BECAUSE IT DOESN'T

[wordsareouronlymagic]

fae cc 1

THE BEGINNING … … … …

—How could you tell children they were playing with fire if they’ve never had the experience of being burned?— Alexandra Adornetto

  … … … …

        Greed was the root of all evil.

It came in many forms, but greed fed everything. In the beginning, it was the desire for more—more than others had, more than you already had, just more more more. Food, resources, land, labor, protection, wealth.

Wealth. That was a major obsession of man: wealth. It came in many forms, though perhaps none became as poisonous to the mind—as much of a catalyst for greed—than currency. Money. Cash. What limits would humans bar themselves to for it?

A ridiculous question.

Human greed knew no limits, had no concept of boundaries, and engulfed the minds of all. That was the root of humanity, really.

So perhaps, in hindsight, human nature was the root of evil.

… … … …

  The story began simply. Perhaps too simply. Such a simple opening to such a twisted, complicated, and tragic tale:

There was a young boy. Clever, but naïve.

There was a heartless, ravenous creature. Malicious to its core.

And there was greed.

Much, much greed. Greed was what started this story. And greed—the greed of many, not just one in particular—was what kept it flowing.

… … … … .

  Money.

That was what he needed, and what sent him into the streets looking for it.

His stepfather had insisted he not come home until he scrounged some together.

“Enough for your own forsaken dinner!” had been the snarled command over the wails of his younger sister. She hadn’t stopped crying in several days. Since her last meal.

His mother had softened her husband’s demands by pulling him towards her, smoothing his hair, and whispering to him to run along outside and play until dinner, urging him towards the door and away from their small shack of a home.

All around him were the monuments of extreme poverty—the testimony of a drought, a failed harvest, and an intense famine.

… … … …

Trading had stopped almost altogether. Cage may have been too young to have a firm grasp on economics, but he understood that well enough. His mother went to market every day, Cage clinging to the rags of her skirt and toddling along after her. Every day there was no one in the usually bustling heart of the village.

“The livestock are starving. The farmers have no wheat. The vegetables have withered. There’s nothing to trade,” his mother had explained gently to him when he asked her why no one had been at the market for weeks. “Everyone must keep what little they have to keep from starving.”

“Aren’t we going to starve then?” Cage had asked, the logic painfully simple to even his young mind.

“No, hjartad mitt, no. Surely not.”

She seemed confident, but Cage watched as day after day, the markets stayed empty, the streets home only to rats, who started to chew on the wood and sod of the buildings and walls. Even they could not find food.

… … … …

  There was once when he was going to market with his mother that he saw a woman with hair tied elegantly approaching a large, burly man. This was several moons before, when the market was rich with food, and his mother could trade her baskets for food enough for the whole winter.

The woman curled herself around the hulking man, her hand as small as a child’s on his large forearm. He was so much taller than her that she had to hook a finger and gesture for him to bring his ear down to her level—to her lips, so she could whisper something to him. Cage couldn’t imagine what she said, but his austere expression melted away. His lips twisted back in a grin that wasn’t pleasant—left a weird chill in Cage, made him grateful it wasn’t directed at him—and his other hand, the one that wasn’t in the woman’s soft grip, to reach into his pocket, and to pull out a clinking sack, to reach in, to pull out a couple bright coins, to drop them down her dress with a bizarre noise—something like a pleased growl.

She giggled, and her hand flew up to keep his hand at her chest, pressed so that her dress was being pulled down, exposing the pink nub of her—

“Such things are not for your eyes, hjartad mitt,” his mother chastised, pulling him to her other side and blocking his view.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

“It’s a different form of trade. The sort that only men are interested in,” his mother explained shortly, and then sifted through a barrel of vegetables for the biggest. She handed over one of the baskets Cage carried for a large pile of the ones she chose, carefully fitting them in her own worn-down basket.

Cage had no idea what exactly she meant, but when he peered around her legs, the large, burly man—Cage would very soon after realize he was a sea-farer—and the woman were gone.

That was the first and only time Cage had seen money.

… … … …

  When the trading stopped, Cage’s mother had to start pulling out the dried meat and vegetables she had started storing for winter, though it was only early fall. As always, it tasted of salt and burned Cage’s tongue to eat, but it was dinner, his mother had reminded him, which was more than some had at the time.

His stepfather had used his meaty fists to throw his portion to the dirt, his hunger making his short temper even shorter. He insisted he would not eat such things during the harvest season, and that Cage’s mother return instantly to trade for fresh food.

She did, if only to appease him.

But there was nothing.

  … … … …

  “Perhaps I would spare a hen for some copper,” a neighbor told Cage’s increasingly desperate mother. “Though she lays no more eggs.”

“We have no copper. Perhaps you would like some baskets, though? I have woven several—”

“Baskets,” the neighbor said, “do not buy me passage on a boat to leave this town, and sail away, to where there is no famine.”

“Sailing away may not end your hunger,” his mother warned the neighbor.

“Sailing away is better than starving here,” the neighbor insisted. “Copper for the hen, and nothing else.”

Cage’s mother could say nothing more. Cage’s family had never had copper coins before. The only time he had seen coins at all had been the brief glimpse he had got when he saw the sea-farer drop them down the lady’s dress.

… … … …

  Cage wandered up and down several streets, unsure of himself. He didn’t know quite what he was supposed to do—what he should do.

It had been four days since they ate the last of their food, which had been dried and salted for consumption during winter. There was no more to be had, and Cage’s youngest sister—“a teething babe of a year,” as his mother called her—had not stopped crying since.

“It’s the hunger,” her mother had explained to his aggravated stepfather, who insistently shrieked at her to shut the child up before he did.

Though if money could help the issue, then perhaps Cage could figure something out.

He prowled the streets looking for a man.

… … … …

  Cage walked for hours. He wondered why. Walking merely made him hungrier, and he knew he had no meal to return home to—but he did so anyway, hoping to find a man.

The roads were unsurprisingly barren. No one wanted to waste energy they didn’t have the food to restore. No one in the markets, no trade, no craftsmen at work, no farmers tending to fields. It was an indefinite period of rest for all.

“Are you lost, fauntekin?”

He spun around, startled.

A man stood behind him—now in front of him, actually. Cage had never seen such a man before. He wasn’t sure where to look first. He was tall, adorned in robes that looked so delicate and sleek as to be made thin, silver spider webs. The fading sunlight reflected off of them with a bizarre glistening Cage had never seen before. His shoes were not the sort Cage had seen before either; not the worn down leather or sanded wood he was used to. Instead, these shoes looked velvety soft and dark, as if the man had dipped his feet in shadows, and they had wrapped around his flesh like a second skin. His hair was the many different shades of shadow of dawn, noon, and dusk, of candlelight, sunlight, and moonlight, now glistening silver in the fading dusk.

But he didn’t look unkind, despite his bizarre attire and appearance, and Cage had come to learn that the more bizarre a man looked, the more likely he was to be a sea-farer from distant lands, with pockets of coins ready for trades.

And Cage had found a man, so he stepped forward, straining a bit to reach up to gently touch his fingertips to one of the man’s forearms. He was much, much shorter than this tall man, so he waved his other hand at the man, gesturing for him to bring his face closer to Cage’s. The man did so, though his ear was still too far for Cage to properly whisper in it. So he had to mutter in a low voice rather than a whisper, “I’ll trade for copper coins.”

The man stared at Cage for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that Cage started to move his hand away from the man, afraid that he may have offended this stranger, or made him angry—perhaps he had said the wrong thing? He hadn’t been able to hear what that small lady had told the burly sea-farer all those moons ago.

But the man caught his hand and pulled him close, leaned forward even more, bent down even further, so his nose was mere inches from Cage’s.

“Your eyes, faunte. Your eyes are simply marvelous.”

Cage did not know what this meant. He did not understand at all. But he stood rigid-still, hoping that perhaps this was the man’s way of agreeing to… whatever it was Cage was trying to trade for—the sort of thing only men were interested in, as his mother had vaguely explained to him moons ago.

“I can give you all the coins you want,” the man finally said, his eyes unwavering from Cage’s.

Cage let out a breath he didn’t remember holding and nodded eagerly.

He was more than relieved when the man led him down the road, because Cage had never seen what happened when the burly man and small lady had actually traded, or what had been exchanged. He assumed this man was familiar with it, though, since he’d agreed to it.

No one was around to watch the silver man disappear with the small peasant boy.

… … … …

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

bachelor chap 3

Three

   Adam tilted his head this way and that, staring at his reflection in the full body mirror in his private room. He had to admit, he felt a bit like a doll with the various layers of foundation and blush the helpful attendants had lathered onto his face. One of them—Bertha, her name was and what a lovely name that was—had informed him that the cosmetics were necessary, as the cameras would bleach his “lovely skin of all its color and make him look like a mongrel zombie.”

 “It’d be such a shame,” Bertha had sighed. “Almost as much a shame as it is you have to cover up your lovely skin. Your face is so smooth! Do you use any products?”

 Adam had laughed and explained no, he was just born this way. She had expressed surprise and recommended some of her favorite products if he ever wanted to try a facial moisturizer.

 “Not that you need it,” she had added with a wink. “But you never know when your skin may need an extra pick-me-up.”

His stomach had growled at one point and the kindly ladies had finished powdering his nose to dash off. Now, they returned, politely knocking on his door and coming in, arms loaded with gifts.

 “We didn’t know what you might like,” Bertha admitted.

 “We got you a bit of everything,” the other lovely attendant, Gretel, added.

 “This is too much,” Adam proclaimed, looking between the two. Bertha held two cup holders, each tray filled to capacity with hot beverages. Gretel held two large boxes, one stacked upon the other.

 “We didn’t know what you might like,” Bertha repeated sheepishly, listing off her offerings. One of the drink holders several flavors of coffee—caramel, toffee, and mocha—as well as a cup of unflavored black with several sugar and cream packets to go with it. The other tray held much the same, except various flavors of tea—sugar cookie, peach, and raspberry—as well as a simple green.

 “And I have pastries and donuts!” Gretel added, rattling off her various assortments of danishes, croissants, bagels, and donuts.

 “This is too much,” Adam repeated weakly, guilty that they had spent a small fortune to wrestle together a late breakfast for him.

 Bertha shook her head and tried to shrug in a dismissive gesture. She nearly dropped her various drinks and Adam rushed forth to help her place them on a table.

 “It wasn’t a problem,” she told him firmly. “A sweet thing like you could use some doting.”

 Adam took the boxes from Gretel and likewise placed them on the table.

 “Well,” he said helplessly. “I couldn’t possibly finish all this by myself. Why don’t you two lovely ladies join me?”

 They melted and agreed.

 “What’s your favorite flavor?” he asked them, gesturing at the drinks.

 “Oh, no—” Bertha started.

 “We couldn’t possibly—” Gretel tried.

 “We got those for you,” they both said at the same time. They glanced at one another, chuckled.

 “You pick first,” Bertha insisted. “We’re fine with what you don’t want.”

 Adam plucked the black coffee from the lot and added a few packets of the cream and sugar. “I’ve always preferred simple things,” he admitted.

 Which was true, he supposed, but he also thought that Bertha and Gretel seemed the type to prefer the sweeter options. He was right. Bertha chose the caramel iced latte and sipped happily as Gretel selected the peach tea and did likewise.

 He chattered with them happily as they nibbled at their late breakfast. Gretel, it turned out, had an excellent sense of humor and had Adam chuckling more than once with her stories and impressions of some of her coworkers and their ridiculous escapades. Bertha struck Adam as the protective type, sweet to a fault until someone threatened or mocked someone she loved. Then, she had a righteous streak a mile wide, more than willing to call down her wrathful fury on the person who was foolish enough to hurt her loved ones.

 They were such pleasant company, but all too-soon there was another knock at the door and a man with a headset and a clipboard poked his head in to say, “Five-minute warning. Time to head out to the stage.”

 Adam sighed. “I don’t suppose we could continue this after the interview?”

 Both women beamed at him.

 “I wish I had auditioned for this season of the show,” Bertha sighed.

 “I know,” Gretel agreed. “Honestly, I don’t like the idea behind the show. I kinda think it’s gross, ya know? All those people stripping off clothes and using their looks and body to get the attention of the bachelor. But something tells me that doesn’t impress you,” she added, glancing at Adam. “You’re one in a billion.”

 “One in a lifetime,” Bertha corrected, wrinkling her nose. “Have you met the other bachelor yet?”

 Bertha and Gretel grimaced in unison. Adam glanced between them. “Something wrong with him?”

 “He’s a bit…” Gretel drifted off, trying to find the right word.

 “Arrogant,” Bertha chimed in loudly. Gretel nodded in fervent agreement.

 Adam considered that, tried to think of what to ask to understand their insult. But before he could utter a word, Gretel put her pastry down and jumped to her feet.

 “Enough of that!” she declared. “We prattle on any longer and you’ll be late, and it’ll be our fault you get in trouble.”

 Adam felt a twist of guilt. “I don’t mean to run out on you like this.”

 Gretel smiled softly at him. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

 “You do them very well,” Adam assured them both. “I couldn’t have asked for better attendants.”

 “Get going,” Bertha said, not unkindly.

 Adam must’ve left his confidence behind him in the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, his stomach twisted into knots. The coffee, it seemed, was a bad idea. It felt like hot acid splashing at his insides. The pain au chocolat didn’t help matters anyway.

 You’re excited for this, he reminded himself yet again as he followed the signs on the walls that pointed him towards the stage.

 And he was. He really was. Perhaps it was because he was excited that his nerves so often rattled when he thought about the fact that he was going to have his own season on The Bachelor—he was going to be the cause of a heartache on the part of twenty-nine people. The only silver lining to possibly creating such upset was the idea that he might walk away holding the hand of the person he wanted to marry, the person he wanted to grow old with, the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It was a silly romantic notion, but Adam had always been the hopeless romantic.

 But still—twenty-nine people he had to let down. Twenty-nine people he had to look in the face and tell them “you’re not who I’m looking for.”

 Maybe he was going to puke up that coffee and pastry, after all.

 “There you are!” a now-harried looking young man with a headset and clipboard said as he turned a corner—the same young man who had given him his five-minute warning a few moments ago. “You were due on stage thirty seconds ago—let’s go, let’s go! They’re waiting for you!”

 No time to puke, then. He was nudged non-too-gently onto a stage, the young man with the clipboard expertly remaining in the shadows and off camera as Adam worked hard not to stumble as the cameras made an obvious sudden arc in his direction. He lifted a hand and waved at the crowd of mostly women before the stage, smiling pleasantly. A few ladies tried to shout something to him, but it was impossible to hear over the applause, and most women wound up yelling over one another, their words a muddle of sound and excited syllables.

 He took a seat in the empty armchair to the left of a lovely brunette woman. On her other side sat a blond man with honey-gold eyes. Adam recognized him as Hunter Henderson, the other bachelor with his own season of the show that was to run in tandem with Adam’s.

 Arrogant, Bertha had said.

 And yet when he offered his hand to Hunter, Hunter was quick to accept with a strong shake, a friendly smile tugging at his lips. Adam was not one to call anyone a liar. It was easy to perceive and even misperceive things. He had a feeling that whatever Hunter had done to rile Bertha and Gretel, it had been nothing more than a misunderstanding.

 Adam took his seat and the brunette lady—the host of the interview—looked between the two men with a beaming smile. “It’s so good to see you two getting along! You know, there was a lot of speculation that you two may have winded up as unfriendly competitors, given that your shows are going to air at the same time, and you’ll be competing for viewers.”

 “That sounds like nonsense to me,” Hunter told her. “Whoever the viewers decide to watch is their business, and I respect their choice. At the end of the day, they’ll tune into the show they think is the most interesting, and there isn’t anything we can do or say to change that fact.”

 Adam had to admit, he felt similarly. “And,” he added when Hunter finished, “it’s unprofessional and childish to toss hateful comments at someone just because of something as trivial as a TV show meant for public entertainment.”

 The interviewer looked between the two men with a touched smile. “Well, there you have it, folks! I’m sitting live with Adam Antonsson and Hunter Henderson! I’m your host, Alex Bell!”

 There was a round of cheers, applause, and whistles. Hunter had the sort of smile a wolf may give a sheep before devouring it. Adam’s was more subdued, polite, the smile of a shy school boy.

 “I have a few questions to ask each of you. Our audience at home wants to get to know both of you better—”

 Alex was interrupted from someone from the audience shrieking, “Adam, I love you!” and a chorus of “yes!” from other audience members.

 The host laughed. “Looks like they’re eager to get to know you,” she said to Adam.

 “I’m sure there are just as many who are excited to hear about Hunter,” he assured her with a smile.

 “Ohhhh,” Alex cooed, winking at the audience. “This one is a keeper. Cute and polite.”

 “Well, I know I want to hear about Hunter,” Adam pressed with another smile. “I think he should answer the first question.”

 “As the gentleman insists.” Alex shifted to look at Hunter. “How would you describe yourself in one word?”

 Hunter’s golden eyebrows drew together in contemplation. “I don’t suppose I could request a phrase instead of a word.”

 Alex laughed. “I think I’ll allow it.”

 Hunter’s smile shifted into a smirk. “Too hot to handle.”

 There were a few whistles from the crowd. Alex used her pile of index cards to fan herself theatrically. “I’ll say! And you, Adam, same question: how would you describe yourself in one word?”

 Adam considered that. He wasn’t very good at summing himself up. There had only ever been one thing people used to describe him…

 “May I also use a phrase?” he asked.

 The host smiled at him. “Oh, why not? It’s only fair.”

 He laughed, a little embarrassed to admit, “I would probably say I’m a happy pill.”

 “As in, you take happy pills or you are the happy pill?” Alex asked.

 “I suppose both?” he admitted, shrugging sheepishly. “I’m the positive sort of person, and a lot of people have told me I’m like a happy pill.”

 Alex’s eyes gleamed. “Seems accurate.” She turned back towards the audience, “Now, we know what The Bachelor is all about. A single man tries to find that lucky someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and we learn all about the contestants and what they offer our bachelors. But I’m curious to know what these handsome men have to offer. We all want a working partner who is willing to help out with finances. I’d like to know: what do each of you do for a living, and what would you say the hardest part of your job is?”

 Her eyes fell on Adam. “And since we heard from Hunter first with our last question, this time we’ll hear from you first, if you please.”

 “I was actually a professional athlete for a while,” Adam admitted. “I received a minor ankle injury and had to take some time off and thought it might be time to figure out my romantic life. A romantic partner takes a lot of time and energy, and I wanted to be able to dedicate myself fully to my relationship before I open the next chapter of my life. I have a business major, though, and I do enjoy using social media as an influencer in my free time.”

 Alex clucked sympathetically and Adam continued, “The hardest part of my job, though? Probably the hours. It doesn’t get to me too badly, though, because whenever I’m overworked and tired, I just start laughing. A lot of people think I’m crazy for it, but I just get the giggles. I can’t even look anyone in the eye without laughing.” Just thinking about it, Adam felt himself chuckle. “I guess it’s better than getting grumpy, though!”

 “A happy pill, indeed,” Alex commented before turning the question on Hunter.

 Hunter cleared his throat, “Well, like Adam, I’m sort of taking a bit of a break. I just finished getting a history degree and thought that before I start a career, I wanted to take some time to find the perfect partner so I can start a new chapter together with them.”

 Alex examined her notes. “We spoke before this interview, and you admitted to me that you were quite the heavy partier in college.”

 “Oh, definitely,” Hunter said with a sheepish laugh. “There were some nights I drank so much, I didn’t remember taking tests in class the next day. Always managed to get good scores on them, though.” “I’m assuming you’re ready to put those days behind you, if you’re thinking about finding someone to start a family with?” Alex quirked an eyebrow in playful challenge.

 Hunter sobered. “Yeah, I am. Those days were fun, but I consider it to be part of my college experience. I’m definitely ready to settle down and find that special somebody.”

 Alex moved through the questions as quickly as possible, trying to pose the most commonly asked questions that had been collected from various social medias. The crowd offered a round of hoots and laughter when Alex asked Adam, “If you could do or be anything, what would you do?”

 “Become a human sponge!” he enthusiastically squawked. “I’d love to absorb every bit of knowledge possible. Everyone has something to offer to someone else. We never really stop learning!”

 Hunter earned several blushes—and even Alex fanned herself dramatically—when she asked him what his greatest feature or quality was, and he had to work to keep his wording appropriate for the PG-13 rating.

 Finally, she wrapped up with the question everybody was wondering: “This is another question for both of you. Describe your ideal partner.”

 She paused dramatically to allow them time to collect their thoughts before turning to Adam to answer first.

 “I’ve always been a hard worker,” Adam told her earnestly, “and I’d want to see that in my partner. I want someone who not only appreciates how much effort I put into things, but also reciprocates. I want someone who’s ready to fight for what they want in life, who isn’t a pushover, but who knows it’s also okay to hit the brakes and take the time to offer someone kindness.”

 “Someone who’s driven but kind,” Alex summarized, “but who doesn’t let people push them around. When you find that person, let me know.” She winked theatrically before turning to Hunter.

 “I’ve been thinking about that for a while,” Hunter admitted. “I want someone who I can say is my equal in every way. I want to meet someone who admires me for who I am and what I do, but who I can admire in turn. Not necessarily because they’re clever, but because there’s something about them that draws me to them—something unique about them, I guess you could say.”

 “Oh,” Alex joked, “so you aren’t only after someone for their looks?”

 Hunter’s smile was roguish. “I had hoped that was a given.”

 The crowd, which seemed to have warmed up to Hunter’s odd sense of humor, chuckled at him.

 “And there you have it, folks!” Alex declared, holding her hands up to gesture at Adam and Hunter, listing off the dates and times their seasons were to begin. “Our two bachelors. Which one has caught your interest?”

 One of the cameramen gestured that the live recording had come to an end, and Adam turned towards Alex. “Thank you for having me. It was a pleasure being here with you.”

 “Aw,” she joked, “the cameras aren’t rolling anymore. You don’t have to offer me flattery like that.”

 Adam’s smile took on a quizzical edge. “I wouldn’t lie about that. It’s always a treat to talk to lovely and intelligent women like you.”

 She laughed, even as her cheeks flushed. “I hope you find someone who appreciates you on the show. I really mean that.”

 “We both deserve that,” Hunter chimed in with a polite smile at Adam. “I wish you luck. Hopefully, the casting team did us justice in the candidates they picked.” He glanced at Alex. “If they’re anything like you, I’m sure I’ll be blown away.”

 “Gentlemen,” she said with a choked noise, “you’re going to make me combust from all these compliments!”

 “Alex,” a crewman called, “next guest on in three.”

 “I think that’s his way of saying we’re overstaying our welcome without actually yelling at us,” Adam joked to Hunter.

 Hunter gave him a weak smile. Alex said, “Well, hopefully I’ll see you again after your season of the show comes to an end, and neither of you will be alone.”

 “We’ll always have each other,” Adam told Hunter mock-conspiratorially with a wink.

 Hunter laughed like he wasn’t sure what the joke was, and Adam supposed he should have worded his jest better. As they walked off the stage in opposite directions, Adam was hit with a thought that niggled at him, burrowing deeper into his brain until he couldn’t ignore it.

 Bertha and Gretel had wandered away from his room, but he managed to track them down and insist they return to their breakfast with him. They were nice enough to offer to clean his face of its layers of foundation and rouge before sitting down with him. As they continued to munch on pastries and sip at lukewarm drinks, he finally couldn’t ignore his idea anymore.

 “Do you know where Hunter’s room is?” he asked the two.

 They traded looks.

 “Well, yes,” Bertha admitted. “We did try to do his makeup for the set earlier.”

 Adam caught the weird wording. “Try?”

 Gretel’s nose crinkled. “He said we were unqualified or something like that.”

 Adam paused mid-chew. “Something like that?”

 He considered the gentleman he had met on stage. Hunter had seemed confident, but not rude. Adam didn’t think there was anything wrong with confidence. It was true that over-confidence could lead to disaster. It was better to always look at things with a lens of humility, but he hadn’t gotten any sort of sinister or arrogant vibes from the other contestant.

 “Why do you ask, anyway?” Bertha said warily.

 “I was hoping to stay in touch with him.”

 Both women looked as though they were trying to merge their eyebrows with their hairlines.

 “I thought we might make good friends,” he continued.

 Both ladies’ eyebrows seemed to disappear into their hair.

 “I’m not—”

 “I can’t say that’s—”

 They paused and looked at one another. It was an uncomfortable, tense look.

 “I can tell you how to get to his room,” Bertha finally admitted with a frown. “But I really think you should reconsider this whole ‘friend’ thing.”

 Adam’s tense expression turned relieved. “Thank you.”

 He wasn’t sure what Hunter had done to so greatly offend the two women, but he decided he’d rather judge Hunter’s character himself. Sometimes, those who made the worst first impression turned out to be the very type of person who proved invaluable, the sort you wanted to keep at your side, always.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

epilogue

There is a difference between being alone and being left alone.

 Being alone is a choice. You choose to be alone, even if you may not actually want it. You choose not to reach out. You choose to be isolated.

 Being left alone is the same as be being left behind. You weren’t alone. You had someone. You found someone. But then, you weren’t wanted, and so you were left behind, like trash on the street, swirling down the gutter in a rain storm.

 Please recycle.

 Maybe I’m the one being recycled. Again and again. Picked up. Dusted off. Used for a bit. Until it becomes clear what little use I have. What little I offer. And then, abandoned again. Only for this cycle to repeat.

 I don’t want the cycle to repeat. I want the cycle to end.

 I can’t stand the idea of being alone and I’m afraid of being left alone. It’s a state of being that is contradictory and can’t be sustained. I have to be one or the other and I want to be neither. Where does that leave me?

 And why did I think a relationship would work, would ever work, anyway? Why did I think it would make me happy? I’m not happy. I don’t know what it means to be happy.

 And yet a small, traitorous part of me reminds me that I was happy with Trevor. With Jo.

 But no. Look how those ended up. How I messed up.

 That’s right, Mikey. You’re going to make the same mistakes again and again. You never learn. You don’t know how to learn. You don’t know when to give up. You don’t—

 No.

 No, I vow I will not make this mistake again.

 And yet still, I cannot bring myself to get rid of this hedgehog, of this banana. I forgot I had them at first, shoved into my pockets, but now I can’t get rid of them, can’t throw them in a trash can at the bus stop. It feels like throwing myself away. Like somehow these stupid toys are a part of me and throwing them away is giving up on myself. And I want to throw them away and I want to give up.

 But I can’t give up on myself. I won’t make it if I do.

 So I go home. I go to Kay’s. I ignore him. He notices I’m back and he tries to ask questions and I dart into my room, I run away. I close the door and lock it, needed to board myself away, needing to be alone. Alone, alone, alone, alone and left alone.

 I never told Kay I was planning to move out. I can only imagine how much terrible—how much worse—this all would be if I did. He wouldn’t have had more than a few days to quietly rejoice that he had finally passed me off to someone else before I had to break the bad news to him.

 Sorry, I’m not recyclable material, actually. I’m just trash. I need to be left alone to decompose with time. I’m going to be here a long time, rotting, in your home. Sorry.

 I am being melodramatic. Right now, I don’t care. Right now, I am in flight or fight mode, and I don’t know how to fight. Right now, I am a wounded animal seeking a small, dark corner to hide. Right now, I am so angry at myself for getting my hopes up. For hoping at all. For thinking I could have something.

 Do you ever learn, Mikey?

 Yes. I can. I will.

 I set the banana on my dresser, clip the hedgehog to my keys—the ones to Kay’s house.

 They will be reminders, I decide. I will look at them and remember. I will learn. I can learn from this.

 Never again, I tell myself bitterly.

 I would rather be alone than left alone.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

chapter 20

The amusement park seems different, somehow, in the fall. Maybe it’s the trees with their multi-colored leaves that cluster, falling to crunch under foot. Or maybe it’s the fact that there’s a bite in the air, the temperature falling to something that requires layers, a hoodie, a sweater.

 This time, though, I am not the third wheel. This time, I am not an inconvenience. I am not left to entertain myself as my party heads off to enjoy the park together. This time, Trevor takes my hand and leads me through the twists and turns of the footpaths, insisting that we need to ride this, we need to get on that, we need to see this, we need to play that.

 He is the type of person who herds around the photo kiosks conveniently located at the end of the exit lane of the rollercoasters, craning his neck until he spots what he’s looking for.

 “Look!” he yelps excitedly, pointing. “It’s us!”

 I spare the picture a glance. Mumble something.

 “We look great!” he insists, backing away from the counter to get in line, tugging me along with him.

 “You’re buying that?” I ask, dumbfounded.

 Trevor smiles, that upturn of one half of his face. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s,” he adds, shrugging, sheepish, “sort of an anniversary, right?”

 I can only stare.

 He buys it, though. The picture of us, that is—with him, face wild with excitement, and mine, quiet and tense. Even in pictures, I’m quiet. Always so quiet. Do I know how to make an expression? I’m not sure.

 “It’s great!” Trevor enthuses, clipping it onto his keys. He looks at it fondly before tucking his keys back into his pocket.

 I have no idea how to tell him that no, it isn’t. There isn’t anything great about the photo—or, maybe more accurately, there isn’t anything great about me in the photo. Trevor looks great, sure, as ever. It’s me who looks out of place, who makes the photo look off and not right.

 But it seems ridiculous to argue the point right now when Trevor looks so pleased. I’d be the bad guy. I’d be the downer. Markus, the downer, that’s me. So for now, I say nothing.

 “Oh,” Trevor says suddenly as we wander through the footpaths, on the hunt for what to do next, “remember those?”

 I look. And I do.

 “The spinning wheel games.”

 “Yeah,” Trevor agrees. “That’s how I met you. Well, how I noticed you,” he corrects with an embarrassed shrug. And then he tacks on, “You know, you never did tell me how you knew what number the wheel would land on.”

 “Oh,” I say, and falter, because I have no idea how to explain.

 But Trevor waits patiently, head cocked in curiosity.

 “Well, um,” I fumble, “I watched and I noticed there was a pattern and then, um, it wasn’t so hard to figure out.”

 The space between Trevor’s eyebrow folds into a crease. “What do you mean?”

 I cannot use words to explain this. Maybe if I had pen and paper I could write out a string of patterns so he could see for himself, but I have no idea how to even begin an explanation of what I mean.

 Finally, frustrated, I simply say, “Maybe I can just show you?”

 He agrees and we take a seat on a nearby bench. We’re close enough that we can see, and we can hear when the attendant announces the winning number each round.

 “Just… pay attention to the numbers,” I murmur. Trevor nods, looking studious, like a student who’s just been told by a teacher to pay attention to this specific lesson because it’s going to be on the next test, word for word.

 Somehow, it’s cute. It’s endearing that Trevor takes me so seriously.

