A.N.:Let me just wish a wonderful b-day to the orvida/gerigirl. I hope you would like this. It's my thank you for your support and motivation since the first review you gave me on the What if, and nice as you are you even gave me a b-day muffin. This was specially written for you, but it's also dedicated to the all readers who with kind words motivate me to keep writing and uploading my stories. Thank you all.

(This is the first time that I wrote in first POV and I have to admit that this really isn't my thing.)

Beta'ed by awesome diluain, whose dedicated fan I am.

WARNING: This is GBLT/LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) themed fiction with graphical explicit contents that is NOT appropriate for minors.

I don't care what they say!

He was there, up on the roof, looking down on us, on me, always looking down on me, always being so much better than me, in everything. I could have hated him for this, with such passion, but instead, I loved him, almost desperately, secretly.

He, who used to be the perfect boy and was now the perfect man.

He, who was, by some miraculous coincidence always by my side. First as a school mate, somebody who sat beside me and helped me whenever I didn't understand something and later, as we spend so much time together -- since I didn't understand quite a lot of things -- a friend, and now as a flat-mate, co-worker and my best friend.

You know when they say it's better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all, well, they don't know what they are talking about, and I can bet they were never a normal, slightly clumsy and awkward male in love in his best friend. Fuckers. They should just shut up and keep their smart quotations to themselves.

The telephone starts to vibrate in the pocket of my brown cargo pants, then the sound of 'Number One' by Hazel Fernandes reaches my ears. It's him. I picked the perfect song for him, 'Number One', cause he is number one for me. And it's a better song than that 'I'm Too Sexy' song, even though he is too sexy, oh, god, he is so sexy that I melt into a puddle every time he parades around the flat bare-chested, in his loose cotton pants that hug his hips just so. And he does this almost all the time, and I'm just... a mess. Damn. I shake my head to clear my mind of all of those unclean, naughty thoughts that make my little friend down there twitch with interest.

I pull the phone out of the pocket and flip it open. "What do you want?"

"Nat, hon, is that any way to greet your best friend? You should be more polite, especially now, since I'm not just your best friend anymore, I'm also your superior." His voice is slick like honey and right now he is enjoying taking me down a peg, to show me how much better than me he is.

I look up. I can hardly distinguish the expression on his face, he is too far away, but I can see the strands of black hair that got loose from his low ponytail falling into his face as he leans on the rail with his elbows, looking down, the edges of his grey jacket flapping with the wind. He always looks so composed, so on top of things, and I resent that. I flip him a bird.

He laughs, the sound coming from the phone is rich and joyful and I want to wrap it around myself like a blanket. "Why are you down there anyway? You should be up here, having lunch with me."

"The last I heard, the sixth floor is for management only," I say. "And besides," I glance in the direction of my co-worker, Ann, and give her a quick twist of my lips before I'm craning my neck again, "I already made plans for lunch. That's what happens when you don't call early enough."

"Oh." I'm not sure if I hear disappointment in his voice or if I'm just imagining it because I want it to be there. "With the usual crowd?"

"Yeah." With the corner of my eyes I watch as Ann tucks the tassel of her long blonde hair behind her ear, before her hand is in her bag and she is pulling out a pack of cigarettes. A red-head, Kate, and a strawberry blonde, Mark, are standing beside her and we are all waiting for an always-late brunette by the name of Jane, so that we can go to the little self-service restaurant two buildings away.

"Is it Ryan?" Mark asks. "If it is, tell him that he can join us -- that is, if it isn't too beneath him to associate with us small fish now that he's part of the sixth floor."

"Ry isn't like that." He isn't and he would never be a jerk like that. How could he? He is perfect. My focus is on the person above us. "Ry, we are going to the Trubadur to eat. Do you want to join us?"

"Sure. And you don't have to wait for me, I'll see you there."

I see Ryan closing the phone and putting it in the pocket of his jacket, then he waves to me and after I wave back, he turns and disappears out of my sight.

"Is Ryan coming too?" Kate is by my side, she hooks her arm around mine.

