Page 95 of Walking Wounded

Because the thing was: Luke was madly, desperately, pathetically in love with his best friend.Madlybecause it gave him life.Desperatelybecause sometimes he couldn’t breathe, just thinking the words. Andpatheticallybecause Hal was straight, and Luke wasn’t brave enough to put himself out there and risk rejection. Especially not now that Hal was so vulnerable. He needed a friend –his best friend– and he didn’t need a bunch of complicated drama.

But…nothing had ever been complicated between them. In high school, Luke had dreaded coming out. He’d worked himself into a state of such anxiety that by the time he told Hal, he was sobbing like a baby. And Hal – big, sweet, wonderful Hal – just pulled him into a hug, his arms warm and strong, and told him he didn’t care, they would always be best friends, he loved him, and he wasn’t going anywhere. They’d always been tactile friends, and that hadn’t changed after. Hal had never pulled away, never flinched, never looked at Luke differently. And so Luke had decided he couldn’t ever risk losing that, not ever, not when romantic love was an unlikely gamble anyway. Much better to have Hal’s love in this way, as an innocent friendship.

Except Hal had almost died.

And Luke hadn’t been able to bring himself to date anyone in months.

And now Hal was here, and he just…just…

It happened on a Thursday.

The Incident.

“You know what the best part about this movie is?” Hal asked as he leaned forward to set his plate on the coffee table with minimal wincing.

Together, they both quoted: “Get away from her, you bitch,” and then laughed.

Hal settled back against the couch cushions again with a sigh, letting his weight fall to the left, so he was leaning against Luke’s shoulder. He was so solid, and heavy, and warm.

“You okay?” Luke asked.

Hal nodded, his hair rustling against Luke’s hair, their skulls sliding along one another. “Yeah. Tired. Just glad I’m here, you know? Together like this.”

Luke swallowed, throat tightening. “Yeah. I know.”

“Here.” Hal gave him a gentle shove. “Move around that way.” He sat upright and steered Luke around with his hands until he was leaning back against the arm of the couch, legs open, and Hal lay between them, resting against Luke’s chest.

So this, Luke thought, was what it felt like to get hit with a cattle-prod. Huh. Through the numbness of combined shock and delight, he registered Hal’s substantial weight pressing along his pelvis, his stomach, his sternum. The press of Hal’s shoulder as he breathed. The glow of the TV flickering across his face. The relaxed curve of his mouth which meant he was content, and safe, and completely at ease, here in Luke’s arms.

Luke’s brain tipped sideways, and when it did, the carefully-stacked box of Things He Knew to be True went tumbling and rearranged itself. That long-applied label of Best Friend slipped, smudging the line between What Was and What Could Be.

They’d had beer with dinner, and that had been a bad idea. It didn’tfeellike, one, though, because his body hummed with a quiet, alcohol-fueled energy. A low vibration deep in his gut, somewhere beneath the strong cage of Hal’s ribs. Electrical currents in his fingertips as he slowly, carefully, raked them through Hal’s hair.

Hal hummed and lifted into the touch like a cat.

Sudden tears pricked his eyes, and he blinked them away. “Hal.”

“Hmm?”

“Henry. Look at me.”

Hal shifted just enough to rest his chin on his hand, eyes wide and luminous in the dim light. His face close, so close. And Luke loved him, loved him so,somuch.

“What are you doing?” Luke asked around the lump in his throat.

Hal stared at him, his expression soft, full of warmth, of…love.

“Oh shit,” Luke whispered. He laid his hand along the side of Hal’s face, cupped the firm plane of his cheek. Hot skin and rough stubble. “You almost…”

“I know. But I didn’t.”

“What if you hadn’t made it back?”

“I did, though. I’m here right now. With you.”

Luke traced Hal’s eyebrow with his thumb. The slope of his nose. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Hal braced both hands on the couch cushion, grunting with the strain it put on his bad arm, leaned up and kissed Luke. A fleeting touch, like butterfly wings. Soft enough to have been imagined.

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