rigid and a look of fear filled his eyes. He looked like an animal backed into a corner. He opened and closed his mouh, trying to come up with something to say and failing. "I-I-I-I don't want to."
Those four words tore into Lincoln's heart like bullets. He didnt want to? Why? "Clyde, I -"
"Just forget about it."
The firm finality in his voice stopped Lincoln cold. He didn't want to talk about it; he wanted to pretend it never happened.
Hot tears welled in Lincoln's eyes and his heart broke into a million pieces. He got up and rushed off, not wanting Clyde to see him cry, In the boys' room, he sat in the far stall, buried his face in his hands, and wept so hard his shoulders shook and snot flowed freely from his nose. When the storm had passed, leaving him hollow, he wrapped his arms around his chest and blinked away the tears. His heart hurt so bad that it felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest and there was a slick, sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. A vent directly above and behind him pumped warm air into the bathroom but a cold chill settled in his bones. He took a shuddery breath and swallowed a wad of snot that made him shiver.
He shouldn't have seduced Clyde.
Of all the mistakes he had ever made in his short eleven year lifespan, that one was the worst. It probably ruined his friendship with Clyde - the purest and most beautiful thing he had ever had - and it also gave him a taste of perfection before cruelly wrenching it away from him. It was like living the good life for a week and then being banished back to your cardboard box under the freeway. It was like knowing five seconds of heaven and then falling headfirst into hell. Being fucked by Clyde was the most holy and exhilarating experience he'd ever had, and now that he knew how wonderful it was, he could never go back to being fine without it.
What should he do?
He was so hurt and confused that he could barely think straight. Ever atom in his body yelled at him to go out there and try again, to make Clyde love him as much as he loved Clyde, even if it caused a scene. He didn't have the courage, though, so he went to class when the bell rang and did everything he could to keep from breaking down. It took all that he had, but he managed to get through the rest of the day. Alone in the blessed solitude of his room, the facade cracked and he curled up on his bed.
This became a routine with him. Drag through the day, come home, and lay in bed until he had to do it again. He slept sometimes nine or ten hours at a stretch, but he was always groggy and listless, and when he was awake, he couldn't stop tormenting himself with thoughts of Clyde. He scrolled through the camera album on his phone, basking in the happy snapshots of memories past, and relished all the good times they had shared together.
At school, he was a ghost, fluttering from one class to the next with his head down, not speaking, not looking at anyone. He sat by himself at lunch and watched Clyde across the room, but didn't have the guts to walk over and talk to him. He was afraid Clyde would reject him. Even more, he was afraid that he would find that his friendship with Clyde was irreparably damaged.
So he did nothing.
For days.
Each one was harder than the last and he didn't know how much longer he could do this. He thought, abstractly, of killing himself, but knew already that he wouldn't, even though the thought of being free from this pain consoled him. He wouldn't kill himself but he had to do something; he was no closer to solving his problem than he was a week ago, and he couldn't go on like this. He was terrified of talking to Clyde, though. Right now, he could sooth himself with the possibility that Clyde was still coming to terms with what happened and trying to sort his feelings. If he went to him and he turned him down flatly and soberly, he would no longer have that flicker of hope, and having hope, no matter how faint, is better than having nothing at all.
He sighed and closed his eyes, calling up a vision of Clyde's face. Was he really willing to let the most important man in his life walk away? No, that was what Lynn called bitch talk, and Lincoln wasn't a bitch. He would do whatever it took to win Clyde's love, climb any mountain, swim any sea, whatever he had to do. He couldn't bear the thought of living the rest of his life knowing that he was too much of a pussy to put up a fight. A lot of people have that proverbial one that got away and they regretted it for years to come. Lincoln refused to be one of them. He had to do something, but he didn't know what. Show up outside Clyde's window with a boom box playing love songs like that guy in that eighties movie Luna loved so much? Bake him a bunch of cookies and beg for his love? Suck him until he called him mommy?
A knock came at the door, startling him from his thoughts. "Yeah?"
"It's me," Lucy said from the other side, voice muffled. "Can I come in?"