"Yeah." I'm not really fond of Kate. She's been trying to seduce Ryan since the first time she laid eyes on him, even after Ryan told her that he feels flattered, but isn't interested, and I told her that Ryan probably has a girlfriend. He denies it, though, and even though I have never seen a girl hanging on him with his consent or seen a girl in our flat, almost every time I go out partying, the next day, no matter how much he airs it out, a smell of sex and sweat lingers in his room, and dirty sheets in the bathroom hamper., Not to mention that stupid smile on his face, the one that clearly says he got laid. While I, I usually have big, nasty my-brain-is-in-a-centrifuge hangover and I feel so tired. Anyway, the point here is that, since every time that I go out Ryan brings somebody over, it's no wonder I rarely go out these days, not if Ryan isn't going too. Because seeing Ryan happy like that when I'm not the reason for that happiness makes me want to crawl into a dark corner and never come out again. I guess I'm just selfish.

Jane finally appears through the revolving doors of our firm and we are off. I'm really hungry and I can hear Ann stomach growling, too. So when we arrive at Trubadur I'm first in line, my eyes devouring the dishes behind the glass. I want the Spaghetti Bolognese. No, I want a steak and those roasted potatoes. No, better yet, I want that chicken in cream sauce with those little potato rolls. In the end I satisfied myself with fish, vegetables and rice, and a bottle of water on the side, because lately I can hardly button up my jeans and there is a little fat pillow appearing on my belly. Too much candy and too little exercise, that what happens when you have a sweet tooth and you spend most days being a couch potato.

We sat down beside the yellow wall opposite the entrance, right between the salad bar and the orange toilet door. I sit so that I have a view of everything, and there is an empty spot beside me. I absently start to eat, my eyes darting over the restaurant's colourful ambience, over the few patrons sitting behind the orange tables here and there, while with one ear I listen to the conversation of my companions, something about how portions of the food have became smaller over the years and about the party for Jane's birthday which is today.

I like Jane, we have a lot of things in common and we share the same taste. It's no wonder that we clicked and that she is my second best friend. She is the only one that knows about my feelings for Ryan.

Here he is --I spot Ryan as soon as he opens the door and steps inside, there is something about him that attracts my gaze like a magnet. I want to look away, I want to pretend that it doesn't matter whether he's here or not, but it does matter. My stupid smile as soon as our eyes meet is telling the entire world that his presence does matter to me.

Kate sees my smile; following my gaze she turns and waves to Ryan.

Ryan waves back, goes to the buffet, takes a tray and utensils and starts to pick out his food.

I watch him for a moment then I focus on my food, which is almost gone but I still feel a hole in my stomach.

Ryan comes with a tray full of food and sits in the place I reserved, ignoring the empty chair beside Kate.

A small victory for me, a smile tugs at my lips, and when I look up from my now-empty plate, there is Jane, with a knowing smirk on her face.

Jane puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. "Hey Ryan, since today is my birthday and it's Friday, we are going out tonight. Do you want to go too?"

Ryan cuts his potato roll into bite-sized pieces. "Today? I'm afraid that I can't. I have to finish some reports."

"It's Friday, man." Mark says. "You have a whole weekend ahead of you."

"I have to finish them by tomorrow morning and bring them into the office." Ryan stabs the piece of roll on his fork, dips it in sauce and takes a bite.

"That sucks." I turn sideways toward Ryan and lean my arm on the back of the chair. I love to watch Ryan eat, there is something really sensual in the way he chews his food. But I guess I would love to watch him shovelling shit; I would still think how hot and elegant he was. "I would hate to work on weekends or have my Fridays spoiled."

He swallows his food and gives me a small smile "That's the reason why I earn the big bucks and you get just over minimum wage."

I pout and cross my arms. "Well rub it in, , why don't you?" I don't like the fact that he earns almost twice what I do or that even though he got hired by our firm a year later than I did, he has already surpassed me.

He just reaches out and ruffles my short, red hair.

