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You catch yourself watching Chris one day. He's talking to Frankie; they're out of earshot, so you don't know what Chris is saying, but Frankie is smiling and Chris is getting a little more animated as his words progress. When Frankie throws his head back in a laugh, Chris smiles and tilts his head slightly and catches sight of you. His smile grows wider and suddenly, for no apparent reason, your heart clenches in your chest. It balls up like someone is squeezing it and you can feel your face go slack for a second before you snatch control back.
Chris' sunny expression falters for a moment. His eyebrows start to come down into a frown, but you smile at him as brightly as you can, and the frown bleeds into slight confusion and then disappears altogether. Frankie says something and Chris' attention turns from you back to him, and the invisible fist around your heart starts to ease up.
You sit for a moment. The hard chairs dotted around the Impact zone do nothing for your back, but you'll start your stretches soon, so it doesn't matter much. Your eyes follow the pattern on your sneakers as your brain sends a note down to your respiratory system asking why there's a sudden rush on shortness of breath. The respiratory guys don't answer, but your breathing evens out fairly quickly and you're left feeling like you've just taken a bit of a hard smack to the back of the head.
You blink a couple of times and give your head a firm shake, like maybe making the grey matter slosh against the inside of your skull will produce an explanation for what the fuck just happened. It doesn't, of course, and you forgo trying it again.
You stare a little longer at your feet and notice a slight tear along the seam of your sneakers. At least this little glitch wasn't without its good points, you suppose, and you stand up. You shake out each leg in turn, ignoring the fact that your left knee pops and the right one clicks, and then you're moving. There's a cup of coffee and a plate of pasta salad with your name on them in catering, and then you'll get changed, stretch and forget to remember to buy new shoes.
You walk past the broadcast table where Mike and Taz are going over some notes. Taz catches sight of you and calls your name, and you look up just in time to think fast and catch the clear DVD case he throws at you.
"Osaka, Japan. Best match I've seen in years," he says by way of explanation, and smiles at you. You look down at the DVD; Taz's has scribbled Awesome in his spidery writing on the front of the disc, and when you flip it over, you notice that it's full. "There's some other stuff on there too, but that's the one you gotta look out for."
"Thanks," you say, and he waves it off, one wrestling enthusiast happy to spread the love to another. You start walking again and Mike's voice floats over your shoulder, "Hey, I think Sabin wants you..." but you keep walking. Chris can catch up.
You choose to ignore the fact that you're walking a little faster.
*
Three weeks slip by and you completely forget about your slight heart palpitation.
You arrive home after a long week and as soon as you're there, you ring Petey and co-opt Chris' place for a meet up without asking permission. You bring beer and cheetos for the godless heathens and Southern Comfort for yourself; you order pizza almost as soon as you're through the door and all three of you spend the evening getting drunk and geeking over the DVD Taz gave you.
You're all sprawled in various positions around Chris' living room when the DVD ends. You don't want to get up, so you stay where you are, listening to the quiet because no one can be bothered to talk. You stare mostly at the ceiling and try to hear your digestive system work through the stupid amount of pizza you ate. Soon enough, the noise of Petey's soft snoring fills the room and you huff out a laugh.
"Guy's a lightweight," Chris says. You can see him out of the corner of your eye. He's lying belly-down on the floor, his feet warm under your legs where they rest on the couch. He curls his toes and straightens them again for no apparent reason, and the movement against your jean-clad skin makes your arms break out in goosebumps. That's new, you think, but Chris is talking again. "If I could be bothered to move I'd take pictures of him naked and post them on the internet."
"No, you wouldn't," you say.
Chris laughs. The movement isn't strong enough to send vibrations through your leg and you don't know why that bothers you, but suddenly, it does. It really, really does.
"Nah, I wouldn't," Chris agrees. "I might send naked pictures of him to his mom, though."
You laugh again, but it sounds like it's come from far away and lost some of the shine during the journey. You can feel the beginnings of that fist around your heart again, and for an utterly terrifying moment your vision goes fuzzy and dark around the edges. The pizza and cheetos and booze are suddenly roiling in your stomach and you know, with a resigned sort of dread, that you're going to vomit.
