Okay! Continuation shit!

Yeah, it's true, that I knew what I wanted from him the moment our eyes caught between our desks at that English class, right over that one redhead's hair, smirks lighting our lips in a brief, friendly flicker before we focused back on the teacher, the graffitied desks holding our empty notebooks, our unsharpened pencils, whatever. The both of us knew we'd be buddies after that, simple. I just kept my own personal opinion that he was one hell of a looker to myself.

And okay, I would check him out in class—I admit it! But I kept my hands to myself, and when we started talking on a regular basis, I kept it purely platonic—fist bumps, camaraderie, swapping dirt on teachers and roommates, all that.

But then, you know, we got closer. Like, I didn't know it but he was with some girl or something, and they broke up, and he told me, and before I knew it, I was cancelling all my plans, picking up a bottle of cheap rum, and driving to his house like it was an emergency or something.

He fell right apart after a couple of drinks, and just started sobbing all over my shoulder, no warning, no hesitation, no attempt to pull himself back together, just his tears wetting my shirt, and gentle sobs and sniffs as he wrapped his fingers in my hair.

It's kind of lame, but after I put him to bed, I had to use his bathroom to jack off.

I found out pretty quick that Andre goes through girls like tissues—or more like the other way around—and I was set on edge each time by his crying eyes, those chocolate brown irises glistening, lashes webbed with beads of saltwater… Even the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes from scrunching them up and the puffy bags under his lower lashes from rubbing his face were a part of the package that was undeniably captivating, and heartcrushing.

But then I found a girlfriend, and she was perfect, just exactly what I needed to get my mind off of my lie of a best friend. For a moment my mind was off of a certain small dark and handsome and I could just think about how nice it was to kiss Angela's sweet pink lips, because I could whenever I wanted, and I would just realize that every now and then and lean over, wherever we were, and fall against her mouth, and she'd just smile and tap my lip with her tongue. I never took even something that small for granted. When we made love for the first time, I just couldn't get over how I was allowed to touch whatever I wanted, my hands drifting lingeringly over her shell ears, her mouth, her nipples, her belly, her hips, her pubic hair. Everything was a dream because it was surrendered to me and I didn't have to watch myself, watch my eyes, watch my fingers, anything. I was free. Wanted. Recognized.

So yeah. I was crushed when she it wasn't as special for her. And then it was my turn.

My turn to cry.

I decided it as soon as I got on the phone with Andre and those sobs just came out of me unbidden. Okay. So I was going to get drunk this time. We were going to get wasted together. No more of me watching sober as Andre swilled it down, no more holding him till he passed out, no more putting him to bed. I was going to let myself go this time.

It would be okay.

But then he got too drunk. And I got too drunk, but I was so used to calming him, so used to taking care of him, I was perfectly fine. But why the hell was he crying? Wasn't I the one who had just been broken up with? Wasn't he single? But hey, his tears were the regular for this kind of thing anyway. I was just a little more smashed than usual. It was fine.

Until he told me. That he was gay. That all those lovers had all been men. That he'd never touched a woman in his life, never wanted to.

And that every night he'd cried on my shoulder, it had been for me.

Then…then I lost it.

I sit back, eyes wavering with apprehension as I look him over, unable to stop myself from appreciating the aftereffect of my huge mistake. Lips swollen. Dark hair twisted and tousled, body slack, spent, though he's actually really tense right now. I think his lightly browned skin is still sticky with our sweat—I know mine is—and of course, part of me can't help but wonder how easy it would be to just slide into him right now, riding the old lube and my own cum that has to still be inside him—

And I say the unthinkable:

"Let's…" I swallow down some air. "Let's do it again."

I watch shock flash across his expression, and then something else—defensiveness? Reservation? Misunderstanding? Not fear, no, it can't be that…? But didn't I take advantage of him like that, didn't I, even though he told me no…he was so drunk…

"Forget I said that," I throw in.

Andre nods again wordlessly. He rubs a fist over his neat little nose, tipped up just enough to be cute. As much as I love that nose, right now my focus is on his face, flushed healthily along the high cheekbones, on his chapped lips—and always, those puffy eyelids. Trademark. It's obscene to wonder how swelled he is where I stuffed my cock in him, but I can't keep myself from wondering it like a broken record. Thank god he can't read my mind. Thick brown eyebrows don't react at all—two perfect arches accentuating his heart-shaped face.