I send him an ugly look which he ignores and instead he starts to chat with Mark, something about some investment charts or something. I shouldn't be angry at him and I shouldn't pout, especially when he is very generous with his money. Every time we go grocery shopping, he always insists on paying and I always let him, just as I let him buy me clothes and stuff. Oh, shit. I look at him. I'm a kept boy and he is my sugar daddy. I frown. But if I'm a kept boy there should be some service involved, and I don't mean cooking, even though I find myself cooking for him quite a lot of time, since he says that he adores my food. I mean something more in the line of sex. Yeah, I want sex with him. I want him naked on my bed - but maybe then I should be the one buying him stuff. I wonder how much I would have to pay to see Ryan naked on my bed? He would probably be sprawled on the mattress, his fingers playing with the fine hair that leads down to his groin and he would have glazed eyes that -

"Nathan!" Jane snaps her fingers in my face.

"What?" I jump in my chair and I can feel my face burning under her scrutiny. From the corner of my eye I can see Ryan, his hand holding his fork stopped in midair, looking at me strangely.

"Are you feeling ok?" Jane puts her hand on my forehead. "You grimaced like you were in pain and you look like you have a fever."

"Nah. I feel fine." Just embarrassed, but I'm not going to tell her that.

"Are you sure?" Ryan narrows his eyes, but I notice they're not narrowed at me, but at Jane's hand still on my forehead. For some strange reason, Ryan doesn't like Jane and it's a good thing that even though she knows that, she isn't troubled by it.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Jane removes her hand and as soon as Ryan silently finishes his lunch we are on our way back to the office.


I'm watching TV, actually I'm more flipping between the channels, even though I should be slowly getting myself ready for a night on the town. It's half past six and I'm meeting the guys at eight and I need at least one hour to go by bus to the bar where we are meeting. But I'm lazy and I'm counting on Ryan to give me a lift.

Something rustles and I prick up my ears. I look at Ryan, who is sitting beside me and who was not a moment ago diligently typing on his laptop, but now has a small bag in his hand. I inch closer. It's a bag of Chex Snacks Mix, the one with peanut. Oh, I love these.

He hides a bag. "I'm not giving you any, you said you were on a diet."

I whine and inch even closer.


"Ryaaaaan, you meany." The sides of our bodies are now touching, I take hold of his arm, so he can't get away and rub my cheek against it and beg, "Just one, give me just one."

"I said no."

You are so mean to me." I climb into his lap in my effort to get the bag. He is bare-chested and as he wraps his arm around my waist and tosses the bag onto the floor, away from my reach, it hits me that this is a very bad idea. "Ryan!"

"No." His arms hold me tight.

The side of my body is pressed against his chest, and he is warm and smells good. In a second I feel hot and bothered and I can't move at all. I'm afraid to move, afraid to look at him, afraid that if I do I won't be able to help myself and I'll kiss him. I've wanted to kiss him since forever. To press my mouth against his, to taste him, to confirm that he really tastes as good as he smells and looks.


I can't look up. I can't look up. So I don't. "I want a peanut snack."

He smiles and presses his lips against the top of my head. "No snack for you, hon. I had to promise you I won't give you any bad food."

"Peanut snacks aren't a bad food." My eyes are focusing on my hands that I'm holding in my lap. I try to ignore the influence he has over me, try to ignore the fact that my little friend down there is waking up. Down boy, down.

"Of course they are." His hand is on my back now, he starts to pet me like it's a completely normal thing for him to be cuddling me in his lap – which, to my sorrow, is not normal at all.

It feels good, really good, but I can't stay like this much longer, I'll do something stupid or embarrassing. I jump up and with, "I have to get ready," rush into the bathroom.

I close and lock the door behind me, then lean against it. I hate this: the feelings that he awakens, the desire that I feel every time that I'm in his vicinity, the fact that he can get me hard in ten seconds, and that I have to hide how I feel.

It's getting more and more difficult and I have already thought about moving out, have even mentioned the idea to him. He didn't like it -- actually he was very angry with me, didn't want to talk to me for a whole day. At the end I lied and told him the place was getting too expensive for me; since then he has been paying two-thirds of the rent.

I take care of my problem with him on my mind, then I dress up in the clothes that I set out earlier and as a final touch I tousle my hair with a little mousse. I'm not ugly, but I look ok, I guess, not good as him though. Damn, I comb my fingers through my hair, why do I always have to compare myself with him? I lose every time. Well, except in playing billiards. I don't know why, but he sucks at that.

