Archive of Our Own

I never got used to missing Chris. 

It started to happen when we entered high school, I guess. That’s when Chris really buckled down. Not just in school. In everything. He’d gotten into the college courses with me our second year of junior high. I’d helped him study, reassuring him that they’d let him in because I knew they would. And they did, and then I helped him every day from then on. I checked over every word of every essay, recited mathematical formulas and historical timelines until I was blue in the face. And he just watched me with that expression that was far too serious, far too mature and old for a boy his age. And he learned. 

And then as we got older and Chris got better, the idea of college became a real possibility for us. It was more scary than it was exciting, for me at least. But I knew I needed to do this for Chris, and so we did. 

We used to meet up in the school library on days when Chris couldn’t sneak into my room. We sat at the same table every time. As soon as class was over, he’d drop into the chair across from me, cursing at a vocabulary list or math problem set I laid out in front of him. But he always showed up. 

Chris was smart. Real smart. Smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for. Smarter than he gave himself credit for. Once you got him talking, really talking, he absolutely lit up. I used to just sit back and watch it happen. I’d pretend I was still working on my own stuff, but most of the time I was listening, scribbling something fake down into the leather-bound notebook Chris had saved up to get me for my 16th birthday, and even then my stomach was turning with something I didn’t have a name for yet. 

Sometimes we’d sneak out to the football field when the sun was setting. We’d lay on the fifty-yard line and pass a single cigarette between us, even though Chris always smoked more of it than I did. We’d look up at the sky and I’d try to answer one of his many impossible questions. Do you think people are born bad? If your life ends up being nothing, does it count if you still tried? What does it mean to be in love? I mean, really in love?

I never gave him a good answer. I trusted Chris more than anyone, but I couldn’t shoot straight on that with him then. 

When we started applying to college, I wrote down what our options were. Which schools had the best programs for law and for writing, and how much they would cost. I explained all this to Chris one day as we laid side-by-side in my bed, and Chris kept shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was real and something he had to think about now. He told me that people like him didn’t get to go to college.

But by that time, I knew he didn’t really believe that anymore. He was doing well in school. He wasn’t the top of the class, but he was in the top third of all the students in our grade. And he was putting in too much work to believe that. He carried around dog-eared books then, and he regularly pulled all-nighters rewriting essays. He knew he was doing everything he could do. Everything he needed to do. 

In our Junior year, we filled out the college application forms at my kitchen table. My mom puttered around the kitchen, fixing us up bologna sandwiches in her far-off, lackadaisical, comatose kind of way. Chris swore under his breath every time a question was asked about parents’ occupations and alma maters. I helped him word things in a way that sounded good without sounding fake. 

I watched him sweat as I proofread his essay for the sixth time. It was good. It was more than good. 

I still remember the day the letters came. 

His envelope was thicker than mine. I don’t know why that stands out to me to this day. Maybe it was the way he turned it over in his hand before tearing it open, like it was almost heavy. He tried to look calm as he tore it open, not letting himself get too excited. His eyes skimmed the page. Then he blinked. Then he said, in the smallest voice I’d ever heard, “I got in.” 

It felt like the whole world had tilted under my feet. “You got in,” I echoed, just as quiet. I grabbed the letter from him and scanned it. Full scholarship, pre-law program, one of the top schools in the tri-state. They wanted him. 

Chris was shaking like I’d never seen. He kept repeating it like a wish, like he was scared he’d disappear if he didn’t hold onto it with everything inside him. 

And then we were hugging and I was crying and I held him with every ounce of emotions that had flooded me from the day I started watching him claw his way out of his shitty life. 

My letter came a week later. Creative writing program, and I’d gotten a scholarship, too. A different school. A different state. And Chris was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt, and I was trying to keep myself from getting sick. 

We never talked about going to different places. Not directly, at least. We joked around, but for me, at least, my laughs felt hollow. 

The last summer before college passed in fragments. Bonfires. Long drives to nowhere. Sharing cigarettes by the lake. Silence. A lot of silence. I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t want to leave him. I didn’t know how to beg him to stay with me. I didn’t know how to ask if he was scared, too. 