You roll onto the floor, but before you can try to balance yourself, you're already standing up. You stagger and lurch and bump against the door jamb, but you're moving and picking up speed, your hand clamped firmly over your mouth in a feeble attempt to stop anything from coming out of there too soon. You crash into the bathroom, leaving the door to swing wildly as you throw yourself at the toilet just in time to see a night's worth of happy living coming back up to say hello.
The smell is disgusting and it makes you gag and vomit again.
Eventually, when you're down to nothing but dry heaves and the occasional string of spit, the rest of your body comes back into bright focus. The back of your throat burns, but your nose doesn't have the sting of having stomach acid pass through it, so that's something, at least. Your breathing is irregular and a cold sweat has erupted on your forehead; the goosebumps are back, but the hand resting gently between your shoulder blades is new.
"Man, that's gross," Chris says from somewhere above your head. You don't have to look at him to know he's got his hand over his nose in an effort not to smell the recently vacated contents of your stomach. You kind of wish he'd fuck off and leave you alone. He doesn't. However, he does lean over and hit the flush and you have to jerk back quickly so you're not splashed by the water. As soon as you're out of the way, he tips the lid down and the harsh rush of clean water quietens slightly.
His hand is still on your back so you shuffle around until you're leaning against the side of the tub, knees bent so high they're bracketing your head, which is hung low. You rest your elbows on your knees and your hands fall back to rest on your neck. Breathing is coming easier now and you have time to ask yourself what the hell all that was about. An answer doesn't present itself, and it's the only thing in the last five minutes that you were expecting.
A soft weight falls onto your head, and you think it's unfair that you can feel the slight pressure of Chris' fingers in your hair just as much as you can feel the weight of his hand on your skull.
"You okay?" he asks and the answer to that is no, but you nod your head anyway. "Cool. You know where the spare toothbrush is. I'll get you some water to settle that girly stomach of yours."
"Eat me," you say, but there's no conviction behind the words and the pressure of Chris' fingers deepens ever so slightly before his hand is gone and the bathroom door closes.
You count to ten slowly before you haul yourself to your feet and take a look in the mirror. You look like refried dog crap, which is pretty much what you'd been expecting. You're gaunt and grey, and the dark circles under your eyes are more prominent now than they'd been the last time you caught a look at yourself. You twist the cold water faucet on and splash your face a few times, then reach for the toothbrush.
You're done and ready to leave the bathroom in less than three minutes, yet you find yourself taking a deep breath when your hand reaches for the doorknob, like you need to give yourself one final burst of courage before you force yourself out of this small sanctuary. As soon as the thought crosses your mind a deep wave of anger follows it. What the fucking fuck do you need courage for? It's the stupidest thing your brain has come up with since popcorn samosas.
The door bangs out of your grasp when you yank it open and there's a short pause before Chris' voice floats along the hallway, asking if you're okay again. You grunt out an answer that neither confirms nor denies anything other than your conscious state, and you stare at the door hatefully.
If you get any more childish, you think, the thought of throwing yourself full length on the floor and screaming until you're purple will start to look appealing. Still, you have to focus your anger somewhere.
"I got you some aspirin too, dude, but I don't know if you want it." Chris' voice is coming from the kitchen and that's where you go. Your anger is still bright and raw, but you school your features into something close to amiable and sit at the table. Chris shoves a glass of water at you and you gulp down a huge mouthful. The water washes away the mingled remnants of bile and toothpaste and sloshes into your empty stomach. You pause for a second to see if it'll all come back up, but it doesn't, so you take another drink, this one a little less frantic than the first.
"You okay?" It's the third time Chris has asked and really, you're not a fucking girl. You don't need to be coddled.
"I just hurled, man," you say. There's a little more bite in your tone than there ever should be and you feel suddenly guilty. You're still angry too, and the combination is starting to scratch at your temples in the form of a headache. "I'm not gonna break."
"I didn't think you would," he says. He either didn't notice the tone or he's ignored it. You know Chris well enough to know which one it is, and when he tosses the aspirin on the table you grab for the box just so your hands have something to do. "Bit unexpected, though."