 We wait. We watch. We listen. The wheel is numbered one through twenty-five, with a counter surrounding the wheel, and numbered spaces filling the counter, each number its own color. Players place coins on the number they bet on, and most lose their coin. A few manage to win. Not many people seem to pick up on the fact that there’s a pattern to this madness, easy enough to pick apart if someone would only stay enough rounds to notice. Most don’t. They wander away, sour over their loss or too euphoric over their win to stick around for another dance with chance.

 It’s not chance.

 We continue to wait and watch and listen. More rounds go by, and I think I’ve picked up on the pattern—14, 19, 24, 4. Increments of five, then? It’s an easy pattern today. Each wheel must have it’s own pattern, or they must change day to day. This wheel has smaller prizes, and maybe that’s why it’s easier to predict. The wheel I predicted before had a more convoluted method to it.

 “What are we looking for?” Trevor finally asks me.

 “You don’t see the pattern?” I murmur. “It’s easier today than it was last time I—we were here.”

 He shakes his head and looks at me curiously. And, emboldened by that look, I stand, take his hand, and lead him to the numbered counters of the game.

 “Then,” I say simply, “let’s play and see if I’m right.”

 “Which number?” he asks, glancing at the numbered spaces on the counter.

 “Nine,” I tell him.

 He places his coin on the appropriate slot without hesitation.

 There is such a heady power in knowing that he—what?—blindly trusts me? I suppose that’s the best way to express it. For now, he asks me no questions and makes no demands, and trusts me without any reason other than he wants to.

 It makes something in my chest flutter.

 And I miss the game’s attendant calling out the winning number, the number that the wheel landed on. But Trevor’s face lights up, and he hoots a noise of jubilation, and he looks at me and says, “I won!”

 The attendant comes over and asks which prize Trevor would like. He points, and the attendant hands it over. Trevor turns to me and holds it out, smile turning up one half of his lips, expression warm.

 I blink stupidly, coming out of my thoughts. “What?” I ask, thinking he’s said something I didn’t quite catch.

 “It’s for you.”

 I point at myself like I’ve forgotten what those words mean. “For me?”

 “Of course.”

 Of course. So, I reach out tentatively, and Trevor deposits something small and soft into my hand. I take a moment to look at it.

 It’s a keychain. It’s a small, soft hedgehog plush with a plastic snap-on clip. The hedgehog’s spikes are soft, a dark brown against the lighter brown of its body. It’s cute.

 I look at Trevor questioningly.

 “It reminded me of you,” he says simply, an answer to the question I don’t know how to ask.

 Maybe on another day I would take offense. This creature that’s made to be prickly and untouchable being compared to me. But today, there’s no space in my mind for arguments or fighting. So instead, I smile. Before I can decide what to do with my new prize, Trevor’s expression shifts into something competitive.

 “Again?” he asks. “Think you know what the next one is?”

 I nod and push the little keychain into my pocket. “Fourteen.”

 He slides another coin onto the slot for fourteen. And he wins again. The attendant congratulates him for his luck and he laughs, tilting his head towards me.

 “I brought my lucky charm,” he tells the attendant, who glances at me. I duck back, quickly looking down.

 But I’m smiling as the attendant asks Trevor which prize he’d like this time.

 “You pick,” Trevor murmurs to me.

 It’s a small thing, but I’ve never liked being the center of attention, small or large. I look up at the small wall of prizes, intending to point at the first one I see. But somehow, there’s one in particular—

 Banana.

 What?

 —that catches my eye, and I point. The attendant fetches it, hands it over.

 It is a plush, velvety soft and palm sized, of a banana.

 The memories slam into me, unwelcome and unbidden.

 “What’s that?” Trevor asks, frowning, coming closer to inspect. “A banana?” His face crinkles in confused amusement. “Why that?”

 “I like to keep a theme,” I whisper, not quite here, not quite there. Not quite anywhere.

 But that will not do. It’s with force that I shake myself away and free and look up at Trevor, glancing at the curl of hair against his neck.

 He shrugs, accepting this as he does everything—with little question. “A theme, you say?”

 I nod.

 He chuckles. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Anyway, I’m starving. Hungry?”

 I tighten my grip on the velvety soft banana plush. “Yeah.”

 He suggests one of the nearby restaurants, and I nod again. I’m so good at nodding. But I’m also trying to shove away memories that do no belong here and focus on the here and now, which is oddly distracting, and it feels like all I can do right now are non-verbal things.

 It isn’t a fancy restaurant he takes us to, more like a casual eatery. I get pizza because that’s easy to order, and he gets a sandwich. We sit and start eating.

 “Didn’t you get pizza last time?” he asks.

 Did I? I wouldn’t be surprised if I did. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought that he remembers little things like that, that he takes notice of me.

 “Oh, hey, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he says once he finishes his sandwich. “I ran into my ex-girlfriend and turns out, she’s pregnant.”

 My eyebrows arch up.

 “Yeah,” Trevor says, a little bitterly. “Turns out that friend of mine she was sleeping with didn’t use protection.”

 “Wonder if he tacked his condoms to the wall?” I tease because I’m not sure what his mood is right now. He stopped mentioning his ex-girlfriend every other sentence several weeks ago, but I suppose it might still bother him to think about her. Why is he mentioning her?

 Trevor smiles, abashed. “That was just one time.”

 I can’t keep my eyes from rolling.

 “Well, so,” he starts again, clearing his throat. “I guess her new beau isn’t interested in playing house. They split up. She was living with him, and now she’s homeless. She’s pregnant, and she doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

 “That’s terrible,” I offer because it is. I may have had stints with homelessness myself, but at least I can’t get pregnant. At least I don’t have to worry about figuring out how to provide for another human. I can barely provide for myself.

 “Yeah, so she needs a place to stay. I mean, I’m not happy about it, but I think we can make it work. I was looking into it, and my apartment complex has two bedroom floorplans. The bedrooms are a little smaller, but the rent isn’t too much more per month. We could definitely make it work.”

 Now I’m lost. “Make what work?”

 And then Trevor looks lost, like he doesn’t know how I’m lost. “The three of us.”

 Three of us? Are we getting a dog who gets its own bedroom? Are we raising this lady’s kid? Who is the third party of this equation?

 Oh.

 I realize who he means—what he means—very suddenly, and I feel stupid for not realizing sooner what he was saying, what he was implying, why he’s telling me this.

 “She’s moving in with you,” I say.

 “Well, with us,” Trevor corrects with a shrug. “I wanted to let you know since she’s going to start moving her stuff into the apartment this weekend. I guess she’ll take the couch. I think we’re going to get lucky about the apartment thing—apparently a two bedroom is opening up in a few weeks and we can take it. We’ll have priority over getting it since it’s three tenants currently in a one-bedroom, plus she’s pregnant.”

 Something hard clamps around my stomach. Something hard and cold, like metal on a winter day.

 “You,” I say slowly, trying to keep up with what he’s saying. “You already talked to her about it? And everything?”

 “Yeah,” Trevor tells me. “I figured it all out this morning. It all kind of happened fast. I didn’t want to surprise you with anything. I didn’t know if she already started moving her stuff in, so I don’t know if some of her stuff will be in the apartment when we get back to it. Or if she’ll be there.”

 That thought sends a jolt through me. It feels close to panic.

 I don’t even know this woman’s name, and she’s going to live with us. She’s Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, and even if she’s pregnant with someone else’s child, I can’t see her having any love or affection for me for being in a relationship with Trevor, given how she hadn’t seemed to want to end things. I hadn’t realized how easy things were between Trevor and me, but now, imagining what a life with her would look like, I start to see it. Trevor might have his little eccentricities, but it’s always just been him and me.

 Is his ex-girlfriend spiteful of my presence, angry at her situation, controlling of her surroundings? Will she try to take control of things like Kay controls his household? Is she going to be a difficult roommate, angry that she’s going to give birth to a child with a father who doesn’t want anything to do with either of them? Is she going to take that out on me, on Trevor? Is she going to be spiteful that Trevor broke up with her in the first place? Is she going to try to get back together with him? Does she know about me? Does she think she’s moving back in and things are going back to how they used to be?

 My thoughts fire off so many questions I can’t think straight. I can’t even really hear any one question, they overlap, a tumble of noise in my head. But one does manage to scream louder than the others.

 Am I going to have to compete with this ex-girlfriend for Trevor? I am not competitive. I am not strong enough for that. I cannot live with my guard up all the time. And even if she somehow is at peace with the fact that she’s going to live with her ex-boyfriend and his new boyfriend, I don’t know anything about her. I already jumped into a bad living relationship with Kay. What if this is somehow worse? I want better, not worse.

 I just wanted to live with Trevor.

 “Okay?” Trevor asks, pulling me back to here and now, sitting at this bench in this cheap eatery in the amusement park that was supposed to be an anniversary date.

 I nod because that’s what I always do when people ask me questions I don’t know how to answer.

 And then I stop.

 Because no.

 It’s not okay.

 It’s not okay and I can’t just blindly agree to this like I blindly agreed to live with Kay, thinking, How bad can it be?

 Because it was bad. It is bad. It’s terrible living with Kay and I hate it. And I don’t want to live somewhere that I wind up hating more.

 “I,” I say finally, and my voice seems so small, so tired. But I keep talking, I get it out. “I wanted to live with you.”

 Trevor frowns, confused. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do?”

 “No,” I say. I try to say. It comes out a whisper.

 Trevor puzzles over me and finally teases, “Are you jealous?”

 Maybe it’s jealousy that speared me, hot and painful. Maybe it’s not. I’m not sure what to call this feeling. But if it’s jealousy, there’s a lot more to it than that. It’s much more. It’s knowing that there’s no way I can live with his ex-girlfriend, knowing that my every day will be a balancing act. It’s thinking that everything will be a competition, even when it’s not. It’s knowing that Trevor was a good enough ex-boyfriend to offer this to her, but not a good enough boyfriend to ask me about it. It’s knowing I’ll have to live with someone who hates me.

 Pretty sure this lady hates me, anyway. If she doesn’t already, she will soon.

 “What happens when the baby comes?” I ask.

 Trevor shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It isn’t a big deal. She’ll have her own room. It’ll be like having another roommate.”

 It isn’t a big deal.

 Except it is a big deal.

 I can’t do this.

 “What can’t you do?” Trevor asks, and I realize I said that out loud.

 “If she moves in,” I say, “I can’t.”

 Trevor looks confused again. That’s all I do, confuse people. How often has Trevor been confused over me? Too many times to count.

 “What do you mean?” he asks finally.

 “If she moves in,” I say, “I can’t. I won’t.”

 Trevor looks pained. “Markus, I can’t just let her live on the streets. She’s pregnant.”

 Maybe I’m a terrible person for thinking that this isn’t Trevor’s responsibility. This woman probably has other friends or family she can stay with. Why choose Trevor?

 The answer to that question is easy.

 Because this is who he is. Trevor is the nice guy who doesn’t say no to people who need help.

 “Then I can’t move in,” I say.

 Trevor’s face falls. I look away, pull the key out of my pocket. It still has a little trash can attached to it. Please recycle.

 I am, I think bitterly. I am recycling.

 I’m giving this key over for someone else to use. I’m giving Trevor over to someone else to use. To keep using.

 He doesn’t take it from me so I lay it down on the table between us.

 I need to say this now or I never will.

 “I don’t think we should see each other again,” I say. I force myself to say. “I don’t want to hang out anymore.”

 I just want to curl up and throw up. Or cry. Or sleep. I feel sick with misery, and so tired.

 I am always so tired.

 I need to stop pitying myself.

 “Markus,” Trevor says quickly as I stand. I gather my trash. He reaches for my hand to halt me and I step back and away.

 “Look at me,” he says softly.

 I do. No, I don’t. Sort of. I can’t make eye contact. I only ever made eye contact with him by accident, and quickly skittered my glance away. I’ve always focused on his nose or his eyebrows or his cheek or his ears or the strand of hair that curls at the end and lays on his neck.

 I’m looking at it now.

 “Bye,” I say.

 Bye, curl of hair.

 I throw my trash away but Trevor is on his feet. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I just want to go home—to Kay’s home, not the one I was going to have with Trevor—and curl up on my bed and sleep. But Trevor has a creased expression and looks like he wants to walk over to me and I don’t want that right now.

 I do what I do best, which actually isn’t nodding and agreeing all the time, as it turns out.

 It’s running away.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

chapter 19

Jess is quiet as she sneaks into my room.

  “Markus,” she whispers into the gloom, “are you awake?”

  “Yeah, I am.” I look at my clock. “You have school tomorrow, right?”

  She doesn’t miss the implication. “It’s not that late.”

  “Some of us need sleep. I have work tomorrow,” I tease.

  She smiles but it’s wobbly. That’s when I notice her cheeks are splotchy and her eyes are red-rimmed.

  “You okay?”

  She purses her lips and I think she’s trying to keep from crying. “Can I talk to you?”

  I wordlessly scooch over on my bed so she can sit next to me.

  “I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do,” she tells me.

  Very straight forward. Okay, then.

  “The father isn’t… he can’t… I mean, we weren’t… this wasn’t supposed to be serious, you know? I think, anyway. I don’t think he… well, it’s not like he can…”

  I am not making heads or tails of what she’s saying, but I nod. It’s always been a safe default, and Jess seems to take comfort in it.

  She bursts into tears.

  Or… not.

  I’m not sure what to do. I have nothing to say. I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible that this girl is sobbing into her hands and I’m just staring at her, as sentient and useful as a lamp.

  Very carefully, I lift a hand to place on her shoulder. I’ve seen people do this in movies. It sometimes works. I think.

  Jess appreciates it. I think. She takes it as invitation to turn towards me, bury her face in my shoulder, and continue to sob.

  Not exactly how I thought that was going to play out. I’m even less sure what to do. Usually people hug and say things like “It’s going to be okay” or “We’ll fix this” or “We’ll figure this out” when things like this happen in shows, or movies, or books.

  I have never been one to offer false truths. I don’t know if it’s going to be okay. I don’t know if there is a way to “fix” an unwanted pregnancy, at least I think it’s unwanted with how deeply Jess is crying over it. I don’t know if there is a solution that can be figured out, either.

  But I still feel as useful as a lampshade, and so I again raise a hand to place on her shoulder. She cries, and she cries, and she cries. Occasionally, she mutters something through her tears. I think she’s telling me about the father, and all I understand is that it’s someone she should not have been seeing, or so Kay would think. He’s older, I gather from Jess’ mumblings. Her friends don’t know, her parents obviously don’t.

  Finally, she runs out of words and out of tears, and she quietly sniffles against my shoulder. After several minutes, she says, muffled against my t-shirt, “Thanks.”

  I’m baffled. I’m not sure I’ve really done anything. “For what?”

  She sits up and wipes at her eyes. “Listening. You’re a good listener. Oh, your shirt. Sorry.”

  I glace at the damp spot and shrug. “Do you feel better?”

  Her smile still wobbles, but I don’t think she’s going to cry again. “A little. I still don’t know if I should tell my dad.”

  We share a wince at the thought.

  “Well, do what you want,” I tell her.

  There is no way that I would ever dream of sharing such personal information with Kay, but he is her dad, and somehow, she loves him. I’m just grateful I don’t have to be fond of him like that.

  She flops onto my bed, letting her head hit the pillow. She blows out a breath of air. “Sorry to keep you up. I didn’t know who else to talk to. You’re just—really easy to talk to, you know? And you don’t gossip.” She scrunches her nose. “All my friends would gossip about it and suddenly, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

  I shrug again. I don’t keep friendships. “It’s not that hard to keep something private a secret.”

  “For you,” Jess grouses. Her tone lightens. “So, where have you been going on the weekends?”

  I stiffen. She notices and rolls her eyes. “I’m not my dad. I’m not trying to police you.”

  “A… friend’s,” I say haltingly.

  She rolls her eyes again. Hard. “Yeah, I get that. I meant, who’s the friend? Anyone I know?”

  I mumble. I’m not even sure what I mumble. I have no idea how to explain Trevor.

  “Ohhh.” A smile curls Jess’ lips. “That kind of friend, huh?”

  I am not one to easily blush. I will not blush. I have no reason to blush.

  Jess giggles.

  I am blushing.

  I lay down on the bed next to her and turn my face away, oddly conscious of my burning cheeks. We’re lying side by side on my bed. I’m not sure how much of my face I can hide from her when we’re lying like this.

  “I’m just teasing, you know,” Jess tells me, still giggling. “I mean, obviously, if I’m pregnant, I have ‘that kind of friend,’ too.”

  I scowl, irritated at myself for feeling so flustered about this. “I hope everything works out with your friend.”

  Despite my irritation, I mean what I say.

  Jess’ giggles cut off. She sighs. “I don’t think it will. I just hope… I want to tell my dad. I want to be able to tell my dad, you know?”

  I don’t, but I nod.

  “I just wish he wouldn’t…”

  “Be so concerned about you?” I ask drily.

  Her giggling is back. Once her fit subsides, she says, “I wish you were my boyfriend.”

  My expression morphs into something very alarmed very fast.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said quickly, laughing again. “I just mean… you’re nice, you know? You listen to me. You’re just… I think you’d be really easy to love. A relationship would be easy with you. Your friend is lucky to have someone like you.”

  If there’s one thing I am not, it’s easy to love. That’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. Maybe I hope, maybe I want, maybe I wish I could be loved. The best I can settle for is to be tolerated.

  “Hey,” I say into the silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope things work out for you.”

  I can hear the smile in her voice. “I hope they work out for you, too.”

  We’re silent again for a long moment.

  “Hey,” Jess says.

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope he makes you happy. You deserve it.”

  I deserve nothing.

  And yet I hope, I want, I wish.

  ***

  There are many things that I feel responsible for. Maybe they aren’t my fault, maybe they are, but guilt is odd in how it clings to us despite logic or reason.

  If there is one thing I definitely do not feel any sense of responsibility or guilt over, it’s Jess’ pregnancy. Somehow, it’s my fault, though. According to Kay.

  “You knew about this,” Kay accuses. “You knew my daughter was seeing someone.”

  Jess tried to have a calm conversation with Kay about her pregnancy, but I’m not sure anything involving Kay and what he deems deviant sexual behavior is ever a calm conversation. Not really.

  I still don’t know how I became involved.

  “Dad,” Jess tries to cut in, but Kay holds up a hand to silence her. His angry eyes are boring holes into me.

  “You knew about this,” he repeats. “You knew that my daughter was seeing someone. You knew that she was pregnant.”

  I feel like a bug trying to scurry for an escape from an angry boot that wants to squash it. I nod, a small, weak gesture.

  Kay’s anger bursts into an inferno. I can see it crackling in his expression.

  “Dad,” Jess says, exasperated, “it’s not like that.”

  Kay turns to her. “Not like what? You’ll tell everyone other than me that you’re pregnant? You didn’t—what?—trust me with this?”

  Jess falters.

  “How far along are you?”

  Jess bites her lip.

  “How far along are you?” Kay asks again, gentling his voice.

  “I think, um, about three months?”

  “Three months,” Kay repeats, sounding stunned. For a moment, his anger fizzles as he thinks about the implications of that. His gaze returns to me. “And you knew this whole time?”

  I fidget, uncomfortable and still wandering how I became so involved in this conversation.

  “Dad—”

  “You knew this whole time?” Kay repeats, the anger returning to his accusatory voice.

  “I just told him, Dad. Jesus, this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Jess cries, visibly frustrated now.

  Kay gives her an admonishing look and she huffs out a sigh.

  “I’m just saying, Markus isn’t a good influence. He hasn’t made very good life choices, himself.”

  He’s also standing right here, but since when has Kay ever pulled any punches with his lectures?

  “Dad, he isn’t—He’s the one who gave me condoms,” Jess blurts angrily, “so I could—”

  She seems to remember—too late—just who she’s speaking to and cuts herself off with a wince. She’s already shooting me an apologetic look when Kay whirls on me.

  “You bought her condoms?”

  “Uh…”

  Strictly speaking, no. I gave her some that I bought for myself that I hadn’t used yet.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jess says quickly. “I was already pregnant by that point.”

  Kay whirls towards her again, expression incredulous. “How often have you met with this fellow?”

  Jess’ cheeks darken with embarrassment, and possibly a little anger or indignation. “Does it matter? I’m eighteen.”

  “You just turned eighteen,” Kay corrects. “How long have you been involved with this guy? Who is this guy, anyway? Have I met him? You never told me you had a boyfriend.”

  I feel a kindship with Jess as I watch her deflect his questions. I’ve been in her position many times. Kay’s always quick to probe for as many details as he can get.

  But before Jess has to fumble her way through his questions, Kay whirls on me again. “And I suppose you know who she’s seeing, right? You seem to be very privy on these details.”

  “Dad,” Jess says, “please don’t. This isn’t his fault.”

  But the glare on Kay’s face tells me he thinks this is very much my fault.

  I don’t know what else I can contribute to this conversation—I’m still confused why I was dragged into it to begin with—so I clear my throat and say, “I’m… about to head out to a friend’s.”

  I just need to get away.

  Of course, that was somehow the worst thing for me to say. But that’s me, and what I do. Markus, the walking disaster who says and does the worst possible thing in every situation.

  “A friend’s?” Kay repeats. “The same friend you’ve been seeing these past weeks? Why haven’t I met this friend?”

  “Dad—”

  “I’m just saying,” Kay says firmly, “I haven’t met your boyfriend who you’ve been seeing for months, apparently, and I don’t even know who his friend is. Apparently, I’m not allowed to know anything about the people I live with.”

  Jess flinches, stung. Kay immediately softens, his anger leaving him as fast as air from a popped balloon. “Jess, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

  “Yes,” she says, sounding close to tears. “It was. And for the record, this is exactly why I was afraid to tell you, and why it took me so long. I was afraid you’d do something like this.”

  It’s Kay’s turn to wince.

  “Jess,” he says gently, reaching for her. “You know I’m just—”

  “Concerned,” Jess bites out. “Yeah, I know.”

  It seems we both hate that word when it comes from Kay’s mouth.

  “I’m going out for a bit,” Jess decides. “I want to cool my head. When I come back, maybe we can talk about this again.”

  She sniffs, wipes at her eyes, and heads towards the door. She latches onto my sleeve and tugs me after.

  “Jess, where are you—”

  “Out,” she tosses over her shoulder. “I’m allowed to go out for an afternoon, aren’t I? Already pregnant, so what other trouble could I possibly get myself into?”

  “Jess, please—”

  But Jess has set her mind on this for some reason and marches us out the front door. I’m surprised when Kay doesn’t follow.

  She pauses in front of the house, breathing deeply.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Her smile is bitter. “Just told my dad I’m pregnant and he freaked. Never better.”

  Yes, well.

  She softens. “Sorry. I think I’m moody. Hormones or something. I’m fine. I’ll take a walk around the neighborhood and calm down.”

  I nod.

  “You off to see your friend?” she asks.

  I nod. I’m certainly not going back into the house with a fuming Kay.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get ‘im, tiger.” She winks.

  Before I can figure out what to say, she whirls and heads off on her walk.

  ***

  I do wind up going to Trevor’s. I feel weird showing up unannounced, but I have no where else to go. Friends? The list is short. Family? I’m not sure they’d even open the door once they saw it was me.

  I try not to feel responsible or guilty, and I try not to let Kay’s words bother me. But I do, and they do, even though I have no idea how I could have contributed to Jess’ teenage pregnancy and Kay said nothing to me that wasn’t true.

  I am a terrible influence.

  I feel heavy when Trevor opens the door. He smiles when he sees me, but I’m too distracted to really appreciate how it lights up his face. It also dims almost immediately, eventually sliding from his face as he takes me in.

  “Markus,” he says gently, “what’s wrong?”

  I don’t know what to say. I feel like a walking disaster. I am a walking disaster.

  I just want to sit down and cry or something.

  When I say nothing, Trevor takes my hand and gently leads me into his apartment.

  “Trash,” I note when I see a bag tied and left in the kitchen, next to the trash can, but I can’t even care about that at this point. My tone is dull and lifeless.

  Trevor looks sheepish. “Yeah, I was about to get to that.”

  “Takeout,” I add when I see the open and empty containers on the living room table. But there’s no bite to my tone.

  “Um, yeah, I was going to clean that before you came over. You took me by surprise. Wasn’t expecting you for a bit. Not that I mind, just… are you okay?”

  He searches my face.

  I’m not going to cry. I have nothing to cry about. There’s no reason to cry.

  Trevor lets out an alarmed breath.

  I’m crying.

  Dammit.

  He reaches for me, and I feel too dull to swat him away. I let myself fall into his chest, and let his arms wrap around me. He does what I couldn’t do when I was the one offering Jess comfort in a similar fashion a few nights ago. He tries to placate me with little, sweet nothings.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’m here,” he says. “Are you okay?” he wants to know. “I’m here,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?” he queries. And always, he comes back to “I’m here. I’m here, Markus.”

  I don’t even know how to answer him or what half of what he says means, but I’m somehow okay with this. I may have offered no comfort like this to Jess, but she was the one who needed to speak. I need someone to fill the silence. I need someone to talk over my thoughts.

  Somehow, this helps.

  Trevor doesn’t seem too terribly upset at my silence, and keeps whispering into my ear, stroking my back, my shoulder, my hair. I feel like a child and I would rather choke on my tongue than admit it, but for right here, right now, I like it. I like that Trevor thinks he can smooth my worries away and whisper sweet nothings that will chase away my demons.

  It won’t work, but I like pretending.

  There is nothing that will ever fix me.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually, I calm down.

  “Maybe this is bad timing,” Trevor says when he notices, “but this could also cheer you up. I got two tickets to the amusement park.”

  I pull away from him and try to clean up my face. “Amusement park?”

  “Yeah, you know. The one we, uh, met at. I thought it would be a cute anniversary date.”

  I blink at him, confused.

  “Three months since we met?” he clarifies, but it sounds like a question, like he wants me to verify the date myself.

  “I guess.”

  “So… you want to go?”

  “Sure.”

  Trevor actually does a fist pump.

  “You… thought I’d say no?” I hazard a guess.

  “I hoped you’d say yes. Oh, and, uh, where did I put it?” He pats down his pockets. With a triumphant “ah hah!” he pulls a key out of his pocket and holds it out to me. It’s small with a keychain of a trash can that says, “please recycle.”

  I’m staring at the keychain.

  “Do you like it?” Trevor asks. Somehow, he sounds nervous.

  “The keychain? It’s, um…” Something. It’s something. “It’s nice. Is it supposed to be a reminder or something?”

  “A reminder?” Trevor looks baffled.

  I pointedly peer around him at the trash bag still laying on the kitchen floor.

  “Oh,” Trevor says sheepishly. “Um. No. I just thought it was funny.”

  My turn to look baffled. “Funny that you don’t take your trash out?”

  And now Trevor looks like a kicked puppy. Another point to Markus, the walking disaster.

  “If you don’t like it, I can get you another one. Something different. I just didn’t know what you liked, and the store only had a few options.”

  “Why do I have to like your keychain?”

  Trevor looks utterly wounded.

  I am so lost.

  Still looking dejected, he holds it out. “Well, here. I’ll see if I can find something else for the keychain.”

  I look between the key and him. “Why do I need this?”

  “It’s… yours?”

  What is going on.

  “Unless you changed your mind?”

  This conversation has moved in directions I can’t even try to keep up with. “Changed my mind about what?”

  Trevor blinks. “Moving in?”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  This key is for… me. It must be a key to his apartment.

  “I know we didn’t talk about a specific move in date, but I figured if you had the key you could make the decision yourself, but…”

  He looks so uncertain. I feel like a dick.

  “I didn’t change my mind,” I tell him quietly.

  His smile returns and he offers me the key again. I accept it and examine it.

  “‘Please recycle’? That’s the best you could find?”

  “Well, I thought a takeout container would be more appropriate but I don’t think they make those as keychains. Since you like to remind me how terrible I am about cleaning—”

  “You tried to use a chopstick to cut a roll in half.”

  Trevor throws up his hands like I’ve said something ridiculous. “That was one time.”

  “You had a pair of underwear dangling from your ceiling fan.”

  “Again,” Trevor presses, “one time.”

  I surprise myself with laughing.

  “So, you like it?” Trevor asks. “The…”

  He gestures at the key chain.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. I like it.”

  I like it just fine. 

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 18

I don’t know what I’m doing.

 My coworkers wanted to treat me today. Usually, I cover for them as they slack off. They told me they wanted to show their thanks and let me leave a little early today, to “start my weekend plans early” since it’s Friday.

 My only weekend plans only ever involve Trevor. And so here I am. At his work, thirty minutes before he gets off. I was eager at first, excited to surprise him. But now I’m here and my enthusiasm has fizzled out, a fire that couldn’t hold itself together under a deluge of an unexpected drizzle of anxiety

 I feel oddly shy. I don’t know where he is in this store—I just know that he works here somewhere—and I can’t bring myself to actively look for him. Somehow, it feels like I’m chasing him when I was never given permission to do so. I’d rather he somehow stumble over me by accident and pretend it a happy coincidence than admit I spent the better part of an hour trying to figure out where he is in this store so we can start our “weekend plans” together.

 This is me, a person who would rather get caught in a half-truth than admit the full story, because nobody in their right mind would believe that I “just happened” into a store like this and “just happened” to stick around long enough to run into the exact person I was looking for. And the explanation requires a wordcount I do not possess.

 “Need help finding anything?” an associate asks me as he wanders past me. I’m sure I look lost. I’ve been standing in the same spot at the end of an aisle of merchandise, my eyes glazed over in thought as I stare at the floor.

 I startle and look up the young man who has a small pile of patterned button up shirts in his hands.

 I have no idea what to say. Admitting that I’m waiting for Trevor to Trevor is one thing, saying as much to a complete and utter stranger is quite another. I have this strange paranoia that this guy will assume I’m some sort of stalker if I just blurt out something like, “Do you know where Trevor is—I think he works here.”

 So instead, I compromise. And by “compromise,” I mean I stare at the guy like I’m a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide and looking ready to bolt in a random direction at any second.

 The guy peers closer at me, and I feel my fight or flight instincts kick in. For obvious reasons, it’s unwise to throat-punch this guy, so my legs tense, ready to help me flee far and fast, and I’m ready to pretend this whole experience never happened.

 So I’m surprised when the guy says, “Wait, you’re Mark, right?”

 My confusion is strong and poignant, and temporarily sets my flight instinct into a state of chaotic bafflement. “Um.”

 “No, yeah, yeah, yeah,” the guy says quickly, waving a hand at me. “You are. I saw you. Yeah. Mark, yeah.”

 I’m… not sure what to do. I don’t know what to say. I can only default to again staring like a deer caught in headlights, unable to even compute the proper response to this situation.

 “Well, if you’re looking for ‘im, I can get ‘im. Bit busy, though—you know Fridays. Retail is always busy as a bee on Fridays,” the guy chatters on.

 I have no idea what he’s saying.

 “It’s nice, though. Glad the guy got himself out of that terrible relationship—anyway. Trevor, right? You’re looking for Trevor?”