Lincoln sat up and wiped his eyes to make sure they weren't wet. "Yeah," he said.
The door opened a crack and Lucy slipped in, shutting it sofly closed behind her. She came ovet to the bed, sat down, and twisted around to look at him. Her eyes were invisible behind her bangs but he could feel them boring into him anyway, and uncomfortably shifted his weight. "What's going on with you?" she asked directly.
"What do you mean?" Lincoln asked, knowing damn well what she meant.
"You've been acting off lately," she said. "Like something's wrong."
Damn him and his inability to hide his emotions. He tried to think up a convincing lie but came up empty handed. "I just have a lot of my mind." He figured that would be good enough to get her off his back.
It wasn't.
"What?" she asked. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about," he snapped. "I'm fine. It's just normal school stuff."
Lucy reached out and laid her hand on the back of his. "No it's not. I know you, Lincoln, and you've been depressed for at least a week." She softened her tone. "Talk to me, tell me what's wrong."
The genuine concern in her voice and the way she looked at him - as though his pain was her pain - did something to him, and without warning, he began to cry. She hugged him and he clung to her like a small and miserable child to its mother, his face buried in her shoulder and his tears soaking into the fabric of her dress. She stroked his back and rocked him from side to side. Her surprising motherliness made him laugh through his tears, and from there it didn't take him long to wrestle back control of himself. He pulled away from Lucy, face puffy and red with shame, and quickly blotted his eyes with the heels of his palms, as though getting rid of the evidence of his break down would somehow render it null and void, wiping it from Lucy's memory. She favored him with an expectant expression and he sighed.
Things had happened so quickly that he never got around to worrying about coming out to his family. It seemed like only the other day that he admitted to himself that he was gay. He was so focused on getting the boy that he didn't think of anything beyond that. The prospect of telling Lucy that he was gay gave him pause, but ultimately did not scare him. He was fairly certain that she and the others would accept and love him anyway. They did with Luna. Lucy. Lucy, especially, was progressive and understanding. He was not afraid of being shunned as much as he was of his sexualiy being made a big deal of. When he pictured coming out, he saw himself with his family gathered around, hugging, crying, being emotional. He didn't want that. He was an introvert and didn't want to make his sexual orientation the centerpiece of his life.
He just wanted to be Clyde's girlfriend.
"It's a long story," he finally said.
"I have time," Lucy instantly replied.
Lincoln took a deep breath. He'd tell her about his problem with Clyde as casually as he could, as if boys having sex and being together was a foregone conclusion.
"It's Clyde…"
He told her everything. At first, he was going to leave out the part where he dressed up like Lori because it was embarrassing, but decided that it was probably too important to skip. After all, it was possible that Clyde only had sex with him because of that.
Thankfully, Lucy must have picked up on his desire to gloss over his sexuality. "It sounds like he was only into you because of the Lori thing."
"I know," Lincoln said, "I thought about that. What should I do?"
She was quiet for a long time. "You have to confess your feelings for him."
"But -"
"It has to be done," Lucy said, forestalling his reply. "You really like him. No matter how he feels about it, he deserves to know exactly where you stand, how you feel, and what you want. If you're over here torturing yourself with maybes and what ifs, it stands to reason that he is too. Communication is key in any relationship, romantic or otherwise, and the two of you need to communicate."
"What if he rejects me?"
Lucy shrugged. "Then he rejects you. It's going to hurt but you have to suck it up and move on; clinging to past trauma might be hip on Twitter, but it's not healthy. Being open with your emotions when appropriate is healthy, wallowing in them until you're an anxious, medicated wreck is not."
She made a lot of sense.
"Look, if Clyde had sex with you, he's got to at least be bi. I know Clyde. We've taked. He's got this thing about Lori but he isn't crazy or delusional. He knew it was you and it didn't stop him, so…" she trailed off and shrugged again.
Lincoln meditated on what she had said for a long time. "You're right," he finally admitted. Fear throbbed in the center of his chst and his stomach rocked and reeled, but he knew that he had to confess his feelings for Clyde. Even if it wnt bad, he had to try; he couldn't just sit around and mope. The time for that had long passed.