"Should have seen it from my side," you say.
"I did," he points out, and you drop your eyes to watch your fingers twist the box around and around. He must have followed you into the bathroom almost immediately. You can't remember when his hand came to rest on your back, you only know that it was there when you'd regained control of your body.
"Yeah, sorry about that," you say and he gives you a half smile. You need to apologise for snapping at him, but the words stick in your throat. "Look, man, I'm gonna go crash in the spare room. I think I'm out of the woods when it comes to vomit, but I can feel a headache coming on."
Chris nods but says nothing more. After a second or two, you stand up and pick up the glass. You think you should say goodnight, or thanks, or sorry for God's sake, but you don't. You just head out of the kitchen and go upstairs. You refrain from kicking the bedroom door closed and shut it quietly instead, then you strip down to your boxers and fall into bed.
You expect to spend a few hours looking at the ceiling, but you're asleep in minutes.
*
That night, you wake up with a gasp. You're slick with sweat and painfully hard. Instinct makes you reach for your cock and you start stroking before you're fully aware of what you're doing or why you're hard in the first place.
The dream comes back in small fragments.
You remember the feel of someone touching you, of strong hands pushing you down, fingers scraping at your skin. You remember the hot little skip your belly made when the dream-person bent over you and sucked at your neck. You remember your mouth falling open and your hands grabbing at hard, unyielding muscle and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you were dreaming about a guy.
You don't panic. Now that the fragments are joining to make a larger whole, you recognise the dream as one you've had before. Many times before, at that. You've never been one to worry about gender when it comes to sex, and you're not about to start now, so you focus your attention back on the hand that's stroking lazily at your dick, remembering the guy in your dream with relish. It's an old familiar song and you know the beat.
He's still bent over you, mouthing at your neck and you want to shove at him, push him over onto his back where you can take control of things and move at your own pace. You don't like being confined, even in your dreams, but you never get the chance to turn him because just as you reach the point where enough is enough, he moves and grabs the back of your knees. Before you can utter a word, your feet are resting on his shoulders and your ass is in the air.
The sense memory of his cock gently bumping against your balls and the sticky trails of pre-come he leaves on your skin makes your hand move faster. You squeeze on the upstroke and don't bother trying to mask the moan that falls from your mouth.
You've never managed to see the face of the guy invading your dreams but that's never stopped you from appreciating the body your subconscious has generously offered.
His fingers, when they push at your entrance, are just this side of needy and desperate and when they breach the tight ring of muscle they barely stop to let you get used to the intrusion. Instead, they start fucking you hard. They stretch and manipulate your body until it's open and receptive and almost pleading for more.
When the fingers disappear though, the dream you always feels cheated, like the guy doesn't understand that when your body says more, what it really means is don't stop. The real you knows what's about to happen, however, and you work your cock faster. A wave of pleasure hits you at the memory of the noises he made when he pushed into you. Short, heavy gasps of air punctuated by barely audible swearing.
"Fuck," you remember him saying. "Jesus fucking Christ... fuck."
And even now, with the dream running its instant replays behind your eyelids, you feel a smile tug at your lips. Without noticing, you match the push and pull of your hand with the remembered thrust of his hips and you can feel the tight pull in your nutsack that signals your impending orgasm.
It's here the memories of the dream usually start to fade and your imagination begins filling in the gaps. Tonight is different though, because another fragment of the dream falls into a previously unoccupied place in your head, and instead of the dream making the jump, the memory of it stays a little longer.
You don't even notice that the song is playing a new verse; you're too caught up in what you're doing, what you're feeling, and when you come - hard and panting for breath, broken strings of semen dotting your belly and chest - the last scene of the dream dances across your vision. Chris is the one fucking you. His face is twisted in pleasure and you know without having ever seen it happen that that's how he'll look when he comes.
You ride out your orgasm with Chris' face blazing behind your eyes and you realise that it's the hardest you've come in your whole damned life.
Hey Alex, a small part of your mind pipes up. You picking up what I'm laying down?
You stare into the dark room as the tremors of your orgasm dissipate to nothing. "Fuck."
*
It takes weeks for you to fully accept the anvil that's thrown your way.