That summer is hazy to me, but I remember the night he left well. I helped him pack up a duffel bag. It was a bag I’d found somewhere in the attic of my house. Chris had never had to pack up a bag like that before. He didn’t have much to pack, really. Thrift store clothes and a couple of books. A few gifts I’d gotten him over the years that he’d guarded like they were sacred. I never considered they were some of the only gifts he’d ever received. 

And then we sat on the porch afterward, side by side like always. Neither of us said anything for a long time. 

The sun started to set when Chris spoke up, his voice soft. “...I guess this is it.” 

“Yeah,” I answered. “You’re gonna do great, Chris.” 

He turned to me. There was something in his eyes. Not tears. He didn’t cry. Something else, maybe something close to tears. “You too, Gordie.” 

I don’t remember if we hugged. I think I wanted to, but I was scared that I wouldn’t let go if we did. I just remember watching his old, beat up car pull out of the driveway. I raised my hand to wave as he drove away slowly, and I didn’t lower it until his car was too far away to see anymore. 

And then he was gone. 

My own journey to college was a blur. I’d been ready to leave Castle Rock since I was a little kid, but I couldn’t help but grieve. Leaving Chris hurt so bad. I’d never felt so alone in my life. 

But I settled into that life somehow. And at first, we wrote letters. They were sporadic, but thoughtful. Each letter came with pages and pages of chicken scratch, our brains melted onto the paper. Chris sometimes sent me clippings from The Village Voice with sarcastic notes in the margins. I’d send him poems I wasn’t brave enough to turn in for class. We’d trade thoughts about books and music, about how dumb some people were, and how stuck-up. How much we missed each other. 

It got harder after a while. School got harder. The days filled up. 

The letters slowed down. Then after a while, they stopped. 

And I didn’t know how to reach for him again. 

I told myself it was normal. That this was just what happened. People drift, lives take over. You can’t hold onto everything from your childhood, even the things that are good, even the things you feel like you can’t live without. 

Something sick curled inside me, and I told myself it was better this way. I missed him too much. I missed him in a way that I shouldn’t have, even if I couldn't admit that to myself then. 

But I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of him constantly. Not always in ways I could name. Sometimes it was when I passed someone on campus whose carefree laugh sounded like a laugh I hadn’t heard in years. Sometimes it was a song on the radio that Chris and I used to sing together in the car. Sometimes it was nothing at all, just an ache deep inside of me, like a string being pulled by something far away. 

Most times, though, it happened in the middle of the night. I dreamt of him often. Vivid, unrelenting dreams where he’d touch me or kiss me or press me down into the mattress of my childhood bedroom, where we used to sleep side by side. 

I’d wake up gasping and hard, my heart racing like I’d done something horribly wrong. But I’d lay there in the dark anyway, my hand between my legs, thinking about the sound of his voice or the way that he smelled or the way that he grinned, only at me. I’d think about all these things I didn’t even know I’d memorized. And when I finished, I’d stare at the ceiling and hate myself so deeply. 

I told myself it was a phase. I’d indulge it for a bit, until I forgot about him. I tried to convince myself it was about the closeness, and not the sex. I’d never felt that close to anyone. I tried to date girls, and that wasn’t close enough. I told myself that I needed my best friend again, and that it wasn’t anything more than that. I tried to ignore the fact that this was the worst thing in the world. 

But I kept his letters in the drawer of my nightstand, and I’d read them again and again before I fell asleep, willing myself to ignore the fear that bubbled up in my stomach every time I closed my eyes. 

The one I read the most was the last letter he’d sent me. It wasn’t very long. Just a few lines, really. The ink had smudged from all the times I’d folded and creased it. I kept it in my wallet for a while, but that felt too pathetic, so I took it out. They want me to apply for this summer internship, Chris had written. It’s in D.C. Real political stuff. Can you believe it? Not sure I’ll go. Might burn out before then, anyway. You still writing about Le Dio?  

Then scrawled at the bottom, rushed. Write me back, dumbass. 

I never did. I think reading that letter so often was a sort of penance. It reminded me how ashamed I felt of myself. It reminded me that I deserved this pain I was feeling. 

❇❇❇

Spring of senior year, I was living in a tiny apartment near campus with a friend I met in a Creative Writing class. It wasn’t an exciting life by any stretch of the imagination. I was writing a lot, feeling ready to finish school and attempt to make something of myself. 

There was one night where I was up later than I should have been, working on a story. It was something weird and fragmented that I didn’t think I’d ever finish. 