 I am still so confused and have no idea what to say, but “Trevor”—yes. That I can nod at and not be agreeing to something I don’t understand or know.

 The guy dumps the shirts onto a nearby rack and fumbles off really quick. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow, but the pace he sets is pretty break-neck, so I decide to occupy my time. And by “occupy my time,” I mean I notice that the shirts the guy dopped haven’t been folded very nicely. I fold them slowly, taking my time to make them look neat and tidy.

 What else am I supposed to do?

 Then, I notice that the random associate didn’t place the shirts in the appropriate area for them. They’re a mix of several patterns and I can only assume they’re either returns or someone changed their mind and didn’t want to buy them. So, I find the slot with a matching pattern and tuck them all neatly into their appropriate home. Then, I see that a lot of the shirts have a tousled look to them, like customers were careless as they rifled through for the size that best fit them. And so, I begin the process of pulling out the worst of the bunch and refolding them because I am nervous energy and it feels better to do something than to stand still.

 “My new coworker is sexy as hell.”

 I jump and whirl, clutching the shirt I was folding to my chest like I’m a naked maiden who is trying to protect her modesty.

 “Trevor,” I yelp, unsure what else to say.

 He smiles at me, one side of his mouth curling.

 I realize I’m still clutching the shirt and make a conscious effort to pull it away from me, fold it, and place it on a shelf.

 “When did you start here?” he teases.

 I mutter an embarrassed rush of nonsensical syllables, not even sure what I’m trying to say.

 “You work harder than the employee of the month,” he jokes, coming up behind me. He snakes an arm around me and gently tugs me close, my back pressed in to align with his torso, his resting on my head.

 I like this. I like this a lot. I like this so much. Somehow, it helps to ease my anxiety and I feel myself relax against him.

 “I can wait if you can’t clock out yet,” I mumble.

 He chuckles. “You did enough work to cover the last ten minutes of my shift. ‘Sides, my coworker thought it was adorable my boyfriend came to pick me up. I get to head out early because of you.”

 I frown as I remember. “How did he know who I was?”

 “Hmm? Oh. That picture I took, remember? He’s the one who wanted to see you.”

 Oh.

 “He thinks my name is Mark,” I tell him, wrinkling my nose.

 “Somehow, he managed to call me ‘Travis’ my first year working here,” Trevor tells me, huffing out a laugh. “Don’t judge him too harshly.”

 I can’t keep myself from smiling at the thought.

 “Hungry?” Trevor asks as he releases me. “I know this good—”

 “Take out place?” I say drily, finishing his sentence.

 He smiles sheepishly. “Unless you’d prefer something nicer.”

 I almost roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 He takes my hand and guides me away, out of the store and into the heart of the mall.

 ***

 “You look disappointed,” Trevor says as I pick up a fry and examine it.

 “Mm,” I mutter-hum. “I guess I… wasn’t expecting it.”

 “Something wrong with it?” Trevor asks, instantly on alert.

 “Nothing, um, ‘wrong,’” I quickly assure him. “I guess when you said that you ‘knew a great take out place,’ I just wasn’t expecting”—my gaze goes back to the fry—“a burger chain.”

 “You don’t like burger chains?”

 “Didn’t say that,” I say quickly. “Just… who hasn’t been here? Not sure it’s, um, well especially note-worthy.”

 I can see Trevor trying not to look bummed. “Every couple needs a cheap, famous, chain restaurant date.”

 I dunk my fry in a small tub of ketchup and eat it. “Yeah, won’t see me actually complaining. Just thought you had something more unique—I guess?—in mind.”

 Trevor ponders this. Then, he picks up a fry, examines it as though he thought it may tell him the secrets of the universe, nods once.

 And throws it at me.

 I am disbelief personified. “Did you just…?”

 He munches on a fry in one hand while using the other to chuck another at me.

 “You’re wasting food,” I protest, exasperated.

 “You said ‘unique,’” Trevor points out. “I’m giving you unique.”

 “Not quite what I meant,” I comment drily, picking up the fry he tossed that landed on the table near me and chucking it back in his direction. “I meant, like, I dunno—a family owned place, or some foreign cuisine?”

 Honestly, I’m not even sure what I meant. The most go-to fast food chain was not what I thought he meant, though.

 Trevor picks up the fry that’s been tossed between us and ponders. I can see the moment the lightbulb lights up over his head. His expression brightens and he picks up the fry, places it on his top lip, curls it to hold it in place, and says in a very serious tone, “Dees ees what you think of my per-feect deener?”

 I pause sipping my chocolate milkshake to gaze at him. “Was that supposed to be a German accent?”

 Trevor frowns, and the fry falls from his face as he forgets to dramatically curl his lip to hold it in place.

 “French,” he says, wounded.

 I honestly don’t know if it’s my geographical skills that are lacking or his.

 He tosses the fry back at me. I think he’s still pouting.

 That single fry winds up being tossed back and forth between us dozens of times before we finally clean up and head for his apartment.

 ***

 “Throw it away,” I demand, exasperated, as we walk to the bus stop.

 “Somehow, it’s a souvenir.”

 “It’s a souvenir until it rots. It’s just a fried potato.”

 “Maybe it’ll ossify,” Trevor suggests.

 “That’s just another form of rotting,” I press.

 “Hmm.”

 “Throw it away,” I say, once more exasperated.

 Trevor turns towards me to say something more, trips, and tosses his hands out in a quick flail to keep his balance. Somehow, it works.

 “Oh, no,” he breathe, examining the ground.

 “What?”

 “I dropped it.”

 “Dropped what?”

 “The souvenir!” he cries, still searching the ground. “Our French fry!”

 “It’s… just a fry.”

 “You do not understand the importance of a souvenir.”

 Apparently not.

 I see the long form of the bus slowing at the curb’s end.

 “C’mon,” I tell him. “We’ll miss our bus.”

 He wavers. “But…”

 “It’s just a fry,” I say, trying not to sound irritated.

 With a weary sigh, he follows me as I jog to catch the bus. He’s clearly hurt at my lack of concern, but I can’t fathom why. As the bus maneuvers through the roads to his apartment, I try to build up the courage to ask him something—to move the thoughts in his mind away from the lost “souvenir,” to distract him, to cheer him.

 But I have never been good with words.

 I stay quiet.

 Trevor continues to mope.

 ***

 I have one distraction at my disposal. I use it when necessary. I do not enjoy it, but I manage to get through it okay every time. I kiss Trevor in the privacy of his apartment, lure him to his bed, let myself be stripped of my clothes and himself of his, let him kiss me, kiss him in turn, and then let him pleasure himself with my body.

 He holds me close afterwards and I let him. I do not know what the unspoken agreement is in a relationship that it titled “boyfriends,” but I like this part, and I relish in it.

 But eventually I pull away to shower and wash my body of the mess he’s left on me. When I emerge, he once more has his questionnaire in hand. I am too exasperated and tired to do anything more than point at one of the emos—emojis, excuse me—at random. This time, I manage to pick an upside-down smiley face.

 I have no idea what it means.

 “That’s better than before,” he tells me, encouraged by this fact.

 I don’t know what to say. I say nothing.

 He opens his arms for me. This part, I like. This part, I enjoy. I crawl into the bed and let him wrap himself around me.

 “I think we have a good thing going with us,” he mumbles, half asleep, in my ear.

 I sink deeper into his arms, buoyed somehow by his words.

 “Move in with me,” he mutters, groggily.

 I am suddenly wide awake. “Whuh- what?”

 This is not a conversation I ever thought to have half-asleep, and so I pull myself from his arms to sit up and look at him. His expression is serious as he looks at me.

 “It’s lonely during the week without you,” he tells me earnestly when I say nothing me. “Would you—I mean—consider moving in with me?”

 There are countless thoughts rolling over and over in my mind, like the clothes in a washing machine tumbling time and time again over one another. They move too fast for me to make too much sense of.

 But I do remember the nightmare I have to go home to. I remember Kay, his wife, his daughter, and how I constantly feel like a stranger in their home. I remember the fact that the home I return to is not mine to call my own. I remember Kay’s continual insistence to pry into my life; his constant “concern.”

 Trevor’s face clouds. “I mean, I don’t want make you feel like you have to say yes—”

 “Okay,” I breathe.

 He cuts himself off to blink at me. “What?”

 I nod, whispering, “Yes.”

 A smile of pure exhilaration tugs at his lips. He pulls me close, presses his mouth to mine.

 “You won’t regret this,” he murmurs against my lips, and I close my eyes and let his cheerful affection wash over me.

 In this moment, I think I am happy.

 ***

 I find that while I don’t enjoy partaking in Trevor’s daily routine, I like watching him as he goes about it. He returns from his daily run sometime between five-thirty and six. He goes through a daily regime of exercises and often I wake to catch him in the middle of them. He often coaxes me to lie on his back as he tries to muscle through one thousand pushups in an hour.

 He claims it’s a form of strength training.

 I think he is insane.

 “I’m just saying,” he grunts the next morning as I stare up at the ceiling, our backs curved against one another, “why flex your modesty muscle when you could be flexing your biceps?”

 I snort, too tired to protest, and my mind too distracted to come up with a retort.

 In a few weeks, I will no longer need to live with Kay. In a few weeks, I will no longer need to report back to Kay, with him pressing me with questions to wheedle out every detail he can about my personal lives. In a few weeks, it will just be Trevor and me. In a few weeks, I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay.

 I cannot say that enough. I cannot think it enough. It is a broken record in my mind.

 It leaves me feeling almost dizzy with relief.

 “Time?” Trevor huffs.

 I yawn and check the clock. “Forty minutes.”

 He grunts. “At seven hundred. I think I can make it this time.”

 I still think he is insane.

 But as he continues his odd morning exercise, I can’t keep my lips from curling in a smile.

 For now, I am still happy.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 17

I spend a lot of time at Trevor’s.

  It’s sort of a vicious cycle.

  I stay a night or two at Trevor’s on the weekend. I refuse to give Kay many details about my weekend plans beyond a quick mention Friday morning that “I might not be home for the weekend” because things are worse if I stay away for a day or two without a word than they are if I give him a head’s up. Kay always pushes and presses to know more—what time do I think I’ll be home? Where am I going? What friend? Where does this friend live? I squirm and stay mostly quiet with the occasional quick, one-word replies when Kay insists on getting an answer out of me. Kay grows more and more persnickety every time I come home from Trevor’s, pushing for more and more details.

  It makes me want to stay away even more.

  Except the more I stay away, the more Kay pushes for answers.

  He’s “concerned,” he tells me. He’s “just concerned,” he always stresses. He’s “just concerned about me,” he always says. He never has any other reason or explanation for wanting answers to his probing questions.

  I never want to hear the word “concerned” again.

  But I do wind up spending a lot of time at Trevor’s, and I learn a lot about him.

  ***

  I learn that Trevor does his best to attempt to clean when given instructions to do so.

  “When’s the last time you cleaned your ceiling fan?” I ask, peering up at it.

  “Why would I clean it?” Trevor asks, bemused.

  “You should clean it,” I tell him. “Dust will get all over your bedroom otherwise.”

  He thinks about that for a moment before conceding. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  I also learn that Trevor never wipes down a surface until it is unmistakably and visibly filthy. So, he digs out some rags and cleaning spray and trudges into his bedroom while I take a soaped up sponge to his counters.

  It’s only a few minutes later that I hear a thump. I pause, frowning, and strain my ears. And yes, I can hear it if I remain absolutely quiet.

  Thud.

  “Ow.”

  A pause.

  Thud.

  “Ow.”

  Another pause.

  Thud.

  “Ow.”

  This continues on repeat for several minutes. I leave the sponge on the sudsy counter to investigate. I toe open the door to Trevor’s room and—

  Thud. A blade of the ceiling fan thwacks against Trevor’s hand.

  “Ow.”

  He flinches back for a moment before reaching up with the rag again, holding his arm at an awkwardly high angle so his fingers can slowly sink down to skim along the tops of the fan blades, rag in hand. Until his fingers dangle too far down and—

  Thud. A blade thwacks against his hand again.

  Trevor hastily yanks his hand back, flexing his fingers, grumbling, “Ow.”

  “What are you doing?” I can’t hold back the question.

  Trevor startles and looks at me. He’s standing on his bed, leaning dangerously over the edge of it to reach the ceiling fan that’s perhaps a meter from the bottom of the mattress. His hair has wet looking clumps of dirt sticking to it.

  “Cleaning the ceiling fan,” he tells me, matter-of-fact.

  I squint between him and the ceiling fan, trying to piece together this impossible puzzle. As I watch, Trevor raises the can and sprays a mist of cleaning solution in the general direction of the fan, quickly ducking and covering his eyes for several seconds as the spray settles, some of it on the blades, but most of it blown back towards the ground by the breeze created by the blades that are still moving.

  I try to speak, but I can only watch this disaster unfold, absolutely mute.

  Once Trevor no longer feels droplets hitting his arms, he tentatively peeks between his fingers to make sure the coast is clear. Then, he resumes his previous, odd dance of leaning forward on the bed and awkwardly holding his arm at a high angle so the rag he’s holding can brush off wet clumps of dust. The wind from the fan blows most of the clumps in Trevor’s face, and some more catch in his air.

  Thud.

  “Ow.” He flinches back again.

  Finally, I can take no more.

  “Why didn’t you turn it off?” I ask.

  Trevor pauses his ministrations to look at me. “What? How would—ow!”

  He flinches away again.

  “It’d probably be a lot less painful if you turn it off,” I tell him, frowning. Peering around at the stray clumps of dust swirling about the room, carried along by the current of wind created by the still-moving fan blades, I add, “And faster to clean.”

  “I don’t think I can turn it off,” Trevor tells me. “It’s been on since I moved in.”

  I frown harder at him. “What?”

  He looks at me helplessly. With a sigh, I retrieve a chair, place it under the ceiling fan, and carefully stand on it so I can reach one of the strings dangling from the it. I pull on it. After a second, the fan blades crawl to a stop.

  Trevor is goggling at me. “But… but I thought those were for the lights.”

  “This second string is,” I say, gesturing to it.

  Trevor is still goggling. “But… but I thought it was, like, you know, one string for one of the lightbulbs, and the second string for the other one.”

  I’m frowning again as I look at the ceiling fan. “It… has three lightbulbs, though.”

  “Well, you know, sometimes those strings break off. I figured that must’ve been what happened.”

  I feel a strong wave of exasperation. “So you’ve just let it run—what? Twenty-four-seven because you didn’t think you could turn it off?”

  Trevor gives me a sheepish smile.

  It’s adorable.

  I still think I might throttle him.

  It seems Trevor lacks critical thinking.

  ***

  I learn that Trevor takes a lot of things at face value.

  When I come over one afternoon after work, he leads me into the living room and sits me on his couch. He nervously paces in front of me, twisting his fingers.

  “Terrible. Absolutely fucking terrible,” he keeps muttering.

  I take a moment to glance around his apartment for something he’s managed to break or some kind of rubbish heap he’s discovered. I’m not sure what’s terrible, but his nervous energy has me growing anxious.

  “We should talk, okay? We need to— Can we talk? It’s… We need to talk, Markus.” He looks at me earnestly, his face set in hard lines of odd determination.

  I swallow. “Is it bad?”

  “It’s—yes. It’s very bad. It’s pretty terrible. Absolutely regrettable,” he tells me, frowning at me.

  I knew he would regret me.

  I’m something worth regretting, I want to remind him.

  “Okay,” I say, but it comes out closer to a whisper.

  He sits down next to me. Lets his leg bounce. Grabs at his hair to clutch his head.

  I swallow. I’m not sure I actually want to hear it. Yeah, maybe… Maybe I should just leave, flee.

  I can’t be abandoned if I leave first.

  “I can…” I say, scuttling to the edge of the couch, about to get up. I try to say again, “I can…”

  My chest feels like a hollow, rotten thing. I feel numb. I can’t even feel my heartbeat. I feel… nothing, other than a terrible numbness.

  Trevor takes me hand, clasps it in both of his. “We’ll get through this, right? We’ll get through this.”

  Don’t fight for something you regret, I want to say, my terrible, self-deprecating mind putting the words in my head.

  But Trevor’s hand is warm around mine, and I’m too cowardly to leave without hearing what he has to say. Or maybe I’m a coward for staying. I don’t know.

  I nod, slow and tentative.

  Trevor takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then lets it out in a gusty rush. “I… Well, STDs seemed kind of important to you, so I went to a clinic and was tested after work the other day. I got the results back. Markus, I… I don’t know how to… There isn’t…” He blurts, fast, “I’m HIV-negative.”

  Feeling returns to me in a rush, from my fingers and toes, swooping in towards my chest. I can breathe again.

  He doesn’t think me a mistake yet. I think.

  Honestly, I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me.

  “Oh… kay,” I say so slowly the single word is drawn out into two.

  He gives me a pleading look.

  I feel my brow furrow as I slowly shake my head, not understanding.

  “HIV-negative,” he repeats. “And we— That first time— Oh, God, Markus, I—I won’t forgive myself for giving it to you.”

  I blink slowly at him, once, and then feel my eyes shutter open and closed in a quick, rapid, confused succession, like if I blink fast enough, I’ll clear away the parts of reality that are most baffling me.

  “Are you in shock? Oh, I’m so sorry. I… I know that first time, you know, when you went down on me”—his voice lowers to a near-whisper like he dared to utter a terrible slur but dare not use a carrying voice to do so—“we forgot a condom and I… You might… want to get tested.”

  He looks dejected, guilty, and—

  And wait a minute.

  “You… think you gave me HIV?” I ask slowly, trying to follow his string of logic.

  He nods miserably.

  I contemplate that. I contemplate that so hard I wish I had a mug of tea to sip at to look scholarly or something because this is a scenario that takes a greater mind than mine, and a scholarly brain would likely help me puzzle out what is going on. My simple brain cannot keep up with this.

  “HIV-negative?” I repeat, wanting to make sure I have all the clues to this mystery correctly organized in my non-scholarly mind.

  He nods miserably again.

  There’s a smoking gun lying on the floor and a body dead from a knife wound. These facts are not adding up.

  I can’t make this puzzle fit together. I can’t solve this baffling mystery. I tap out.

  “How would you have given me HIV?” I finally ask.

  Now it’s Trevor’s turn to look as though I have given him an impossible puzzle to solve. “I’m… Markus, I’m… you know, I have HIV.”

  I am not even going to try to solve this one.

  “How do you figure that?” I ask slowly.

  “Well, it’s… I mean, it’s obvious… isn’t it?” He sounds more and more hesitant with every phrase. Then, he continues on in a rush, “I mean, the test was pass-fail, right? HIV-negative… so I failed the test. I have HIV.”

  Oh.

  Trevor looks alarmed. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Don’t scare me like that,” I breathe. “Don’t scare…”

  Trevor’s alarm transforms into mild irritation. “This isn’t a laughing matter. Markus. Markus!”

  It takes me several long moments to let out my nervous, giddy giggles. I’m so relieved, it all comes out at once and I can’t stop it.

  “It’s the other way around,” I tell him, wiping my streaming eyes, relieved that they’re wet because of mirth and not heartbreak. “Your body tested negative for having HIV. It’s not in you, I guess is how you can think about it.”

  “I don’t have HIV?” Trevor blinks incredulously at me.

  I shake my head, unable to keep an amused smile from curling one side of my mouth.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “You’re STD free?”

  “We don’t need to use condoms!” he cheers. “You give the best head ever, too!”

  “Well,” I say quickly, “I mean…”

  I’m not offered a chance to explain that I haven’t been tested recently, that I used to sell my body for money, that I have a fierce condom policy, because Trevor chatters on for a long while in such an animated, excited way that I don’t have an opportunity to cut in.

  It seems Trevor is prone to misunderstandings.

  ***

  I learn that Trevor shows his overenthusiasm in odd ways.

  He likes sex. I suppose I’m a minority in preferring platonic affection over the sexualized kind. However, I allow Trevor to guide us through the steps of sex, and maybe, perhaps—just sometimes—I use my body as a distraction when Trevor tries to suggest that we play a board game. Or, at least, when one board game in particular crops up in the conversation.

  I guess, in a way, it’s win-win. Trevor enjoys the sex, and I get out of terrible situations. I suppose it makes me callous to put it in those terms. It’s not that I dislike the sex. I may not enjoy the physical part of it—it’s dirty, and slimy, and leaves me wanting nothing more than a shower—but I do enjoy the concept of bringing Trevor physical pleasure.

  The part I prefer just comes after the slimy, dirty ministrations. I prefer the gentle touching. I prefer his arm around my middle, his head tucked in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, his leg slipping between mine.

  He tries to express his feelings through physical pleasure, and when I shy away from those, he is, apparently, distraught.

  “Are you afraid I won’t be good at, you know,” he says, gesturing to my lower body, “blowjobs?”

  I just got out of the shower, dressed in loose sweatpants and a T-shirt. I sit down on his bed and shrug. I don’t know how to tell him I don’t like to be touched like that.

  “I did watch those porns,” he presses. “I saw some techniques. I can—”

  I lean in to kiss him. He responds, and when I think I’ve distracted him away from the topic, I pull back. He guides me into his arms and I will never be able to express how much I like being gently held captive in someone’s arms.

  But then he jerks away from me. “Oh!” he says. “Wait here a moment.”

  So I do. Trevor leaves his bedroom and returns a moment later. I’m eyeing the paper in his hand warily. He offers it to me. I reach out for it like I’m reaching out for a lethal dose of poison I’m expected to administer to myself.

  I blink at it. “What is this?”

  “Faces,” Trevor says.

  Yes, that… that I saw.

  It’s a line of faces, actually. They’re simple facial expressions, like emos. There are eight in total. On the left side is a blue cartoon head that’s frowning and in tears. On the right side is a green cartoon head with a comically large smile. There’s even a little diamond on its teeth, like its smile is gleaming in the light.

  “What is this?” I ask again, blinking at it.

  “Well,” Trevor says, shrugging, “I figured that last questionnaire didn’t go so well. I thought maybe it was overwhelming or something to have to write it all out.”

  It was definitely “or something.”

  “So,” he continues, “I put this together instead. Just point to the one that best, you know, portrays how you feel after sex. Don’t be afraid to be honest,” he adds quickly at my blank expression. “I want to know.”

  I want to know what the point of this is.

  I look down at the paper. Trevor is still watching me expectantly, so I point to one near the middle. It’s a head with its mouth wide open and a small, floating hand over the mouth.

  Sex always leaves me drained. I still think I have a defective battery, and sex sucks up at least fifty percent of its charge on most days.

  Trevor’s face falls. “Boring? So, I should… spice it up?”

  I look down at the face and then back up at Trevor, trying to figure out how “I’m tired” translates to “let’s get kinky.”

  I try to explain. “It’s tiring.”

  “Spicing it up is tiring?” Trevor asks.

  This is getting so messy. I put the paper down and crawl closer to him, kissing him. He enthusiastically returns the gesture. I let him get distracted, and I pull back after several long minutes.

  “Should we get kinky now?” Trevor asks with a sly smirk.

  My distraction did not work. In fact, it backfired.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say.

  Trevor looks at me expectantly. I feel put on the spot, which makes me feel anxious.

  “Why emos?” I blurt.

  “Emo—what?” he asks, confused.

  “Emos,” I repeat.

  Trevor gives me a baffled look.

  I grab the paper and shove it at him. “These. Why these? Why emos?”

  “Emos,” he says slowly. “You mean emojis?”

  “Yeah, emos.”

  “They’re called emojis.”

  I make an impatient gesture. “Whatever.”

  Trevor looks between me and the paper for a long moment before he laughs.

  I frown and demand, “What’s so funny?”

  “Emos?” Trevor says. “You think these all look like miserable teenagers, wearing angsty black?”

  I fail to see the connection.

  I must say that out loud because Trevor gives me a startled look and starts laughing harder.

  “What,” I snap, “is so funny?”

  He pulls out his phone and between bouts of chuckles, taps at it. After a moment, he shows it to me.

  “The hell is he wearing?” I mutter, peering closer. “And why?”

  “That is an emo,” Trevor says, holding a hand up to try to hide his amused smile.

  “Then what are those?” I demand, pointing at the paper he let drop to the bed.

  “Emojis.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  He gestures between his phone and the abandoned paper. “I’d say so.”

  “I don’t… This isn’t funny.”

  “You look like a peeved cat,” he chortles, “who’s all puffed up with his ears back. You know, ruffled with irritation?”

  I gape at him. I think I’m offended.

  “It’s cute,” he assures me through more chuckles. “It’s really cute.”

  I frown at him, but soften.

  As it turns out, I didn’t need to turn to sex this time to distract him.

  It seems Trevor finds me cute.

  ***

  I spend more and more time at Trevor’s. It’s not a conscious thing, I don’t think. It just happens. Sort of like how a weed will take over a garden if left unchecked.

  It seems I love spending time with Trevor. 

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 16

When I wake up, Trevor is doing crunches on the floor. His face is flushed and he has a light sheen of sweat on his skin.

 “What time is it?” I mumble.

 He pauses to pull out his phone and check the time. “Seven-thirty,” he says as he resumes his crunches.

 “How long have you been up?” I stretch and try to shake off the desire to curl up and fall back asleep.

 “Since four,” he says.

 I’m momentarily confused before I remember. Trevor has the odd routine of waking up before dawn to sprint around town like he takes part in a daily Olympics competition.

 Trevor seems content to finish his daily workout without much comment, so I slip into the bathroom to use the toilet and swipe a finger across my teeth with some toothpaste. And because I know Trevor is likely to forget about the laundry, I return to the washer to throw the clothes into the dryer. While I’m not fond of the idea of playing maid, I’m less fond of the idea of returning to visit Trevor’s apartment if it’s covered in trash, dirty dishes, and dirty laundry.

 I don’t like how many options the dryer has. Instead of a crank nob, there are numerous push buttons. I notice that when I press one of the buttons, it lights up a different option or a different setting.

 I have no idea what the settings or options mean, though I can’t imagine it makes a difference which I use, so I select one at random and turn it on. Then, I load up the washer with another load of dirty clothes and do the same.

 I have no idea what to do with myself, so I go into the living. And I stop in my tracks.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Well, we never did finish that game of Monopoly,” Trevor tells me, clicking a house onto a tile of the game board. “Figured we could try to finish it. I… think I remember how the board looked?” But he doesn’t sound completely sure and peers down at it. “Did you own Pennsylvania Avenue, or was that one mine?”

 I am not prepared for another round of that game. I will never be prepared for another round of that game. I act swiftly.

 “What are you…?” Trevor asks when I advance.

 I kiss him. Trevor makes an appreciative noise and his hands come up to pull me closer. I let him. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw and I tilt my head to encourage him. His lips go down my neck and I return the favor, mirroring what he does as best as I can, unwilling to let him break free of my distraction.

 It works. He guides me away from the living room, into his bedroom. He pushes me gently onto the bed, and we pull ourselves free of clothing. I may have been disgruntled at Trevor’s lack of sexual knowledge before, but he proves to be a quick study. He manages the condom and lube much better this time.

 And after, Trevor nuzzles against me, kissing my forehead. “Was it good?”

 I nod, feeling slimy and gross.

 “Should I do something differently or anything?” he asks.

 I’m confused. I shake my head.

 “But it was good?” he presses.

 “It was fine,” I tell him.

 “But I…” He drifts off, a contemplative expression on his face. “Actually, hang on,” he mutters.

 Trevor gets out of bed, puts his boxers on, and leaves the bedroom for a moment. When he returns, he has a paper in one and a pen in the other. He hands them to me.

 I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with either.

 “For you,” Trevor clarifies.

 I look down. The paper reads “Your satisfaction is the number one priority” at the top. Below that are a series of questions. It looks like someone scribbled out certain words and wrote a new one to replace it over the original.

 What can be improved on your next visit encounter? Did you receive special attention from an employee Trevor? What is your overall satisfaction level? On a scale of 1 (not very likely) to 10 (very likely), how likely are you to recommend our brand want a repeat performance?

Am I supposed to answer these?

 Trevor must notice my baffled expression. He clears his throat. “Well, I don’t know much about this gay sex stuff, but I want you to be happy, you know, in bed. This one product we sell is American and comes with a questionnaire and people usually fill it out and I was just thinking… maybe I could tweak it so I could give it to you to fill out? About our”—his face turns a rosy shade—“you know… Maybe it was stupid. But I’d like you to try to fill it out.”

 I do not even know what to say. Trevor is looking at me expectantly. I fumble with the pen. When Trevor doesn’t look away, I awkwardly scratch out some answers to the questions and hand the paper back to him. He takes it excitedly, smiling as his eyes scan over it.

 His smile slowly drops away.

 “What can be improved… you said ‘no.’”

 I did, yes.

 “And for the question about ‘did you receive special attention,’ you just wrote in ‘yes.’”

 I’m not sure why he’s reading my answers off to me.

 “That’s all?” he asks. “Just ‘yes’? You could put something specific that you liked, though.”

 He looks at me pleadingly. I shrug, feeling awkward and on the spot. After a moment, he drops that issue to move onto the next question on the paper.

 “Your overall satisfaction level is yes?” he asks.

 “I was satisfied,” I tell him, in case he needs clarification.

 “And I scored an 8.” He pauses. He looks up at me, wounded. “What did I do wrong?”

 “Well,” I fumble. “Um. Always room for improvement, right?”

 “But what did I do wrong?” he presses. “What should I do differently? Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off to gesture towards my lower half. I frown, confused, and he says, “I can, you know, go down on you or something.”

 Oh. I shake my head quickly. “No, it’s not that. It was good.”

 Trevor is more and more distressed. “But good should always be improved to ‘great’ or ‘excellent.’”

 This conversation is exhausting me.

 “We should shower,” I cut in, trying to derail this mess as quickly as I can.

 “Will you at least think on it?” Trevor asks as I stand up. He still sounds distressed. “So I can find things to improve on?”

 “Sure,” I reply, though I’m not sure at all. I just want to dive out of this conversation as fast as possible.

 “Okay,” Trevor relaxes. “You go ahead and shower and I’ll go get some clean clothes. You can borrow some of mine, if you want?”

 Normally, I’m not sure I’d like to wear someone else’s clothes. But my mind whispers the word boyfriend, and I remember I’m not really strangers with Trevor anymore.

 “Yeah, that’s fine,” I say.

 I take a quick shower and towel off. Trevor slipped in at some point and put some clothes on the closed toilet for me. I’m relieved he didn’t ask to join me this time. I’m not sure what boyfriends are supposed to do with each other, but I still like taking a shower by myself. I’m also relieved that they aren’t the workout shorts and sleeveless top he tossed at me last time. These shorts are looser, more comfortable looking, and the shirt is a simple T-shirt that’s well worn and soft.

 When I come out of the bathroom, I find Trevor in the open area of his living room. He’s flexing his arms and admiring himself.