He hugged his sister. "Thanks, Luce."
"You're welcome," Lucy said and hugged him back. "If you ever need to talk, my door is open. Even when it's closed.
They shared a laugh.
After she left, Lincoln went back to laying down, his hands across his chest and his fingers drumming restlessly. His eyes went to his phone sitting on the desk and he gritted his teeth. He started to put it off until later, but forced himself to do it now before he lost his nerve. He reached out, grabbed the phone, and swiped his thumb across the screen. He went to his contacts list, tapped Clyde's picture, and wrote a next.
We need to talk.
Clyde McBride was trying and failing to concentrate on his homework when his phone chimed with a text. Even before he looked at it, he knew who it was.
Call it black man's intuition.
He braced himself and checked.
Yep.
Lincoln.
We need to talk.
No they didn't.
Ever since that day he and Lincoln...you know...Clyde had been avoiding Lincoln and his own feelings. He tried to forget what happened between them but kept thinking about it. He even purposely thought of Lori, but the vision of her face was dimmer, not as sharp, and sometimes, he saw Lincoln instead of her.
That alarmed him.
Was he gay?
He couldn't be. He liked girls.
To prove that to himself, he looked up porn online. Breasts, pussies, and long hair turned him on, so he was straight.
Then he stupidly followed a link to a site spotlighting femboys. Petite and femine women with dicks. Basically, men in drag.
God help him, that turned him on too.
He was a mess of confusion and uncertainty and had been trying to hide from his own doubts. The last thing he wanted to do was confront them by facing Lincoln.
Only he couldn't run from this forever. Sooner or later he had to face it.
Please, Lincoln texted.
Clyde imagined a hurt, beseeching quiver in his friend's voice, and he felt bad. Bad for ignoring him, bad for ducking him, bad for not having the balls to do what needed to be done. Okay, he replied.
Come to my house tomorrow after school, Lincoln said.
They talked for a little while longer before Clyde made up a lie about dinner being ready; he had already eaten and now wished he hadn't. He sat the phone aside, propped his elbows on the desk, and rested his face in his hands. His mind was a tilt a whirl of thoughts and fears and his stomach turned slowly inside out, threatening to spill its contents all over his lap. He didn't know what to think, what to do, or what to say. When he saw Lincoln tomorrow, what would happen? Would Lincoln ask to be his boyfriend? Would they laugh it off and chalk it up to preteen hormones? Could they go on as best friends, or would they have to distance themselves from each other?
What did he want to happen?
That was a question he had been dancing around for days because honestly, he didn't think he would like the answer. He hated change, and he sensed that things were going to change. He had believed something about himself for years, something vital to who he was and how he interacted with the world, and now he wasn't so sure of that thing anymore. His life and his very identity were both in disarray and he didn't know who he really was anymore.
Later on, he struggled to fall asleep, and when he did, his slumber was thin and fitful, his thoughts elongating into wispy dreams. He woke up several times throughout the night, panting and covered in cold sweat, and finally got out of bed just before dawn. He dragged himself into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and stared at himself in the mirror. With his big ears, kinky hair, and big, dorky glasses, he looked the way he always had, but something had changed nd he could hardly recognize the face staring back at him. He looked away and grimaced at the basin. His resolve almost broke but he managed to keep it together. He brushed his teeth, gurgled with mouthwash, and jumped into the shower, the water relaxing his tense muscles. He spun in a slow circle, wetting every part of his body, and then leaned his forehead against the slick tile wall.
He didn't want to do this.
But he had to.
After washing, he got out, toweled on, and put on deodorant, making extra sure he smelled good.
In the kitchen, Howard and Harold sat at the table with coffee and bagels. Clyde joined them and then dawdled a little bit so he wouldn't run the risk of potentially seeing Lincoln before class. He left fifteen minutes before the first bell and took the long way, cutting through the park. At this early hour, the only signs of life were a flock of geese and a wino sleeping under a pile of newspaper on a bench. Clyde gave him a wide berth but the sickly sweet stench of alcohol pinched his nose and turned his stomach anyway.