I was jotting down some ideas, crossing out others. My notes filled up a whole composition notebook every two months or so, in those days. The leather-bound notebook Chris got me was buried somewhere deep in my desk drawer, moved from apartment to apartment so many times, I’d lost track of where I kept it. 

The words I’d been writing were starting to blur at the edges, and I rubbed my burning eyes when the phone rang. I almost didn’t pick it up. It was past midnight, and I figured it was either a wrong number or maybe my roommate’s drunk ex again. But I picked it up anyway, pen still in my hand. 

“Hello?” 

There was a beat of silence, and then it broke. “Hey, Gordie.” 

I froze. There was no mistaking that voice. It was a little deeper than I remembered it, a little rougher around the edges. But it was still his. Still Chris. 

“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Wow. Jesus. It’s been..."

“...A while,” Chris finished, and I could hear the exhale of his breath crackle in the speaker. He laughed a little to bury it. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell him that he had no reason to apologize. It was me who cut off contact, after all. But even after all this time, I still felt possessive of him, somehow. I felt angry that I had so much to ask about him. I didn’t know anything about him anymore, and admitting it was my own fault made me ball my fist on my lap. What I wanted to know the most was if he missed me as much as I missed him, but I didn’t dare ask. I didn’t even let myself think it. 

I took my own deep breath and asked, “How are you?” 

“I’m... alright,” Chris said, and that little pause told me everything. “It’s been weird. Finals are killing me. And my roommate's a Nixon freak, which doesn’t help.” 

I laughed, too hard and sudden, but it felt good. Like I’d found air in my lungs again. “Yeah. Mine’s writing a manifesto. Creepy shit.” 

Chris laughed then, too, and I felt my head swim. I leaned back against my desk chair, gripping the edge of the seat like I might fall over. 

Neither of us spoke for a second, and then Chris broke the silence. “I was thinking,” he started, more tentative now. “I don’t have a lot of time before graduation, but... I guess I was wondering if you’d want to meet up? You’re not too far, right?” 

“Just a few hours.” 

“Yeah. Uh... my roommate is visiting his parents in Connecticut this weekend, so his room’ll be free. I know it’s asking a lot of you to drive over here. We can meet somewhere in the middle—”

“No, I’ll drive there. It’s fine.” 

“...Really?” 

My mouth was dry. My stomach hurt and my heart was beating so fast, I could almost hear it. But I answered without thinking on it for a second. “Yeah. I want to see you.” 

There was another moment of silence. It felt nervous, excited, filled with meaning we were both trying to understand. Finally, Chris spoke softly again. “Saturday work?” 

“Yeah,” I said again, barely breathing. “Saturday’s perfect.” I couldn’t remember if I had anything planned for Saturday. I couldn’t remember anything except how much I missed Chirs. 

We said our goodbyes like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the first time we’d heard each other’s voices in years. Like I didn’t want to crawl through the phone line and see him right now. 

After I hung up, my hand stayed clutching the receiver. They were shaking a bit, and my mind felt blank. I spoke out loud to no one. “Jesus Christ.” 

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I was too scared to dream about him again. In fact, I think I barely slept that whole week. It went by at a snail’s pace, every minute, every second feeling too long away from Chris. I couldn’t understand how I’d survived without him for years. 

❇❇❇

The drive was a few hours long. I barely noticed it, so it was a miracle I didn’t crash on the way there. My hands were shaking and I gripped the steering wheel firmly as I tried to still my breath. I tried to focus on the music coming out of the radio, and that didn’t help much either. It just made me think about Chris more and more. 

When I finally pulled up in front of Chris’ apartment building, I tried to pay attention to all its details. My legs felt like jelly as I stepped out of the car and let the thoughts race through my head. Chris lives here. Chris is inside right now. You’ll see Chris. This may be the last time you ever see his house, so you better remember it. You’ll be holding onto this for the rest of your life. 

The bricks of the building were uneven and the front steps slanted slightly to the left. The whole place was tired. I double-checked the address I’d scrawled onto a page I ripped out of my notebook, and then I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding roughly in my chest. 

I tried to remind myself that it was just Chris. Just my best friend. Nothing to be nervous about. But then my mind would flash the memories of my dreams, and that guilt and disgust seeped in again. I wondered weakly why I even agreed to come. 

