Page 33 of Shiver
You know, unless they’re actively coming on to me. Like Temca. I’d seen the figure in the stairwell and while Egon had remained in shadow during most of the exchange with Temca, I was still conscious not to be disrespectful as so many homophobic dicks are while still making it abundantly clear thatI’m not and never will beinto that.
At the risk of sounding like a child… ew!
Anyway, I should work on boundaries with Egon. Because I know he likes me. I know his attraction to me isn’t purely physical. He likes me as a person.
The problem is, I like him too.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to keep this friendship when all is said and done. And I also want to fuck him. The problem is, I don’t know how to do both. Logically, I need to choose one or the other.
Then I try to reason that it doesn’t have to be the cruel, cold break when I’m through with fucking him. This doesn’t have to be like every other time. I can get him in bed, show him that he’ll totally enjoy a dick, and still maintain a friendship after. It doesn’t have to be heartless.
I drum my fingers on my desk. My biggest obstacle isn’t knowing clearly what I want. It’s how to accomplish it. This is new territory for me. For the first time ever, I like my straight guy challenge as a person.
The knock on my door has me glancing at my watch. It’s half an hour early. Either Egon got out of practice early, or he ran here.
His eagerness makes me smile.
Pushing my chair in, I head for the door and pull it open. He’s fuming. His eyes are all flashy and he’s shaking again. Did he have a second girlfriend cheat on him that I didn’t know about?
I’m not sure he even sees me right now. He’s staring at me, his jaw tense, hands trembling. There’s a moment where I wonder if I’ve done something to upset him.
Deciding that he’s just very lost in his head, I take the strap of his bag and pull him inside. His eyes blink and yep, he wasn’t seeing me at all. “Rake,” he says, his hands grabbing my shirt and fisting there. He drops his head, breathing heavily.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Egon doesn’t answer. He steps closer, pressing his forehead to my shoulder. “I’m overreacting,” he says, “but I can’t make the anger stop.”
I nod, still very unclear about what he’s going through. I’m torn between just letting him do what he needs and trying to comfort him. But the thought of trying to comfort him doesn’t come as easy as just letting him breathe through it.
The other night when he caught Temca trying to blow me was the one and only time I’ve ever attempted to comfort someone. It seems I managed fine; he calmed down. I can’t say the night ended as I intended it to where we ended up in my bed, but he did sleep in my apartment.
As soon as his head was in my lap with my fingers running through his hair, he fell asleep. I spent an unreasonable amount of time just watching him sleep. Something that I refuse to think about or even admit.
But what does he need now?
And am I willing to give it to him? I’m well aware that comforting him will be confusing the boundaries that I’ve failed to set. It’s encouraging an emotional attachment. Yet somehow, I find my arms wrapping around him and Egon steps into me.
His hands don’t release my shirt, so though he’s pressed close, his hands remain between us. I hold him, feeling the way his heart races and his breaths come heavy and angry. How his muscles are tight, and he trembles with anger.
Words fail me. I don’t know what to say. Probably because I don’t know what’s wrong.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, and know that this is another opening for emotional bonding and shit. But I can’t take it back now. The question is already out there.
“It’s stupid. Just guys running their mouths,” he says.
“While I understand that you feel like you shouldn’t be upset, you clearly are. And feelings are valid, even if they feel like weaknesses,” I say, then question if that’s even hinting in the right direction.
His laughter is quiet. However, my words seem to have settled something. His shaking stops. His weight against me is a little more thorough. For some reason, this makes me hold him tighter. His fingers in my shirt relax, press against my stomach, and tighten again.
“Rumors,” he says. “I know my teammates are still just fucking kids, because college is just an extension of high school where we still have few responsibilities and yet the freedom of being a chronological adult, but fuck. I thought we were over the petty shit of calling someone gay for fucking fun. Repeating rumors just because you hear them.”
I try not to have a physical reaction, but my brow raises on its own. Not anywhere near where I thought this might go. He can’t see my response as he takes a deep, cleansing breath.
“But I’m so stupidly, irrationally angry over it,” he says, voice tight.
“Being accused of a different sexuality than you are can be frustrating,” I hedge.
“That’s the thing. It’s not even an accusation so much as it is words behind their back that these fuckers are just repeating. Spreading shit unnecessarily.”
