Page 19 of Lace

Judging by Mitchell’s demeanour and his over-the-top dress, maybe Caleb was the best one to listen to him.

“Fine,” he said at last, though he kept his hand on the strap of his book bag and the other on his hip. “Say what you have to say, but be quick. I have a class in ten minutes.”

“Fashion show,” Mitchell said, practically vibrating. “I need a venue for a class project, and you need an event—one to top last year’s oh-so-scandalous car wash and send the message to the staff and the board members that we aren’t going away just because we make guys like them uncomfortable.” He picked one of the books he’d dropped on the couch and opened it.

Inside was a fashion drawing of a man in a short, flippy skirt, thigh-high boots, and a billowing pirate shirt with a tartan throw hanging down behind him.

Caleb stared at the picture for a silent heartbeat, blinking and taking in the idea someone else actually thought such an outfit might be plausible on a guy. It took him a moment to remember what the conversation was really about.

“We’re not making this about being gay, Mitchell,” he said at last. “It’s about the kids.”

“The party is about the kids, sure. The Student Council, the Benevolent Fund, and everything else is about us.” He thumped a hand against his chest. “The students. About the people who go to this school, remember?” Closing the book, the contents for the moment forgotten, he took a few steps forward. “Do you know why the basketball team is losing so bad? They intimidated the best player off the team because he happens to like dick. That’s bullshit, and you know it. No one stuck up for Eric Sinclair. Only one person stuck up for you last night, and only because you’re fucking him. If we don’t stand up together, make them see we have value to contribute to what they view as their world, how will it ever get better?”

“And you think holding a gay fashion show is the way to prove to them we have something to add to their world?” Caleb snorted. “Fat chance.”

“There, you see?Theirworld. It doesn’t fucking belong to them. There shouldn’t evenbean ‘us’ or ‘them’.”

“But there is!” Caleb lifted his book bag and strode to the door, which he partially opened. “There always will be.”

“No.” Mitchell shook his head as he gathered the other books he’d dropped on the couch. “No, I don’t buy that.” He scrambled to follow Caleb to the door.

“Well, good, because I’m not selling. I’m giving advice away for free here. We”—he waved his hand between his own clichéoutfit and Mitchell’s long, flared coat over tight jeans— “are freaks. They… and trust me, there is a they, whether you want to think so or not—even Levi, great as he is, is a they who puts up with this”—again, he waved his hand at his own clothing—“because it suits him to indulge me.Theywill always think we’re freaks. We don’t fit, we never will. Get over it.” He yanked the door the rest of the way open. “I have class.”

Mitchell scowled, not making a move for the door.

“Goodbye!” Caleb shouted, at the end of his patience and control.

“Fine.” Mitchell pointed a finger at him. “I’ll be back, though, because you’ll see. I’m right.” He grabbed his book from Caleb and stormed out, all attitude, huffing his way past Levi, who Caleb hadn’t seen until then standing just on the other side of the door.

“And here I thought you actually understood…” Levi shook his head. Muscles along his biceps tightened, and Caleb glanced down to his lover’s clenched fists and the leather bracelet peeking from tightened fingers.

Caleb had forgotten it in his haste to flee the awkward aftermath of their sleepless stalemate that morning.

“Lev—”

“Forget it. You have class.” He pushed past into the room, but when Caleb reached for the armband, Levi pulled it out of his reach and closed the door in his face.

Caleb waited a heartbeat, then two, listening for the thunder rolling in from the storm. Wasn’t that how pathetic fallacy worked? All he heard was the low murmur of voices as other students ambled down the hall or hightailed it to class. Caleb sank back, needing at least the cold support the tiled wall offered. Support Levi had never failed to give, and all Caleb had done was throw it back in his face and whinge about how that wasn’t enough.

“Fuck!” Frustrated, but not willing to answer to his uncle about why he skipped class—because sure as shit, his prof would tell the bigoted old fart he’d missed if he didn’t go—he shuffled off down the hallway.

It felt like Caleb had never had a longer day and it was only two classes, over by noon. But he was exhausted and pissed at the world because no matter what he did, he’d always stand out as different—a freak. Or he’d be half of himself—blend in and pretend he wasn’t who and what he desperately wanted to be. Neither was good enough.

And then, to top off the morning to perfection, Mitchell was waiting outside his last class.

“Seriously?” Caleb asked. “What the fuck? Was ‘no’ not clear enough for you?”

“But you never actually said no.”

Caleb strode away from him, hoping the whole walking away thing would get the message across.

Of course it didn’t. Mitchell scrambled after him. “Would you hear me out? Please?”

“Fuck my life.” Clearly, he was not going to outrun this kid’s determination. He could always say no once Mitchell was done talking. “Fine,” he growled.

“Yeah?” The excitement in Mitchell’s tone hurt someplace under Caleb’s solar plexus.

“Whatever.” He was too tired to argue.

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