 Why?

 “What are you doing?” I ask.

 He stops and turns to me. “My shirts shrank,” he says.

 “How?” I ask, frowning.

 “I think there’s some kind of setting the dryer has to be on to dry cotton. Lower heat or something? Otherwise, I guess it all shrinks down. Or maybe it was that the washer was supposed to be on a certain setting, so it uses cooler water? Or both?” He screws his face up as he thinks. “I’m not sure. But everything shrank.”

 I feel a sense of horror.

 “Also, all my white clothes are pink,” he goes on. He says it rather casually, but…

 I feel my sense of horror increase.

 “The… shirt you’re wearing,” I say, “was it always pink?”

 “It was white before we washed it,” Trevor says, looking down at his shirt in question, which is now a soft rosy shade.

 “I…”

 It’s too little, too late, but I now remember being told at some point that it’s imperative to separate white clothes from those with color—especially red—to keep the white clothes from soaking up loose dye while they’re washing together.

 “How many shirts did I ruin?” I ask, my horror morphing into stress.

 Trevor shrugs. “You didn’t really ruin them. I think they’ll stretch out again and besides—”

 “But how many?” I ask again.

 He shrugs again. “Maybe a dozen? I got most of them cheap on sale or something, and I can get more. I’m not worried about it, though.”

 I cast him a dubious look.

 “Well, look,” he says, flexing his arm again. “They’re super tight now. I can show off all this muscle I’m building!”

 I’m not sure why I didn’t expect this type of reaction from the guy who has such a ridiculous daily exercise routine.

 “I’ll still replace them,” I say. “They’re pink.”

 “It’s just my workout shirts that were white,” Trevor says. “Besides, you missed the part where they shrunk down so much that they show off my muscles!”

 He flexes his arm again. I suppose if I were a vainer person, I would actually appreciate what I’m looking at. The shirt is very tight on Trevor’s body, and if I hadn’t known he liked to work out, I would definitely know it after seeing him in this shirt. The fabric is pulled so tight over his stomach that I can see the grooves of his abdominal muscles.

 Trevor raises an arm to flex again and offers me a sly smirk. “I look good, right? Half the joy in getting muscles like these is showing them off. Best thing for that is tight clothes.”

 Despite my agitation, I give him a small, amused smile.

 “It should only take a thousand pushups or so to stretch it out, anyway,” he goes on casually. “That’s pretty easy.”

 “A thousand pushups?” I echo, horrified at the sheer immensity of the number. “You do that many?”

 “Oh, yes,” Trevor says. “Wanna see?”

 I can only stare, still not sure he’s serious.

 “Hey,” Trevor says, “if you want to see what a thousand pushups look like, I’ll happily show you. No need to be shy about it.”

 “I… I guess,” I say. I’m less interested in seeing someone do a thousand pushups than I am being able to say that I know someone who could do a thousand pushups in one session.

 Trevor wastes no time. Immediately he starts, counting off as he goes.

 “How do you have the energy to do that many?” I mutter, more to myself.

 Trevor hears and answers anyway. “I’m not sure that—sixteen—it has anything to do with—seventeen—energy, honestly. Once you—eighteen—have the upper body strength—nineteen—to do pushups, it’s—twenty—easy to do a lot—twenty-one—at once.”

 I’m amazed how he can speak, do his pushups, and keep count of them all at once.

 “This isn’t actually—twenty-five—much of a challenge—twenty-six—and I like a—twenty-seven—challenge. You could—twenty-eight—sit on my back—twenty-nine—if you want.”

 I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.

 I must say that out loud, because Trevor says. “Not really—thirty-two—ridiculous, honestly. I—thirty-three—see people do it—thirty-four—all the time for—thirty-five—strength training.”

 I’m still not sure.

 “Well, we could—forty-one—figure out who had—forty-two—Pennsylvania Avenue—forty-three—and play Monopoly—forty-four—if you prefer.”

 I do not prefer. I quickly step towards him and watch as his rises and falls, rises and falls.

 “Just… climb on your back?” I ask to make sure.

 “Yeah, just—fifty-seven—climb abord the—fifty-eight—flex-machine.”

 I snort at the term and tentatively sit on Trevor’s back. At first, I sit like he’s a bench. It’s not very comfortable, so I shift my position to find something that is.

 In the end, I’m laying across his back, my head tucked between his neck and shoulder, my hands folded on my stomach. Below me, Trevor continues his pushups, keeping count of them.

 I don’t really have a lot more to say to him, so I stay mostly quiet. He says a few things, mostly near the beginning of his routine.

 “Counting aloud also—eighty-eight—helps with lung—eighty-nine—capacity and—ninety—breathing technique.”

 I’m not sure I understand how, but I don’t argue the point. I’ve never seriously worked out a day in my life. I’m a scrap of a person, thin and slender. Who am I to question Trevor’s logic?

 By three hundred, he falls quiet, save his counting.

 By five hundred, I’m dozing off and on.

 By eight hundred, my stomach growls and it helps keep me awake.

 When Trevor hits a thousand, he lets his body drop to the ground, lying on his stomach, arms spread around his head in a loose circle.

 “Not so hard, see?” he says. His breathing isn’t labored, but it also isn’t quite unaffected.

 “Only took an hour and a half,” I tease, rolling off of him to lay next to him on the ground.

 “What?” Trevor looks at me in offense. “I thought it took closer to an hour.”

 I shake my head and Trevor mutters a curse.

 “Guess my new goal is a thousand in an hour,” he tells me.

 The idea seems ridiculous to me. “Seems impressive enough to me that you can do it at all.”

 Trevor rolls over onto his back and looks at me. “I’ve never tried before,” he admits, “but like I said, once you have the upper body strength to do a pushup, it’s just a matter of endurance to be able to do so many at once. But I think I might’ve overdone it.”

 “You think?” I mutter.

 He smiles. “I can already feel my muscles getting sore.”

 “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

 “Well, that’s just my muscles’ way of talking to me, right? I'm just flattered they put forth the effort to communicate with me.”

 I’m not sure about that.

 “Take out for early lunch?” he asks me.

 “Same as ever,” I agree.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 15

Trevor has become a regular accessory at my work. He doesn’t always linger, and he doesn’t always try to talk to me. I think he’s honestly coming by for a bite to eat—his obsession with quick takeout is not unknown to me at this point—but it throws me off.

 I don’t know why. Like I said, it isn’t even like he comes by every time to see me.

 Sometimes I catch a glance of his profile as he walks to the door, an order of fresh pancakes in his hands as he heads elsewhere to eat because the few tables the eatery offers are full during a meal rush. Sometimes I ring him out, and he offers me pleasantries and leaves without pressing me to take my meal break and eat with him.

 Maybe I want him to be stopping by just for me. Maybe I want him to ask me to eat with him. Maybe I want him to seek me out every time he comes in. Maybe I want the attention. Maybe the lack of it is bothering me. Maybe I think he isn’t as interested in me as I originally thought.

 I don’t know. I honestly don’t. My thoughts are a chaotic spiral.

 Especially the time when he finally asks me to eat with him. Although, it’s not that he asks me to eat with him, but the conversation we have.

 It’s near the end of my shift, and I wait to accept his offer until I clock out. I’m not overly hungry, but Trevor pushes his small order of strawberry pancakes towards me, a silent invitation to share.

 And because he even nabbed an extra fork for me to use, I can’t say no to his offer.

 “Mm,” Trevor hums loudly, remembering something. “We should take a picture together.”

 I offer him my full attention. “Why?” I ask suspiciously.

 “So today at work, right?” Trevor says. “My coworker was asking me what my boyfriend looked like. He comes by here sometimes, and when I mentioned you worked here, he was curious if he’s seen you before. Like, in passing, obviously. I don’t think you know him.”

 There are a lot of things in that series of sentences that leaves me more than a little confused.

 I decide to start with the most pressing.

 “You have a… boyfriend?”

 I’m—something. I’m something at the thought. I think maybe I’m upset. What shade of upset is unclear—jealous? Hurt? Betrayed? I never assumed Trevor and I were exclusive, but something about this leaves me feeling stung.

 Even though I only asked a single question, it leaves Trevor as equally baffled as he’s left me. “Do you… not like that term?”

 I don’t even know what that means. “I… What does that have to do with it?”

 I think my—my brand of upset fed into my words because Trevor peers at me, studying me.

 “Well,” he says slowly, carefully, “I can use a different term. Um, is ‘partner’ okay?”

 “I don’t—I mean, you can use whatever term you want,” I tell him.

 He visibly relaxes.

 I shouldn’t ask. It’s not my business. But the sting of his words is still eating at me. I try for casual when I ask, “So, you have a boyfriend?”

 He smiles. I think it’s flirtatious. I feel a petulant urge to flip the last few bites of strawberry pancakes in his face.

 “I do. He’s pretty cute,” Trevor tells me, and yes, that is definitely some degree of flirtation in his tone.

 I put my fork down and place my hands in my lap to keep them from doing anything immature.

 “I guess I should go home,” I tell him. My thoughts are too loud, too buzzing. I need to get away, to clear my head.

 Trevor looks wounded. “But it’s Friday.”

 “So it is,” I say, trying to convince myself it doesn’t come out sounding snappish.

 Trevor gives me an almost pleading look. “But we have a date today.”

 The word date eats at me. I don’t want to hear the word come out of Trevor’s mouth when he has a boyfriend. Dates are not something you do with a friend with benefits.

 “Spend the day with your boyfriend,” I tell him, standing and moving towards the door.

 But Trevor stands and follows me, grabs my wrist. “I’m trying to.”

 I glower at his hand. Trevor immediately releases me but follows me out of the café.

 “I don’t understand,” Trevor tells me. “You’re mad but I don’t know why. If you don’t like me calling you my boyfriend then wha—oomph.”

 His breath leaves him in a whoosh as he smashes into my back. I stopped immediately in my tracks, and he apparently wasn’t expecting it. Slowly, I turn to face him again. “If I don’t like it?”

 Trevor looks at a loss. “Do you? Not like it, that is?”

 I am yet again marveling at Trevor. I’m also fighting off a wave of embarrassment. Apparently, I was throwing a tantrum—I suppose is the only word for it, though it seems an extreme one—and I was misunderstanding Trevor completely. But back to the marveling…

 He thinks I’m his boyfriend.

 “You never asked,” I mumble, still embarrassed.

 “Asked what?”

 “Asked if I wanted to be your boyfriend.”

 Trevor opens and closes his mouth a few times, several false starts to saying something. Finally, he lets out a gusty breath. “You’re right, yeah. I guess I just assumed. I mean, we… well, we even…” He straightens, clears his throat, and so seriously asks, “Markus, will you be my boyfriend?”

 It’s ridiculous. It’s corny. It’s oddly… adorable. Sort of.

 I shrug and look at the ground, trying to decide if I can trust my voice.

 “You’re blushing.”

 I still don’t know if I can trust my voice to play our odd game, so I shake my head.

 “You are,” he says.

 I shake my head more vehemently.

 “It’s cute.”

 Help me now.

 “You’re blushing harder,” he points out unnecessarily.

 I’m scowling at the sidewalk.

 “So, will you?”

 I’ve lost track of this conversation. I mumble, “Will I what?”

 “Be my boyfriend. Go out with me.”

 It’s a small movement, just a quick jerk, but I nod.

 Trevor whoops. “Don’t leave me in suspense like that!”

 I bite my lip.

 “So, you’re still coming to my place?”

 I nod.

 His smile is wide and bright. “So, about that picture.”

 I frown. “What picture?”

 “Well, I said we should take a picture together.”

 I nearly forgot. He looks at me, his phone in his hands, askance. I shrug and mutter, “Sure.”

 He is going to regret this. I am not photogenic.

 Trevor moves in close, snakes a hand around my middle, and puts his face close to mine. I’m glancing sidelong at him, not even looking towards the phone, when I hear the device make a click noise.

 Trevor eagerly looks at the new picture. I glance more soberly. While Trevor looks good, all smiles and good posture, it looks like I’m being held at gunpoint, my face crumpled up in startled alarm as I look at Trevor.

 I hope he regrets his choice.

 “It’s great!” Trevor says enthusiastically.

 I’m not sure what’s so great about it.

 “You look kinda cute,” Trevor tells me. He fiddles with his phone for a moment before sliding it back into his pocket. “It’s a very you picture.”

 I’m not sure I know what that means.

 But I don’t have long to wonder. Trevor starts rolling his shoulders. “After all that, I have energy to burn. Race you home?”

 “Oh, God,” I yelp quietly. I am not ready to face off against the cheetah in his natural habitat when I am a fat, lazy turtle in comparison. “You can run if you want. I’ll meet you there.”

 Trevor looks disappointed. “You don’t like running, do you?”

 My head shake is almost frantically vehement.

 Trevor deflates, his arms falling still. “I guess we can walk.”

 I’m relieved, but as we walk to his apartment, I’m filled with an odd giddiness.

 I’m walking with my boyfriend. To my boyfriend’s apartment.

 I’ve never called someone my boyfriend before. I’ve had sexual relationships, and quite a number of them. I’ve had more intimate—I suppose—sexual relationships before. But I’ve never had someone ask to be my boyfriend.

 I don’t know yet if I like it. It’s too new to know. But it does leave me feeling some sort of excited anticipation.

 ***

 My giddy excitement withers when Trevor opens the front door of his apartment. He opens the door and gestures me in, but I stumble back, my hand over my nose. I send him a betrayed, accusing look.

 “You said you were going to keep on top of cleaning,” I tell him.

 He grows instantly sheepish. “I’ve been busy.”

 “With what?”

 He shrugs and I sigh. We step into his apartment.

  “I’ll get some dinner,” Trevor tells me.

  I’m not overly hungry. The pancakes weren’t a full meal, and we also left them unfinished, but I’ve never had a voracious appetite. However, I’m too busy staring to say anything back. I hear him a moment later on the phone.

There is no longer a kitchen. It is just trash. Bags upon bags heaped. It looks like they originally were meant to be confined to the corner of the room, but the corner of the kitchen did not allow enough space for a mountain of garbage, and it tumbled everywhere.

 As Trevor orders takeout, I gather up bags and begin the slow process of transferring them to the trash receptacle outside the apartment building. Trevor tries to insist I shouldn’t, but I know that if I don’t, he won’t. He reluctantly joins me.

 It takes us thirty minutes to gather up all the trash bags, and then to gather up the straggling garbage laying around his apartment in the form of empty, abandoned takeout containers.

 By the time we’re done, the delivery guy is knocking on the door with our takeout. I wash my hands very carefully in his very full sink and Trevor lays the food down on the newly-cleared off living room table. He grabs a roll from the bag, and I wonder where he ordered takeout from because of all the places he’s ordered from, I haven’t seen rolls on the takeout menu—

 My mind clears of all thoughts as I watch Trevor open a drawer, fiddle around, and pull out a chopstick. He then proceeds to jab at the roll with the chopstick. I watch this catastrophe unfold for several long moments.

 I finally step in when his roll looks ready to fall to pieces in his hand.

 “What are you doing?” I ask.

 “Well, I thought I could cute this in half,” he tells me, brow furrowed in concentration.

 “With a… chopstick?”

 “I don’t have any other clean silverware.”

 That can’t be true. I tentatively peer inside the drawer that’s still open beside him and find that it is very empty. Not completely empty. There’s one of those plastic bins people get to hold their silverware, with slots for each type.

 But that’s the only thing in there. There isn’t even another chopstick to match the one Trevor is using as a blunt saw to complete a pair. I glance at the sink, and while it is rather full of plates and bowls and cups, I don’t see very many forks or spoons.

 Trevor must read my thoughts. “Uh, don’t open the dishwasher.”

 I look at the dishwasher in question. “Why?”

 “Uh, just don’t.”

 So, of course, I do.

 I regret it instantly.

 Nothing is neatly stacked or organized.

 Sometimes, when a parent threatens a child to “clean your room or else you can’t have dessert” or “you can’t have a slumber party” or some other great tragedy, the child will gather up everything in their room, and stuff it somewhere. Maybe they’re sneaky. Maybe they stuff it all in their dresser drawers. Maybe they just go with what’s easiest and cram it under their bed, letting the length of their quilt hide the hidden pile from view.

 Trevor uses his dishwasher the same way a threatened child uses the dark side of his closet or under his bed to clean up.

 An empty pitcher is jammed so tightly between some pots that it spews out and clatters to the floor. Several pots follow. And then some plates. A few bowls. A waterfall of forks and spoons and knives and other cooking instruments.

 I watch the avalanche in quiet horror.

 Trevor clears his throat. “I did tell you, um, not to open that. Um, what are you doing?”

 I’m doing what he won’t. I’m going to make this apartment safety-hazard free.

 I immediately pause in organizing his dirty dishes as I realize there are too many to fit in the sink. That might be a problem.

 “Do you have a hamper or something?”

 “Yes,” Trevor says in a tone that’s suspicious.

 I’m not sure I want to know why, so I barrel on, “Go get it.”

 “Um, I—”

 I don’t want to know. “Get something to store some of these dishes in.”

 “Can’t we use the dishwasher?”

 “That’s the plan.”

 He’s confused. I’m growing frustrated. “We need to store the dirty dishes in something so I can load up the dirty dishes in the dish washer. Like, actually load them up. Not cram them in. They won’t get clean that way. But there are too many to fit in at once.”

 He seems to understand that well enough and fetches an empty clothing hamper. I carefully fill it with dishes.

 I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything so ridiculous. But there really isn’t any other option, and I need a battle strategy. I load as many of the remaining dirty pots, pans, bowls, plates, cups, and miscellaneous pieces into the dishwasher as it can hold. Trevor fills it with dish detergent, and we close it.

 “Get a towel,” I tell him.

 “For what?”

 “So we can wash some silverware to use to eat.”

 “Oh, I asked for them to bring some plastic from the restaurant. We’re covered.” He sounds proud.

 “We should still probably clean up some of the—”

 “Well, we won’t get good water pressure while the dish washer is running,” Trevor says, pushing some buttons to get the dishwasher into a wash cycle. “So we have some time to eat. Plus, the food will get cold if we wait any longer to eat.”

 He has a point, I suppose, so I follow him into the living room to eat. He suggests a movie, and I shrug. We eat as we watch the movie. When we’re finished, I pause the movie.

 “What are you doing?” he asks.

 “Get up,” I tell him, getting to my own feet. Confused, he listens. I pull the couch cushions off the couch.

 “What are you doing?” he asks again.

 I cannot tolerate the state of this apartment anymore. And if Trevor and I are officially dating, and I’m going to be coming over more often on a regular basis, I need this apartment hazard free.

 The lost treasures of Atlantis are no longer going to hide in the nooks and crannies of Trevor’s furniture.

 “Get a trash bag,” I tell him.

 He catches on. Looking pained, he says, “Some of those are antiques—”

 “Everything in here is an antique,” I mutter. “If it’s old enough, it can be considered an antique, and I’m pretty sure everything in here is old enough to count.”  

 “Well, I’m pretty sure they’re priceless—”

 “They’re broken.”

 “But…” He drifts off and gives a gusty sigh before retrieving a trash bag.

 I almost wonder if I need gloves to handle some of the things we find. It seems an ecosystem has bubbled up from the depths of the fabric of the couch. If something is whole and intact, I put it aside. If something is broken, I throw it away. Trevor raises a fuss.

 “I got that ten years ago and—”

 I ignore him and bury the broken pieces in the trash bag.

 When the couch is treasure and trash free, I push the cushions back in place. We switch out the freshly cleaned dishes for another load of dirty.

 I am astounded at how empty the shelves of Trevor’s pantry are. They give no indication that they’re used. They look as barren as they would if the apartment were being shown to a new potential tenant.

 No wonder Trevor has so many dirty dishes. He literally has not a single clean anything.

 We vacuum. We sweep. We dust. We organize. We continue to cycle through rounds of dirty dishes. We spent a grand total of six hours cleaning.

 I hate cleaning.

 I think this is some kind of record for me. I’ve never been a super tidy person, but I go through the daily or weekly motions of keeping my space regularly cleaned.

 I’m sore and exhausted by the time I’m content with the state of the apartment. The only room we haven’t touched is his bedroom. It was cluttered the last time I was in there, but I don’t think there were any major health risks.

 “Come to bed,” Trevor tells me, taking my hand.

 I yawn. I’m too tired to fight him, so I let him lead me to the bedroom. I notice the clothes I borrowed before for the morning run are tossed on the floor. I don’t think I put those there. But then I notice the state of the rest of the room.

 I halt in my tracks.

 “What…” I can’t find my voice. I try again, “What happened?”

 Trevor looks around. Then, he looks sheepish. “I was stashing all my dirty clothes in my closet. But, um, I needed clean clothes for work. Well, clean-ish clothes. So I, um, went digging through my closet for something to wear.”

 “Digging through his closet” doesn’t seem to summarize the mess his room has become. It looks like he chucked things blindly over his shoulder in his haste to search for clothes, more like. There’s a pair of boxers hanging off the lampshade. Somehow, some socks managed to catch the blades of the ceiling fan and dangle from them like they’re playing dress-up as a ghetto chandelier.

 My sigh is weary this time as I go to the kitchen to retrieve the forgotten hamper.

 “What are you doing?” Trevor asks me when I return with it in my hands.

 “Laundry, I guess,” I mutter, tossing clothes into the basket without ceremony.

 “I didn’t want you to play maid,” Trevor tells me.

 I didn’t want to play maid. “You take that half of the room, and I’ll take this half.”

 Reluctantly, he does. He mutters apologies to me, and I remind him that his apologies won’t do the laundry for him, and he resumes gathering clothes. He carries the basket into the laundry room and I toss in large handfuls. I push some buttons at random, toss in the soap Trevor gives me, and we return to his room to collapse on his bed.

 “Thank you,” Trevor murmurs against my neck.

 I murmur something, but I’m too tired to know what it was supposed to be. I’m warm and comfortable and so very, very tired. Trevor brackets himself around me, and I want to push him away, to tell him it’s too hot to cuddle or something. But I don’t have the energy to summon the words.

 And so, instead, I fall asleep with his arms around me.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 14

I have always wondered on some level if the world was out to get me. They were fleeting thoughts, but I do admit to having them in the past. For the most part, I’ve always called myself dramatic or self-pitying and forced myself to stop.

 I cannot help but wonder, yet again, if the world is currently out for me. And if it is, is it trying to kill me or teach me some sort of lesson?

 I feel absolutely ridiculous in Trevor’s clothing. The only reason I can fathom that I agreed to wear them was that I was still half-asleep when he offered them to me, and I’m pretty sure someone could easily convince me to try to eat my arm when I’m half-asleep.

 Also, I hate running. It’s stressful. Or maybe that’s the world making it stressful—the same one that’s currently out to get me.

 I trip over a fire hydrant. I don’t land on my face, but it’s a close thing. I curse. The streetlights help illuminate the sidewalks, but it’s still dark and I’m exhausted from lack of sleep. As a result, I’m not doing a good job avoiding random obstacles.

 I also can’t keep up with Trevor. The guy is a machine running full steam ahead. He’s half a block ahead of me. He literally runs in circles for minutes as a time. I think it’s some sort of pity or mercy move. Like, he’s trying to dawdle around while I catch up but without having to come to a complete stop. I’m not actually sure. I almost wish he would just forget about me and leave me behind. Once he’s out of eyeshot, I could just give up this charade and try to navigate my way back to his apartment and wait for him.

 But he tries to match his pace to mine, sort of, or at least enough that I can keep up. And so, I try to keep up. I feel oddly obligated to do so.

 I also feel like Trevor and I could make a how-to video for running where Trevor shows the viewers how to do something, and I show them how not to do something. Trevor manipulates his way down the path with the speed and efficiency of a cheetah on steroids. I fumble over the simple act of moving my feet and stumble around, smashing into signs and fire hydrants. Trevor looks like he has some sort of breathing routine he does so he isn’t huffing or puffing. I can’t feed my lungs air fast enough and wheeze loud enough to likely make any doctor pause to wonder if I’m having an asthma attack.

 At one point, Trevor disappears from my sight and I weakly hope that finally, at last, he decided to leave me behind and I can crawl back to his apartment. But then I see he crossed the street and make a pained groaning noise before following him.

 And then, I am nearly hit by a car.

 It screeches to a halt and narrowly avoids barreling me over. The worried driver sticks his head out the window to holler choice words at me that are punctuated with slurs, insults, and violent hand gestures. I realize that if I want to keep up with Trevor, I can’t interact with the driver. I don’t have time. Also, I don’t want to. I have no idea what I’d say even if I could convince my gasping breaths to form any kind of words.

 So, I wordlessly stumble after Trevor. I look drunk. I’m sure of it. My legs are so tired and I feel almost light headed from how hard I’m breathing. I’m pretty sure that if I were to take a marker and trace out my exact path on a map of the city, it would look like a series of slanted Z’s.

 I am a pinball in a pinball machine, bouncing off of obstacles like every time I do, I score more points. I’m obviously aiming for the high score if I haven’t hit it already.

 I’m pretty sure hours have gone by when Trevor finally stops. I stop a few paces from him and brace my hands on my knees, trying to give my lungs all the air they’re insistent they need and utterly failing.

 “Water break,” Trevor tells me. And then he notices the state I’m in. “I’m… guessing you’re new to this,” he says, looking only a little apologetic.

 He takes the water bottle from the strap on his leg and offers it to me. I remove a hand from a knee long enough to take it and then return to using it to brace myself. Trevor looks at the water bottle that is now between my hand and knee. I don’t know if I could take so much as a sip right now without choking. I don’t think I can stop wheezing long enough to swallow. Everything would wind up in my lungs, instead.

 “Do you want to sit for a minute?” Trevor asks, and I don’t need any more prompting than that. I crash to the cement and drag myself over so I’m not in the middle of the sidewalk.

 “You’re sitting in a bush,” Trevor points out.

 I can’t speak. I’m breathing so hard it sounds like I’m trying to speak—“Heeeeh, huuuuh, hooooh”—but I honestly am not. I let my head fall back on the tightly clustered branches of the shrub.

 “Have you ever gone running before?” Trevor asks with concern as he squats next to me. The guy isn’t even breathing hard. I think maybe he has a light sheen of sweat on his skin, but other than that, it would be impossible to even guess that he just sprinted across town at the speed of sound.

 I still can’t speak so I just shake my head.

 “Well, we can sit here for a few minutes before continuing.”

 I shake my head again, more vehemently.

 “No, you don’t want a break?”

 I’m shaking my head so fast I’m sure I look like I’m having a seizure.

 “You don’t think you need one?” Trevor sounds more concerned than ever.

 I finally manage to gasp out, “Apart—”

 Trevor’s brow furrows. “What?”

 “—ment,” I finish after several more pants.

 Trevor peers at me. “I couldn’t hear—”

 “Bed,” I gasp. I need to lay down. I want to go to sleep and pretend this nightmare never happened.

 “Oh,” Trevor says. “You mean you want sex?”

 If my arms weren’t still trembling from exhaustion, I might actually consider smacking him for his stupidity.

 “Sleep,” I wheeze.

 “Here?” Trevor asks.

 He is not understanding me whatsoever.

 “I want to go”—I pause to take a few breaths—“back to the apartment to”—gasp, gasp, wheeze—“lay down in bed and”—wheeze, wheeze, gasp—“sleep.”

 “Oh,” Trevor says. He ducks his head, looking embarrassed. “Well, you just had to say so.”

 I’d get irritated with him—I did say so—if he weren’t so nice. He stands and offers me his hand. I take it and he guides me back up to my feet. My legs feel like limp noodles, my muscles exhausted and about to give out under me.

 “You can lean on me if you need to,” Trevor offers.

 I need to.

 We manage to make it back to the apartment. Trevor guides me to his bedroom and I collapse on the edge of the bed.

 “I’m going to finish my run. You’ll be okay here alone?”

 I manage a nod and Trevor leaves. I somehow convince myself to shower and rinse myself of the six layers of sweat that I’ve gathered before I toss on my own clothes and dive for the bed again.

 I fall asleep.

 ***

 And I wake slowly. When I finally convince myself to open my eyes, I see a flash of hair, and then it disappears as it sinks to the floor. It appears again a moment later, and then it sinks out of my line of sight again. I watch for several moments before my sleep-addled brain catches up with the fact that hair does not float disembodied. I creep closer to the edge of the bed to peer down.

 Trevor is doing pushups on the floor next to the bed.

 “You really like doing those,” I mumble.

 His head turns to look at me, but his arms don’t stop their pumping. He continues to sink to the floor and push himself up. I’ve never been one for workouts or exercise, but even I can admit he looks oddly graceful as he does them. He makes it look like a bizarre sort of dance instead of an intense workout.

 “I usually do some sort of workout routine after my daily run,” he tells me. “Upper body on the weekends, full body on weekdays.”

 “Full body?” I echo, unsure what he means.

 “Usually several sets of burpees,” he tells me.

 I am still unsure what a burpee is, but if it involves burping, I’m not sure what sort of exercise it is.

 “Oh,” is all I say.

 Trevor continues his pushups.

 “Do you like working out?” I ask.

 Trevor finally stops his pushups. He rolls onto his back and starts doing crunches, except he turns his torso in alternating directions as he rises. Left, right, left…

 “I enjoy it,” he tells me, not pausing or slowing down. “I like the high it gives me.”

 The high?

 I sink back down onto the bed with a groan.

 Trevor is a workout junkie.

 I hope to the high heavens he does not expect me to join him. I actually think I’d choose Monopoly over it.

 “Do you want—” he begins to ask, and I am a coward. For all I know, he was about to ask, ‘do you want to get takeout for breakfast?’ In all likelihood, maybe that was what he was about to ask. But I am too afraid that he is about to ask me to join him in his routine.

 So, I quickly tell him, “I should probably be getting home.”

 Trevor pauses mid-crunch. “You’re heading out?”

 “Yeah.” I slide out of his bed. “I should get some fresh clothes and stuff.”

 Trevor looks disappointed. “You could borrow some of mine. You could stay a bit longer. We could finish that game of Monopoly.”

 “No, it’s fine. I should get home anyway,” I press. Even though I may choose Monopoly over a workout, that does not mean I would happily stick around long enough to play it for no reason.

 He doesn’t protest further as I find my shoes and head for his front door. He trails after me, catching my wrist and turning me enough to plant a kiss on my lips. Trevor likes kissing, apparently.

 “Can I swing by your work on Friday when you get off?” Trevor asks when he pulls back. “We can do dinner together. Your choice.”

 “My choice of takeout?” I guess.

 He grins. I roll my eyes but smile back.

 “Yeah, sure,” I tell him.

 “And next time,” he says, “I won’t force you on a run with me.”

 I am momentarily puzzled before I realize that what I was starting to assume was a nightmare was, in fact, not.

 “We… went on a run,” I say.

 I was so sure that was a bad dream. Who wakes up at four in the morning to go running? I’m pretty sure the only reason I agreed was because it was four in the morning.

