After a few hours of studying, Macon stood and stretched.

“I’m gonna go grab a hoodie from my room.”

Wilson nodded but didn’t look up from his homework.

Upstairs, Macon reached into a drawer and pulled out his sweatshirt. As he stood, clutching the heavy material, he heard a loud beep from his desk. It wasn’t until he was holding the cell phone in his hand that he realized it wasn’t actually his. He had answered Wilson’s phone before, when Mrs. Reddington called, or just generally when he was too far out of the room to hear it go off, so Macon didn’t think twice about checking it for him now. Flipping the phone open, he didn’t see a missed call, but instead a text message:

From: Tristan Speleers

Meet me at lakebottom 7?

Sent: April 15th, 4:32 p.m.

The phone clattered to the desk as he practically threw it. He turned around and almost had a heart attack when he saw Wilson standing in the doorway.

“Was that my phone?” Wilson asked suspiciously.

Macon would have felt guilty, but the feeling was overwhelmed by his irrational bitterness and dismay. Hadn’t Tristan just broken up with his boyfriend (if you could even call them that) yesterday? And now here he was calling Wilson just so he could get some, in a shady corner of the park. Wilson deserved better than that.

Defiantly, Macon held his gaze, but didn’t reply. Wilson moved over to the desk in long strides. His expression was frustratingly blank as he read the message.

“So are you going to ditch me to go fuck Speleers?” Macon spat.

Wilson’s mouth fell open and he just stared in disbelief at Macon.

“You read my messages?”

“You've always let me before. You only care now because you have something to hide.”

“Something to hide?” Wilson repeated incredulously. “I’m not hiding anything. I just think it’s none of your business who I hook up with.”

“It would have been my business ten minutes from now when you made up some excuse to get rid of me so that you could go see him.” Macon retorted.

He was struck suddenly by the pain that flashed in Wilson’s eyes at his words. It reminded him of what Brett had said yesterday; something was upsetting Wilson, deeply, and Macon had no idea what it was. Whatever it was disappeared almost immediately as Wilson shot back a reply.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but trying to talk to you right now is making leaving seem awfully appealing. What is your problem?”

The answer to that question hit Macon so hard that he took a step back in disbelief.

“N-nothing. I’m sorry. Just… stay?”

He was jealous of Tristan. Not because Wilson was spending time with him instead of with Macon, but because Tristan was hooking up with him. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the thought. He was positive that was what he was feeling, but couldn’t begin to comprehend why.

Wilson looked so relieved that Macon’s digust with himself seemed to dissolve away. He smiled, wanting to kick himself for it. He went on to eat dinner with his family and Wilson, and then watched a movie with him in a complete confusion, trying to sort himself out and failing miserably.

That night, Macon lay stretched out on his bed. The lights had been out for almost an hour and he couldn’t sleep. Usually they stayed up for hours talking. Wilson kept tossing and turning in an old sleeping bag on the floor, so Macon was fairly certain that he wasn’t asleep either. The silence stretched on for far too long before Wilson exhaled loudly and sat up.

“Macon,” he called out tentatively.

“Yeah?” Macon responded, his heart racing a little.

Wilson sleeping over at his house shouldn’t make him nervous. It shouldn’t be so awkward.

“I don’t like Tristan you realize that, don’t you? I know you hate him, and I hate making you so angry all the time, but you have to understand-” He took another deep breath. And now Macon could hear the self loathing in his voice that he had been certain Victoria had chased away. “You can have any girl you choose at anytime. It’s different for me; I kind of have to take what I can get.”

Macon should have been relieved, but something about what Wilson had said was nagging at him.

“I know… I don’t mean to keep harassing you about it. I just…”

He stopped suddenly; worried that he would say something that would give away his jealousy from earlier. That ridiculous, stupid feeling he had, that really needed to go away before it ruined everything. It was already ruining something, or they wouldn’t be sitting here having this forced conversation in the dark.

But then he started again, because he remembered something. Something he couldn’t believe he had never thought of before.

“You probably still haven’t gotten over him have you?” Corbin had said. “You’re pathetic.”

“Wait,” he said now, so nervous to hear the answer to his question that he felt sick, but determined to ask it. “You do like someone, don’t you? You must like someone a lot— someone… straight.”

He audibly heard Wilson wince. The sound was answer enough. His chest constricted so tightly it hurt.

“Who is it?” He asked, trying to be supportive, but barely keeping his voice steady.

“No one,” Wilson answered wearily. “Leave it alone. I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

Now Macon sat up too.

“No, I won’t leave it. If you’ve liked someone since sophomore year, that’s pretty significant. Why won’t you tell me who it is?”

“Because I obviously don’t want you to know,” Wilson snapped.