As I thought of turning back around, the door opened before I had the chance. 

He looked the same, but not exactly. Every detail that had changed in him hurt me a little. His hair was longer, but it was still mussed and a little messy. His eyes were still bright and sad and his smile still perfectly slanted. Some of the fat on his cheeks had faded, showing off his cheekbones and jaw and the smattering of freckles that decorated his skin. Chris. I couldn’t speak. 

“Hey,” he grinned, leaning against the doorframe. His voice was low and warm. 

“Hey,” I breathed, too quiet. 

We stared at each other for a second too long. Then he stepped inside, holding the door open for me. “Come in. You can throw your stuff anywhere.” 

I hesitated, thinking about hugging him, but instead I walked past him into the apartment. It was messy, the same way Chris had always kept his room in Castle Rock. Papers everywhere. Half-full glasses of water and coffee were on almost every flat surface. There were at least three open books that I spotted. One was resting over the arm of the couch. It seemed he’d had the decency to clean his dirty clothes off the floor, at least, because that was all that was missing. 

I laughed. “This place is…” 

“A mess?” 

“You haven’t changed, huh?” 

He smiled in his crooked, lopsided way that always made me feel like he knew something I didn’t. I had to look away, like it was too bright to keep my eyes on. 

Chris nodded at the couch and I sat down. He handed me a beer from the fridge without asking, and I took it even though my stomach was too tight to drink anything. He sat down on the couch next to me, and imperceptibly, I leaned away, careful not to touch. 

“So,” he started. 

“Yeah,” I answered. 

We didn’t say anything for a beat. Chris leaned his head back against the couch, looking up at the water damage on the ceiling. I took a sip of my beer to distract myself from the way his t-shirt had ridden up at the waist. 

“How have you been?” Chris asked, quieter now. 

The question shouldn’t have caught me off guard, but it did, and I found myself struggling to find an answer. “...Busy,” I deadpanned. “Lonely. Sometimes.” 

Chris looked at me, his eyes softening. “Yeah. Me too.” 

We fell into silence again. I noticed the ticking of a clock and the hum of the fridge which filled the silence. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then stopped. 

Chris sat up properly, turning to me. “Wanna get out of here for a bit? There’s a bar a few blocks away.” 

I cocked my eyebrows. “Since when do you hang out in bars?”

He laughed lightly, standing up. “Since never. But we can play some pool or something.” 

“Sure,” I smiled, setting down my beer and standing, too. 

Chris grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair in the living room, and then turned to stare at me as I pulled my shoes back on near the door. “It’s so weird seeing you.” 

“Weird bad or weird good?” I asked, keeping my gaze down. I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, and I regretted asking. 

“Weird like, I forgot how much I missed you. I dunno.” 

My heart rate picked up again. I willed my stomach to settle as I nodded once and didn’t say anything back. 

We walked side by side down the quiet street. The wind was sharp but not unpleasant, and the fresh night air reminded me of the countless times we’d snuck out of our houses to spend the night somewhere together. We walked like we were still teens, going down the back country roads of Castle Rock.  

The only difference was, back in those days we’d walk with Chris’ arm slung over my shoulder. Now, we were inches apart, and I tried to ignore how much it hurt, how desperate I felt to be close to him again. I knew we would never go back to being carefree kids, touching like it didn’t mean anything more than touching. 

Even just an accidental brush of his shoulder against mine made me jump now. 

The bar was on a street that was almost as quiet as the one Chris lived on. It wasn’t anything special. My shoes stuck to the floor as I walked in, and the jukebox in the corner coughed out a scratchy album by The Kinks. It was the kind of place you could disappear into, which was maybe the point. 

Chris held the door open for me, smirking when I gave him a look. “What? I’m polite.” 

I stepped inside, brushing past him, and felt comforted for the first time tonight by the smell of beer and cigarettes that had grown familiar to me in university. We found a corner booth near the back, away from most of the noise at the bar. A waitress wandered over, barely glancing at us, and I ordered another beer without thinking. Chris just asked for a coke, no ice. 

“Kinda nice to know you’re still not drinking…” I noted under my breath. 

“I promised I haven’t changed all that much, Gordie,” Chris replied gently. He laughed easily as he went on. “No alcohol, but I have a bit of a sugar problem now. Keeps me wired.” 