Uncertainty constantly bites at your heels, and it's that alone that makes you fight to get a more objective look at your relationship with Chris. It's hard, to begin with - trying to take a step back mentally makes your body want to copy the intent physically, and more than once you find yourself hesitating when you're around him. An outstretched arm on its way to touch him stops in mid-air because your brain wants to know if this is a normal gesture. Did you always reach out and touch him like that? The simple answer is always that you can't remember. It feels normal but there's a layer lying on the floor of your mind, and what's been exposed is just a little too sharp and raw for you to go prodding at it for answers.
Sometimes, when you pause, you let your arm drop. Better to not touch at all then to exacerbate an already confusing situation, right? But when you do that there's a small flicker of something on Chris' face and you've yet to work out what it is. It's gone so fast that even when you're purposely looking for it, you still only just barely register that it's even there before it's not. You've always admired Chris' iron-clad control over himself, but if there was ever a time you'd like to see a crack in his resolve, it's those moments when you decide to let your arm drop.
Other times, you let your arm continue its journey and spend the next few hours wondering if you made the right move, and the second guessing gets on your damn nerves. There's something going on in your subconscious and even though you've been given the bill, you're waiting for hidden charges to appear for services rendered.
Still, you push on, trying to get an outside perspective of something you're in the thick of.
It doesn't work though, because those things never do, and just when you've reached the point where ignoring the whole fucking thing seems like a good idea, you get a tiny glimpse of what your relationship with Chris is like from an outside perspective.
JB is sitting at a table by himself in catering, staring intently at his laptop and you wander over out of boredom. You almost flop in the seat next to his, but glide there at the last minute in deference to your back. JB looks away from the screen long enough to give you a smile and ask how you're doing.
"Good," you say, and it's not entirely a lie. Yeah, you've still got things to figure out, but you don't have a headache for the first time in two weeks and that makes today a good day. "What you doing?"
"Uploading crap for the website," he says, turning his attention back to the screen before going on. "Got that video clip of you guys, if you want a look?"
"Sure," you say, and he pulls up a media player from one of a dozen windows he has waiting in the kicker. The clip starts to play and you see yourself on the screen, smiling and greeting JB happily. You remember recording the clip a few days ago, sitting out in the back lot of the studio. You'd been stupidly hot and had spent most of the day walking around shirtless, passing the time with video games and pointless conversations with Chris and Red and Spanky.
By the time JB had been ready to hit record, Red and Spanky had gone to get some food and it had just been you and Chris. You'd sat yourself down on one of the huge cases littered around the back that housed wires or speakers or some such crap, and Chris had opted to rest his hip against your makeshift chair. You'd both chattered for ten minutes or so while JB messed around with his phone, and when he'd given you a small countdown to start off the relaxed interview you'd been happy to answer all his questions and just generally shoot the shit.
Watching the footage now, you notice two things almost immediately. The first is that JB appears to have a man crush on you, but that's okay because the second thing you notice is that you appear to have one on Chris. You watch your head turn towards him time and again, sometimes making eye contact, sometimes not. That's not what makes you stare though. As the clip progresses, you watch your body turn to Chris like a flower turns to the sun. You don't know much about body language, but you know just enough to realise that if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging uncontrollably.
It's this bright new knowledge and the video evidence to prove it that finally pushes you into accepting that you may just be a little bit in love with your best friend.
*
Your first instinct after realisation dawns is to retreat, and that's just what you do. You start begging off nights out and find an odd sort of solace in your hotel room. You also turn into more of a bastard than usual; you snap and bitch and make snide remarks that are neither warranted nor fair, and nobody calls you on being an asshole.
That's fine by you. It's not like you would explain yourself anyway.
*
You're in catering again, doodling on a scrap of paper you found lying around when a voice says, "You need to get over it, dude." You look up to find Chris standing at the other side of the table. He's got a can of coke in one hand and a McDonald's takeaway bag in the other.
"What?"
"You need to get over it," he repeats, and pulls a chair out so he can sit opposite you. He puts his drink to one side and digs around in the bag for what you're going to assume is his one-dollar-plus-change lunch. "Whatever's making you act like a dick, man, you need to get over it."