Macon’s heart plummeted to his stomach. He wished so strongly that he had let Wilson go see Tristan. He hadn’t needed to know that Wilson had feelings like this for someone, and he especially hadn’t needed to know that Wilson didn’t trust him anymore. Obviously, Wilson didn’t trust him. Until a few weeks ago, Macon had essentially known nothing about his best friend. Everything Wilson had told him since then had been forced and it was so apparent that Wilson was still keeping secrets from him. The pain from knowing that was far worse, because it was clear that Wilson didn’t need him for anything, while sometimes Macon felt like he needed Wilson for almost everything. Wilson hooked up with Tristan and Corbin when he felt lonely, and he had Victoria to talk to. What else could Macon possibly do for him? All he ever seemed to do anymore was upset Wilson, or make him angry. Was he just another front so that Wilson could lead a normal life, like all the girls Wilson flirted with just for show?

“Drop it. Please,” Wilson begged, desperation breaking up his words.

Macon let himself fall back down to the bed, where he could resume staring at the ceiling in silence. He didn't think he could find the words to reply anyway.

---

Wilson was acting like nothing had changed. They had woken up, eaten breakfast and played Macon’s XBox for a few hours before Wilson had suggested a game of basketball. It was just like always. Instead of being comforted, Macon was on edge. His emotions were so tumultuous that he couldn’t place any of them. He had enough energy to run for miles without stopping. He wanted to be as far from Wilson as possible, but he didn’t think he could handle being away from him either. The heat wasn’t helping. Even though it was early April, it was hot enough outside to be June.

Macon poured himself into the game, dribbling furiously, scoring frequently, and playing so aggressively that he was certain he had given Wilson a few bruises. Every time Macon fouled him, Wilson just played harder. They were both drenched in sweat.

After about an hour, Wilson scored a lay-up and then doubled over, breathing heavily.

“Give me a minute,” he wheezed.

Macon nodded tersely, walking over to the grass, where his water bottle had lain forgotten for the entirety of their game. He kicked it aside. With the heat, and the amount of exertion he was putting into the game, he knew he needed to drink, but he wasn’t thirsty. Itching to start playing again, he turned back around, just in time to see Wilson pulling off his shirt. Macon only barely managed to look unaffected as he took in Wilson's hair, tousled from the shirt, and the wide expanse of tanned skin now bared to him. Without denial clouding his mind, he was able to truly appreciate the sight in front of him.

Wilson needed to put his shirt back on. Macon couldn't handle this right now in addition to everything else.

“What are you doing?” He asked in a strangled voice.

Wilson shot him a dark look that spoke of just how stupid Macon’s question was.

“I’m burning up. Aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Macon lied.

The heat pooling in Macon’s stomach had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

He looked pointedly at the basketball in Wilson’s hands.

“You ready to go again?”

Wilson frowned irritably, passing him the ball to start the point. The game had changed in entirety. Macon still felt the tension from before, but instead of being aggressive, he avoided contact with Wilson at all costs. Wilson was playing with even more fervor, and it was wreaking havoc with Macon’s mind. Every time they hit elbows, or bumped shoulders, he grew dizzy. Each minute felt like an hour.

Macon was dribbling up to the basket to score, when he lost his concentration and Wilson gained possession. When Macon reached to recover the ball, his entire arm slid against Wilson’s hard abs. He froze, unable to help himself. He was so dizzy now that he saw spots dance across his vision. Wilson noticed his reaction- it would have been impossible for him not to- and he stopped in his tracks. Macon was struck by how furious Wilson looked. No, no. This couldn’t be happening. He had completely given himself away, and Wilson was disgusted with him.

Wilson violently threw the basketball to the side into Macon’s trashcans. One of them fell over backwards with a crash. He took a step towards Macon, and exploded.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you I was gay in the first place! I knew it would hurt our friendship. We’ve been playing basketball together at your house for as long as I can remember, but now you can’t even come within two feet of me without freaking out. I’m sick of you treating me like its contagious or something. You won’t catch it. Get over yourself.”

What? Macon was staring at Wilson’s cheeks, flushed with anger, and his eyes, which had darkened to the shade of the midnight sky. He was almost too dazed to respond.

“I-I don’t think that’s what’s wrong with me,” he managed hazily.

Wilson was not impressed.

“Then what is your fucking problem?” he asked dangerously, fisting his hand in the fabric of Macon’s shirt.

As Wilson touched him, Macon felt his feet move of their own accord. He took three powerful steps forward, not breaking the contact between them, stopping only when Wilson’s back touched against the garage door.

“Are you going to hit me again?” Wilson asked in a voice harder than steel. “So you’ve been a bigot all along? Well, I tell you what, I’ll punch back this time.”

Macon laughed recklessly. He felt feverish, and still a little dizzy, but he knew with an amazing clarity what he wanted to do.

“I’m not going to hit you. I expect you’ll want to take a swing at me regardless.”

He didn’t give Wilson a chance to voice his confusion before he reached forward and crashed their mouths together.

He expected pain. He expected Wilson’s fist to slam into his face at any minute. He didn’t expect Wilson to gasp and slide his left hand into Macon’s hair. They were kissing much more violently than he had ever kissed any girl in his life. It felt so much fucking better.

Wilson fingertips grazed the strips of skin above Macon’s waistline. He fumbled for a moment, and then Macon lifted his arms to help him as he pulled Macon’s t-shirt up over his head.