I smiled, then promptly looked down when our eyes met. The drinks came, and I took a slow sip. Chris stirred his soda with a straw, just to do something with his hands. 

Somehow, we fell back into a rhythm of conversation after a minute, and then we talked for a long time. Nothing huge at first, just catching up, letting the words loosen the tightness that had formed over the years. He told me about his professors, about how much he hated civil procedure but loved ethics. I told him about my writing program, about the one short story I couldn’t seem to finish no matter how hard I tried. It felt so easy after a minute, almost too easy, like we slipped back in time. 

But the quiet kept creeping back in between our words. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just heavy. 

He played with his straw wrapper, tearing it into little pieces. “...You ever think about how different things are now?” 

“Compared to what?” 

“Compared to us, back then.” He glanced up at me. “When it was the four of us. When it was you and me, laying on the grass and talking about getting out of Castle Rock.” 

“Yeah,” I nodded earnestly. “I think about it all the time.” 

Chris nodded too, not smiling. “I don’t think I could have ever made it out without you.” 

“You would’ve,” I said too quickly. “I always knew you’d do it.” 

Chris snorted like he didn’t believe it. We let the conversation sit for a while. The jukebox flipped to another record. The Rolling Stones, I think, but I could barely hear it. The only thing I could focus on was Chris and our little booth, like the world had narrowed down to us only. I looked at the way his fingers played with the paper strips and then came to rest on his glass, drawing lines in the condensation. I couldn’t ignore the weight in my throat that I couldn’t swallow down. 

My gaze moved up to the sharp curve of his jaw, the shadow of stubble that hadn’t been there in high school, the way his light-colored hair curled around his ears. I wanted to speak up, to tell him that I missed him desperately. That I would have come earlier, or later, or any time at all. That I never stopped thinking about him, and that I was sorry. 

Instead I said, “I’m glad you called.” 

“Me too.” He looked at me for a long moment. “I thought of calling you a hundred times. I didn’t even know if that was still your phone number… but I dialed it so many times and hung up before it started ringing.” 

“Why?” 

We stared at each other and I forced myself to hold his gaze. It was so intense, I swore he was reading my mind somehow. The room felt too hot and the music was too loud and I waited for him to speak. “...I don’t know. I was scared for some reason. I thought maybe you didn’t feel like talking to me anymore… but then I missed you too much, so I called.” 

I spoke  before I thought about it. “I thought about you every day.” 

Chris’ head jerked back involuntarily and he looked down, nodded slowly as he took in my words. I felt embarrassed that I’d even said that, but then Chris smiled so genuinely that embarrassing myself like that felt totally worth it. 

Eventually, we ended up at the pool table, even though neither of us were any good. I let Chris break, which he did with nearly zero accuracy. Somehow, I still lost all three rounds. 

“Still letting me win?” he asked as he set up the next game, leaning over the table. I looked away, heat crawling down my neck. 

“I just suck,” I said quickly. 

He looked up at me, the cue resting on the felt. “You used to be better.” 

Something shifted in the last round. We weren’t talking as much. We weren’t laughing as loudly. The air between us grew heavier and more careful. 

He stood close behind me now while I lined up a shot. I could feel warmth radiating off of his body. I could hear him taking in breath and smell the two cigarettes he’d smoked as we talked in our booth. My hands were shaking again. 

“Don’t think too hard,” Chris murmured. When I struck, I missed the shot by a mile, and Chris chuckled low and didn’t step back. I felt him behind me still, not touching, but close enough to make my skin prickle. I wanted to turn around and look at him, but didn’t dare. 

We didn’t talk much after that. The bar noise faded into a blur. I remember we paid the tab and left, walking back to Chris’ apartment in silence, shoulders brushing. His apartment somehow felt too close and too far away at once. 

When we walked back into the apartment, it felt different. Warmer.

Chris turned and looked at me like he was about to say something, and I looked back. My chest was tight with nervousness. But then he turned and flipped on the small lamp near the couch and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it back over the chair. I stayed near the door, hands still in my coat pocket, watching him move like I was afraid he’d disappear if I looked away. 

He looked at me again, and then it was my turn to look away. The tension was thick, and I made an excuse to wash my face and change. I slipped into the bathroom. The door didn’t quite latch. I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing how bright my cheeks had turned from the heat of the bar and the alcohol and my nerves. My eyes were tired but alert. My stomach was in knots, and I told myself some cold water would help. 