You pause for a second. This is the first time Chris has even mentioned your sour mood since its onset and you feel like you're suddenly on shaky ground. "That simple, huh?"
"That simple," he agrees, taking a huge bite out of his burger. He chews twice then shoves half a dozen fries into his mouth and you can't help but make a face. He laughs around his food and finishes eating before going on. "You've been a miserable little fuckhead lately."
You're not going to argue because it's the truth. You knew that when you almost made a barista cry, but hearing Chris say it seems to make it so, and oh, you hate that. You don't need his damn confirmation to know what you're feeling. Yet there's a part of you that's happy he's even noticed. You hate that part.
"I've been working shit out," you say. And yeah, you sound a little annoyed, but that's because you are. 'Working shit out' doesn't really begin to cover what's been running through your head for weeks now.
"You've been sulking," Chris responds and you kind of want to punch him in his stupid face. "I've got a cure for that though. Me, you, some alcohol and a horror flick marathon. You up for it?"
You're not, actually. You want to go back to the hotel room and pretend you're not in love with your best friend, but he looks at you and for the first time since forever his face is an open book. It's so unexpected that you do nothing but stare for a moment. C'mon, man. Come hang out with me, Chris' face says. It's not the most profound message you've ever seen, but the gesture is such a strong one that you find yourself nodding.
"Okay," you say, and he smiles wide before bending his head to take another bite out of his burger. When he looks back up, everything is back to normal and the only thing that stops you from wondering if you made the whole thing up is the fact that Chris starts chatting enthusiastically about Night of the Living Dead.
*
It's five hours later and you're on your way to being completely wasted. You shouldn't be, but you are. You've steadily kept your glass full since Chris threw the booze your way, and you're not going to let trivial things like work or your liver stop you from reaching the bottom of the bottle. You've never really been a big drinker, but skipping out on nights at the bar has made the first taste of alcohol seem like sweet, sweet bliss, and you want as much as you can get.
When Chris had told you about the marathon, you'd expected to be watching a local TV channel, but he'd turned up with a handful of DVDs borrowed from Max, the (apparently closeted) horror enthusiast. You hadn't complained, you'd just settled down on your bed with a glass of liquid awesomeness and waited for the gore to start.
At some point, Chris ordered food and you'd been a little surprised to discover that pizza wasn't on the menu. Chris had opted for Chinese, and currently you're trying to negotiate chop sticks long enough to get a piece of moo shoo pork into your mouth. You're about to give up and start digging in with your fingers when you remember that there's an actual fork lying on the table, so you put the carton and chop sticks down with exaggerated care and shuffle off the bed to get some proper cutlery.
The TV is playing 28 Days Later and Jim is being screamed at to get back in the cab. You ignore it in favour of a plastic fork so you can eat your food like a civilised human being.
"Oh, here come the infected," Chris says from his bed. He's stuck to beer all night and he's just about reached pleasantly buzzed. He's using his chop sticks with ease and you can't decide if you should hate him for it or watch the way his hands move.
You shake your head to get rid of the thought.
You reach the table and grab the fork, then it's back to your perch and the food that's waiting for you. "I always thought this bit was stupid," you say when you're comfortable again. "I mean, why would you go through the tunnel when going the long way round is safer? Makes no sense."
"If horror movies made sense they wouldn't be horror movies," Chris points out.
"That's no excuse," you say. You dig back into your moo shoo with gusto, and when you've finished eating you wash it down with some alcohol, making sure to belch loudly when you're done.
The rest of the movie goes by while you work on making your liver cry and sink steadily into the mattress. Your eyelids feel a little heavy, but that's more from the booze than any real need to sleep. You think that maybe you should let this glass wind it's merry way to emptiness, but the alcohol is making things go a little fuzzy around the edges and you quite like the sensation.
Eventually, the credits start to roll and Chris hops off his bed to grab another DVD from the small pile he's acquired. "What's next? Night of the Living Dead or the Texas Chainsaw Massacre?"
"Whatever," you say. This'll be the fourth film out of a pile of six and you've reached the point where you don't much care what's on TV because you're not really watching anymore.
