Page 8 of Strange Lad

“So you just don’t want me to. Is it because I’m a dude? I know some people think it’s weird, but that’s toxic masculinity talking. Men can hug and kiss, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. I’ve kissed Devon before.”

Jealousy ransacks my insides, but I force that monster to be silent and still. Iknowthis. There’s fucking pictures of it everywhere. Jorge is confident in himself and who he is. Kissing reallydoesmean nothing to him except a display of endearment.

I think I’d probably die if he ever kissed me. Just keel over.

“It’s not that,” I croak, feeling sick to my stomach. I’m ruining our time together with my bullshit.Ruining it.“I don’t like being touched,” I admit, wanting that look on his face to go away.

I want his sunshine, not his rain. I’ll drown in it.

He sniffles loudly, swipes at his eyes quickly, and nods. “I can respect that.”

“Let’s watch the movie,” I encourage, softening my tone in hopes it’ll erase this conversation.

“You’re right. It’s probably jetlag making me,” he gestures to his body, “like this. Won’t happen again.”

It will.

But I don’t say that, and neither does he.

Iwake up to a black TV screen and the soft sound of Jorge’s breaths.

We fell asleep.

Judging by the lack of sunlight outside, we’ve been out for a while. And when I glance down, seeing my hand mere inches from his limp one, I get heart palpitations.

My eyes flick to his face. He’s slumped into the cushions, chin resting on his chest and at an awkward angle. The endless curls crowning his head hang below his chin. Their color is the most unique shade of brown strung with reds and coppers.

I take in his stubble growing on his usually smooth cheeks. Letting my gaze dip to his mouth, I linger on the deep cupid's bow and pillowy bottom lip.

Fuck.

I blink away, taking a breath. Then another.

And I’m back to staring at his hand.

It’s so close. He’d never know if I touched him there. I could do so without being pressured by anything else, too. I wet my lips, breaths sawing out of me almost obscenely loud.

I can only imagine what it’d be like touching him for real.

Somewhere within my long-term memories, I know he has touched me before. A ruffle of my hair, a pinch of my cheek, little shit usually spared for the annoying little brother.

Nothing substantial to him. Nothing that mattered.

But I never got to touch him. Not once. Not ever. And the one time he tried to hug me when my instincts surged to life and I’d flipped him over my back and onto the floor hadn’t counted. I couldn’t gauge how soft he was or how firm his muscles were. It was fight or flight, and I chose to fight. I still feel immense guilt over it.

I curl my hand into a fist to spare myself from temptation. Deciding to feed my rats instead of fantasizing over him for another second, I get up and let him nap.

He sleeps through my quiet conversation with the boys, and he sleeps through my shower. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen asleep on my couch after a long day of playing Magic and watching movies. Or, back when I was religious with the gym, he’d sometimes keel over after an exceptionally aggressive workout. So I grab the spare blanket from my bed, tiptoeing to him and draping it over him. The damn thing doesn’t stay up by his shoulders and pools around his narrow hips.

Fuck.

I swallow hard, gingerly gripping the edge and trying once more.

It falls again, and I’m just too scared to put enough pressure to tuck it in place. My hands are shaking, and I'm only thinking about it.

How scary the prospect of touching him is, how badly I fucking want to.

But my stomach spasms and cramps anyway, and my eyes black out as I stop breathing. So I drop the blanket and hurry to my bed. I bury myself under my covers and count backward from fifty.

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