He got to school a few minutes later. It loomed over him like a haunted castle in a gothic novel, its windows staring and foreboding. He swallowed with an audible click, but his head down, and hurried inside just as the bell rang through the halls. He ducked into an alcove, peeked around the corner to make sure Lincoln wasn't around, and power walked to his locker.
In his first class, he stared out the window and thought about Lincoln, as he did in most of his classes. His mind inevitably turned to that afternoon they shared in Lincoln's bedroom. A sense of longing stirred in his stomach, and he pursed his lips.
He did not want to be gay. Not because he was antigay - he was not - but because he did not want to change. He knew who he was and he was comfortable in that knowledge. He was only eleven, but that was far too old to undergo a radical transformation and realize that you are not the person you thought you were. He was so sure that he was...well, him...that the possibility that he wasn't shook him to his core.
After the bell, he went to his next class, where he stared down at his hands and tried to think of Lori. He called up visions of her face, but he didn't see her, he saw Lincoln dressed as her instead. He tried to push them away, but they persisted, and his throat tightened. He focused on Girl Jordan two desks over. He imagined being alone with her in his bedroom, touching her between her legs and kissing her stiff, pink nipple, and started getting hard. He imagined doing the same with Lincoln, and continued getting hard.
Was he bisexual?
That thought had occurred to him several times over the past couple days, but he kept rejecting itt because it was almost as bad as being gay. Until Lincoln, he had never had a single sexual thought about a male, ever. He only thought of girls. Mainly Lori, but occasionally other ones, like Stella, Cookie, Lynn, Luan, Leni, and Lucy.
Yeah, he wasn't too proud of that last one. She was a little younger than he was normally attracted to, but she was cute and he got along with her really well. A few times while he was stalking Lori through the Loud House, he came across Lucy instead and they wound up talking a lot. She was the only person aside from Lincoln who knew how deeply his obsession with Lori ran. She told him that he was setting himself up for failure and he agreed with her.
Then why don't you stop?
I don't know, he had replied.
By the time lunch rolled around, Clyde was more confused than ever and went to the cafeteria, hoping his didn't bump into Lincoln. As it so happened, he didn't, but he did see his cowlick across the room. Coates Middle wasn't a very big school, so that was bound to happen even though by now Clyde knew all the best routes to take if he wanted to minimize his chances of bumping into Lincoln.
His stomach was in knots so he didn't eat, but tha wasn't exactly abnormal lately.
For the rest of the day, Clyde mentally and emotionally prepared himself for his upcoming meeting with Lincoln. It could go a thousand different ways, and Clyde was a little perturbed to find that he couldn't see any one being more or less likely thank the others.
At the end of the day, he walked home, stopping in the park to sit on a bench where he and Lincoln rested on days they walked home together. The sun was out and warm on his skin, and he took a long moment to enjoy it before getting up and going the rest of the way.
He and Lincoln had agreed to meet at 4:30, which gave Clye half an hour to pace around his room and finish amping himself. At the appointed time, he left the house and made his way to Lincoln's, getting there fifteen minutes later. He knocked and Luna answered looking nervous. "Dude, now's not a good time," she said in a low, fearful rush. "Leni's gone full Nazi. She -"
A sharp voice sounded, startling Clyde. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING OFF OF THE COUCH?"
Luna squealed and jumped a foot. "I had to answer the d-door."
She sounded afraid.
"Who is it?"
"Clyde."
Leni's voice softened. "Ooh, let him in."
Luna stepped aside and Clyde went in. Leni stood by the couch with a riding crop in her hand. She slapped her open palm with a crisp sound and smiled. "Hi, Clyde."
"Uh...hi."
"Lincy's upstairs."
Uncomfortable, Clyde hurried up the steps. What was with Leni lately? Lincoln said she was having a hard time filling Lori's shoes but from what he could see, she had her sisters living in terror.
He was at Lincoln's door now. He took a deep breath and knocked. "Yeah?" Lincoln called out from inside.
Alright.
Here it goes.
Clyde turned the knob and pushed the door open. Lincoln was sitting on his bed and when he saw who it was, his body stiffened. Clyde stood awkwardly in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, then went over and sat next to Lincoln. Lincoln turned away and looked down at his feet, his lips flattening.
