Page 93 of Man On

Finally, Peters opened the door, ready to chew me out, but I pushed past him and barged into Miah’s room to swipe his keys. He was groggy, but as soon as I told him Lane was missing, he jumped out of bed and offered to drive. Peters came with us.

We started with the campus, driving around every place he could have gone, me dodging questions the entire time.

“We got into a fight. It was worse than usual. He stormed out and hasn’t come home. Isn’t answering his phone. I’m worried.” That’s all they need to know.

We drove past the campus church, which looked to be filling up for a second service of the day. Miah pulled up next to a campus police officer and asked if he’d seen a black Jeep with a big blonde guy, and I was able to take my first breath of relief. He was here, only a few hours before. He was looking rough, but alive and well. No, he didn’t know where he went.

I told Miah to do one more lap around campus, but then I got a text.

Lane: I’m fine.

That’s it? He’s fucking fine?

I was pissed, and let Miah know to just take me home. On our way there, we passed the sports center, and I saw the Jeep in the parking lot. After promising that I wouldn’t do any permanent damage to his legs, because we have a match on Friday, they dropped me off, and I stomped through the building.

But then I found him curled up on the floor of a shower stall having some sort of attack. It was similar to his nightmares, but surely he wasn’t sleeping in the showers. And fuck, the water was freezing. His lips were blue, and he was hyperventilating.

And as if finding someone you love collapsed like that, after they’ve been missing for almost nine hours, isn’t scary enough, he was muttering crazy shit. I couldn’t catch all the words, but what I did catch was enough. “Can’t love him.” “Sickness.” And my name, said in the most cracked, heartbreaking tone.

“Lane! Lane, wake up! Jesus Lane, you’re ice cold. Fucking wake up, damn it! Lane!”

I yelled his name, smacked his face, and pried his eyes open until I got him to focus on me. He was practically catatonic when I pulled him out of the shower and brought him over to where his locker is, hoping he had extra clothes because the ones on the hook were wet.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but eventually his eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” I whisper, reaching to lift his face up to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, with darker circles than I’ve ever seen on him. “You’re okay.”

He shakes his head and turns his body towards mine. “I’m not okay,” he whispers, eyes down, looking at my mouth rather than my eyes.

My hand softly caresses over his jaw, around to the back of his neck. I pull him close, pressing my forehead to his. To my surprise, his face angles towards mine. The heat of his lips pulses so close to mine, stealing my breath.

A surge of aching need, different from anything I’ve felt before, makes my lips tingle with the need to press them against his. It’s not sexual. It’s something deeper. Something inside me that responds to the pain inside him, wanting to take it away, to soothe him. To kiss it all away.

I press my lips together to keep myself under control.

Lane mutters something about his breath, and my eyes shoot open in realization. He wants me to kiss him, but he thinks anything but his permission would stand in my way?

Before he can change his mind, I close the minuscule distance, pressing my lips against his. A little whine escapes him, one that sounds sad, but his lips part and lock against mine. He kisses me back in such a way that I can feel something breaking inside us both. I know now why he didn’t want to kiss me.

Because this is fucking it. The last barrier between what used to be hate and fear, and has become so much more.

This kiss is his confession, and I feed him mine in return.

When we finally make it home, I know there’s no way I’m letting him out of my sight. He’s functioning, but seems spaced out.

I sit on the sink while he takes a hot shower, stealing his phone to email his professors and Coach Carr that he has a stomach bug. I do the same on mine, giving us an excuse to stay home tomorrow. When he gets out of the shower, I make a very concerted effort not to stare at his body, pretending to be engrossed in my phone while he dries off and brushes his teeth.

I text Miah and tell him I found Lane puking in the bathroom at the sports complex, so our stomach bug lie is at least believable without me outright lying to him.

After all of that is done, and Lane pulls on a pair of shorts, I take his hand and guide him to my room. I strip off my wet clothes and put on a pair of dry boxer briefs. Then I push him down on the bed, slowly crawl over his body, and lay next to him.

He lays there for a while, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion. When he turns on his side to face me, I can’t help the smirk on my face.

“Expecting something, little brother?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a shadow of a smile on his face. He’s spacey, but he’s in there.

Leaning forward, I press my lips to his in a lingering, but chaste, kiss. Because I can do that now.

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