I'm ready to face him, so I open the door and go into the living room. He is concentrating on the computer, he doesn't even hear me coming closer. I watch his back and the column of his neck. He has his long hair tied up into a bun, so it doesn't bother him, and there is something so sexy about his nape. I reach out and my fingers ghost above it, I want to touch it, but, as always, at the last minute I lose my nerve and instead lean over him and reach out toward the bag of snacks he has by his side.

His hand shoots out, he wraps his fingers around my wrist and hauls me over the back of the couch.

I don't want to, but I whine again. How could I not, since my head is buried in the seat of the couch and he is laughing at me? "Meany."

He laughs again and leans over me, I can feel the warmth of his body at my back, he is not touching me, but he is so close. Oh, god, I can't go through another arousal right now, and not just because of the lack of time, but because – well, I'm sick of always being hard and bothered, of always wanting him. I'm so sick of it. "Ry, stop goofing around."

He stops laughing and then his hands are helping me up.

"You have ruined my hair." I start to ruffle the hair that was flattened by the couch .

He is kneeling on the couch, leaning his elbows on the top, a soft smile is gracing his lips and a few strands of hair are falling into his face when our eyes meet. "Your hair looks fine." He reaches out and his fingers are in my hair, combing through it. "Hey, do you need a lift?"

"Could you?"


He stands up and goes to his room, to get his shirt, probably.

"Ry!" I follow him, checking out his ass in the passing. It's a nice ass, curvy and tight. I wonder how he would react if I touched it. Not that I will. Ok, I will if I can make it look like an accident. "Why aren't you coming too?"

"Next time." He picks up a white T-shirt that was lying at the foot of his bed.

"Why not today?" I lean on the doorway, my gaze travelling around the space. I like his room. It's in green tones and the furniture is dark wood. It's nothing special, just a room with a double bed, nightstand, a low cabinet with drawers, a big, ceiling-high wardrobe, book shelves and a small, green armchair. Mine is similar, just in blue tones and with a single bed, but I still like his room better. Maybe because it's his and I feel that even when he is not here, his presence still lingers in the room. He doesn't know it, but every time he goes to visit his parents or is on a business trip for more than a day, I spend the night in his room, with my head on his pillow and my body under his blanket. "It would be so great. We could get wasted and you could dance. You know how you love to dance and we haven't hit any dance floors for such a long time."

"I still have things to do." He pulls the shirt over his head and covers the yumminess of his torso.

There's no point in pushing him. He rarely says no to me, he's just nice like that, but when he does, no matter how much I push him, he won't relent. I sigh. I thought that he might finish in time and join me. I would love to see Ryan dancing again.

Ryan's dancing is all liquid, sensual and elegant like him, it looks like he's making love with the music and it's such a hot sight. Chicks gather around him like moths around a light and he has to shove his way out with a mallet. Once, when we were celebrating something, but we were too lazy to go out, we got wasted in the apartment. I remember there was this song on the TV, some show's theme music and he stood up and started to dance. Just for me. Oh, god, he was so beautiful. I think I jumped on him before I passed out, but since he never said anything about it, either he is pretending that nothing happened for our both sakes, or the part where I jumped on him is just a figment of my imagination.

"Nat." Ryan's hand is waving in front of my face.

"Hmm." I look up into his blue eyes.

"You are drooling. What were you thinking?"

With the back of my hand I wipe my mouth. "Nothing."

"Yeah, right." He passes me, but he doesn't push meon the question, maybe he is afraid of what he would find out -- or maybe he even knows.

We go to the entrance door, put our shoes on, go through the door and down the two flights of stairs to the street toward his black Urban Cruiser. He unlocks the car and we get in. I buckle up my seatbelt-- safety first -- and he follows my example and then the key is in ignition and the engine roars into life.

He knows where we are going, there's no need for directions, so we drive in silence, the hushed sounds of "Another Heart Calls" by All-American Rejects fills up the space. I'm leaned back in the seat and my legs are stretched as far as they can be and crossed at the ankles. My eyes dart between the road and him. We are almost there.

