He had to be straight.
He was boyishly handsome, with reddish-brown hair that seemed to frame his face effortlessly. He wasn't put-together, and he didn't care one bit about fashion. He was more than willing to get dirty in a game of soccer, even if he did end up tripping over himself trying to slide-tackle another player—his klutziness was yet another thing you found cute about him, though it wasn't so cute when he didn't deal with the cut and it got infected—and he wore the same pair of faded, wrinkled old jeans all the time. He didn't have a lisp, or speak in a high-pitched voice; in fact, his voice had a dark timbre that made you want to squirm uncomfortably when you talked with him. He didn't care about celebrities, didn't read Twilight. When he drank, it was whiskey, not the girly fruity drinks you saw sometimes at gay clubs.
He wasn't friends with mostly girls, and you'd heard all the rumors about him and his closest female friend: they were hooking up, they were dating, they were together all the time. And sure, you'd never heard them confirmed, but—she was gorgeous. Not only that, but you still remembered his story about the girlfriend who cheated on him at senior prom. At the time, you'd thought it endearing, that he'd admit something like that when he barely knew you, although you were also surprised—what girl would cheat on a boy who looked like that?—but now it was just a reminder of his ever-present, clearly-obvious, unavoidable straightness. You knew you shouldn't be surprised; it wasn't like you'd expected to find a boyfriend when you decided to attend the University of Alabama. After all, there were probably five boys out on the whole campus, and you weren't even one of them. Weren't quite sure what your swim team buddies would say, or how you'd be treated in the locker room. The point was, though, that he was absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it straight. Even if you'd never heard him say it.
So why was he looking at you like that?
You were excited when he told you he'd be coming to your swim meet, but until now you hadn't really thought about what that entailed. Him. Seeing you more than half naked. Wearing nothing but a Speedo. From the shocked look on his face as his eyes moved up and down your body, he hadn't thought about it either. He shifted in his seat, looking down, and then returned his gaze to you. His eyes swept your body again, and he no longer looked shocked. In fact, the look in his eyes was very different. Appreciative. You gulped. You could tell he noticed, because his eyes grew more calculating, and his mouth curled into a smirk. You were about to be offended, when you noticed that his cheeks were pink, despite the smirk, and he seemed a little…uncomfortable…in his chair, shifting back and forth.
This time, it was you who smiled. Wanting to see his reaction, you stretched and faked a yawn, knowing it put your body on full display. The pink in his cheeks bloomed to red, and he averted his eyes. Score! But there was no use getting your hopes up, and it was time to concentrate. Your race was next.
He found you, after the race, back in your normal clothes.
"That was awesome, man! I can't believe you pulled third! They're, like, a total powerhouse."
You beamed. You were about to pull him in for your typical one-armed hug when you remembered. Suddenly, the air between you turned awkward. "Thanks," you said, trying to avoid stuttering. "I really appreciated you coming."
He looked down. "No problem, anytime," he replied. You lapsed into to silence.
Finally, he spoke, tension thick in the air. "So, you must get all the girls in that swimsuit of yours," he teased, halfheartedly, giving you a friendly punch on the shoulder.
You wasn't sure how to reply. Normally, you'd laugh it off and all, but that look he'd given you before… you decided to go for it. What could you lose, a friendship? Who were you kidding. You was terrified. But the words managed to force their way out of your mouth anyway. "Not really interested in getting any random girls," you muttered. Inside your head, you thought, "much more interested in getting you." You was never more thankful you weren't the type who thought aloud.
He paused at that, and gave you a serious look, peering into your eyes. "Got your eyes on someone specific?" he asked.
"Something like that," you shrugged.
He looked disappointed, then brightened, although you noticed the edges on his eyes didn't crinkle like usual as he smiled. "So who is she?" he questioned.
This was it. "Not really a she," you mumbled.
He looked shocked, then relieved, then momentarily ecstatic, before smoothing his face into a more normal expression. "That's cool man."
The two of you stood there, once again falling into an uncomfortable silence. Finally, he spoke, and you felt like a coward for having had no response. This time, his voice was more hesitant, less teasing. "So... who is...he, then?..."
You looked up, trying to discern what his expression meant, looking for assurance that you weren't about to screw everything up. You didn't find it, but the words spilled out of your mouth anyway: "I…it's you." You started babbling then, eyes falling back to your feet: "that is, I, I don't expect you to, you know, feel that way back, and I hope, I hope this, doesn't mess up our friendship or anything, cause, you know, you're a really good—"
He cut you off. "Good." Your head lifted, but before you could ask what he meant, his hands were on your neck and his mouth had descended on yours. Eventually, you pulled apart, and grinned at each other. His hand found its way to yours, and you walked out of the now-deserted gym. Together.
You guess he wasn't straight after all.
The boy described in this story is not real, but he is based on a real (and yes, actually gay) boy. Names are not included, and locations/appearances have been changed to protect the innocent. The (barely existent) plot is all from inside my head. I know it's horribly short--I blame the lack of plot. Constructive criticism welcome, although I warn you this was not a particularly serious or planned-out story, just a moment of 'inspiration' so I am already well-aware that it is no masterpiece. This is my first time writing slash (or romance, if you don't count that horrible school assignment from five or six years ago hanging around my profile).