When I stepped back into the living room, Chris had already changed into an old t-shirt. He was in his boxers, same as me. He padded barefoot across the apartment, filling up two glasses of water and handing me one. 

“The other bedroom is over here,” Chris said quietly, pointing to one of the closed doors. 

The idea of shutting myself into that room made me so sad, all of a sudden. Like all the closeness we’d shared when we were kids and teens, sharing a bed almost every night, was gone forever. I spoke up against it, not thinking of the consequences. “...Feels weird spending time with you and not just… I don’t know. Guess I never got used to sleeping alone after we went to college.” 

Chris froze, a troubled expression on his face. I regretted saying it. 

“Uh…” I started, about to take it back. But I meant every word, and my body reacted like what I said was awful and unforgivable. 

Chris looked at me, and something flickered behind his eyes. Panic, maybe. Something inside me hoped that I’d see that same desire in his eyes. I searched for it, even as he spoke, his voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“I do.” 

The silence that followed stretched thin and sharp between us. My chest ached and my ears rang. Part of me regretted it, but a bigger part knew that I wanted Chris that way. I’d wanted him that way for years, so badly it ached, and even though this would probably shatter everything between us, I resigned myself to it. I think I did it on purpose, to hurt myself and cut myself away from something that could never be. And I felt tears start to prick the corners of my eyes but I kept them on Chris anyway. 

“Gordie…” Chris whispered, and it sounded like a warning. Or maybe a plea. 

“I… know it’s wrong,” I said, barely audible but unable to stop as the words came tumbling out of my mouth. “But I can’t stop it. I get that it’s wrong to feel that way about you, and I’ll never speak to you again if you want me to leave, I promise. But I can’t help the way I feel about you, Chris. I—”

But then Chris had crossed the distance between us and his hands were on my face and his mouth was on mine and I couldn’t think. 

We gasped into each other's mouths, teeth clacking against teeth, and my nose crushed awkwardly against his cheek. His fingers were shaking as he held my face, and that made me feel better about how my own body trembled. I curled my hand into his shirt like I needed to hold on or I’d fall all the way down. 

And still, I kissed him back. His mouth was hot and unsteady, lips parted just enough to let me in. I could taste his breath, sweet like the Coke he’d drank, bitter like the Winstons  he’d smoked, something so unmistakably him. It hit me all at once that this was Chris. That I had his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my jaw, his chest pressed so close to mine that I could barely register where he ended and I began. Every part of me lit up, tight with heat and panic and, somehow, relief. My skin buzzed. My heart hurt. I thought I might cry. 

The kiss was sloppy and urgent, and it felt more intense than anything I’d felt in years. Maybe in my whole life. It felt so different, so much better, than any of the girls I’d tried out at parties. Their perfume had made me sick, with their soft, sticky lips that never hurt me enough. All of that had always felt too safe, and I always thought of Chris, and even though I kept thinking about how this would ruin both of our lives, the more persistent thought said, I want it anyway.

When we pulled apart, we just stood there, breathing hard. Neither of us spoke. Chris ran his hand through his hair and took a step back, like he was afraid of what he’d just done. “...Sorry,” he whispered. 

“Don’t…”

He looked back at me and his eyes were wide and raw. “No, man,” he started. This… if anyone found out—” 

“I  know,” I said desperately. 

He opened his mouth to say something else, but nothing came out. He just shook his head, like he was trying to make sense of it. I didn’t know what to say either. I just knew I wanted to be close with him again. That I wanted to lie down next to him and stay there until everything else was gone. 

I stepped forward to meet him again, and he kept his head down. Tentatively, I brought my hand up and laid it gently on the side of his neck. My thumb rubbed steadily against the flushed skin there, and Chris’ eyes looked back up to meet mine. “Do you want me to stop?” I spoke softly. 

Chris’ breath grew heavier, and then he leaned forward, slower this time, to catch my lips again. 

Soon, he took my hand and led me wordlessly to his bed. It was unmade, and the covers were wrinkled from where he’d laid on them earlier. The room was dim, lit only by the spill of yellow light from the lamp in the next room. Our shadows moved across the walls. 