Chris nods and changes the disc, and after a few minutes, the opening scene of Night of the Living Dead starts to play. You quite like this movie, but you've seen it dozens of times, so you don't mind letting your mind drift while it plays. You slouch further down on the bed and stare at the screen without actually seeing it.
You've had a lot of time to think during your two weeks of heightened dickishness, and mostly what you've thought is that shutting the fuck up is always a viable option. Okay, you might be a little in love with Chris, but that doesn't mean he has to know about it, right? Right. It's not like you're going to screw your friendship over if you keep your mouth shut. What he doesn't know won't hurt him and all that shit.
You've had unrequited crushes before and you know how to ride them out. This'll be easy.
Thing is though, you're lying to yourself and you know it. Nothing about this situation is easy and you can't shake the feeling that you're scrabbling to repair a broken dam. Water is starting to pour in and you're not fast enough to stop it, and you feel utterly terrified. Terrified of letting the walls break, terrified of losing a friendship you've poured yourself into, terrified of being rejected, but mostly, you're terrified of letting Chris become the one thing other than yourself that you really rely on. It scares you because you know if you give in, if you let this whatever it is run its course, then there's a chance you could be stupidly, disgustingly happy and you're too much of a cynic for that to happen.
So yeah, maybe you are lying to yourself, but perhaps that's the best thing to do. Maybe in a few years this whole thing will disappear like a bad thunderstorm, and you'll be a little ragged around the edges but mostly in one piece. And that's all that matters, right? Getting out of this in one piece? Your friendship can't wither and die if you don't say anything.
You focus on the TV briefly and Ben is shouting for the small group of survivors to trust him, he knows what he's doing, and the open look on Ben's face reminds you, in a convoluted sort of way, of how Chris looked at you that afternoon. Unguarded and almost obscenely naked. It wasn't an accident, that much you know. Chris isn't the kind of guy to leave himself open like that, so the look was something you were meant to see, you just don't know why you were meant to see.
The image comes back to you easily, though you don't know if the alcohol you've been drinking is affecting the way you remember things because you want to believe that there was a neediness lurking behind his expression. A neediness for what, you're not sure, and you'll probably never find out. If it was there at all.
You lift a hand to your head and rub at your temples. Your headache has returned like an annoying relative that just won't take the fucking hint, but thankfully you've got some painkillers in your bag, so you force yourself to stand up and get them. Once they're in your hand you turn back and give your glass a long look.
"Don't bother, man," Chris says. You'd almost forgotten that he was even in the room, and that just seems to make your headache worse. He points to the bathroom when you look at him. "Go get some water."
You nod at his words and head into the bathroom, pushing the door closed out of habit. You stand over the sink, looking at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed by alcohol and you look more stoned than drunk. You stick your tongue out for inspection and try to see how dilated your pupils are for reasons that escape your logic right now, then you look down and turn the water on.
You shake two pills out and pop them both in your mouth before leaning over and drinking straight from the faucet. The chalky taste of aspirin chases the pleasant remnants of Southern Comfort from the back of your throat and you take another drink of water to get rid of it. You straighten up, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth; your reflection is still there and following the same reasoning as before, you flip it off and turn to head out of the room.
Chris is standing by the TV when you come out of the bathroom, ready to change discs again. You hadn't even been aware that the movie had finished. It seems that you've reached that point of drunk when time starts to get a little hazy.
"What do we have left?" you ask, wandering over for a look at the last two DVDs.
"Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Dawn of the Dead," he says. He opens the case for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre but you shake your head.
"Not that one, dude. I'm not drunk enough to deal with Leatherface and his mommy issues," you say.
Chris laughs. It's a small laugh, barely more than a chuckle and suddenly, painfully, you're accosted by the need to kiss him. You don't know where the need comes from, or where your earlier resolve has disappeared to, you only know that right now, in this tiny moment, you want to kiss your best friend and you don't care about the consequences.
He's still smiling when he turns to put the DVD into the player. You watch his hands move, and see the slight flex of his shoulder muscles under his T-shirt and the need washes over you with greater intensity. You try to fight it but it's like trying to empty the sea with a spoon: utterly pointless. The worst thing, you think, as Chris turns to head back towards his bed and you grab his arm, is that you're just drunk enough to not care.