We come to the parking lot of the bar where I'm meeting the gang, he parks and turns off the engine.

"If you need a lift before one, call me. I'll come and pick you up."

"Yeah." I unbuckle my seatbelt.

"Do you have enough money?"

"Yeah, I do." I face him. The tie on his bun got loose and now his hair is a tangled mess, the strands of long hair framing his face, and he still manages to look good. "Stop acting like a parent."

He just smiles. "I worry about you. Is that wrong?"

"Don't. I can take care of me just fine." I open the door of the car and stand up.

"I know."

I close the door and bend my knees so I can see his face. I wave and he waves back, then I step back and watch him drive away. I sigh, I really wish he would come with me, before I turn on my heel, cross the parking space and go into the bar.

Everybody is already there, the table is already filled with glasses and drinks, and the music is loud and the patrons noisy. This place is always crowded.

Somehow I don't feel like drinking tonight, so my main beverage is cola. Here and there Jane forces me to drink something distilled for a toast in her honor, but they're too few and too far between to get me wasted. By the time my watch shows eleven, I'm drunk enough to feel a pleasant buzz in my head, but not enough not to know what I'm doing and this is a first. Whenever I get drunk, I'm not just drunk, I'm completely wasted. Ryan says that I don't know my limit and I guess he is right. But not today. Today I can't relax and have fun. All I can think about is that Ryan has somebody in our flat, in his room, in his bed and that that person will be there until one o'clock and that I can't stand it anymore. I want to see who it is.

"Jane," I yell into her ear. "Do you mind if I leave?"

"Now? It's still early."

"I know, it's just…"

She looks at me and puts her hand on my shoulder, her mouth forming the word "Ryan."

I nod.

"I understand. Go." She gives me her blessing and I'm off.

I find a taxi and in half an hour I'm at our flat's door. Silently I unlock the door, close it and lock it. Everything is dark and silent. I get rid of my shoes and tiptoe toward his bedroom. I put my hand on the door's surface. Behind this door is Ryan and his bitch, the reason for his stupid smiles and the rumpled sheets and the smell of sex in his room.

I shove the door open and stumble into his room, my breathing hard, my hands curled into fists. Where is she? Where is the bitch? But where I expected a warm body beside Ryan, there's an empty space, and the bed-linen is still fresh and probably still smells of fabric softener. And there is Ryan, a moment ago snuggling into the pillow but now sitting up, his eyes blinking in the darkness, and then his eyes focus on me. He reaches out like he wants me closer, like he is offering me a hug, and there is a smile on his face. "You are early."

I can't help it. I should turn and apologize and leave, and even the words, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up.' -- the lie -- die on my tongue as I rush forward, as I bury my face against his warm chest, because I can't help it, because this is something that I really want to do. To cling to him like he is the thread on which my life depends, to bask in the feeling of warmth as his arms close around me, as his palms caress my back. I have just died and gone to heaven.

He starts to tug my sweater up, he forces me to move a little away from him, so he can pull it off. My t-shirt, my pants and underwear are next, then leaning over me, he is pulling off my socks.

I just watch, my head tilted, a wrinkle between my brows, absently wondering why he is doing this, but as long as he is touching me with his elegant fingers, I don't really care.

Then his hands are cradling my head and he is lowering us back down onto the mattress, his palms holding me gently. When the back of his head touches the pillow, I'm half-straddling, half-lying on him, but he is still pulling me closer. So close. Our noses touch and I can feel his breath on my mouth, and nothing else matters, there is nothing else in this world. Just us in his bed. Naked.

I dart out with my tongue, I wet my dry lips, I try to be as still as possible, I resist the urge to grind into the hard, beautiful, oh, so beautiful body underneath me, even though I want to, I want to so badly. But if I do that, then I might wake up and realize that this is all a dream, a wonderful dream, like countless times before.

But in the end I can't help it. I find myself closing that little space between us and I can feel his lips against mine. His tongue darts out and I let him in, my eyelids flutter close. I don't know what's happening, but there is this wonderful tension in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with my erection. It's like bubbles of happiness coming from within and they are bursting in me, filling me.