We stood there at the edge of the mattress, still holding hands like kids about to do something they weren’t supposed to. Neither of us spoke. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, in my fingertips. I looked at him, and he was watching me. He asked, “...Are you sure you want this?” 

I nodded. I wasn’t sure of anything, honestly. But I knew I wanted to be near him. To feel him. To be known in that way, only by him. 

Chris stepped closer and our chests touched again. His hand came up to stroke my cheek, and his gaze was so direct, it made every thought slip out of my head. “I’ve never…” he started. 

“Me neither.” I smiled a little, that possessiveness rolling through me again. I wanted to be the only one that saw Chris like this. 

We kissed again, slowly, carefully. I opened my mouth without thinking. There was no rush, and no one was there to see it happen. The only thing in the apartment was the quiet sound of our breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. It felt so good, I thought I'd go crazy.

His hand was warm when it found my waist. He was hesitant but desperate, and I kissed him back harder, my hands gripping his shoulder to pull him closer. His breath hitched when I licked into him, and his hand roamed up my side and then down to grab my ass.  Every place he touched lit me up from the inside. His hand touched my back, my ribs, the curve of my waist, like he was trying to memorize my body with his eyes closed. He gripped my hip and I moaned into his mouth, and he just kissed me deeper. 

His shirt came off first, pulled over his head and tossed aside. I traced my fingers over the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, and the faint scar on his ribs. He looked down at me like he couldn’t believe this was happening. I stared at the scattered freckles on his skin, the muscle that had formed in places I’d only guessed at before. His chest rose and fell fast, and his lips were swollen and pretty. 

I reached for my own shirt and he stopped me. His hands covered mine, and then he lifted the fabric slowly as his hands trailed up my stomach and ribs. His movements were reverent and gentle, and I was able to convince myself that he loved me. 

Chris dropped the shirt to the floor without taking his eyes off me. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to my collarbone, and I held onto him, scared I’d collapse. His kisses moved up my neck and to my cheek before he met my mouth again. His fingers ghosted over my stomach.

When he reached the waistband of my boxers, he hesitated, his eyes flicked up. I nodded again, and he slid the fabric down carefully, like he was trying not to scare me away. When I was bare, he pulled his own boxers down, and we stood there for a second, just breathing. 

And then we were kissing again, and I felt the tip of his tongue brush against mine. I whimpered, an embarrassing sound I couldn’t have controlled if I tried. He answered it with a low groan and pressed his hips against mine. 

I felt his length, hard and hot, grind into my own. He steadied my hips with his hand and pushed forward again, and the only thing I could think about was, this is Chris. My best friend. Chris Chambers. He wants me like this. 

And he didn’t stop. He kept grinding forward like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care how wrong it all was. I moaned and rested my head on his shoulder, resigning myself to an orgasm that was approaching so quickly, it was making my head spin. 

But he pulled back for a moment, taking my hand and guiding me to the bed. We laid side by side at first, a bit hesitant. It felt so natural to lay like that with him, after we’d done it that exact way for so many years. But soon, our bodies connected again like we couldn’t stay away. Chest to chest, hips pressed flush, legs tangled. Our cocks brushed and I gasped again, dragging my hips forward. He clutched my waist. 

Our mouths crashed together as my hands roamed over his shoulders, his arms, down his back. And then we rocked together slowly. Our skin was slick, fever-warm, and every little shift made my breath stutter. And then Chris reached down and wrapped a shaky hand around both of us, rubbing in slow strokes as he sighed into my mouth. 

His forehead pressed against mine and I looked down at where we’d connected, but I had to close my eyes quickly or I would have spilled into his fist too fast and I wanted this to go on for forever. I bucked against him, and everything was wet with precum and sweat and heat. 

It was the most overwhelming thing I’d ever felt. The smell of him, the sound of his breath in my ear, the weight of his body against mine. His thigh was pushed between mine and the muscles there flexed with tension. Our stomachs slid against each other. 

I was losing it and couldn’t hold on. My fingers gripped his arm and my legs shook. “I’m close,” I whispered, a little ashamed of how quickly it was coming. “Chris… shit—” 

“I got you,” he panted, his voice hoarse. His hand sped up and his eyes fluttered close. “Gordie,” he moaned.

Just hearing him say my name like that pushed me over the edge. I came with a choked sob, body curling into his, the feeling crashing over me so hard I thought I might pass out. I shot between us, making a mess as I clung onto his body like I was drowning. 