 Trevor is puzzled by my tone. “Yes?”

 “Oh,” I say. And then, “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to do that again.”

 Trevor looks apologetic. “So, this Friday you’ll come over? No running.”

 “No running,” I agree.

 He kisses me again and I leave.

 ***

 It’s still pretty early, so when I get back to Kay’s, he and his wife are still in the middle of breakfast. I try to slink past the dining area without being seen. I should know it’s a useless endeavor.

 Kay excuses himself and follows me upstairs. I barely make it to my room before he corners me.

 “Where were you last night?” he asks without preamble. I try to ignore the accusation in his tone.

 “I stayed at a friend’s,” I tell him vaguely.

 “What friend?”

 His words sting, and I fight off a retort. “I mentioned I was going to a friend’s place.”

 “You didn’t mention you were staying over.” Now, Kay sounds irritated.

 But I’m irritated, too. He is not my parent or guardian, and I am not his ward. We have no more responsibility for one another than roommates. I do not know why he insists that he impose himself so thoroughly into my personal life.

 “I’ll mention it next time,” I mumble, trying to end this conversation as quickly as possible.

 “Why don’t you get a cellphone?” Kay asks, frustrated now. “That way I can text you if you aren’t home. It’ll be easier.”

 I have no interest in a cellphone, and the thought of Kay using it to monitor me even more closely than he already does makes me want one even less. I’ve seen stories on the news where wanted criminals have been tracked with a GPS tracker on their cellphone. Somehow, I wouldn’t put it past Kay to try to track my exact geographical location in a similar fashion.

 I do not want that. I do not want a cellphone, and I do not want to be watched.

 “I don’t need a cellphone,” I tell Kay.

 “Couldn’t you borrow your friend’s phone?” Kay pushes.

 I do not like the way he says friend. It’s full of accusation. While Trevor isn’t paying me for my time, I suppose I can no longer say that he and I are simply friends. Most friends don’t sleep with each other, I don’t think. I’m not sure how to define what we are—friends with benefits, perhaps?—but regardless, it’s none of Kay’s business. I will not feel guilty for what I’ve done.

 It’s easier said than done, though. It’s easy to make me feel guilty. And considering this is the guy who offered his home to me when I had no other real options, he’s able to guilt me like very few people can. Even if the guilt is wrapped in layers of irritation, frustration, and exasperation, it’s there.

 “I didn’t think to ask,” I say. “And I forgot your number.”

 I let Kay lecture me further without a word.

 “I don’t know why you don’t believe me when I say I’m just concerned for you.”

 I let him scratch out his phone number on a piece of scrap paper.

 “I wouldn’t need to do this if you had a cellphone. They save all this information for you.”

 I let him remind me how much of an inconvenience I am.

 “You know I want you to have another chance at a life, but you need to take it more seriously. You need to be a little more responsible.”

 When he finally leaves, I crawl into my bed. Even though I slept all night at Trevor’s, I have no energy to do anything other than sleep. Sleep is an excellent way to hide from the world. And right now, I just want to do exactly that.

 ***

 When I wake up, I wish I could just hibernate in my room for the rest of the day. But my stomach is rumbling. I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I don’t want to risk running into Kay again. I’m really not up for another round of lectures. But my stomach convinces me to take the risk.

 I slip down the stairs as quietly as I can manage. It turns out, though, that my sneak skills are unnecessary. Kay isn’t anywhere to be seen. Neither is Carol.

 After I make something quick and effortless—cheese toast and a glass of whatever was in the pitcher in the fridge—I notice Jess in the living room, lounging on the couch.

 “Oh, hey, Markus,” she says. “Wanna join me? I’m just watching some terrible sitcom.”

 There isn’t any reason to tell her no, so I sit next to her and place my plate and cup on the coffee table.

 “We can put something else on, if you’d prefer.”

 I shrug and take another bite of my cheese toast. I’ve never gotten into any specific shows. I normally don’t watch a lot of TV. I’m excellent at being a boring person. I work, I sleep, and I eat. I don’t even have any hobbies. Unless you count tagging along with acquaintances to amusement parks and other places.

 Now I’m just wallowing in self-pity.

 I push my thoughts away and take another bite of my cheese toast, trying to tune into the show. I’m really not doing a good job at understanding what’s going on. I think most of the jokes are a continuation of previously established things. Or I’m too stupid to understand them.

 “Oh, um, Markus,” Jess says suddenly. “I wanted to say, um, thanks. For you know. The condoms.”

 I nod and take another bite.

 “It’s just… well, he didn’t think to get any. And I learned some stuff about, well—you know—how easy it is to get, um, pregnant and whatnot,” she continues.

 I nod again. I understand the sentiment of what she’s saying, even if I don’t know who this “he” is that she’s referring to. A boyfriend or something, I suppose.

 “He should’ve gotten some, but he didn’t. It was weird to bring it up, you know? So, I had to. Get condoms, I mean,” Jess says, her tone growing fiercer. I think she’s no longer merely explaining herself—not that she needs to—to ranting.

 I suppose I’m actually a good person to rant at. I may not know what to say, but I’m good at listening, so I don’t try to stop her.

 “But I’ve been thinking about it, and, like… what if I need a pregnancy test? I mean, I should get one and check, right?”

 I nod again.

 “I just… I’m so scared, you know?” She looks at me, her eyes wide.

 I realize she actually wants me to say something. I swallow my bite of cheese toast and offer, “Oh. I could go with you if you want.”

 She shakes her head. “No, I can’t—I mean. What if my dad sees? Plus, I mean, he talks to people. What if he hears from the pharmacist or something—I just don’t want this getting back to my dad. Not yet.”

 I can honestly say I understand why.

 “I suppose,” I say slowly, “I could get one for you.”

 “Oh, really?” Jess’ expression lights up. “Really?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Do you need money or anything? I have some pocket money for—”

 “I can get it,” I offer. It somehow feels awkward to accept money from a seventeen-year-old teenager when I hold a full-time job and have no bills to call my own. I can practically hear Kay lecturing me about it in my head.

 “Really? Oh, Markus, you’re the best! We should have time if you just go to the convenience store at the end of the block. I can take it and throw it away so my parents don’t find it when they get home.”

 It takes me a second to realize exactly what she’s saying. “You want me to get it now?”

 Jess misunderstands my tone and babbles, “Yeah, we should have time. My parents left like thirty minutes ago for dinner. I think they’ll be gone another hour or so, but I’m not sure. They like their Sunday date nights.”

 I look at the other slice of cheese toast still on my plate mournfully before I stand. “Yeah, I can get it now.”

 “Thank you so much!” she calls after me as I leave.

 It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the convenience drug store near Kay’s neighborhood. I don’t know too much about pregnancy tests and if they’re more accurate the more expensive they are, but I have the money to grab the priciest one on the shelf.

 I’m about to head for the cashier when I remember that Trevor invited me over to his place again on Friday. I gave all my condoms to Jess because I sort of assumed I wasn’t going to be doing anything sexual with anybody in the near future. But Trevor has made his sexual appetite apparent, and I can’t say that I trust him completely not to mix up the condoms in his night stand drawer and the ones he tacked up over his bed.

 I turn and head back to pick out a large box of condoms. It’s habit—I’m used to needing several a week, and the fewer trips to the store for them, the better.

 The cashier rings me out and comments, “At least you’re a responsible boyfriend.”

 I notice her eyes on the pregnancy test and mutter, “That’s not for me.”

 “Well, obviously it’s not for you,” she laughs, handing me my change.

 “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I mumble.

 “As long as you’re responsible,” the cashier says with a wink.

 I decide to stop trying to argue the point and take the bag and make the walk back to Kays’. Am I responsible for getting Jess a pregnancy test? Maybe, perhaps. Am I irresponsible for getting her a pregnancy test and not telling her parents about it? Maybe, perhaps. I just don’t find it my place to interfere, and Jess’ business is not mine.

 And yet, a small part of me hopes that Kay never learns just how Jess came by a pregnancy test if he ever finds out about it. I don’t need more reasons for him to guilt and lecture me.

 Jess actually hugs me when I return with her test. I’m startled by the action and stand stiffly until she releases me.

 “Thank you so much!” she says in a rush, taking her test and fleeing upstairs, likely to use it.

 I take a moment to put the box of condoms in my room before returning to the living room to finish my cold cheese toast. The TV is still on, and I figure Jess planned on returning once she was done taking her test.

 I finish my cheese toast, and watch several episodes of the terrible sitcom, but Jess doesn’t come back downstairs. I’m quick to dart up to my room when I hear Kay and his wife chatting just outside the front door, though.

 I assume, as usual, that Jess’ business is none of my concern and pass her room to get to my own. I’ve slept most of the day away, but I crash onto my bed, ready to continue my hibernation.

 I’m good at avoiding things. I’m good at hiding. And sleep is the easiest way to do both.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 13

I’m not the sort to be full of energy. It’s like I have a defective battery operating me, and instead of lasting a full day, every action I do saps up ten percent of its total charge. Taking an order from a customer at work takes up ten percent, going to the convenience store uses ten percent, holding a lengthy conversation takes ten percent. The only way to recharge that battery once it’s depleted is to sleep.

  That’s the only reason I can figure why I took a nap naked and without a shower in Trevor’s bed. I ran through my battery talking to Trevor, playing board games, and our sexual activities. I needed a recharge.

  I yawn as I sit up and then I cringe. I can feel the sheet sticking to the backs of my legs, and I know I am going to need a shower immediately.

  Trevor is also sleeping, his dark brown hair tangled in his eyelashes and splayed over his pillow. He looks peaceful, and I hate to bother him.

  But I want a shower.

  I bite my lip as I contemplate the problem. It’s awkward to use someone’s shower without permission, especially since I don’t have any supplies. I’ll have to use his shampoo, his body wash. But it’s also awkward to wake him up. It feels personal, and I don’t know that we really have that sort of intimacy with one another.

  But I want a shower.

  I lean over to gently nudge Trevor’s shoulder.

  “Mmwha?” he mumbles, not even opening his eyes.

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters.

  I decide I should clarify. “To shower?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters again.

  I slip out of the bed and gather up my rumpled clothes from the living room floor. I find his bathroom and drop the clothes on the closed toilet seat and turn on the tap, let the water warm, and step into it.

  I’m trying to use my hands to scrub off the slime from my legs when I hear the door open. I’m not having a lot of luck getting it off, but I don’t have anything other than my fingers to use. I’m not using Trevor’s pouf.

  The sound causes me to pause. “Trevor?”

  He opens the shower curtain enough to peek in at me. “Mind if I join you?”

  I blink. “Um. I’m…”

  He waits for an answer patiently.

  “I’m almost done,” I hedge. “Just a minute.”

  “I’m fine with just a minute,” he presses.

  I’m not. I’m still frustrated from how hard it is to clean myself with nothing but soap and my own hands that I almost snap that at him. “I’ll get cleaner without a distraction.”

  He looks hurt, but this time, I don’t retract my words. I like personal space, and the shower is one place where I definitely want it.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

  He looks like he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. When I don’t, he backs away and leaves the bathroom.

  It takes me more than a minute, like I told Trevor. I think it takes me close to ten to completely scrub myself that I no longer feel so miserably disgusting.

  I dry myself and put on my clothes. They’re rumpled, but it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t exactly have any other options. I used a finger and some of Trevor’s toothpaste to clean out my mouth as best as I can.

  When I finally return to Trevor’s bedroom, it’s to an odd sight.

  Trevor is standing on his bed, his feet sinking into the plush of the mattress, and he’s fiddling with what looks like a corkboard. I don’t think I remember there being a corkboard over the bed before I left for my shower, so this must be some sort of project he took on in the past few minutes.

  I creep closer, curious. And then my curiosity seeps into morbid fascination.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He jumps, startled. He glances at me before pushing another pushpin into the board, straight through the center of a packaged condom. Trevor is hanging condoms up over his bed like a teenager might plaster band posters or selfies.

  He gestures for me to hand him another from the box on his bedside table. Bemused, I do. I watch as he tacks it up. Then, he answers, “Figured it’d be easier if I could just reach up and grab one.”

  I nod, but it’s more a bewildered gesture than one of understand—but then, I do understand.

  “Are you—”

  My morbid fascination bleeds into horror.

  I try again, “Are you planning on using those?”

  Trevor gestures for me to hand him yet another. Warily, I do. Then, he says, “Well, yeah. Like I said, figured it’d be easier if they were within easy reach.”

  “But…” I drift off, unsure how to even begin to vocalize my thoughts. “But what’s the point?”

  It’s Trevor who looks bemused now. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re… Well, they’re useless now. The ones you pinned,” I clarify, gesturing towards his corkboard.

  He looks between it and me, clearly not understanding what I’m saying.

  I can’t believe I need to say it at all.

  “If you puncture them,” I say slowly, trying to figure out if Trevor is playing stupid, “they’re pointless to use.”

  Trevor again looks between the pinned condoms and me. After several head swivels, he looks at me and asks, “What’s the point anyway?”

  I’m not sure I know what he means.

  “Of condoms,” he clarifies.

  Now, I’m really not sure I know what he means.

  “For gay sex,” he clarifies further. “Pregnancy isn’t an issue, right? So…”

  He drifts off so I can answer, but I am marveling at him. He seems good at that—I’ve marveled at him more times than perhaps anyone else. Again, I briefly wonder if he’s playing stupid. When he continues to look at me, expectantly, awaiting an answer, I decide that no, he’s not playing stupid.

  “Um,” I say eloquently. And then, just as articulate: “Well.”

  I pause and think about how to answer him. He takes that as cue to continue, “I mean, if two guys don’t have a chance of an unwanted pregnancy, do we actually need these?”

  He gestures at the pinned condoms, and I automatically say, “No.”

  He nods, satisfied, and I realize he’s once more misunderstood me.

  I try to rectify this. “Not those. Those are useless now. But they do have a purpose, even in gay sex. I mean, STDs exist in gay couples. That’s why AIDs was so rampant years ago.”

  Or so I’ve heard. Who the hell am I to give a sexual history lesson?

  Trevor looks baffled and I am exasperated by it. I feel that defective battery draining. I’m going to need another nap by the end of this conversation.

  “I don’t have any STDs,” he tells me. “I’m clean.”

  I debate how to answer. My sexual history is something I’m not sure I have the energy to bring up right now. Or ever.

  “It’s just… safer,” I tell him, weary.

  Trevor looks at the condoms he’s tacked up. “So these are basically trash now?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looks disappointed. “I thought it would save us time. And that way, they wouldn’t get lost.”

  I’m not sure I want to know how someone can lose a condom. A brief image of the dark underside of his couch flashes into my mind, and I push it away and correct myself—I never want to know how Trevor can lose a condom.

  “Alright, well.” He heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I suppose I can find another use for this.”

  He stares at the corkboard for another long moment before hopping off his bed. “I’m going to shower.”

  I nod, he leaves, and I try to figure out what to do with myself. I am not sitting on the bed, when the sheets are filthy from our unwashed, post-coital bodies. I decide to move to the living room and hesitantly sit on the couch. It’s only then that I realize that there are still half empty take out containers, bowls of snacks, and our Scrabble game scattered across the floor. The tiles are no longer neatly placed on the board, but a jumbled mess.

  I decide to do something useful and start to tidy up. I put the game back into its box. I open the containers of take out and try to guess if the food is still alright after roughly half a day without refrigeration. I almost place the bowls of popcorn and pretzels on the living room table before I remember how filthy it is—I’m sure there’s sweat from Trevor’s naked body all over it—and wipe it down thoroughly.

  “I didn’t mean for you to clean.”

  I look up at Trevor, hair wet and tousled, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

  I feel awkward, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit. “I didn’t want to put food on it.”

  Trevor’s eyebrows furrow. “Why not?”

  “Well, because…” I gesture towards him, but that merely confuses him more. So I say, “I’d say it’s pretty dirty after you sat on it, naked.”

  Trevor shrugs. “I suppose.”

  “So it should be cleaned,” I press.

  Trevor shrugs again. “Well, I mean… does it matter if it’s dirty?”

  I stare at him.

  And he continues, “It’s not like I lick the table or anything.”

  “But you put food on it that you intend to put in your mouth.”

  “Yes,” Trevor agrees. “But it’s on a plate or whatever. The plate is sort of like a protective barrier. Why worry about a dirty table if the plate is clean?”

  I think I feel myself slowly working towards a stroke. “Have you ever cleaned your coffee table?”

  “No,” he says. I feel my face spasm against my will, and he hurries to say, “It’s been cleaned before. Just not by me.”

  I take a moment to concentrate on my breathing—in, out, in, out—to avoid having a meltdown. I never put a lot of thought into it, but I suppose I appreciate cleanliness. Tidiness is not always required, but I need spaces to be regularly disinfected.

  When I feel calm enough to do so, I say, “Do you have any intentions to clean your bed clothes? The sheets, especially?”

  Trevor looks at me with the level of confusion I would expect him to if I had just spewed out an extremely long tongue twister in Swahili. He sounds equal parts puzzled and offended when he asks, “Is there something wrong with my sheets?”

  “They’re— We— I—”

  I stop and focus again on breathing—in, out, in, out—while I try to organize my visceral reaction into a more cohesive reply.

  “They’re going to be pretty dirty,” I say, “after having sex on them. The lubrication, especially, will have gotten all over everything. We took a nap, afterwards, too. When I woke up, the sheets were sticking to me.”

  “Sticking to you?” Trevor repeats. “Why would they— Ohhhh.”

  Finally, he gets it.

  “Yeah,” he admits, “I guess we should have washed up afterwards. Next time, we’ll shower before our nap?”

  He poses it as a question. I shrug. “Sure.”

  And so, I wipe down the table as Trevor gathers up his bed clothes and sets to washing them.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks when we’ve both finished. “I’m starving.”

  I shrug.

  “I’ll get more takeout,” he tells me. “How about some pizza? I’ll pay.”

  “Sure.”

  Trevor looks at me suspiciously. “You’re okay with me paying?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trevor eyes me, as though waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t, though. I don’t know how to have friendships, not really. It’s with an exhausted sort of relief that I accept whatever sort of relationship we have, it’s stepped over a line into something sexual. Those sorts of relationships, I know what to expect.

  I was a prostitute. I am used to being paid for sex. While I don’t expect Trevor to hand me a wad of cash, it feels more natural to allow him to pay for things for me.

  I don’t know how to explain that to Trevor. I don’t know if I should explain that to Trevor. I don’t like thinking about things I’ve done or that have happened to me in the past, and I’m not ready to bring them up now, simply because Trevor is curious why I’m okay with his paying for our pizza.

  But he doesn’t push. He takes out his cellphone and orders pizza, tells me it’ll be here in twenty minutes.

  “We could do something else,” he tells me. I watch in confusion as he lowers himself to the ground.

  “Um,” I say. “Like what?”

  “Well,” Trevor says, as he starts to do pushups, “anything, really. Could play more games if you want. Watch a movie. Would you rather go out?”

  I hate going out if I don’t have to. I may complain about how I have no social life and spend my time off of work playing the role of hermit, but I actually glean a sick pleasure from it most days.

  It’s the fact that I have no other option than act the part of hermit that made me feel bitter about it, I suppose. Although Trevor is helping to soothe that kernel of bitterness, in a way. At least I have options for how I spend my free time now.

  “I’d rather stay in,” I tell him, watching as he continues to do pushups.

  “Well,” he says, “I have a few other board games we can break out.”

  “It doesn’t…” I wasn’t going to ask, but as I drift off, distracted by him, I cannot stop myself. “What are you doing?”

  “Pushups.” He says it matter-of-fact, as though it were obvious. And yes, literally, I understand what he’s doing. It’s more the part about—

  “Why?”

  He pauses mid-motion, his chin barely an inch from the ground, his back and legs straight, arms at a perfect angle. He tilts his head to look at me. “Why not?”

  I’m not actually sure how to answer that, so I say nothing.

  “Don’t you ever just get the itch to move?” he asks, resuming his pushups. “Besides, these are easier than burpees.”

  I can’t say I have, and I can’t argue what is or is not easier than a burpee when I don’t even know what it is. So, I watch quietly. Trevor continues his spontaneous exercising until the doorbell buzzes. Only then does he jump to his feet.

  He lays the pizza down on the living room table and fetches us plates.

  “I have Monopoly,” Trevor tells me.

  I’ve never played, so I decide there’s no harm in trying.

  ***

  I decide I hate Monopoly.

  I have not been trying. I have not been doing anything other than the bare minimum required of me—purchase landmarks I land on, pay for ones I land on that are not mine, collect $200 to pass “go.”

  It has been three hours.

  And I think it will be another three before this game ends.

  My eyes are glazing over. Trevor is some sort of super trooper, and he’s still enthusiastically playing. I’m not sure why I haven’t tapped out yet. I still have several thousand dollars, Trevor has just as much, and I didn’t previously think it was possible, but I think this game is going to sap my sanity from me. It’s already drained me of all my energy.

  But on and on we play, the minutes ticking by. I place the metal cat in “jail” and sigh, resting my head on the back of the couch. This time, Trevor didn’t insist we spread across the floor to play. I’m glad. The couch, despite the terrors under its cushions, is quite comfortable and…

  Trevor nudges me, and I jerk awake.

  “Tired?” he asks me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I…”

  “It’s late,” Trevor says, glancing at his cellphone to check the time. “Almost midnight. Stay the night?”

  He asks it so casually, like someone asking what my favorite color is.

  “Oh, sure.”

  He turns to me then and places a kiss on my neck. “I really liked having sex with you,” he admits against my skin. “I was almost afraid it would hurt or something.”

  “It hurts if you don’t know how to do it,” I tell him.

  “Good thing you know what you’re doing.” He kisses my neck again. “I especially liked… well… I’m surprised how much I liked the first part.”

  I’m not sure why. Is he surprised because it was the first time another guy went down on him? I want to tell him that a blowjob is a blowjob—a mouth is the same regardless of whose it is—but I curb the comment.

  Besides, I think he’s telling me this for a reason.

  I don’t want to ask, but a quick glance at the boardgame makes plain my choices: sex or more Monopoly.

  I will never choose Monopoly.

  “Do you want me to do it again?” I ask.

  “Please,” Trevor breathes against my ear.

  I pull back, and so does Trevor.

  “Are you going to punch me this time?” I ask warily.

  “That was— No, of course not,” Trevor says quickly. “You just… took me by surprise. I’m sorry I did that.”

  “Condom,” I say.

  Trevor blinks at me.

  I sigh. “Did you leave the rest of the box in your bedside table?”

  He confirms and goes to fetch a condom. I decide to follow him to make sure he’s actually grabbing an undamaged one from the box, and not one of the ones that are still pinned above his bed. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed. I wait a second to see if Trevor will undress himself, and quietly sigh when it’s clear he wants me to do it.

  I am tired, so I merely unbutton his jeans, pull down the zipper, and reach into the opening of his boxers to pull free an already-hardening erection. I make a point of pinching the tip of the condom as I put it on. And then, I get to work.

  It isn’t long before I feel his muscles spasming with an orgasm and pull back.

  “One sec,” I say, stumbling to my feet and going to his bathroom to use my finger again as a makeshift toothbrush and clean out my mouth.

  When I return, I take a seat next to him on the bed. And then, I allow myself to fall back onto it, my legs still dangling over the edge.

  “You didn’t punch me this time,” I mumble.

  Trevor ducks his head as he tosses the tied off, used condom into a small trash bin near his bed.

  “It felt different with the condom,” he tells me. “A little less intense. Still good, though,” he tacks on hastily, as though he feels he’s insulted my performance.

  I make a noncommittal noise, my eyes drifting shut.

  I think Trevor tells me something about sleepwear, but I don’t know what the question was.

  Then, Trevor nudges me. I wake with a start and sit up.

  “What?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. The bedroom light seems suddenly so blindingly bright.

  Trevor is standing next to the bed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. I peer at him.

  “I’m going for my daily run,” he tells me. “Wanna come with?”

  “You…” I am still half asleep, too muddled to process what he’s telling me. “You do a daily run at midnight?”

  “No, at four-thirty.”

  Four-thirty. The numbers don’t make any sense to me.

  “In… the morning?” I clarify.

  “Of course, sleepyhead. You wanna come with?”

  I’m still trying to figure out where four hours of my life went. But then I finally take note of the fact that I’m under a blanket. I’m laying fully on Trevor’s bed, no longer dangling off the edge.

  “You moved me while I was sleeping,” I realize aloud.

  “A little, yeah. Just moved you so I could cover you up,” Trevor tells me.

  I suppose I was more tired than I thought if I didn’t wake up at all.

  “So what about it?” Trevor asks.

  “I… guess so,” I say. “But I don’t have anything to wear.”

  Trevor is already moving to his dresser, pulling out another pair of shorts and a sleeveless top. He chucks them at me. “You can borrow some of mine.”

  Well… okay.

  I yawn as I stumble out of bed and fumble into the new change of clothing. They’re a little large on me. I’m not exactly short for a guy, but I’m also not tall. Average, I suppose. Maybe on the shorter side of average. Regardless, Trevor’s clothes are a little long on me, and a little loose, but they stay on alright.

  “Ready?” Trevor asks, overly enthusiastic.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I follow him through the living room. He grabs a bottle of water and straps it to his leg, on some sort of holster under his shorts.

  I marvel at the contraption.

  He smiles that soft smile. “We can finish our game when we get back.”

  I’m baffled. Then, he gestures at the living room table where Monopoly still sits, undisturbed from last night.

  “Right,” I say, and he leads the way to the door. I make sure to accidentally stumble and bump the table to make the game go sprawling all across the floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say.

  “Just how tired are you?” Trevor asks, laughing. “Ah, well. We can start a new game or something.”

  I will do everything in my power to make sure it’s that “or something.”

  When we step out of Trevor’s apartment building, he halts. “Alright, so now we need to stretch.”

  He starts swinging his arms. I’m not sure why his arms need to be stretched out if he’s running.

  “Like this,” he instructs, likely assuming that I have yet to follow his lead because I don’t know how to do the stretch.

  I half-heartedly move my arms. Trevor guides us through twenty minutes of stretches. After three, I realize how chilly it is outside and start shivering.

  “You won’t even feel the cold once we get going,” Trevor promises. “You’ll be sweating buckets.”

  I am unconvinced.

  When he’s done with his stretch regime, he finally says, “Alright, time to go.”

  Perhaps I am an idiot. Perhaps I am used to seeing casual joggers on the sidewalk. Perhaps I assumed when Trevor said “run” he meant something close to what those joggers did.

  Regardless, I am startled when Trevor tears off at high-speed. I almost expect to see a dust cloud trailing in his wake.

  I’m finally awake and thinking clearly, and I am definitely regretting this decision.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 12

I did not have friends in school growing up. I had acquaintances, and I talked to people, but I never transferred those relationships to my personal life, or any life I held outside the walls of my school. I wasn’t bullied or hated or mocked. Nobody harassed me in any way. I didn’t avoid relationships with my classmates because they shunned me. I was just the quiet one not many people took notice of, and I preferred it that way. I never craved attention from people, not really, not back then.

  Sometimes, though, I did wonder what it was like to have a friend to spend the weekends with. I’d hear a classmate idly comment about a recent sleepover, and wonder, if only for a brief moment, what that might be like. I’d wonder what sorts of things people did at those social gatherings.

  Maybe it looked something like me and Trevor now.

  We’re spread across the floor of his living room, the table pushed close to the couch. Trevor is laying on his stomach, legs held up behind him, ankles crossed, as he rearranges the small tiles on a holster. Around us are the scattered remains of lunch. Various takeout containers, glasses half full of lemonade, a bowl of popcorn that Trevor insisted he make, another of pretzels.

  I sit with my legs drawn up, my arms looped around them and holding them tight and fast to my chest. I’m not sure why Trevor suggested we play Scrabble. I’m not sure why he insisted we should play on the floor. I’m not sure why I agreed.

  I am still mildly suspicious of his couch, though, so perhaps I don’t mind sitting on the floor.

  “Lizard,” Trevor says as he clicks the tiles into place on the board. I glance down as he scribbles down his new score. “Triple score word, too.”

  I never played a lot of board games. I can’t decide if I enjoy it.

  “Booyah,” Trevor cheers at his new total. “So that’s 274 for me.”

  I look down at my collection of letters. E I P T N S stare back at me.

  Penis.

  I could play the word penis.

  I’m not sure if it’s humorous or terrible that that would be the first word I think when I see my scrambled letters. Pen, pints, ten, sin, sent are all also possible words my letters spell, without even trying to use the board to expand my options.

  I’m not in the mood to be competitive, so I pick up the T and add it to the I from the “lizard” Trevor just played. I do not place it on a triple letter or triple score slot. I don’t look around the board to find a more strategic place to place it. There are over a dozen words that have been played, but I don’t so much as glance at them as I slide the tile into place and earn two points.

  I still have the letters to play penis. I do not fail to notice that.

  Trevor scribbles down my new score and says, his words more hesitant and halting as he speaks, “So that gives you… uh, 18.”

  What can I say? When I’m not in the mood to compete, I lose spectacularly.

  I wrap the arm I just used to play the tile around my legs again to join the other and rest my chin on my knees.

  Trevor hesitates, looking up at me from across the board. “Do you… Are you having fun?”

  I shrug. “Yeah.”

  “Are you… Do you like the game? I have others.” He hoists himself up with an arm.

  “No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, feeling like an inconvenience.

  Trevor hesitates again. “I don’t mind. It’s not a problem. If you don’t like Scrabble, there are other things we could do.”

  I shrug again.

  Trevor hesitates once more, and I glance in his direction, feeling both guilty and like a nuisance. I don’t make eye contact—I never do—but I look somewhere in the vague direction of his face.

  And that’s when I see it.

  There are a stack of DVDs sitting on the bookshelf behind him. It’s not really full of books, mostly knick knacks, and that’s why they stand out and snatch my attention.

  It’s the title I can read on the side of one of the DVDs—the font black and bold on a white background—that keeps my attention.

  Gay Patrol: Volume 1.

  Trevor notices my befuddled stare and turns to look.

  “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I put those there so I’d remember to return them to the video store.”

  I nod.

  “I did ask you for recommendations,” Trevor tells me quickly.

  I nod.

  “They weren’t exactly very good, I don’t… think. But those were all they had,” he adds.

  I nod.

  “I needed research,” he goes on.

  I nod.

  He must have run out of things to say because he runs a hand through his hair.

  I nod. And then I realize there’s no need for me to be nodding anymore and I stop. But I still don’t know what to say.

  “This didn’t go like I hoped it would,” Trevor admits finally, no longer talking only about the DVDs.

  “It’s… fine,” I tell him, unsure what other word to use. It isn’t exactly not fine. What he watches and does isn’t my business.

  Trevor puts his hands on his hips and lets out a breath. I think he’s run out of things to say.

  I hope I’m not supposed to fill the silence.