I've had this feeling before. In almost every wet dream that I've had about him. I dream about being in his bed, having him, taking him and being so happy that I could burst. And it is so real, always so real, but then I wake up in my bed, with clean sheets, sometimes there are marks on my body and I always have an erection that could hammer nails. And I always know it's a dream, because I could never be the one to top and I don't even care for that. In all my fantasies, Ryan is the one that's taking me. I've even bought a vibrator to try how the anal thing works. Didn't go so well. I almost electrocuted myself.

The kiss ends and it leaves me breathless and dazzled. In the next moment I'm rolled on my back, the sheet that was between us is tossed on the floor and Ryan is straddling me, I can feel his pulsing flesh against my stomach. It feels real, too real. "Ry?"

"Shhh." He puts a finger against my lips, then he leans over me and his mouth replaces his finger. His mouth is seducing me, his hands are all over my body, and his pelvis is thrusting against me.

I moan in his mouth, I arch beneath his caress and I grind back against his body. I don't know how long goes on, but I can't take it much longer and as if he knows, he pulls away.

"I'm so glad you came." Ryan's voice is rushed and breathless like mine, his cheeks flushed and his eyes hooded, I can see that even in this semi-dark. He opens the tube that appears from nowhere, greases fingers that in the next moment are greasing me, then he lifts up on his shanks and, his fingers on my erection, he lines it up with his entrance.


He smiles, I can hear it in his voice. "I wasn't sure if you would," he says, pushing down until the tip of my flesh is in his warmth and his breathing becomes shallower, "but I have prepared myself anyway." He slides farther down.

I fist the sheet under me and grind my teeth together, resisting the urge to thrust up into the slick warmth that is closing around me. Oh, god. This is better than heaven, this is so good that it's almost hell.

He releases a sigh as his bottom touches my groin. He caresses my face before he puts his hands behind him on my thighs. A moment of stillness, his blue eyes are on me before he starts to rock his hips.

All I can do is breathe as he slides up and down and as his muscles are squeezing around me just with the right amount of pressure. I'm a mess, my gaze is on the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen in my life. I don't know what gets me more, the friction between our bodies, the way his body is taking me in, or the beauty of the arc his body makes, of the skin that is almost glistening in the weak light of moon and streetlights that is coming through window and the way his head is thrown back as he rides me.

I feel the pleasure spiralling up my spine, higher and higher with each descent he makes and I can't take it anymore. I dig my fingers into his thighs. I jut out with my pelvis, my whole body shakes. I can see the stars, I can touch the sky, I'm high above everything before I'm thrown back to the earth.

He is still rocking on me, with one hand on his erection he looks even better than the vision I see in my fantasies every time I close my eyes and touch myself.

My lungs are still fighting for air when he takes my breath away again with the way he grimaces as he clenches for the last time around me and his come dirties my stomach. He's so beautiful when he is coming, so beautiful that it looks he's not of this world.

"Ry," I whisper so softly that I can barely hear it. I take hold of his hair that is falling over his shoulder and pull him down. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. I love him. I love him so much. My chest is tight and I'm so happy that I could cry.

We lie like that for a moment, though it must be very uncomfortable for Ryan, since as soon as he gets his breathing under control he sneaks out of my embrace. He pulls himself up and my soft flesh slips out of him.

I yawn and with half-closed eyes watch him leave the bed.

He goes to the nightstand, there is a box of something there. He takes from it what seem to be tissues and starts to wipe himself between his thighs.

I should say something, there are so many questions in my mind, but I don't want to break this comfortable silence, this intimacy, so we will talk later. I patiently wait for him to climb back into the bed and reach out for him, because right now all I want to do is hold him and be held.

He evades my arms and puts the box from the nightstand beside me. Then he pulls out a few tissues and cleans my stomach, then he slides the tissues down toward my little, tired friend.

The tissues are moist, and his touch is gentle, but it's weird to have somebody cleaning me like that, and it also tickles. I giggle and sit up. "I can clean myself you know." I push his hand away and pull a tissue out of the box. In a second I'm cleaned and the tissue is in the thin plastic bag on the floor.

He stares at me. "You aren't drunk?"