For a long time, they just sat there wrapped in silence. Finally, Lincoln said, "I like you."
Clyde's stomach twisted and his heart lodged in his throat. "I just realized it the other day," Lincoln continued. "You're...great and being with you makes me happy. I feel like you understand me in a way no one else does and like we have a special bond. I just…" he trailed off and collected his thoughts. "I know it's crazy, alright? But y-you mean a lot to me and the other day.." a fond smile spread across his face and set it ablaze with a happiness that was beautiful to behold.
In an instant, however, it was gone, and Clyde's heart sank.
He wanted it back.
"I'm sorry about it if you didn't, you know, like it. If you want to just be friends, that's fine. I'm okay with that. But I kind of want to be more."
At last, Lincoln looked at him, and a feeling that Clyde could not explain or account for came over him. It was excitement, but it was also disgust. He loved his friend but...could he be with a boy? Could he really allow himself to change so drastically?
In that moment, he didn't know. He didn't know anything. He wanted to be friends with Lincoln, that hadn't changed, but he didn't know if they could ever be anything more. He said as much, and Lincoln sighed. "Is it me?" he asked.
"No," Clyde said, "it's just…"
What? What was it? It was too hard to explain, too raw and close to his heart.
Lincoln laid his hand on Clyde's lap, a look of desperation in his face. "Just give me a chance, I promise, I'll be everything you want."
Clyde frowned. "Lincoln, I just don't…"
Lincoln squeezed his crotch. "Please? I love you and I want to be with you."
The sensation of being touched there, and the pleading in Lincoln's eyes stopped him. His ick started to get hard but his heart hurt. His head began to spin and he could no longer tell which way was up. Part of him didn't want this to happen again, but another part did, and he offered no resistance when Lincoln began kissing his neck; he just sat there indecisively, aroused, scared, repulsed, and horny. Soon, Lincoln wound up kneeling between his legs. The warm wetness of his mouth made Clyde's breath catch and staring down into his soft brown eyes, he could almost feel himself falling in love.
Which scared the shit out of him.
Lincoln swirled his tongue around the head of Clyde's dick and took him all the way to the back of his throat. This was wrong...this was not okay.
But Clyde didn't want it to stop.
Before Clyde came, Lincoln stopped and stripped out of his clothes. In just his socks, he laid back on the floor and spread himself open with his fingers. "Just do me," he said.
Clyde's brain screamed at him to leave, his heart told him to stay, and his dick pulled him toward Lincoln. Getting down on his knees, Clyde mounted Lincoln and slid himself into Lincoln's butt in one smooth, graceful thrust. It felt good. It felt right.
Every pump of Clyde's hips forced a breath ahh from Lincoln's throat, a sound as musical as it was disturbing.
Lincoln hooked his legs around Clyde, and Clyde went faster, his dick rubbing Lincoln's inner walls and creating eye rolling friction. Lincoln looked up at him through slitted eyes, his cheeks blushing pink, and shamed though he felt, Clyde could already feel himself beginning to cum. Lincoln's erect penis tickled Clyde's stomach, leaving a slime trail of precum across his flesh, and Clyde tried to ignore it. He grabbed Lincoln's ankles, forced his feet behind his ears, and pounded, leaning into the fall. His orgasm exploded from him and filled Lincoln's butt with creamy spunk. At that exact moment, Lincoln's dick swelled and spurted, his hot jizz splattering Clyde's chest and stomach.
As soon as the aftershocks had passed, Clyde got up and wiped the cum off with Lincoln's shirt. Lincoln sat up and crossed his arms as if to hide his chest; cum gushed out of his butt and soaked the floor. "Do you wanna do this?" he asked. "Us?"
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
He didn't know.
"I'm not sure," he said, hating the way Lincoln flinched. To soften the blow he added, "I'm new to all this, so I just...need time to think."
When he left half an hour later, Clyde still didn't know what he wanted.
But he did know this.
He was definitely bisexual.
And somewhere deep in his heart…
...he had feelings for Lincoln.