  It stretches as Trevor stares off into space. I’m not sure what he’s doing. But the silence stretches stretches stretches as he contemplates something.

  “We can just go back to what we were doing,” I finally say, because things are suddenly awkward and I hate awkward. I’m almost always awkward, the very definition of it, yes, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean I relish in it.

  Trevor’s gaze flickers towards me. He smiles. It softens his entire face. “Did I tell you that you’re cute?”

  I— What?

  “You’re cute,” Trevor repeats in a way that tells me that I said that aloud. “When you sit like that, all bunched up. You look like a hedgehog.”

  I blink at him. “Hedgehog?”

  “Yeah, you know.” Trevor makes a circle with his hands. “They ball up like they think they’re tough little things, but they’re really just soft and cuddly.”

  I… am not sure I’d call hedgehogs cuddly. Or soft.

  But even if the compliment is an odd one, I think it is supposed to be a compliment.

  Trevor moves closer, slowly lowering himself to the ground to crawl towards me. “You’re blushing again.”

  “No,” I say quickly, looking away from him.

  He catches my chin with a finger and gently nudges my face towards him. I could fight him, but I don’t. His lips find mine, and his hands slowly come up to brush against my jaw, my neck.

  Maybe it’s odd how fast I don’t feel awkward anymore, but this is something I’m used to. It’s familiar, the only dance whose rhythm I can move to without thought or much effort.

  Trevor moves to take off my shirt, and I don’t stop him. His lips trail down my throat, my chest, and I don’t stop him. He takes his own shirt off, and I don’t protest. His lips move down my body, fingers unhooking the button on my jeans, and still I don’t stop him. Piece by piece, he removes our clothing, and not once do I raise a protest or halt him.

  Once we are undressed, he removes his lips from my hip, his hands splayed across my thighs. He hesitates.

  I suddenly remember the disaster of our last encounter, and the idea of trying to explain what he should do is little more than exhausting, even now. I am not good with words.

  But then, I realize, I suppose I don’t need words to guide him through this.

  The thought hits me out of nowhere, but I decide it’s my best bet. I gently remove his hands. I move in close to him and urge him back. He must figure out what I have in mind because he—

  Well, he sits on his coffee table. I’m… not sure that was what I had in mind.

  My first thought is, I hope you plan to wash this table afterwards.

  My second thought is, Well, why not, I guess?

  And I move in, nudge his legs apart. He is already hard, and his erection nudges my cheek as I bring my lips to his inner thigh, trailing open-mouthed kisses towards the juncture of his legs. Trevor makes a humming noise of appreciation as I make my way closer and closer to where I know he wants my mouth.

  But old habits die hard, and I’m not one to rush. I’ve been paid to take my time, to thoroughly pleasure, and I may know the rhythm of this dance, but I only have set moves. I cannot break my pattern.

  Trevor is panting hard, raggedly, within minutes, and my lips have not even ghosted over his erection.

  “You’re— really good— at— this,” he chokes out through gasps, breathlessly.

  I hum something of an agreement, the noise vibrating the sensitive skin where the point of his inner thigh meets his groin.

  Trevor bucks his hips.

  “I really— It’s really— I—” he babbles, his fingers tensed on the edge of the table and white knuckled.

  I hum again, but this time it’s not in agreement, but a placating noise. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say.

  Trevor drops his head back to groan, almost a whining noise.

  “Can you— please—” he tries to say, but his breathing is still ragged, and he loses what he was going to say to a groan. He moves his hips instead, a wordless plea, his erection brushing my cheek. It leaves sticky spots wherever it touches, and I realize just how aroused he is.

  I also don’t like his slick on my face and lift a hand to wipe it away before I give him what he wants. I’m used to doing what I’ve been asked when it comes to sex, and I won’t drag this out longer than Trevor wants.

  The slick of precum is smeared along the tip of Trevor’s erection, and its slightly bitter on my tongue. I swipe it away and swallow it quickly, pointedly not thinking about what I’m ingesting.

  I may be good at this, but parts of it still gross me out.

  Trevor lets out a relieved breath as I relieve some of his sexual tension with my ministrations. Once his skin is slick-free, I begin in earnest. My tongue knows exactly what to do as I listen closely to the noises Trevor makes, repeating swipes and swirls and motions when he makes a particularly animalistic noise.

  In under a minute, I have him making nothing but guttural noises that sound close to the cries of a wounded animal.

  A part of me has always been minorly fascinated how sounds of pain and pleasure can so easily be confused. It used to worry me, these sorts of noises. Now, I know that they are my goal; that they ensure a faster orgasm.

  Perhaps even a larger tip for exemplary services.

  But I am not doing this for money right now and I shove those thoughts away.

  Trevor’s hands reach for my hair, his fingers knotting around the strands. I let him. It doesn’t hurt, isn’t meant to hurt. He’s just hanging on to something. I don’t know Trevor, or how his body responds to pleasure, but it’s not uncommon for people to grab onto me when they are close to orgasm.

  I focus on keeping up my rhythm, and Trevor becomes nothing but incoherent garble, stuttering breaths of “yes—ye-yes—y-y-y-y-y-ye-yes—” and loud, guttural cries.

  “I—” he says, a word pitched high with pleasure. He loses the rest of what he was saying as he tries to catch his breath.

  “I—” he tries again. And then, instead of a string of encouraging, stuttered “yes,” it’s a babbling, incoherent “I—I—I—I—” over and over again.

  I’m not sure what—

  My vision is dotted with black stars and I’m on my back, staring up at his ceiling, gasping in a startled breath.

  Trevor just punched me?

  Trevor just punched me.

  I clutch my bruising jaw and use my free hand to push myself up to sitting. Trevor sits on the coffee table, legs still spread wide, his dick an angry, red cone between his thighs. He looks scared as he stares at me, his chest heaving as he stares at me.

  “I—th- thought—” he pants. He stops to gasp some more, and then chokes out, “I thought I was going to black out.”

  I’m alarmed. Was I actually hurting him then?

  “Fuck,” he swears passionately and loudly, throwing himself back on the table, an arm slung dramatically over his forehead. It would be a humorously dramatic pose under normal circumstances, but it just looks ridiculous when he’s naked, his pulse beating so fast I can see his dick twitching quickly in tune with its beat.

  “You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asks after a long pause.

  “I… I guess,” I mutter.

  Trevor continues to pant, trying to catch his breath.

  Finally, I say, “We can… I don’t have to, um… We can skip this part.”

  Trevor sits up so quickly his erection actually bounces up and down several times, like a pendulum. I’m not trying to stare at it, but I need something to look at and I hate eye contact.

  “No,” Trevor says emphatically. “I want that. A lot,” he says. And then, maybe thinking he sounds overly eager or greedy, he tacks on a softer, “Please.”

  “Are you going to punch me again?” I ask, still clutching my swore jaw.

  “No, promise,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. It just took me by surprise. It was… intense. My vision started going black. I tried to tell you, but I—I, uh”—he clears his throat awkwardly—“was having trouble trying to tell you.”

  I consider.

  “But if I’m going to pass out,” he continues eagerly, “I’d like it to be because I had a blowjob of a lifetime.”

  I swallow a snort of laughter. For such an adult conversation, he sounds as giddy as a child begging for an expensive toy for Christmas.

  “Okay,” I tell him, inching towards him.

  He settles himself as I take my place between his legs. I’m tentative at first, but as I said. Old habits are hard to kill, and after only a few slow swipes of my tongue, I’m moving at my normal beat.

  Trevor groans, whines, and cums hard and fast in less than a minute.

  He collapses, boneless and panting on his table, his head resting on the couch. I wipe my mouth and patiently wait for him to catch his breath.

  It takes a while.

  “You… didn’t black out,” I try to joke when he finally lazily lifts his head and cracks an eye at me.

  “It was a close thing,” he assures me.

  He moves then, sliding off the table to kiss me. I’m surprised—I’m not sure I could kiss someone who’s mouth is likely glazed in the remnants of seminal fluid—but I don’t fight him.

  “Here or the bedroom?” Trevor asks when he pulls back. “I didn’t think about how this might hurt on the floor.”

  “Bed,” I agree.

  He grabs my hand and tugs me towards his room like a child excited to show me his car themed bedroom. It’s doubly ridiculous due to the fact that we are both as naked as can be. I only have a moment to glance over my shoulder at our scattered clothes before he tugs me out of view of the living room. He spins us when we get closer to his bed and gives me a nudge so that I take a step backward and the backs of my legs hit his mattress, causing me to topple backwards.

  And then he falls to his knees to gently spread my thighs.

  “Ah!” My cry is one of alarm and I shift my hips away from his mouth. But Trevor must misunderstand. His lips land on my inner thigh, just as mine did to his earlier.

  “Good thing you’re a damn good teacher,” he mumbles, his hot breath warming my sensitive skin.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I say quickly, almost panicked.

  He pauses to look up at me.

  “You don’t—I don’t—You don’t have to,” I say quickly, my words tumbling over each other.

  He looks surprised. “But I want to.”

  I purse my lips and shake my head emphatically.

  He’s confused. “You can tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

  “I don’t want you to do it at all,” I insist desperately.

  He tilts his head as he studies me, but my expression remains determined.

  “Okay,” he finally relents, backing away from me. He climbs up onto the bed next to me. “But if you mean you’re ready for the finish line, I might need, um, a little help getting ready.”

  I’m momentarily puzzled until he gestures at his groin, where his erection doesn’t quite look ready for round two.

  “Oh,” I say. “I can help with that.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says eagerly. And then, more soberly, he adds with an embarrassed smile, “Only if you want to.”

  He adjusts so that he’s laying flat on his bed, legs parted for me. And again, my tongue is put to work on him as Trevor uses everything except cohesive words to guide me through how to pleasure him. His manhood is quickly interested in what I’m doing, standing at full attention.

  I pull back and it’s a disappointed noise Trevor makes.

  “Seriously,” he says, “I don’t know how it’s possible for someone to be so good at that.”

  I shrug.

  “It has to be a gay thing,” he mutters as he opens the drawer to his bedside table to rustle around in the drawer. He pulls out a packaged condom that he opens with his teeth, and I’m hit very suddenly by the realization that we haven’t used a condom up until this point.

  Okay, so maybe I used to rent my body for money, but I’ve been out of practice long enough that I am a little rusty in some parts. I’m usually a lot better at remembering to use condoms. Although normally I carry a few on me. I did give the last of my stash to Jess—and again, I’m not in the habit anymore of carrying them with me.

  It’s still distressing I managed to forget.

  Trevor slides the condom onto himself, and I snap out of my thoughts as I watch, making a distressed noise that causes him to stop.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You have to—” I make a gesture, but he doesn’t understand. I instruct, “Take that off and get a new one.”

  He’s obviously puzzled but does as I say.

  “Pinch the tip,” I tell him.

  He stares at me. “Won’t that hurt?”

  I’m not sure condoms have nerves to feel pain. I wonder if Trevor is making a joke.

  But then his fingers tentatively move down and prod at the tip of his erection.

  “Haven’t you ever used a condom before?” I marvel. Some things are exclusive to gay sex, but not all.

  “Yeah,” Trevor says slowly, like he thinks I’ve asked a trick question. “I just… put it on, right?”

  I marvel at him once more. “Let me see that.”

  He hands me the condom and I open it. Then, I place it on his erection, pinch the tip, and carefully unwind it.

  “Oh,” Trevor says, blinking. “The end isn’t supposed to be inflated?”

  “It can burst if it’s full of air,” I explain. “And a broken condom defeats the purpose, right?”

  He hums his agreement. “Glad you showed me that.”

  I’m amazed he didn’t already know that.

  Trevor takes this lesson in stride, not pausing to comment further, and reaches for something else before sliding my way again. This time, he’s holding a small, colorful bottle.

  “Look, see,” he says proudly, brandishing the bottle before opening it. “I did my research.”

  I didn’t think it took research to realize that anal sex requires lubrication. I wonder if he was lacking any the last time we tried this—we didn’t get very far, and we wouldn’t have gotten much further without it—but I don’t know how to say that without sounding cutting or critical. So instead of saying anything, I watch as Trevor opens the bottle. Then, he blinks at it, making a “hmmm” noise as he considers.

  I wait.

Trevor makes another “hmm” noise and glances at me.

  I reach for the bottle. “Let me,” I say. “I’ll show you.”

  He’s more than a little relieved as I take it. I bite back a grimace and slather my hand with the chilled goop, reach down to slide my fingers along the length of Trevor’s erection. He hums in appreciation as I use my fingers to massage it onto him. Then, I lay down next to him, put a second coat on my fingers, and work it onto myself, into myself.

  Trevor watches, a little wide-eyed. I pause, exasperated, and explain, “If we’re not both lubed up, this is just going to hurt.”

  He nods as I apply another layer of lubrication. When I’m done, I close the bottle and hand it back to him. He tosses it back into the drawer and then looks at me.

  He clears his throat. “So do I…?”

  I roll over onto my stomach and let my legs fall apart instead of reply.

  “Okay,” Trevor mutters, and I feel the hard pressure of his erection against the curve of my ass. A moment later, and the pressure shifts, inside of me now. I let out a long breath to resist tensing up against the pressure.

  He pushes a little more, sliding further into me. I close my eyes and slow my breathing. There’s a small pain, but I refuse to lock up.

  Another push, and I can feel that the entire length of him is inside of me. I grit my teeth and focus on my breathing to distract myself from the brief flash of pain.

  Trevor pulls back, pushes in again, slowly, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for my reaction. When I don’t cry out in pain or ask him to stop, he takes that as a sign to continue. He’s slow at first, an insistent but almost gentle rocking. But after several thrusts, he picks up speed, the edges of his hip bones hitting the bottom curve of my ass. Faster and faster—slapslapslap as our slick skin meets.

  He rides himself out quickly, sinking his erection deep with a groan as he orgasms, slipping in a few last, slow thrusts to ride out his high. He holds himself up over me, our bodies curved around one another, as he catches his breath.

  Then, Trevor pulls back, detaching us, and drops himself onto the mattress next to me.

  “That was—that was—” he huffs through his quick breaths. “Whoo!”

  I wonder how soon is too soon to ask about a shower. I yawn.

  Trevor turns towards me. “Was it good?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say.

  Trevor looks almost nervous. “I tried researching, like I said. But the films—they didn’t always show me how things were done. Most of them just skipped from, um, foreplay to sex and I didn’t get to see…”

  It clicks.

  “You mean you watched gay porn for research on how to have gay sex?” I ask.

  He nods tentatively. “They were informative.”

  I don’t know how informative porn is. I’m not even sure most porn is anatomically correct. What little snippets I’ve seen have always boggled my mind. I mean, I suppose gymnastics is some sort of prerequisite for porn stars…

  “But was it good? Actually good?” Trevor presses.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say again.

  “Like… if you were going to rate it,” Trevor says, “what would it be on a scale of 1 to 10?”

  I stare at him.

  “Where 1 means ‘needs improvement’ and 10 is ‘perfect,’” he clarifies, but I’m not sure I needed the clarification. I still don’t know what to tell him.

  “It was… good,” I offer, because I have no idea how rating works for sex.

  “Is that a 5-level good?” Trevor insists, “or an 8-level good?”

  “Good,” I repeat, growing weary of this conversation.

  Trevor looks pained but drops it with a sigh.

  We lay in his bed together in silence for a beat. I yawn again.

  “How are you so good anyway?” Trevor asks. “I mean, I’ve never… It was… That was… I think that was my favorite part,” he finally says, almost shy. And then he clarifies, “The blowjob part.”

  I shrug. “You get better with experience.”

  He nods, looking like I’ve offered him some sort of life-changing advice.

  I want to shower. I feel disgusting. But my eyelids also feel heavy, and I can’t decide if the urge to clean myself or the urge to sleep will win out. Sex is always a work out that leaves me wearily exhausted.

  “Guess I just need more experience,” Trevor tells me softly. He also yawns.

  I do something close to nodding, my eyes refusing to open.

  “I’m okay with a lot more practice if it involves you,” Trevor says.

  I want to nod, but my head is too heavy to move.

  My thoughts scatter and I fall asleep.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 11

I do not expect Trevor to show up at my work again.

  “You get off in five minutes, right?”

  But he does.

  “Oh. Yes.”

  It’s Friday. And he’s apparently going to wait for me to get off of work.

  He grins and takes a seat at one of the small tables. I move closer to the cash register to clock out.

  “You’re going to love this place,” Trevor tells me as we walk out of the restaurant together. “Wait here.”

  He holds up his hand, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He enters the door of a store near the restaurant I work at. I’m confused, and someone jostles me as they pass me, but I wait. I move a little more out of the way, and I wait.

  And wait.

  And I wait.

  I wait for so long that I’m tempted to walk into the store anyway, but then I wonder if Trevor is picking up some kind of personal or embarrassing thing that he doesn’t want me to know about—

  “These are for you.”

  I jump, jerking out of my thoughts.

  Trevor holds out a bouquet of some sort of purple flower.

  I stare at it.

  He gives it a light shake, looking at me expectantly. I take it, still staring at it, confused.

  “The lady said they’re orchids,” Trevor says. “Sorry it took so long, I… couldn’t make up my mind.”

  “Okay.”

  What am I supposed to do with flowers?

  “You don’t like them.” His face falls.

  “They’re nice,” I say quickly.

  He studies me. I fiddle with the flowers. I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them so I try to hand them back.

  “They’re for you,” he clarifies.

  Now I really don’t know what to do with them.

  “Thank you,” I offer and try not to make it sound like a question.

  He must see something in my face. I can feel it shifting into an expression against my will. Something embarrassed, maybe. Probably.

  “Last time,” he says suddenly, “I said we’d do our proper stretches and race.”

  And he’s bending his body this way and that, working out his muscles. He even stretches his fingers.

  I’m staring. I seem to do that a lot recently.

  He notices me gawking. “You’re not stretching.”

  “Why would I?”

  “For our race.”

  I think not.

  “Well, you can run. I’ll follow.” I make a gesture with the flowers, and they catch Trevor’s eye.

  “Yeah,” he says, disappointed. “It would be hard for you to run with those.” He sighs, stops stretching. “Next time?”

  I shrug. Nodding seems dangerous, even if it is an easy default.

  “This way.” Trevor jerks his head towards the original direction we were traveling and I follow.

  ***

  It’s awkward walking around with a bouquet of flowers. They require the attention of a hand at all times. I feel like some flower enthusiast is going to stop me and accuse me of abusing them if I just let them dangle at my side and swing with my steps, so I hold them upright. My arm quickly grows tired, though, and I have to switch hands a few times to give my muscles a break.

  And when we get to the restaurant, I don’t know what to do with them. We take our seats at the table, and I put them down on table. But the blooms spread when I lay the bouquet down and take up half of our table space. I try to push them towards the edge but a sprig of petals catches on a passing waiter’s apron and they flip onto the ground.

  I tuck them under my chair, trying to keep them semi-upright, leaning against a leg of the chair.

  “Sorry,” Trevor mutters. “I should’ve thought about that. Maybe I should’ve gotten them after dinner.”

  I’m still confused why he got them at all. It’s a nice gesture, but still unprompted.

  “I did tell you I’d give you flowers, though,” Trevor insists.

  Yes, he did. I didn’t think he meant he’d buy them, though.

  The waitress comes to take our order, and my nervous habit of pulling my legs back knock over the bouquet. I lean over to grab the fallen flowers just as the waitress moves to grab her pen and her fingers smack my forehead.

  “My apologies,” she tells me.

  I dismiss it and set the flowers to rights.

  “Those are cute,” she says. “I might be able to find a vase to put them in and put them in the middle of the table, if you want.”

  I want to tell her no, but Trevor perks up. “That’d be nice.”

  She leaves to fetch one, and unwraps the plastic from the bouquet so she can place them in the water.

  She beams at us. “Now, what can I get for you?”

  We order, and I spend the whole time frowning at the flowers. The waitress threw away the bindings and plastic, so I have no idea how I’m going to carry them around when we leave. Or maybe I’ll just leave them behind?

  I think I’ll do that.

  The silence stretches to the point of being awkward.

  “Do you live alone?” Trevor asks finally.

  “Oh. No,” I tell him.

  He waits for more.

  I offer nothing else.

  “Do you like working at the crêperie?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  He waits for more.

  I offer nothing else.

  “Have you been to the sporting goods store at the mall? That’s where I work,” he says.

  “No, I haven’t,” I say.

  He waits for me to add something else.

  I say nothing.

  “I’ve been working there for a while,” he says. “I like it okay.”

  I nod.

  He waits for me to say something else.

  I say nothing more.

  The waitress comes with our drinks and an assurance that our food will be out soon. Trevor fiddles with his straw, the paper it was wrapped in. I stare at the flowers.

  “Oh,” he says, pulling out his cellphone. “I forgot to ask you for your number.”

  “I don’t have a cellphone,” I tell him.

  He looks at me, surprised. “You don’t?”

  I shake my head.

  And he waits for me to explain.

  I give no explanation.

  He slowly puts his phone away, looking disappointed.

  I decide I hate this idea.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, because I’m very sorry. About everything.

  I’m sorry I’m bad at small talk. I’m sorry I’m not interesting. I’m sorry I never know what to say. I’m sorry I’m awkward. I’m sorry I’m not a conventional person. I’m sorry I don’t have a cellphone. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m sorry.

  You have everything to be sorry about, Mikey.

  “I suppose it’s good, in a way,” he says after a pause. “A lot of people are too attached to electronics these days.”

  I glance away from the flowers to sneak a peek at his expression.

  He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

  I look back at the flowers.

  The silence stretches again, and I hear him take in a breath like he’s going to break it when the waitress comes and delivers our food, refills our drinks.

  We eat in silence for a while.

  “Do you like it?” he asks me. His plate is already empty, so either he was very hungry, the food was good, or both.

  I nod.

  He waits for me to say something more.

  I fill my mouth with another bite.

  And then I kick myself when he looks disappointed.

  The check comes and he lays a credit card in the leather envelope.

  “I can pay for myself,” I tell him, reaching for my own wallet.

  “It’s fine,” he tells me. “I want to.”

  But I don’t.

  “I can pay for myself,” I tell him again.

  He goes to say something else, but the waitress arrives, snags the check, and makes for the register.

  I am so distressed with this whole situation.

  “I’ll leave a tip,” I tell him, opening my wallet.

  But I have no cash. My wallet is empty.

  I am so distressed with this whole situation. I cannot say it enough.

  He must see something in my expression, because he says, again, “It’s fine.” And adds, softly, “Don’t worry about it.”

  I am not worried. I am distressed. I ate takeout he purchased. I ate a meal at a nice restaurant he purchased.

  I don’t like him paying for everything when I give nothing in return. That’s not what I’m used to.

  The waitress brings a receipt that Trevor signs and we get up to leave.

  “Oh,” he says, pausing. “Your flowers…”

  He drifts off when he realizes what I already did. The waitress threw away the band that bound the flowers together, the plastic that protected their stems from rough fingers.

  I am too upset right now to care. I want to leave. These flowers are not going to slow me down.

  “I got them,” I tell him, pulling them out of the vase. “Let’s go.”

  They are drenched, and the water drips all over the table before I snatch them away, closer to my body. The trail of water dribbles down my shirt, drenching me. But right now, I don’t care. I just want to leave.

  “Your—”

  I rush for the exit. Once I’m on the other side, Trevor stops me, grabbing my elbow.

  “Your shirt,” he says. “It’s all wet.”

  “It’s fine.” I try to shake him off so we can get out of here. I don’t know where we’d go; where I’d go. It’s not like I’m eager to return to Kay’s. I do nothing but mope around, waiting for the weekend to end because I have no social life.

  Well, sometimes I have a social life. I manage to mess even that up.

  Case and point: my drenched shirt, these flowers I don’t know what to do about, the restaurant—

  “Hey,” Trevor says, “there’s a park nearby. Why don’t we go there for a while? It’s nice out today.”

  I look down at the flowers. I still don’t know what to do with them. I feel like I’m holding them so tightly the stems will snap.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  He leads me away.

  It’s dark out. I’m not sure we’re actually allowed in the park when it’s dark. Don’t most parks have a curfew? I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten. There aren’t too many people walking around, but the few who are slip into bars we pass.

  One guy ambles out of a bar, pulls out a cigarette. He looks like he started early, and is well past drunk even though it’s not that late.

  As we pass him, he calls, “Hey!”

  His speech is slurred. So definitely drunk.

  We keep walking.

  “I said hey!” he shouts, and he sounds closer.

  I think he’s talking to us, but it’s never a good idea to engage with angry, drunk men, and this guy is both. Very much so both.

  “I said hey,” he hollers again, much closer. “Ya deaf, ya cock jockies?”

  That sounded like was supposed to be an insult, but it’s an odd one.

  Trevor glances at me, and I glance back. We’re mirror expressions of confusion.

  And then the drunk guy grabs Trevor’s shoulder, whips him around, punches him. The man is very drunk. He looks like he originally means to hit Trevor in the face, but his fist hits Trevor’s shoulder.

  Trevor takes a step back and I mutter, “We should just go.”

  “Go? Go where?” the man demands, trying to find his footing. The swing of his punch has him off-balance. “Yer not going anywhere, ya…”

  He drifts off, sans insult. He’s staring at Trevor.

  I’m staring at Trevor, too. He’s bent at the waist, his legs and back straight, fingers at his toes. He makes several sharp downward, jerking, tugging motions. The drunk man peers at me in disgust, like this is somehow something I convinced Trevor to do. I take a step away from the man.

  Trevor, meanwhile, is throwing his hands over his head, alternating between left and right. It’s not a random motion, but a smooth, practiced one. He almost looks like he’s doing the freestyle swim technique while standing on land.

  “Is this some kinda ass driller mating dance?” the guy demands. Despite how ridiculous his words sound, he sounds angrier than ever. He snarls, spittle flying, “I’m not interested, you fucking fairy!”

  “What are you doing?” I ask Trevor, moving closer to try to catch his arm and pull him away.

  “Stretching,” Trevor explains. “I’ve never been in a fistfight before, but I don’t want to pull anything.”

  I’m staring for a different reason now.

  Trevor misunderstands my gaping.

  “You have no idea how many people pull or twist muscles in fights because they weren’t properly warmed up. I don’t want to end up in the ER because of a torn rotator cuff.”

  “I’m… I’m sure,” I tell him. “But—”

  The drunk man only heard part of that, and he’s cackling. “Never been in a fist fight? I’ll show ya what it means to be a man!”

  He takes another swing, but falls on his face when Trevor’s exercises conveniently allow him to move just enough to dodge the force of the drunk man’s poorly aimed attack.

  He doesn’t look like he’s going to have an easy time getting up, but if he was furious before, now he’s spitting mad, a volcano about to erupt.

  “We should leave,” I tell Trevor.

  “But…” Trevor pauses his exercises to glance between me and the drunk man. “He insulted you because you’re gay.”

  Is that what he was doing? I suppose now, in hindsight, I can understand how those odd expressions the man used were homophobic. But really, I’m not sure I care about the opinions of a guy so drunk he can’t throw a punch.

  “I can throw a punch if I need to,” I tell Trevor. “That”—I use the flowers to gesture in the direction of the man who’s managed to get up to his knees, but looks like he’s about to vomit—“does not need me to.”

  Trevor looks unconvinced.

  “Let’s go,” I say again, nudging his shoulder.

  Thankfully, Trevor turns so we can continue to the park. The drunk man sees us about to leave and grabs a handful of the hem of my jeans. It’s all he can reach, I think.

  “No’s’fast,” he slurs. “You—yer just pretty boys, aren’t’ch’ya? Too pretty to fight and—what’re those?”

  He grabs more fistfuls of my clothes to lift himself up high enough to grab the flowers I’m holding. He yanks them from my grasp. I let go. I don’t think he was expecting that. I think he was expecting me to try to wrestle them from him. He collapses to the ground again, an ungraceful heap.

  I turn and nudge Trevor along again.

  “Your flowers,” Trevor protests.

  Secretly, I’m grateful. I have no idea what I was going to do with those other than offer them to Carol to grow some plants in her garden. And I feel like giving them to her would cause too many questions to arise that I am terrible at answering due to my lack of conversation skills.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him. “We should go.”

  Trevor looks like he’s about to protest again, and I shoot him a frustrated look.

  “I’ll get you more,” he promises. “So don’t worry.”

  I don’t know if I was worried.

  ***

  The park is closed.

  We slip in to sit on a bench anyway.

  “Are you alright?” Trevor asks me.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, surprised.

  “That guy.” Trevor motions in a general direction behind us. “He grabbed you.”

  Oh.

  “I’m not made of sugar. I don’t snap that easy,” I tell Trevor, torn equally between irritation, amusement, and exasperation.

  Trevor looks like I kicked him. I am so good at that.

  “Sorry you lost your flowers,” he mumbles, looking dejected. “Sorry you didn’t like the date. Don’t like it.”

  I’m confused.

  “What?”

  Trevor lets out a glum, gusty sigh. “I’m not good at this. I’m sorry today was so terrible.”

  “It… wasn’t all terrible,” I say honestly.

  He looks at me, sidelong. “No?”

  “I’m… not good at small talk,” I say. “I’m better at…”

  I’m not good at explanations, either. So I make a gesture. I have no idea what it means, or what I’m trying to convey.

  Trevor nods. “Body language.”

  I frown at him. Actually, I’m terrible at deciphering body language. I can read facial expressions. Usually. Maybe. Sometimes. Actually, more often than not, I manage to misinterpret even those.

  But Trevor slides closer, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and kisses me.

  He pulls back far enough to say, “Body language.”

  And then he kisses me again. His hands ruffle my hair, fingers grazing my neck. The hairs stand up on my arms in response.

  He pulls back again. “I get it.”

  He smiles at me.

  I’m not sure he understands, but I can agree that this type of body language I understand: his body pressed to mine, hip to hip, lips to lips.

  Yes, that I understand.

  He pushes me back and I’m laying flat on the park bench. He doesn’t hesitate to climb on top of me, so our hips are even more aligned, our lips even more so. I can feel the hard muscle of his erection straining against his jeans, pressing into my inner thigh.

  His hand slips under my shirt. It’s still wet and tries to cling to me, but that doesn’t deter Trevor. He slides it up, up, up, and adjusts himself to place a kiss on my ribs—

  My vision goes bright. White.

  I blink, intrigued but also alarmed. I’ve never known a kiss to cause me to go blind.

  But Trevor sits up, quick, his lips pulling away from my skin. And I still can’t see.

  Right, now I’m panicking.

  “Officer,” Trevor says, polite and collected.

  Officer?

  “Do you gentlemen know what time it is?”

  That’s a new voice. I sit up, and I can see again. There are dark spots in my vision, but I have most of it back. I look around and finally see the police officer.

  He’s standing in front of us, holding a flashlight up and beaming it in our faces. When he sees us separate and upright, he apparently decides whatever point he wanted to make is made, and clicks it off.