"Maybe a little."

"You should be wasted." He turns away from me. "Oh, shit."

"What?" I grab his arm.

"You are always wasted!"


"When you come to my room you are always wasted."

"I'm always wasted when I come to your room? What does this –" I can see them, the crumpled sheets in the basket and I can feel the hangover. And everything clicks. Almost every time that I go out, the next day there is a smell of sex still lingering in his room. "It was me? The girl I though you were shagging, it was me?" I don't want to, but I'm yelling and digging my fingernails into the flesh of his arm.

"No, you were fucking me," he yells back and tears his arm out of my grasp.

All those times when I thought I was just having a very realistic wet dream of him, it was real? Oh, god. I can feel the anger choking in me. I open my mouth - I want to scream at him, to hit him, to kick him. How could he do that to me? And I don't mean how could he use drunk, fragile me, I mean how could we be doing this stuff and him never saying anything, being quiet, just going with the flow, letting me fuck him and then letting me forget about it. Oh, god, in this moment I hate him so much. But then I look up and his blue eyes are looking back at me and they seem sad, hurt and afraid. He seems like he is going to start to cry any moment now. And he never cries, never, ever. I feel like bastard and I reach out and tug him closer. I want to make all better somehow, but instead I hiss, "I should just strangle you for not telling me about this."

"I'm sorry." He pulls away. He rubs his eyes, which are dry, by the way. He sighs. "I will move out and I will never bother you again."

I can feel the headache coming, and suddenly I'm not just angry, I'm having a case of apocalyptic rage and there is only one thing that I can do. I slap him. I slap him so hard that my palm burns and I note with satisfaction a big red imprint of my hand on his cheek and surprise in his eyes. "Don't you ever dare to say something like that to me again! You selfish prick. And not because I can't afford the place, which you know that I can't, but because you haven't thought about me at all!"

I watch his face, he is frowning, his lips are turned down and I could swear that there is something glistening in his eyes, even though the fucker never cries and he seems lost and sad. He seems like he doesn't know what to do, what to say and that's never happened before. A first tear slips down his cheek and he doesn't even notice.

And suddenly all the rage that was boiling in me vanishes and I my shoulders drop and I bury my face into my hands.

"Nathan?" His hand slowly, hesitantly descends on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. What should I do?"

I sigh. I'm not ready yet, this is all too sudden, but it's the only quick way to make him understand. So I swallow the lump in my throat and my hands actually shake when I peep through my fingers at him and mumble, "I love you."

He stares at me like I suddenly grew two new heads and one of them is a Brussels sprout, then his hands are prying my fingers away from my face. "Say that again."

I shake my head and turn away from him. "I can't."

He wraps his long limbs around me like a octopus and his hold is almost suffocating me, not that I care. "Please. Otherwise I will think that I imagined it." He nuzzles into my neck. "Please?" His voice is high and whiny and he sounds pathetic.

When did this happen? How could it be that suddenly I feel like I'm a knight and he the princess in distress when it was always the other way around? I'm the princess, damn it, and he the knight in shining armour who is going to protect me and spoil me silly -- who is already protecting me and spoiling me silly. "You sound like a girl."

"I don't care." His breath is caressing the skin on my neck. "As long as you say 'I love you' again and as long as I can be your girl, I don't care."

As long as I can be your girl. I can't help it, the laughter starts to bubble in my chest and spills outward. He's better than me in everything and he is also taller, more muscular and even four months older than me and the idea of him being my girl -- even though I can imagine him with pigtails, bare-chested (his abs are just too good not to be bare-chested) and in a skirt - damn he would look so good. I dig my fingers into his black mane and as soon as I get my giggles under control, my lips are at his temple. "I love you and you can be my girl or my man anytime."

He laughs and he pushes me down on the mattress. His arms frame me. "A girl, a man, I can be everything you want."

I can see in his eyes that he is his usual confident self. And maybe I shouldn't feed his ego any more, but I can't help myself. "You are already everything that I want." And he would probably always be. And as he smiles and closes the distance between our lips, I suddenly realise, they were right, when they say: 'It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' But they should also add: 'but it's perfect when you are loved back'.

The end