Macon moaned into Wilson’s mouth as Wilson’s sweat slicked chest met his. He had never, ever, felt this hot in his entire life. Every place their bodies met, it felt like he was being scalded, and yet he just wanted to be closer. Wilson slid a hand into his back pocket, and tugged him forward, as if reading his mind. When he heard Wilson groan, he felt a wave of possessiveness sweep through him. So this was why he had wanted so badly to kill Corbin that night at the dinner. This, this was perfect. He never wanted it to end.

Without warning, Wilson shoved Macon backwards, so violently that Macon stumbled and almost fell.

“What was that for?” He snapped, still too dazed to censure himself, and hurt from the sudden rejection.

His question was answered for him only seconds later when his head cleared enough to allow him to hear the grinding of gears. The garage door was opening. Shit, shit, shit.

He was distracted by the flush of Wilson’s cheeks, but he noticed the blue eyes had also widened in alarm.

Macon took several steps backwards, desperately trying to compose himself. His breath was coming out in ragged pants. With relief, his eyes alighted on the basketball lying forgotten in the grass. He picked it up just in time to see his mother stepping into her silver Avalon. For the first time he could remember, he truly appreciated how baggy his gym pants were. He hoped she would attribute his red face and deep breathing to the basketball game.

He couldn’t breathe as she slowly backed out of the driveway. When she stopped in front of him, and rolled down her window, his whole body tensed. What if she had heard something? She would be so disappointed in him. And Wilson- Wilson would hate him if his father found out. Not that Wilson didn’t already hate him after the stunt he had just pulled, he thought miserably.

“Hey sweetie,” she called out. “I’m off to the grocery story. Do you need anything?”

He let out the breath he had been holding and tried to relax.

“No thanks Mom. I’m good, great really.”

He could hear how nervous he sounded. She looked over at Wilson.

“Hey Mrs. Jarrett,” he greeted quietly.

“You two are quite the sight right now. You look like you’ve been running a marathon, not playing basketball.”

Macon tried to laugh, but it sounded weak. Wilson’s smile looked like a grimace.

“Who’s winning?” she asked.

“Wilson.” Macon answered shortly, at the same time that Wilson said “Macon.”

His mother burst into laughter.

“It doesn’t seem like you two are doing a very good job of keeping score.”

When she finally pulled out of the driveway and turn around the corner out of sight, he let out a sigh of relief, tension further easing in his chest. With its absence, he was free to remember just what exactly he and Wilson had been doing before they were interrupted. He felt lost and confused. He had just kissed- no kissing wasn’t even the half of what they had been doing- his best friend. Everything had been so intense and so right. But at the same time he felt sick. He wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be. He had slept with Amy, and dated countless girls before that. And he had enjoyed everything he had done with them, even if he did find Amy irritating most of the time.

But it didn't matter how he felt, did it? No matter what he did, it didn't change the fact that Wilson felt so strongly about someone else. Macon should have controlled himself better. He had been angry that Tristan was taking advantage of Wilson, but what he had done was far more despicable. Wilson would be perfectly in his right to never speak to him again.

Macon collapsed into the grass, morosely turning the basketball over and over in his hands. Wilson had been dead silent as they watched Mrs. Jarrett pull away, but now he turned furiously towards Macon.

“What the hell Jarrett? Is this your idea of a sick joke?”

Macon couldn’t look up. He could hear from Wilson’s voice how much he had screwed up, he didn’t want to have to see it on his face. He was certain now that he had ruined their friendship. Things would never be the same again.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he choked out. “I won’t bother you again.”

Miserably, he stood up, and turned towards toward his house, taking the first few steps up the path to his front door at a jog.

“Macon!” Wilson demanded sounding a bit panicked now.

Macon could hear Wilson’s tennis shoes slapping the pavement behind him as he hit the front steps. Wilson’s hand caught his elbow and Macon could feel the heat of it all over again. He wanted so badly to kiss Wilson again and hated himself for it.

“I guess I’ll see you around at school,” he said monotonously.

Before Wilson could react, Macon turned and practically threw the basketball into his stomach. Wilson caught it, easily, but it gave Macon time to run up the steps. His hand was on the door before Wilson could even take a step forward.

“Wait, Macon,” Wilson pleaded, moving to catch up to him.

Macon stepped inside and slammed the door shut in Wilson’s face. He latched it quickly, his heart clenching as he heard Wilson calling after him.

---

I'm sorry! This actually the first chapter of this story that I wrote, and in my personal opinion, it is the worst. I always try hard to make my characters sound realistic, and but this was just so Trashy- Romance- Novel. I'm simultaneously blushing, and running off to hide.

There are probably about five chapters left from here, give or take a few. My classes are starting up again soon, and on top of that I'll have rush, so the next update won't be as prompt as this one was.

Anyway, where would I be without all of my wonderful reviewers?

Rock on an Ocean Shore, C, snekochan, FreakierThanThou, Amandine, mia5081, Momoro, Persephone Choiseul, Lunar Chasmodai, WittyWings, Literary Catharsis, Amindaya, xxmoonstarxx, vimaro22, Kathleen Moon, Onia Black, Twinkling Moon, MyNameIsTaken, Love Eternally, Squirrel Activist