  “Sorry, officer,” Trevor says, rubbing at his neck. “Just…”

  “Just nothing,” the officer says, stern. “Now you two head home and make sure you stick to coming to this park during daylight hours. It’s closed between dusk and dawn.”

  “Yes, officer,” Trevor says, standing. He reaches for me and I take his hand, my vision still spotting with black.

  We leave the park. The officer watches us go before heading off in a different direction.

  “Told you,” I can’t help but mutter, wondering how narrowly we avoided a ticket. I’m sure Kay would have had loads to say, especially if I landed with some sort of fine for public indecency.

  Trevor ducks his head, chastised.

  My irritation dissolves.

  “We could go back to my place,” he offers. “That park was a bad idea, yeah, I’ll admit that.”

  I look down at my shirt. “I should go home and change.”

  “Oh, you could—” But he cuts off that suggestion. Lets a beat of silence pass. Finally says, “Yeah, we should go home. Today was… bad.”

  I shrug. He looks too miserable for me to agree. “Not too bad.”

  “Tomorrow we can try again,” he suggests. I shoot him a quick look and he rushes on, “Forget that other restaurant. I prefer our… casual hangs, I guess. I like it when it’s just you and me in my apartment. It’s… more natural. More… body language.”

  His smile is more of a smirk. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make a joke or some sort of sexual reference.

  “We can,” I say.

  “So tomorrow? Come over for lunch. I’ll get takeout.”

  “I can pick something up,” I offer. I still don’t like that he pays for everything.

  But he waves the suggestion away. “I’m pretty good at getting takeout. And I’ll keep the leftovers for lunch for work. I’ll bother you a little less at work that way.”

  And now he winks. And again I have no idea if this is a joke, or a sexual reference.

  I think he has me totally wrong if he thinks I’m good at body language. I understand the physical part of it. To be frank—sex. I understand nothing about the subtle, figurative way it’s used to communicate.

  But I agree.

  And with a time and place figured out, he kisses me again, gentle, and we part ways. 

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 10

It’s late when I get home. Kay and his family are already asleep. All the lights are out.

 I am careful, so very careful, to be as quiet as possible as I slip up the stairs, creep towards my room. And I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he has some odd sixth sense.

 “Markus?”

 But Kay knows I’m home.

 I sigh, a soft exhalation. “Yes?”

 “It’s late.”

 That’s obvious.

 “I thought you went to a friend’s?” Kay’s voice is rough with sleep. His voice is low as he moves closer towards me, away from the threshold of his bedroom.

 “I did,” I say, keeping my voice just as quiet.

 “Why are you back so late? Did you— Are you—?”

 Did I sleep with my “friend”? Am I sleeping with him? Was that what he was trying to ask?

 No, and no. Or, at least, not yet. Or maybe not at all. I’m honestly not even sure. It’s true that Trevor and I spent some time tangled around each other, but he pulled back after a while. We returned to the movie. Oddly enough, there weren’t any more awkward questions or random outbursts. We even watched two more movies, thus why I came home late.

 I don’t think Kay will easily accept that as an answer. I’m again irritated that I need to defend myself at all, considering it’s my private life he’s poking at.

 Kay swipes at his face. Finally asks, “Did you run into trouble? Are you alright?”

 I know that was not what he originally wanted to ask, but these questions are less intrusive, and I can accept them as substitutions of what Kay really wants to know.

 “I’m fine,” I tell him.

 I can see Kay nod in the dim light. The silence stretches, and Kay is just staring at me. I don’t think he has anything else to say, so I turn towards my room.

 But Kay’s low voice halts me again. “Maybe you should get a cellphone.”

 It seems like a random thing to suggest. “I don’t need one, though.”

 “In the future,” Kay tells me, a hint of frustration entering his tone, “you can just shoot me a text that you’ll be home late, or an idea of when you’ll be home.”

 An indignant flush creeps up my neck. I am not a child for him to babysit, to monitor. I’m glad for the gloom. Kay won’t be able to see it. He won’t be able to start an argument because of my offense.

 “I just—we worry, alright? You aren’t usually out so late. We were up late to make sure you were fine when you got home.”

 Some of my irritation is beaten down with a wave of guilt. I mutter, “I did say I was going to be out late.”

 “Yeah, but it’s after midnight.”

 The chastisement in his tone has my hackles on edge again, but I mumble, “Sorry.”

 “Just… think about it. It’d be more convenient for you to have a cellphone.”

 I nod, but I already know I won’t get one.

 Kay yawns and turns away. “Alright. Goodnight.”

 We part ways, retreating into our bedrooms. I try not to let irritation to cling to me, to leave it at the door, so to speak, but it’s hard.

 I am not a child. I am not a ward. I do not need babysitting. I do not need monitoring. Kay is not my family. Kay has no responsibility for me.

 A part of me knows that I should feel some sort of gratitude that there are people who care enough to stay up to check in on me when I’m out late; who worry about my well-being; who are trying to guide me towards a better future.

 But I never asked for someone to do any of that, and instead of a comfort, it is a rope of responsibility that locks in place around my neck, feeling suspiciously like a noose. It makes me feel caged, agitated, trapped, frustrated.

 I wonder, as I undress, how much longer Kay will allow me to live here. I don’t have any other options—there is literally nobody else who would allow me to live with them—and I can’t afford my own place right now. But—

 My name tag is missing.

 I check the pockets of my jeans and jacket again to make sure I didn’t miss a pocket in my original search. But no. It’s missing.

 My mind spins.

 The last time I had it, I was taking it off and putting it in my pocket as I was leaving the restaurant.

 Trevor’s.

 It’s probably at Trevor’s.

 I feel like such an idiot.

 I’ll have to ask my boss for another one.

 Except I don’t want to. I’ll feel like even more of an idiot, especially after how scatter-brained I was earlier today—well, yesterday. Kay wasn’t lying when he said it was after midnight. My boss even gave me a lecture. I don’t feel like asking him to make me another name tag. I don’t want another lecture.

 I don’t know how many more lectures I can take in such a short period of time.

 I have to return to Trevor’s for the name tag.

 ***

 I don’t summon the courage to do so until Sunday evening.

 It’s last minute, but the more I think about it, the more anxious I became. As Kay pointed out, I don’t have a cellphone to call Trevor. Not that it matters, since I don’t have his number. I don’t have any contact information for Trevor, actually. I know how to get to his apartment and that’s it.

 So I know I’ll have to just show up at his apartment and knock on his door.

 Except that’s not something I do. I don’t do surprise visits. Or visits, in general. Not unless I’ve been invited and have some reason to go.

 So I let the hours of the weekend tick by, and it isn’t until the later hours of Sunday that I realize it’s now or never. And my anxiety at the thought of another lecture manages to momentarily trump the anxiety I feel at the idea of showing up at someone’s apartment uninvited.

 Kay and his wife went out somewhere. Jess isn’t home either so there’s nobody to ask questions about where I’m going or what I’m doing.

 I take it and slip out of the house.

 It turns out, convincing my feet to walk to Trevor’s apartment is easy.

 It’s when I raise my knuckles to rap on the door that anxiety hits me in a powerful wave and I think that yes, actually, I will take my boss’ lecture over this.

 I lower my hand.

 And so I stand in the hallway of Trevor’s apartment complex, staring at the numbers on his door. I can only hope a neighbor doesn’t choose this moment to walk out and see me, because I’m sure I look like the sort of creepy stalker people see in movies. My height has my eye level with the peep hole, and I realize passersby could also think I’m trying to peer into Trevor’s apartment.

 I take a step back.

 I realize, on some sort of level, that this is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. There isn’t anyone else around to see me and judge me, and I’m still taking these precautions.

 I still need to knock.

 Except I don’t. The door opens.

 “Oh,” Trevor says, surprised. “Markus.”

 I’m not ready for this. I’m not prepared. I didn’t even gather up my courage to knock yet.

 “Hi,” I say, because that’s all I can handle yet.

 Trevor peers at me.

 He waits for me to say something.

 I say nothing.

 “Well,” he tells me finally, “I was about to take my trash down, but I can do that later.”

 “Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude.”

 But Trevor backs up, and I notice the trash bag that was in his hand. He sets it down against the wall a few paces away from the door.

 “It’s fine. Come in.”

 I hesitantly enter his apartment and he shuts the door behind us. I don’t know what to say, so I clear my throat and try for a joke. “You actually take your trash out?”

 He grows sheepish. “Sometimes. When it starts to pile up.”

 I look at him curiously and he shrugs and makes a tiny, self-conscious gesture towards his kitchen. I peer inside and see—

 “You, uh, starting a collection?”

 Trevor shrugs, his face turning pink, frowning in such an embarrassed way that I manage to forget that I was anxious.

 It’s easier to have courage when you have no reason to be afraid. And Trevor is anything but scary.

 “How do you make so much trash?” I ask because seriously. There’s a mountain of trash bags next to the trash can in his kitchen. I count seven from where I’m standing, but the can probably hides some from view.

 “Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess you make less trash cooking your own food. Mostly, it’s just washing pots and pans. But take out containers are so big…”

 I snort on laughter.

 He smiles. “Did you come over for something, by the way?”

 “Oh, yeah. I think I forgot my name tag here.”

 Trevor moves towards the living room. “Probably slipped between the couch cushions or something.”

 I follow him, and he pulls the cushions off his couch.

 “Oh,” I say in a small voice. “Well, I’m sure it’s in there. I think a representative from the city of Atlantis will be by soon to ask for their lost treasure back.”

 I’ve never seen a couch so full of… things. There’s a small, plastic plate; empty glass bottles of various sized and colors, one of which looks like there’s actually a note inside of it; some cups; various forks and spoons, one of which looks like it’s actually gold.

 Trevor clears his throat. “My, uh, ex-girlfriend never cleaned out the couch.”

 That was evident. “I… can tell.”

 “And,” he continues, lifting a hand to his mouth in a nervous gesture that muffles his words, “whenever my ex-girlfriend asked me to clean off the coffee table and she, uh, wasn’t in the room to supervise, I, uh…”

 “I have been told couches are good make-shift trash cans,” I offer, still eyeing the assembled goods that are shoved into every crevice the couch has to offer.

 “I’ll look for your name tag,” he tells me. “Just, uh, give me a minute.”

 The brave soul gets down on his knees and shoves his hands in up to the elbows, pulling everything up from all the nooks and crannies. I tentatively poke at the edges of the various objects.

 It takes fifteen minutes, but we find my name tag.

 Somehow, it got stuck inside a broken glass bottle.

 “It was broken,” Trevor explains, handing me the name tag.

 “My name tag?” I ask, looking at it. It looks none the worse for wear, which is a miracle in and of itself.

 “No, the bottle,” he clarifies. “It was an antique I didn’t want to throw away, but when it broke, my ex-girlfriend wanted me to throw it away.”

 “So you hid it in the couch.”

 “I prefer to say I ‘preserved’ it.”

 “Preserved it… in the couch?”

 Trevor winces in answer.

 I actually laugh.

 “Just wanted you to know there wasn’t any loose glass among my, uh, treasure for you to worry about,” he explains.

 It actually didn’t occur to me to worry about that. Now, it does. I look down at the piles and scatterings of items suspiciously.

 “Are you hungry?” Trevor asks, apropos nothing.

 “I… suppose.” I look down at the gutted couch. “Was there… food in there you were trying to get rid of?”

 It’s Trevor’s turn to laugh. “Oh, God. No. I ordered Thai. Unless you don’t like Thai. But I ordered extra.”

 Each sentence comes out faster than the last, like he thinks if he doesn’t explain himself, I’ll take offense.

 “I’ll try some.” I look back at the couch. “I guess I can, um, try to tidy this up while you grab it.”

 Trevor snorts. “Easy clean up.”

 I eye the mountains of junk dubiously.

 But Trevor slides the cushions back into place. They don’t sit right at first, lopsided and lumpy. But Trevor raises his arms and rotate them a few times, like he’s warming up for some sort of upper body workout.

 And then he brings an arm down in a chopping motion, and then the other. And then he’s alternating arms, smacking the couch cushions. They fall into place, and he kneads the lumps out, like a baker kneading air pockets out of raw dough.

 I’m staring.

 “There,” he says after a minute, taking a step back to survey his work. Satisfied, he wipes his brow and turns to me. “Ginger chicken or pad thai?”

 I’m looking between him and the couch, not sure what he’s asking. “What?”

 “I got an order of each,” he tells me. “Do you have a preference of one or the other?”

 “Oh, no.” I look back at the couch and slowly raise a skeptical finger to point. “But…”

 I’m not even sure how to ask.

 “Oh.” He looks at it. “Is it still lopsided?”

 “No, but shouldn’t we…”

 He stares at me inquisitively.

 “Clean it?” I finish when he doesn’t understand my meaning.

 “Oh, this is faster.” He gestures at the couch, as if that’s explanation enough.

 And I suppose it is. Not like it’s my couch to worry about, anyway.

 I’m still holding my nametag. I pocket it and gingerly sit. I expect to feel something jabbing me up my rear, but there’s nothing of the sort. It feels the same as it did the last time I sat on it. That’s more worrisome, in a way.

 But Trevor is satisfied and fetches his takeout. He hands me one of the two containers. “We can trade if you don’t like it.”

 And he sits next to me and opens his.

 It smells good and wakens my appetite. I open my container and use the fork Trevor handed me to poke at the contents.

 “I don’t have flowers,” Trevor tells me through a bite of his dinner.

 I stop rolling the noodles around to look up at him. He sees the question in my expression.

 “I told you,” he says, “that next time, I’d give you flowers.”

 Oh.

 “It’s fine,” I tell him and gesture at him with the takeout container I’m holding. “This is enough. More than enough. Did you want me to give you something for it?”

 I’m pretty sure I have some cash on me to cover it.

 Trevor shakes his head vehemently. “I like paying.”

 It’s an odd sentiment, and I find bitter amusement in the thought that it’s a good thing Kay didn’t hear Trevor say those words. Kay would take it the wrong way.

 “I just feel bad,” I say.

 “Don’t.”

 But it’s not that easy.

 “I actually feel bad,” Trevor tells me after a silence passes between us. “I should take you to a restaurant. There are nice ones in this area, you know?”

 I shrug with one shoulder. I don’t go out very often. “I don’t mind takeout.”

 Trevor sighs, sounding aggrieved. He runs a hand through his hair. “I should do things right, though. I told you. I’m bad at this. It’s new.”

 I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about, so I nod. It’s an easy default. Nod, even when I don’t understand, and the topic slides like a well-oiled machine to a topic I’m more familiar with.

 “How about next weekend?” he asks me.

 “What about it?”

 “A restaurant.”

 “You mean… go to one?” I clarify, because I’m that sort of dumb, where I need things spelled out. Trevor, I notice, asks half-questions, and I worry he’ll start to pick up on my lack of language skills.

 But he doesn’t. He nods. “Yeah. Friday or Saturday work better?”

 I didn’t agree, but I didn’t disagree, either, I suppose. “Oh, I’m not doing anything either day.”

 “Friday, then? I have two places in mind. We can do one Friday, one Saturday.”

 That’s… a lot. I’m not sure I’ve had two commitments like that in a weekend before. I feel a little overwhelmed at the prospect.

 He takes my silence as a bad sign and grows worried. “Unless you don’t want to. Sorry, did you ever say if you were interested in the idea at all? We don’t have to. We can just forget it.”

 He shoved a large bite of chicken into his mouth and looks away quickly.

 “You’re blushing,” I notice.

 “Mmm,” he hums in a tone that suggests he’s disagreeing with me, his mouth still full, turning his face away.

 “You are,” I press, and I’m smiling. I see why Trevor teases me so much about it. It’s fun.

 “Mmm,” he hums again, still not looking at me. But I can see his pink ears, even with his head turned.

 I show mercy and drop the subject in favor of eating—whatever it is that Trevor gave me. It’s actually pretty good.

 “I can’t stay long,” I tell him. And he looks like I kicked him, so I explain before he can ask, “I work tomorrow.”

 “Oh.” His shoulders droop, and I wonder if I said something wrong. But then he mutters, “Yeah, so do I.”

 I don’t like the disappointed look on his face, so I say, “Friday works for me though. Or Saturday. Whichever.”

 He peeks at me. Actually peeks, with his head ducked, and eyelashes lowered over his eyes. “Really?”

 “Yeah.”

 “I’m excited.”

 I don’t know what to say to him.

 “You’re blushing.”

 “I’m not,” I assure him quickly.

 “You are.”

 “So are you,” I shoot back quickly, feeling defensive.

 He smiles. He leans across the couch and kisses me.

 “Friday,” he says, his breath tickling my skin.

 “Yes.”

 “After you get off work?”

 I nod.

 He smiles and gathers up the takeout containers, making a point of throwing them away.

 “I can clean, see,” he tells me when he comes back into the living room.

 “I see,” I tell him. I double check to make sure that my name tag is still in my pocket because he did not clean his couch, no matter what he says, and I’m not up for a repeat search of the ecosystem that lives under its cushions.

 He shows me to the door, even when I tell him he doesn’t have to bother.

 But he doesn’t open it. Not right away. He presses me against it, kisses me again.

 He pulls back suddenly. “I’ll stop, or I won’t stop at all. And we have to work tomorrow.”

 I nod, my skin still tingling where his fingers touched my jaw. I’m still so surprised at how soft his skin is.

 “Friday,” he tells me when I open the door to leave. He sounds like a child reminding his parents that yes, in fact, his birthday is in the countdown range, and countdown he will.

 It’s cute.

 He’s excited.

 And it’s so cute.

 “You’re blushing,” he notes.

 I scowl, my face growing hotter, and I leave.

 But he grabs my hand and turns me to plant a kiss on the corner of my mouth before he lets me go and I actually head home.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

fancy and fanciful

They wiled the hours away with Exploding Snap and chatter. Their conversations wound up going in circles, but Remus noticed that the topic was always carefully strayed away from any mention of Snape or Harry James.

  By the time the train stopped in King’s Crossing, Lily was dozing off, her head on James’ shoulder. Remus thought it was a bit adorable, Sirius kept trying to comment about it, Peter was stifling a laugh, and James was scowling at all of them, wordlessly threatening harm to whoever dared wake her.

  The train slowed to a stop and Remus could hear students starting to bustle and move beyond their compartment door, and James had to finally nudge Lily awake.

  “James!” she yelped in surprise, shoving away from him. “Why was I— Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You’re beautiful when you sleep,” he said simply.

  Lily, for once, didn’t seem to have anything to say. She ducked her reddening face, hiding a smile.

  Sirius made a gagging noise, Peter’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter, and even Remus was smiling as he pulled his luggage from its holster.

  It was right as they stepped off the train that Sirius grabbed Remus’ arm and pulled him aside. No one noticed—James was too distracted with Lily, and Peter was too distracted watching James watch Lily—as they moved a short distance down the platform.

  “What is it?” Remus asked when Sirius finally halted.

  “I just wanted to give you this.” Sirius handed him a small hand mirror.

  Remus goggled at it. “Isn’t this yours?”

  “Yes, but James has one I can use.”

  “You can use?” Remus repeated, his brain backfiring in a spectacular display of confusion.

  “Yes,” Sirius said again, patiently. “I figured you’d want it for over the holidays.”

  Remus was not understanding. “I don’t understand.”

  “Moony, you idjit—if you want to talk to me over Christmas break, you can. James has the other mirror, and I’m going to be with James all break.”

  “Talk to you,” Remus repeated, because that was apparently all he was capable of doing anymore.

  Sirius made a noise halfway between irritation and exasperation. “I’m happy to take it back if you’d rather not.”

  He reached to take the mirror back, and Remus took a step back, clutching the thing to his chest like a long, lost chest of treasure that he’d found at long last. That is to say, dramatically and possessively.

  “No, no, no,” he quickly said. “I didn’t say that. I’m just surprised you shared your mirror with me. You only ever use it for James.”

  Sirius looked taken aback. “Well, now I want to use it with you.”

  Remus felt a bit like he was glowing. He shouldn’t, but he did.

  “Padfoot!” James called. “Time to go!”

  Sirius and Remus looked over to see Mrs. and Mr. Potter waiting next to James for Sirius to join them. Not too far, Remus could see his own parents waiting, their heads swiveling as they tried to pick him out of the thinning crowd.

  “Well, see you next term, Moony!” Sirius said as he started dashing off. “Or maybe sooner—choice is yours!”

  And with that, he was whisked away by the Potters.

  ***

  Remus really had no complaints about his parents. They were loving, as doting as they could be. His home life was as average as it could get—his parents were neither rich nor poor. They were doting but did not spoil Remus. They were neither too strict nor too lax in their expectations and parenting methods. Remus was almost as average as average could get.

  He used to love being average; he used to fantasize about it. He used to crave it on a visceral level, knowing that his lycanthropy would forever mark him as one set apart; never able to blend in enough to truly be average, to be forgettable. He dreaded the day he’d leave Hogwarts and have to carve his own path. His illness would always follow him, the dark shadow he couldn’t be rid of. He’d have to hide it, which would be nearly impossible, for who could hide their shadow? He’d be jobless, penniless, and his parents would have neither the means nor a method to provide for him as he knew he’d require.

  He was cursed to be a burden.

  And by Merlin’s beard, how he had wished he could be average and normal. To be so bland as to be completely forgettable, the one who blends into a crowd and wasn’t noticed. He was good at pretending—he was quiet, some would say shy, and he didn’t know how to speak to people he didn’t know. He was so good at pretending that sometimes he forgot that he was trying to fit himself into a mold that was the wrong shape, too large in places and too small in others and never meant to be a match for him. Even so, he pushed and shoved and tried to reformat himself.

  And yet, there were times when he wanted not to be forgotten, but to be unforgettable.

  Remus traced the fine filigree on the handle of the hand mirror.

  “Sirius,” he whispered.

  He stared down at the mirror. He stared at his own reflection.

  “Sirius,” he said again, a little louder.

  And still it was his own eyes that stared back at him.

  Remus leaned back against the wall, letting his head come to rest against it. This was stupid—he was being stup—

  “Remus?”

  His heart lurched in his chest and this time, when he looked down, it was not his own face he saw, but Sirius’.

  “Remus?” Sirius said through a yawn, voice thick with sleep. “What’s up? Something wrong?”

  Remus blinked, trying to recollect what he had wanted to say. Slowly, he said, “No.”

  “No? Moony, you nearly gave me a heart attack. The mirror woke me up, and I thought—well, never mind that. You’re telling me you woke me up at—Merlin, what time is it? Tempus.”

  A short pause. Remus watched Sirius’ eyes flit away to read something that hovered out of view of the mirror.

  Sirius cursed. “It’s past two in the morning. And apparently nothing is wrong? You’re telling me this is when you like to have friendly chats now?”

  Remus felt rather silly very suddenly. His face heated. “You’re right. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

  “Back to— You’re joking.”

  Remus stayed quiet.

  “I’m already awake,” Sirius pointed out.

  Remus still remained silent.

  “Alright,” Sirius said through another yawn. “Let’s play a game.”

  “A… game?”

  “A guessing game. If I guess what’s wrong, you have to tell me.”

  “Who said—”

  But Sirius spoke over him. “Your parents said something.”

  Remus made a face. “That’s a very generic statement.”

  “Ah!” Sirius said victoriously. “But you didn’t say ‘no’.”

  Remus frowned. “I don’t like this game.”

  “So, your parents said…” Sirius drifted off and made dramatic thinking noises. A lot of hmms. Finally, he decided, “Your parents asked you what you’re going to do after Hogwarts?”

  Remus shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

  “Well, if I’m right, you have to tell me,” Sirius pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Remus muttered. “They asked me if I was looking into what kind of job I want after Hogwarts.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Remus asked peevishly. “What am I going to do?”

  Sirius gave him a questioning look. “About what?”

  “I’m a werewolf, Sirius,” Remus snapped. “There isn’t much for me after Hogwarts.”

  “That’s what you think?” Sirius asked, surprised.

  “That’s what I know,” Remus said miserably.

  There was a short pause, and Remus did not like it. It felt too serious and made him feel even more stupid for the whole thing.

  So, he blurted, “How did you even guess that? I mean, you’re not exactly…”

  Sirius looked affronted. “I’m excellent at guessing games!”

  Remus gave him a look that suggested otherwise.

  “And maybe Mr. and Mrs. Potter have been asking that nonstop since James and I got back here,” Sirius admitted. “And, I mean, we kind of just—you know—took N.E.W.T. level courses of things we were good at.”

  “Which is everything,” Remus added drily.

  “Exactly!” Sirius cried, like this was something to be mourned. “But we really don’t know what we want to do, you know? There’s so many options!”

  “No,” Remus said, just as drily. “I kind of have the opposite problem.”

  Sirius winced. “Oh, right.”

  There was that pause again.

  “Sirius,” Remus said, but drifted off, losing his nerve.

  He should’ve known Sirius wouldn’t let him off so easily, though. He never did. But this time, instead of pestering and prodding relentlessly, Sirius gave him an expectant look and remained quiet.

  The quiet stretched.

  Eventually, Remus finally muttered, “Are we… I mean—are we going to stay in touch… after?”

  “‘After’?” Sirius repeated, looking lost.

  “After—you know…” It seemed so very hard to voice his concern now.

  “Er, no, sorry,” Sirius said through a yawn. “You’ve lost me. After we take our N.E.W.T.s?”

  “Sort of,” Remus admitted. “I meant, after Hogwarts.”

  The silence didn’t seem awkward this time. Shocked was a more appropriate term, maybe.

  “Are you mad? Barking mad?” Sirius demanded sharply. “Are you saying the marauders are going to split after school?”

  “Er…”

  “Are you mad?” Sirius repeated, even angrier now. “You think you’re going to get tossed to the side just because we’re done with school? Like some kind of textbook we don’t need anymore?”

  Well, Remus hadn’t exactly thought of it in that exact analogy, but…

  “You are mad!” Sirius howled when Remus still didn’t answer. “You’re not the only one who has a cute, furry half he hides from the world!”

  “I’m a werewolf,” Remus reminded him petulantly. “Once people realize that, anyone who associates with me will—”

  “If you even dare use the expression ‘social outcast’…”

  Remus threw his hands up. “Is there another expression I should use instead?”

  “You do remember I was disowned, right?” Sirius asked wryly. “I’m not exactly in anyone’s social graces anymore, either.”

  “No, but—” He made a noise of frustration. “It’s not the same!”

  “I know it’s not the—”

  “Do you?” Remus snarled. “Do you, though? You and James are always joking about it, but you don’t actually know what kind of life I’m going to have once I leave Hogwarts—once I don’t have Dumbledore to smooth things over for me all the time, and people start to realize just what’s wrong with me!”

  Remus was breathing heavily by the time he finished, staring into the mirror at Sirius, who was regarding him with cool interest.

  “I may not know how people are going to react,” Sirius said coldly, “but I know that we’ll always be your friends. If people are afraid of you once they realize you have lycanthropy, it’s their loss. Anyone is lucky to have you. I’m honestly insulted that you would ever think James or I would ditch you once people start to realize you’re a werewolf.”

  Remus felt his cheeks go hot with a flush of shame and anger. He knew he should say something, but he had no idea what. Sirius, apparently, was waiting for a reply from Remus, having said all he was going to on the matter. The silence stretched between them, yet again.

  There was a knock at Remus’ bedroom door and he startled, jerking so hard on his bed, he nearly crashed on the floor.

  “Remus?” Sirius called from the mirror, concerned.

  Remus wordlessly held a finger to his lips in a plea for silence. He slid the mirror under his pillow and tiptoed to his bedroom door.

  “Remus, dear,” his mother said, looking disheveled from sleep. “Are you okay? I heard you yelling.”

  Remus cleared his throat. “Yeah, Mum, I was, er…”

  “Sweetheart, I know you like talking to Sirius. You’re always going on about him. But it’s the middle of the night. Surely, you two can chat when the sun comes up? It isn’t as though he’s a vampire.”

  “How do you know I’m talking to Sirius?” Remus asked defensively, forgetting for the moment to feel abashed at having been caught.

  His mother’s gaze was piercing. “Remus, I’m not blind. Or deaf.”

  Remus felt himself go very hot, very fast. He spluttered helplessly. “But I— It’s not— I don’t know why you—”

  His mother stifled a yawn. “We can talk about that tomorrow, sweetheart. And you can talk to Sirius tomorrow, too. Go to bed. Please. You’re keeping us up.”

  Remus did feel very abashed and nodded wordlessly, obediently. He let his mother kiss his cheek goodnight before they parted ways. He was careful to close his door as quietly as possible.

  His first panicked thought was: Had Sirius heard any of that?

  Hopefully the pillow muffled his conversation with his mum. Hopefully he—

  But when he pulled the mirror out and checked its surface, it showed a lopsided view of the bottom half of Sirius’ face, his neck, and part of his chest. And the only sounds Remus could make out were Sirius’ soft snores.

  Sirius had fallen asleep.

  And he hadn’t even bothered to close the connection between the mirrors. He’d tried to wait up for Remus.

  “Good night, Sirius,” Remus whispered, smiling, and closed the connection between their mirrors.

  He felt very buoyant and very happy as he drifted to sleep.

  ***

  His mother did not forget her passing comment about discussing Sirius the next day.

  “I don’t want to pry, but every mum wants to know about who her son fancies,” she said once his dad had left for work. “So I want you to tell me about the boy you stayed up late to talk to.”

  Remus wanted to die.

  Remus thought his face was going to catch fire.

  And Remus wanted to die.

  He wondered if maybe he could convince his face to catch fire. So that he could die.

  Remus made a pained noise as he put his fork down on his plate, completely giving up the notion of eating his fried eggs.

  “I know it was Sirius you were talking to last night,” his mother continued, her tone gentle but insistent, and Remus understood that she was trying to express that she wasn’t judging his apparent romantic interest, but she wasn’t going to let the topic drop very easily, either.

  Remus made another noise of distress.

  His mother remained quiet as she bustled around the kitchen, preparing her own eggs and toast. It wasn’t until she sat down across from Remus and gave him a searching look that he remembered that she was a very patient and calculated creature. And could be persistent on a level that made James’ pursuit of Lily look like child’s play.

  Remus dared not look up to meet his mother’s gaze, staring down at his plate as he mechanically shoveled bite after bite of his breakfast into his mouth. If there was one conversation he didn’t want to have with his mother, it was one in which he corrected his mother’s misconceptions about his feelings towards Sirius, and told her that he had actually been up late last night—more and more nights, recently, if he was being honest—to angst over his future and how he would never have a life as a werewolf.

  After several more painful moments of silence, she said, very casually, “You don’t have a fireplace in your room.”

  It seemed an odd thing to mention.

  “No,” Remus agreed slowly, feeling like he was prodding at a volatile dung bomb.

  “I was just wondering, then,” his mother continued, in that same casual tone, “how you were talking to Sirius without using the floo network. I heard his voice, so I know it was him.”