"I'm gonna do something really fucking stupid," you say when he looks at you, and then you lean forward and kiss him.
It's nothing more than a soft press of lips on lips and it barely lasts for three seconds, but it's almost like a benediction for you. For a instant, the raging uncertainty and hollow resignation that has filled your head for the past few months quietens down to barely audible whispers and you revel in the peace that blankets your brain.
You'd quite like to stay here for a while, surrounded by a world that's non-threatening, even if it is just in your own head, but reality and cynicism fight and claw their way back into your mind and you pull back with a jerk. You blink owlishly for a second, like the crash back to the real world has left you a little confused, then you take two quick steps backwards.
"Uh," you say. Your right hand comes up to scratch nervously at the back of your neck. You should say something else, like sorry, or fuck, or my bad, but they're all stupid and not at all what you want to say, so you say nothing. You just move further back, putting your bed between yourself and Chris.
Not for the first time in your life you give a brief, serious thought to avoiding alcohol permanently, and then your brain takes a sort of mental breath. What's done is done, there's nothing you can do about it now.
"Y'know," Chris begins, running his tongue over his bottom lip fleetingly. He hasn't moved, he's just watched quietly as you've put some distance between yourself and him. "You actually retreated there. That's a first."
You don't say anything, because really, what could you say? Sorry doesn't really cut it because you know it's a lie, and anything else will get your man card revoked so you stay silent. You do think though that maybe if you'd managed to stay a little calmer, you may have been able to pass the whole incident off as you being a drunken ass.
"So is this why you've been acting like a cunt lately?" Chris asks. He swipes a thumb over his lip and looks at you expectantly.
"I haven't been a cunt," you say a shade defensively. "I've been aggressively forthright. There's a subtle difference and it's not my job to let people know what it is."
Chris nods his head. "That's bullshit and you know it."
"Look, whatever, man," you say, and reach to grab your jacket. It's probably time you got the hell out of dodge. The alcohol you've consumed is still making the world a little fuzzy around the edges, and the longer you stay, the more the potential for damage grows. "I'm gonna go get some air, try to sober up a bit."
You put your jacket on and turn to leave. You figure you'll walk around for a half hour, then come back and bang on Frankie's door and ask to sleep on his floor. You've just about reached the door when the sound of Chris' voice stops you.
"Y'know, one of the things I've always appreciated about you is the fact that you're too stubborn to run away from shit. Don't make me change my opinion now, dude."
"Oh, fuck you," you snap, and turn back to look at him. He hasn't moved an inch and you think it's unfair, given that you're just about ready to bolt like a spooked fucking animal. "You don't get to shame me into explaining myself."
"I have no intention of shaming you into anything, least of all an explanation." He's calm, so fucking calm, and it makes you feel awkward inside your own skin. "You're like a book in large print, man, and it's about damn time you bought a clue."
"I... what?"
"It's taken you three months to reach this point, and the best thing you can come up with after finally having the balls to make a move is to run away? Man up, for fuck's sake. You're better than that."
You're so surprised at the sudden anger in Chris' voice and the words that spill from his lips that you're honestly speechless. For a long, heavy moment, you stare at him and he stares right back. You feel like you're a part of some funky Mexican stand-off, and the only thing you know for sure is that you should be fucking seething right now, but you're not.
Rather, your brain is whirring and clicking, moving things into place and removing others so you can see the things you'd missed before. And mostly what you'd missed before is that a crush can't be a crush if it's reciprocated.
"Buy a clue, huh?" you say, and it's an apology and a request for confirmation all at the same time.
"Buy a clue," Chris repeats, and moves around the bed to stand in front of you. He's so far in your personal space that you can smell the shampoo on his hair and the beer on his breath. "And man up."
That's all the confirmation you need and you lean forward to kiss him again. It's a simple kiss, the same as before, just lips pressed softly against lips. The only difference is that Chris' hands move up to cup your face and your hands mirror the action.
"I can do that," you say, a smile tugging at your lips as you rest your forehead against his.