Chris followed seconds later. His whole body tensed. He scrunched his eyes closed and buried his face in my neck, gasping out my name. His hips jerked forward twice as he came all over my stomach and my cock, and then he stilled. 

Neither of us moved. We were tangled together, our chests rising up and down with rapid, tired breaths. Everything was sticky and damp, but I still didn’t pull myself away. I held onto him as I felt the room spin gently around us. My limbs felt heavy and used and spent entirely. 

We didn’t speak. But Chris curled an arm around my waist and pulled me close. I pressed my face into his chest and closed my eyes. I felt like I was floating. I was terrified. 

But I was with Chris, so nothing else mattered. 

❇❇❇

I woke up before the sun rose. The room was still dim, with only the earliest grey morning light leaking through the blinds. The refrigerator hummed on, and for a second I was confused about where I was. But then I felt Chris’ skin under my cheek, the steady rise and fall of his chest that had lulled me to sleep in the first place. 

I hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him like that. His arm was still wrapped around me, limp now but still there. Our legs were slotted together, half-covered by the blanket. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to. The day hadn’t started, and no one knew what we’d done. 

But as the quiet continued, I felt the panic begin to bloom under my skin. 

What the fuck did we do?

I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was soft, his mouth slightly open, his hair messy across his forehead. I’d seen him sleep so many times, watched him exactly like this. It felt like I’d found him again, like no time had passed. He always looked so peaceful as he slept. So vulnerable, in a way he only showed me. I used to cherish that fact, and that familiar feeling in my stomach spread again. 

The only thing I could think about was how much I loved him. And how much we’d fucked up. 

I laid back down against him, staring at the wall. I wondered how he was feeling. If he regretted it. Maybe he’d say it was a mistake. That we’d been caught in the moment. That we just missed each other too much, and now that was over and we had to go back to reality. That we had to pretend this never happened. 

I swallowed against the lump growing in my throat. I thought about getting up, leaving some note and getting out of there before I could hear him say any of it. 

But Chris and I were always connected in a way that couldn’t be explained. As if he knew, he stirred under me with a soft grunt and blinked his eyes open. He looked down and saw me. 

“...Hey,” he said, his voice scratchy. 

“Hey.” 

Neither of us moved. Then, slowly, Chris sat up and ran a hand through his hair. His shoulders were scattered with freckles I hadn’t seen in the dark last night. 

I sat up too, keeping the blanket around my waist, watching him carefully. I thought I might puke. 

“Uh…” I started. “I… guess I should go.” 

Chris looked at me, and I could tell he was sad. I didn’t even want to hear what he had to say. But he spoke up anyway. “Why?” 

“I just don’t really want to have a conversation about last night. I know you’ll say it was wrong, and that no one can know about it, and that it can’t happen again. I just… don’t want to hear you say that. So I’ll go.” 

I made a move to get up, but Chris gripped my wrist firmly and stopped me. “Wait. Just… don’t leave. I don’t want you to leave.” 

I groaned and closed my eyes. Why does he have to make this hard? I don’t want to cry in front of him. 

Chris let go of my wrist and brought his hand up to rub over his tired face. He looked so troubled, and I moved my gaze down to hide the tears that fought their way forward, no matter how hard I tried to hold them back. 

Chris spoke again. “Gordie… you’re right. We shouldn’t do this. But… Jesus, thinking about you leaving is fucking killing me.” 

“Me too,” I whispered. 

Chris kept his eyes on me, and I kept my eyes down on my lap. I took a deep breath and closed them. And then Chris’ voice came again, so quiet I could barely hear it. “I love you.” 

I looked back at him finally, rubbing at my cheek with my palm as a tear escaped and slid down my skin. “Chris…” 

“I’m serious. I… can’t feel this way about anyone else. I’ve tried. I just love you.” 

“I love you, too,” I said, and I meant it. “I’ve loved you since we were kids.” 

Chris nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. He spoke with careful consideration of every word. “We can… we can just figure it out, okay? So don’t leave. I can’t do anything without you.” 

My hands gripped the sheets in my lap and shook, but I nodded. Chris’ hand moved on top of mine, squeezing it, giving me strength. And I didn’t even have to think about it. I couldn’t do anything without him, either. It had always been that way. 

“Okay.”