  “He has… another way to communicate,” Remus admitted reluctantly.

  “I haven’t heard of another way.”

  “It’s—mirrors. He has these… two-way mirrors.”

  “And he gave you one?”

  “Yeah,” Remus answered, and then he realized that the whole situation could’ve easily been misconstrued without knowing the details.

  But he did not want to say, He and James made them to talk during detentions.

  He did not want to tell her, They were never meant for me to use.

  He did not want to point out, Sirius is better friends with James.

  He did not want to admit, Sirius just felt bad for me for some reason.

  While it was all the truth, it stung to even think about, let alone speak aloud. And to his mother, of all people.

  His mother finished her eggs and toast and pushed her plate away. “Remus,” she said in her no-nonsense way. “I love you. Very much. I don’t care who you fancy. I just wish you’d at least tell me who it is.”

  Remus’ face flushed hot again. “I don’t fancy Sirius.”

  His mother’s gaze was equally calculating and curious. Remus pushed his plate away and refused to meet her eyes.

  “Okay,” she finally said.

  And with that, she stood, gathered the plates, and took them to the sink.

  Remus jumped to his feet to help, pulling his wand out. “Mum, I can get—”

  She waved the rest of his sentence away. “Magic isn’t the only way to get things done. I got by without it for quite some time before I married your father.”

  It was true that his mother never complained about her lack of magic in a household with two wizards, and often dismissed them when Remus and his father offered to help ease her daily chores with a flick of a wand. But still, Remus always felt a twinge of guilt watching her and not offering.

  When she was finished, she dried her hands on a towel and walked over to where he stood. She reached up and gently took hold of his face, guiding his head down so she could kiss the top of it. He was a head taller than her, he realized, and wondered just when that had happened. And when the threads of silver in her hair had become so numerous.

  It was painful, this reminder that his mother was aging. Her face had always seemed so young in his memories, but now he could see the lines that bracketed her mouth.

  “You know,” she said, releasing him, “it took me three years to realize I fancied your dad.”

  And with that, she left. Remus blinked after her.

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

bachelor 2

Jo was in a great mood.

  He didn’t fail his multivariable Calculus test, as he had thought he had. He had actually made top marks, and the professor had pulled him aside after class to compliment him for being the best in the class. Considering how he had doubted the usefulness of anything multivariable, regardless of the branch of mathematics, he had been left in a wonderful mood.

  He was skipping to his part time job—the one he got specifically to chat with Markus, as Markus had already worked there when Jo applied. Markus never seemed to appreciate these little, thoughtful things Jo did for Markus.

  “Oh, God. What are you doing here?” had been the first thing Markus had asked him on his first day, and Jo had only been momentarily crestfallen before remembering that Markus was too stinking pessimistic to be taken seriously.

  And so, he continued to work alongside his pessimistic friend, armed with nothing but a smile and some (okay, admittedly bad) jokes and puns to try to cheer his gloomy friend up.

  His friend needed some cheering up.

  Seriously.

  And with his good mood and smile, Jo was practically skipping to work.

  As such, he nearly missed the insistent vibrating in his pocket. But he managed to pick up before the call went to voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. This is Samantha Mumford. Am I speaking to Markus Moreno?”

  “Well, yes, it is!” Jo enthused.

  “Hello, Markus,” Samantha greeted warmly. “You can call me Sam. I work on the recruiting team of The Bachelor. I wanted to tell you that we have reviewed your application, and we are pleased to inform you that we would like to proceed with further screenings. Are you still interested in being a candidate?”

  “You can bet your tooshie, I am!” Jo enthused again.

  “Excellent. We’ll email you your next set of instructions and some more paperwork for you to fill out to the email provided. As a final applicant for the show, we’re going to ask that you complete a medical examination and have your doctor fax over the medical sheet we will email to you. Our fax information can be found on the medical sheet. Once that’s completed, we will contact you about travel and hotel reservations. Does that sound alright to you?”

  “Right as rain!” Jo enthused, yet again.

  “Excellent. We hope to hear again from you soon. Have a good day, Markus.”

  “You too, Sam!”

  There was a click, and the call disconnected.

  Jo was in a seriously good mood. He wasn’t sure that Markus would understand just why Jo had—

  His phone was vibrating again.

  Jo pulled it out, accepted the call, and greeted the person (so cheerfully that he barely recognized his own voice), “Hello?”

  “Hello. My name is Samantha Mumford. Is this Jonah Atten?”

  “Why, yes, it is!” Jo enthused, feeling over the moon. He was so elated that the name the woman gave sounded familiar. He was on cloud nine. He could not wait to tell Markus—

  But wait. He had to finish this phone call and run (read: skip) to work first.

  “Well, Mr. Atten, you can call me Sam. I work with the recruiting team on The Bachelor. I wanted to tell you that we have reviewed your application for the show, and we are pleased to inform you that we would like to proceed with further screenings. Are you still interested in being a candidate?”

  Jo wasn’t sure what was better or higher than cloud nine. Cloud ten? That was where he was right now.

  “You can bet your tooshie, I am!” Jo nearly hollered into his phone, a smile nearly splitting his face in two.

  “Excellent. I’m so happy to hear you’re still interested,” Sam said. “We’ll email you your next set of instructions and some more paperwork for you to fill out to the email provided. As a final applicant for the show, we’re going to ask that you complete a medical examination and have your doctor fax over the medical sheet we will email to you. Our fax information can be found on the medical sheet. Once that’s completed, we will contact you about travel and hotel reservations. Does that sound alright to you?”

  “Right as rain!” Jo assured her.

  “Wonderful,” Sam said. “We hope to hear from you again soon. Have a good day, Jonah.”

  “You do the same, Sam!”

  The line disconnected and Jo could practically feel his body vibrating with energy. He pocketed his phone again, ready to dash off at a sprint that would leave even a gold-medalist in the Olympics feeling particularly jealous. But before he could even start, his phone buzzed again.

  Humming a happy tune to himself, Jo pulled his phone out and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hello. My name is Samantha Mumford. Is this Felix Mao?”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t,” Jo told her apologetically.

  He heard some clicking noises, like perhaps like Sam was double checking something in her system. Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry. Your number is one digit different from his. I apologize again for the confusion. Have a good day!”

  “You too, Sam!” Jo told her, and hung up.

  He once more placed his phone in his pocket and dashed to work.

  Markus was going to be so excited.

  ***

  Markus was doing a good job at decidedly not being excited.

  “You did what?”

  Jo tried not to pout. “You did it, too, though.”

  “I entered your name because I thought it would—I don’t know!” Markus burst out, glaring at the cappuccino he was frothing.

  “You entered my name because you’re a good friend,” Jo supplied.

  Markus glowered at him. “I entered your name because I thought it was funny at the time.”

  “And I entered yours because I think Adam is a cute guy who might be good for you,” Jo returned.

  Markus placed a lid on the cappuccino, turned towards the waiting area, called the name on the side of the cup, and handed it over before whirling on Jo again. “You don’t know him.”

  “I know he’s cute,” Jo retorted.

  Markus’ expression was doubly dubious.

  “I’m a good friend who’s looking out for a friend,” Jo promised, making an x shape over his heart. “Promise.”

  “I’m not doing it,” Markus said.

  Jo frowned. “I told them I would. That you would.”

  “Call them back,” Markus grumbled, adding more ground beans to the expresso maker. “Tell them I’m not. And help me get through these orders! Stop slacking!”

  Jo sighed melodramatically before complying, like the good friend he was.

  He knew Markus deserved a chance like this, and he would make sure Markus took advantage of it.

  ***

  Markus deserved nothing, on hindsight.

  “What did you do?!” Jo roared. No matter what he did, he could not control his cursor—not really. After he powered on his laptop (a feat that Markus had marveled at for some reason) and tried to open his Internet browser, the only thing that it did was load tab after tab of porn.

  So much porn.

  “Markus?” he snarled. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Markus quipped. “I just used your laptop to submit your application! And how did you turn that on, anyway?”

  Jo scowled at his friend, momentarily confused. “I pressed the power button?”

  “Where?” Markus demanded, hotly.

  “This,” Jo said, gesturing to the alien head button.

  Markus eyed it balefully. “Traitor,” he hissed. “I asked you for help.”

  Jo was so baffled he was almost distracted from the problem at hand. But a quick glance at his laptop reminded him just what that problem was. “What did you do? What did you open?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Markus shot back, his face flushing with irritation. “I submitted your application. And checked your email.”

  Jo glanced at him. “What do you mean, ‘checked’?”

  “Well.” Markus huffed indignantly. “I couldn’t remember your email address at first. So I opened it.”

  Markus paused and Jo looked at him as if to say, oh, no, please continue.

  “Well, I opened an email by accident. I didn’t think it mattered though,” Markus added hastily. “I clicked that ‘mark as unread’ button so you’d still see it.”

  Jo squinted thoughtfully at Markus. “Was there a link in the email?”

  Markus looked suspicious. “How did you know that?”

  Now it was Jo who looked suspicious. “Did you click it?”

  Markus’ frown deepened.

  “Did you?” Jo pressed.

  “Not on purpose,” Markus admitted petulantly. “Your touchpad is sensitive.”

  Jo gave a long-suffering sigh.

  Markus eyed him.

  “You gave me a Trojan virus,” Jo explained. “One that keeps making tabs open on my internet browser and sending me to this nifty.com website.”

  Markus looked confused. “But I didn’t—”

  “I know,” Jo cut him off with a sigh. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

  He contemplated how he wanted to attack this problem. But before he thought very far, Markus said, in a quiet, small voice, “Is it fixable?”

  Jo looked over at him, surprised.

  “Do I need to get you a new laptop?” Markus asked, looking guilty now.

  Jo studied him.

  And apparently Jo’s lack of reply made Markus even more nervous, because he babbled on, “I don’t know how long it will take, but I can save up some money and—”

  And just like that, Jo had an idea.

  It was terrible.

  It was wonderful.

  “Just swallow your pride and go on The Bachelor,” Jo told him.

  Markus stared at him for a long beat. Then, “Do they give contestants a laptop or something?”

  That honesty hadn’t been the angle Jo had been going for—he meant it more as “we’ll forget this ever happened if you go on the show”—but he found that this worked even better.

  Without confirming or denying, Jo said, “So you’re going on the show, right?”

  He added his most serious bitch face to express the severity of the situation.

  Markus wilted a little. Jo galvanized his defenses and did not crumble to the piteous look.

  “Fine,” Markus muttered.

  Jo smiled.

  So easy. That had been so easy.

  (In hindsight, he should’ve realized nothing was that easy.)

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

bachelor 1

Rigging was so damn hard to twist together.

 It didn’t help that his hands were trembling. Probably trembling. Maybe not. No, had to be. It was downright impossible to twist the threads around one another, like trying to push a thread through a needle with no eye.

 But then, finally—finally—the threads twisted around each other, and the USS Voyager had another rung on its rope ladder.

 Buoyant, overjoyed, he grabbed the next thread and began repeating his ministra—

 The door opened. Although, opened was such a gentle word. It implied that all one heard was the click of the handle sliding the lock out of place. It did not imply a great, echoing thud.

 Markus started, jerking violently, his hand catching on his half-finished rigging and—

 There was a thud.

There was a crash.

There was a bang.

 Markus stared down at the floor at his fallen model, his eyes raking across it, inspecting for damage. That was the crash.

 The person who had entered the room—with the aforementioned thud of the door smashing off the wall—ran through the room with such exuberant excitement that he smashed into the table Markus had been working at. The force of the crash jostled the box that Markus had been using to store the yet-unused parts of his model ship and he watched as it tumbled end-over-end.

 The grand finale: the bang as it crashed down, spilling its contents everywhere.

 Markus looked at the remnants of his several hours’ work. He looked at the intruder, who looked incredibly excited and not at all apologetic, or even like he understood that he had done anything that required an apology.

 It was then that Markus realized the intruder was speaking.

 “Jo,” Markus said, mildly irritated, holding up a hand as he got to his feet. “Hang on.”

 “Oh?” the intruder, Jo, said, peering over Markus’ work station. “Did I do that?”

 “It’s fine,” Markus muttered, picking through several pieces and trying to decide if any had been damaged.

 “It was a crash landing,” Jo commented, and then snorted with a small fit of giggles. “Get it? Crash landing?”

 Markus supposed he did, though he wasn’t sure the pun was fitting.

 “This isn’t a model of that flying ship, though,” Markus explained, dropping various bits that he had deemed whole. He wasn’t actually sure if they were since they were too small to properly assess for damage, but he figured he’d cross that bridge when he tried to piece them together and they no longer fit due to chips or broken edges.

 “This isn’t the one from that star show?” Jo queried, looking disappointed.

 Markus held up what he had assembled so far of the ship.

 Jo looked at it petulantly, like it had personally offended him with its existence. Which it had, in a way, Markus supposed.

 “What is ­that?” Jo asked, his disgust apparent in his tone.

 “A model ship,” Markus told him, still irritated. “I just told you.”

 “It’s so… boring. You really put that together?” Jo moved around the table to peer at the half-built ship critically. More accurately, it was moreso quarter-built now, as several pieces had fallen off.

 And the rigging had come undone.

 “You broke it,” Markus accused, poking at the threads that were swaying uselessly and loosely.

 Jo made a dismissive hand gesture, the conversation about model ships apparently too long for his short attention span. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just a boat.”

 Markus was offended. “It’s a ship.”

 “It’s boring,” Jo pointed out.

 “A battle ship.”

 “Still boring.”

 “A battle ship for war.”

 And still, Jo looked very unimpressed. “You don’t even know anything about ships, so why the interest in putting one together?”

 Markus made an insulted, scoffing noise. “There are cannon holes,” he reminded Jo, gesturing to the tiny gaps in the woodwork of the small ship.

 Jo squinted at him, dubiously. “Pretty sure those have a name.”

 Markus looked down at the ship again. “Yeah, cannon holes.”

 “They’re called gunports,” Jo said, matter-of-fact.

 Markus’ gaze snapped back up to his friend. “How… how do you know that?”

 Jo winked and pocketed his phone.

 Markus gave him a sour look and opened his mouth to protest and demand an answer, but Jo laid a hand over Markus’ mouth, effectively silencing him.

 “Anyway, I told you, didn’t I?” Jo asked, his eyes alight with mischief. Markus didn’t like that expression. Too often it led to foul play and shenanigans that Markus had been forcefully dragged through.

 “Told me what?” he asked, but with Jo’s hand over his mouth, it was too muffled to make out the words.

 “Oh, hush,” Jo told him kindly. “And tell me what you think.”

 “About what?” Markus tried to demand, but again his words came out too muffled to be understood.

 “Well?” Jo pressed.

 Markus glared at him. His eyes flicked down to glare at Jo’s hand, making him go cross-eyed for a second. Then, he glared up at Jo again.

 “Oh, right. When I take my hand away, promise you’ll stay quiet?”

 Jo seemed to take Markus’ glare as a yes and he removed his hand. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Jo made an impatient noise. “Well? What do you think?”

 “I’m sorry,” Markus retorted. “I thought I was supposed to stay quiet?”

 “Oh, I meant about the”—he gestured at the ship, still held in Markus’ hand—“but obviously, I want to hear your thoughts on it!”

 “Thoughts on what?” Markus cried, thoroughly exasperated now.

 “Adam!”

 Markus stared quizzically at Jo, trying to recall their last several conversations. Had they discussed an Adam? Markus didn’t think he knew an Adam. He didn’t think Jo knew an Adam, either. Or, actually, it was possible that this “Adam” was a thing and not a person. Had Jo purchased another wig recently and named it? Markus wouldn’t put that past Jo.

 “Well?” Jo prompted, making an impatient hand gesture.

 “What the hell is an Adam?” Markus asked wearily, wary of the answer.

 “Did you— Were you not— But I—” Jo made several useless gestures, as though he were trying to mime out his thoughts. Then he let out a frustrated growl. “Don’t you listen to me?”

 “Too often for my own good!” Markus shot back. He settled himself back at his table and gently laid the ship down.

 Jo shoved the ship to the side, despite Markus’ cry of protest, and laid his phone down in front of Markus.

 “What are you—”

 “Just watch!” Jo snapped, pressing play on some sort of video.

 Markus watched. He felt deeply disturbed as he did so, but he did watch.

 The video opened with a close in of two doors opening. They were fancy, and white gloved hands had reached for the handles. The view changed to one of—a restaurant? Markus could only assume that was what it was. There was a long table with old fashioned candelabras, silverware, and empty wine glasses.

 Adam, then, was a restaurant? Markus had never taken Jo as a food connoisseur, but he supposed there were worse things.

 The view panned across the faces of several well put together women. Hair perfectly curled and pinned in elegant twists, faces done up in stylish and elaborate makeup. They looked like the rich and wealthy about to enjoy a meal that was well beyond what Markus’ financial budget could allow.

 A waiter entered the room, and the women—geez, there had to be at least twenty of them, all perfectly coiffed and pressed—turned their heads in unison to watch the waiter hungrily. They looked almost terrifying, like they were so ravenous as to be beyond their senses and were about to maul the man in style befitting flesh-hungry zombies.

 But the waiter did not stop next to any one of the women. Instead, he pulled out a chair—the quick camera angle showed Markus it was the only one that hadn’t been occupied at the large table—and used it as a step to haul himself onto the table.

 Just what sort of restaurant was this? Markus felt very certain that was a health code violation. The man could’ve worn towels drenched in bleach on his feet and it would have still been unhygienic to walk across a table the way this guy was—except now he was crawling.

 What was this commercial even advertising? Bizarre behavior in the rich? Was this how everyone ate in fancy restaurants? Waiters crawling across the table to serve food?

 The waiter-not-waiter finally settled himself down on his rear, legs kicked out in front of him. This was shown again and again from several angles. There was even a close up of his face and Markus could see the smirk that twisted his lips, and how he used a finger to quickly flick a stray strand of blond hair from his face as he looked up into one of the various cameras.

 The man threw his head back, his posture the epitome of relaxed and unconcerned—one leg out straight in front of him, the other bent so he could rest an arm on it. The camera moved further away, allowing Markus to see how the gaggle of women were staring at the man, transfixed, as though they had never seen anything like him before, either.

 Markus had to admit they were on to something. He’d be looking at his waiter much the same way if he ever saw something like that.

 The view closed in to show the waiter pulling a cloth out of his pocket, whipping it away from him with a flourish. He offered it to—Markus supposed it was the closest woman, though the camera angle did not show who was receiving the napkin. Instead, the camera angle made it appear as though he were offering it to the viewer with a devilish smile.

 The waiter said, “Are you ready for the first course?”

 It slammed into Markus hard and fast that this was some sort of sexual commercial and he gagged, just as hard and fast, an instinctual retching at such a terrible, corny, degrading display.

 The camera angle changed again so that Markus could see the entire table, and how the man was sitting in the very center of it. The view jumped, like it had glitched, and for just a second, the waiter was no longer dressed in a black tail coat and trousers, but wore an elaborate cape, a scepter in his hand, a crown upon his head. The ladies were now all dressed in vintage style clothing, petticoats, small fascinator headpieces pinned in their hair, lacy gloves upon their arms and hands.

 A court of ladies worshipping their prince.

 “The Bachelor,” a calm, bodiless voice said serenely, like this display was utterly commonplace. “Featuring Hunter—applications now being accepted.”

 Markus was still trying to calm his gag reflex and remind his stomach he hadn’t eaten lunch that day, so it was useless to vomit—there was nothing to come up.

 “That was terrible,” Markus finally managed to croak.

 “That wasn’t the right one,” Jo said, looking confused. “That’s the ad for the other bachelor. There’s two this time. They’re going to—oh, it’s loading the next one. I think this is the one I wanted to show you.”

 “Please don’t make—”

 “Shush,” Jo commanded, going so far as to make sure the volume on his phone was as high as it could go.

 Markus looked back down at the phone, his expression sour.

 He was not going to like this.

 The video opened by flashing through a series of images, all featuring a sandy haired guy. First, he was in a suit, lacing a tie around his neck. Next, he was in shorts and a loose tee shirt, bouncing a soccer ball from knee to knee. Then, he was in a fancy suit again, running his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out. And then, he was in a tee shirt and shorts again, running through some sort of area with trees, his skin moist with sweat. Finally, the sandy haired guy was shown in his suit again. He was apparently done getting ready, as he did a dramatic twirl to show the audience his finished look. Once he was done, he smiled in a way that Markus thought was meant to be charming.

 “If you’re looking for an all-American boy,” that same calm, bodiless voice intoned. Instead of speaking only for a dramatic conclusion, this time the voice narrated as more shots of the sandy haired guy played.

 The bodiless voice continued, “Are you ever in for a treat with this bachelor.”

 The scene changed to the sandy-haired guy, sitting in a room, a game controller in his hands, clicking away at its buttons.

 “Staying in bed all day is my way of saving money,” a bodiless voice said, a male voice this time. Markus figured it belonged to the sandy haired guy. “Or just staying home, in general. I can play video games all day, sometimes. Or watch movies. I’m also told I make an outstanding cuddler.”

 The scene changed to the sandy haired guy lounging across a sofa, a bowl of popcorn and a drink nearby. He laughed at something—probably a TV that was out of view of the audience—and tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

 “But don’t be fooled by that,” the female bodiless voice said. “Because this bachelor is more than a couch potato.”

 “I like to exercise. I prefer to go running, or surfing, or anything that involves being outside,” the male bodiless voice said.

 More short scenes of the sandy haired guy doing things outdoors. Kicking a soccer ball. Swimming in some large body of water. Walking across an expanse of sand, shirtless and in swim trunks, a surfboard under one arm.

 “Thanks!” the sandy hair guy called to the person recording him. “I woke up like this!”

 As if to emphasize just what he meant, so there could be no confusion on the matter, Adam shifted his surf board so he could flex his arms, allowing the muscles across his arms to ripple, and the ones on his exposed stomach to tighten.

 Markus made a noise of disgust.

 “More than just a pretty face, this bachelor is everyone’s dream boyfriend,” the bodiless female voice assured the audience.

 Markus severely doubted that. Especially as he watched several more clips of a shirtless guy saunter around for the camera.

 “Quick to laugh at everything you say and encourage you whenever possible, and perhaps also to show off those perfect teeth,” the female voice said.

 The camera was suddenly very, very close to a grinning mouth, teeth exposed.

 This wasn’t real. There was no way. Markus refused to believe this was serious—were they advertising a show or a specific dentist?

 “Even men as straight as his teeth find him gorgeous,” the female voice continued as the camera slowly panned out from the sandy haired man’s face, showing his once-again shirtless chest. “If you’re looking for a loyal partner, look no further than Adam.”

 Markus shot Jo a disbelieving look. This was Adam? This was what Jo thought would somehow interest Markus? He’d never been so disappointed in his best friend in his entire life. Markus had thought that even Jo had standards.

 “It’s not easy being me,” Adam said from the video on the phone, “which is why I need you.”

 “That doesn’t even make sense,” Markus hissed derisively under his breath, at the same time the bodiless voice said:

 “Now accepting applications.”

 Markus made a rude noise of distaste.

 “And? So?” Jo prompted as soon as the video stopped playing.

 “And so what?” Markus demanded, still feeling more than a little revolted.

 “You don’t think he’s cute?”

 Markus shot Jo a look that suggested he was concerned for his friend’s mental health.

 “I’m serious!” Jo defended.

 Markus’ look grew in alarmed intensity.

 “Well, I am!” Jo snapped, face flushing in exasperated irritation.

 Markus wondered if a good friend would report to some sort of hospital when they suspected a dear friend was suffering from a mental break down.

 “You’re crazy,” Markus said, pushing Jo’s phone away.

 “No, you’re crazy!” Jo shot back, putting his hands on his hips. “Adam is great! Did you see those teeth?”

 “Oh,” Markus said, “trust me, I can’t unsee them.”

 Jo beamed. “They’re great, right?”

 Markus had nothing to say on that matter. Somehow, Jo took that as an acquiesce to the question.

 “And his muscles?” Jo added, eyebrows waggling.

 “Can’t unsee those either,” Markus muttered.

 Jo’s eyebrows waggled faster.

 “Stop that,” Markus instructed, disturbed.

 “Stop what?” Jo asked, his eyebrows almost a blur. “Stop fawning over a hot man when I’m a straight guy?”

 Markus snorted.

 “What?” Jo’s eyebrows were still doing things.

 “You’re as straight as a slinky,” Markus pointed out.

 “I’m as straight as a slinky for Adam,” Jo corrected, changing things up and lifting one eyebrow at a time in some sort of odd dance. “You gotta admit, the guy’s got a lot going for him. Excellent boyfriend material, right?”

 “Oh, yeah,” Markus agreed drily, turning his attention back to his model ship.

 “Knew you’d see things my way,” Jo said cheerfully, his eyebrows still doing strange things.

 “Will you stop that?”

 Somehow, Jo winked while maintaining his eyebrow dance.

 Markus made a disturbed face and Jo laughed as he dashed out of the room in the same whirlwind fashion that he had entered.

 Markus resumed poking at his rigging, the threads still broken and useless. He could tie them together, but he wasn’t sure it would have the same majestic appearance. Somehow, a battle ship with a jerry-rigged rope ladder didn’t seem like it would inspire the same amount of terror and intimidation in enemy ships as a fresh, sleek, well put together ship.

 He sighed. Like it actually mattered. He was building a model ship, not piecing together some kind of craft of war.

 Except it did matter.

 And all over Adam. Some useless guy who was going to get paid to work his way through a harem on a tv show. Somehow, Jo liked that. Somehow, Jo would love to—

 The idea hit him suddenly.

 Markus had never been one for devious schemes, but his lips were tilted in crooked smile as he left the confines of his room and toed down the hall to Jo’s bedroom. A quick peek through the cracked door told him Jo was somewhere else in the apartment, and Markus slipped in.

 The laptop was sitting, open, on Jo’s desk. And really, it was too easy.

 Markus crept over to it. And then, he paused.

 Alright, this should have been easy.

 The laptop was open, but the screen was dark. Was it turned off?

 He examined the keyboard for a power button, but found that he did not see a power button. The symbol should have been on one of the keys.

 Markus made a face and scanned his selection. All he saw was a standard keyboard, with letters, numbers, and f keys. There was shift, backspace, tab, caps lock, and all the other options he usually saw on a keyboard.

 With the exception of a power key.

 What the hell.

 Markus stared harder at the laptop, wondering if he could use sheer force of will to make the power button glow or tap dance or do something to stand out.

 Alienware was printed at the bottom of the screen. Markus agreed fervently that the laptop was made by some sort of aliens. How the hell else was he supposed to turn this thing on? With the power of his mind?

 Or… Markus hoped not. He knew Bluetooth connections were getting fancy, but he was pretty sure that there was yet to be technology controlled by thoughts via Bluetooth. Jo had shown him some videos on his phone of TED talks on potential prototype technology that could do just that, though, but those had just been prototypes, right?

 Markus sighed. There was a little decorative alien on the laptop, above the keyboard. It looked like the stereotypical alien head—big, round skull with no hair and dramatically almond-shaped eyes.

 “What do I do?” he asked the tiny alien head.

 It did not answer.

 His plan was up in smoke before he had even really begun.

 With a frustrated noise, Markus pecked at several keys on the keyboard.

 Miraculously, the laptop’s screen blinked to life.

 He blinked it at. It was bright in the otherwise dim room. Had the laptop only been in sleep mode, then?

 He was too relieved to question it. He was pretty sure this laptop didn’t have a power button, so he supposed it made sense that Jo only kept it in sleep mode. Markus knew that if it were his laptop—not that Markus ever planned on owning a laptop—he would be sure to get one that had a power button. Not some faulty, alien-made piece of junk that could only ever be left in sleep mode.

 It was also a good thing that Jo had apparently set his laptop to either not require a password, or to not require a password after exiting sleep mode.

 Alienware was now illuminated in orange lights. The alien head was glowing blue.

 It was pretty, Markus supposed, but useless.

 “Thanks for the help,” he muttered sarcastically to the blue-glowing alien head.

 Hastily, Markus opened the internet, went to the search browser, and carefully finger-pecked in his query.

 He had to admit, this laptop was a little hard to use. Not because of its lack of a power button—though that, certainly, would make any laptop difficult to use—but because the keyboard was glowing. It was blue, and then it was orange. The color rippled in streams across the LED lights under the keys. First it was blue, and then orange flooded across the keyboard, only to be replaced by blue again.

 It was fascinating, and distracting. It was like watching a color-changing lava lamp.

 Markus had to focus on the task at hand.

 It was surprisingly easy to find the application.

 Figures it was equally hard to parse out what the application wanted, or how to submit said information.

 “Are you…?” the first question asked, with dropdown options for “nominating yourself” or “nominating someone else.”

 Markus felt a bead of sweat build on his temple. These people would try to communicate with him if he nominated someone else, right?

 He clicked the “nominating yourself” option.

 There was a short period where the application seemed like it would be full of easy questions with easy answer. First name, last name, date of birth, height.

 Then, there was a textbox labelled “weight.”

 He took a moment to wonder if the show was so shallow as to ignore applicants over a certain weight before he took his best guess and typed it in.

 “Do you have any children?” “Have you been married before?”

 Markus again wondered if children or previous marriages were something that were not allowed in these harems. No strings-attached sex only, please.

 With a disgusted noise, he selected the “no” option for both. Things were easy again for a while. He typed in a phone number, email, and home address information.

 Then, he came to optional portions of the application. He had the option to submit a Facebook or Instagram handle.

 Those were not terms Markus had heard before. He had heard of Facebook and Instagram, of course—Jo was obsessed with them, constantly waving around his phone so Markus could watch a video or admire a photo. But handle?

 For a moment, he had a mental image of someone who owned multiple laptops. This someone placed a laptop on a desk in a small closet upon a small table. Each of these laptops were programmed to only open a certain social media site. Should the someone want to access Facebook, they would go to the closet with the Facebook-designated laptop. Perhaps the handle on the closet even said “Facebook.” Or maybe, in this modern and artsy world, that someone had decorated the handle so that it was instantly recognizable as a certain social media. Perhaps a modern rendition of their username, or profile picture.

 Markus did not think this was actually what the application was asking for. Or, he fervently hoped it wasn’t. He was not about to paint the handles on closet doors just to snap a picture and submit it.

 And since those were optional pieces of the application, he skipped them, no door handle painting involved.

 The last part was to upload an image of the applicant. Markus gave a long-suffering sigh and clicked “choose file.” He hoped that there was something on here he could use to—

 There was only one image currently on the laptop.

 It was Jo, in hotpants, go-go boots, and a form-fitting shirt, posing with his fingers curled around his hair, showing off a wig when it was assumedly new. There was glitter falling down around him, and Markus did not know how Jo managed to find somewhere that rained glitter, but was not surprised that Jo had managed it.

 And since it was the only option, Markus clicked it and hit “submit” on the application.