"Do you want ibuprofen?" he finally asks me in a flat, dead voice. My blood flashes hot and cold. He's not okay. He's really not okay. He reaches over and fetches the bottle off the night stand, not getting out from under the covers too far, I notice. "You'll have to get your own water, or do them dry."

Guilt flashes through me as my mind immediately snaps to the sexual connotation of dry, and how much he's not. His hole is just soft and slick and wet, just waiting for someone to use it.

More like use him. Just like I did. Yeah, I'm heartbroken and sad, but that's no excuse. He said no. Told me over and over that it was a bad idea, that we shouldn't. And I don't know. Maybe it's something we could have talked out, figured through. Maybe, if we'd had that conversation without have a gallon of booze in our systems—stop trying to push some of the blame onto him, you damn molester—we could have had a nice conversation, and planned a date, or something. But really. Why didn't I just stop when he told me in a grief-ridden voice that he loved me? Why didn't I just put him to bed then? We could have cuddled together, made a sweet memory, woken up, and then decided what we wanted to do with this.

But I didn't reign myself in. I didn't hold back.

No. I did kind of the opposite. I fucked him.

Awareness crashes over me like a boulder splitting into fragments over my back. "Are you doing alright?" I ask desperately, sitting up and leaning over him as I clutch the small bottle of pills. So insensitive, did I really just wake up and suggest that he let me do him again? Right after everything? What's wrong with me? Yeah, I'm still a little drunk from last night, but that's no real excuse for my behavior. I want to throw myself out of his window.

Especially when Andre doesn't answer, but cringes back instead. Shit. Shit. Am I threatening him? Am I really that now? A threat? I mean, I practically raped him, didn't I?

"Let's…just not mention this ever again…" he murmurs, eyes down beneath his thick black lashes.

And really, what can I say?

After that I took my leave and since then it's been nothing but ignoring my calls, never seeing each other at school, nope, never in our shared class. I feel rotten. Worse than that actually. I've tried texting my apologies, all that. It just hasn't worked. How could it? You can't fix a mistake like that with a smiley face at the end of the words "Hey, sorry about what happened before. Let's start over?"

So that's why I'm standing in front of his house right now, ringing the doorbell, maybe hoping that a roommate will answer instead of Andre, maybe not. I don't know what I'll do when I see him. My stomach's already sick with shame.

As soon as it's him in front of me, all five foot ten of that succulent lean body, I realize with a nasty jolt that no way in hell am I ready to face him. I feel like throwing up.

He doesn't say anything at first, just looks me over and sighs, like I'm a burden or something. He opens the door wider, lets me in.

"I have class in a bit," he tells me, face turning away. "So what do you want?" He's still shirtless, only wearing boxers, fist rubbing sleep out of his eyes. I know he doesn't have class. I scratch the back of my head.

"Uh I…just wanted to say sorry about that one time. It was really really out of line but, you know, if that could not come between us, I'd really like it if you started coming to English again and maybe we could even hang ou—"

"It's fine, we were both drunk. It was just a mistake." His face flushes pink. "And I haven't been skipping. I've had the flu."

I nod, letting him get away with it. "So…we're friends again?"

His deep brown eyes lift to mine in challenge. "What else would we be?"

I have a number of suggestions, but I'm too much of a scaredy cat.

"I'll be in English tomorrow," is all he says, before pushing me out the door.

And he is. But he's not really there, not the same. He's constantly watching me out of the corner of his eye and looking quickly away every time I catch him, but he hardly says a word to me. Just slumps over, chin settled in the cradle of his folded arms, eyes brooding, even though we're sitting next to each other.

"You…wanna talk?" I try to ask him once, but he just shrugs and scoots his body away in his seat.

And I don't know. How the hell do I fix this? Can it be fixed? I'm stepping absently across campus on a Wednesday on my way to math 112, weighed down by my dilemma. Should it be fixed? Or have I royally screwed up to the point where trying to rectify this whole mess is just another selfish mistake?

After listlessly sitting through class, mind on one thing only—and definitely not math—I drag my feet over to my dorm room. I just wish I knew what to do. I mean, I want to talk to someone about it, but the only one I could really talk with about things like this is the object of my confusion. I tug at my blonde hair a little, yank on it like maybe stretching my scalp might make this all so much clearer.

Backpack falling to the carpet of the unoccupied room, I flop onto my bed, just hating myself. I'm having problems because I just molested my friend. What about him? He's probably so much worse… I curl up into a ball, scratch my nails down over my chest, purposely making it hurt.

"I hate myself," I grind out. "Hate myself hate myself."

The first burn of saltwater pricks at my eyes, and, squeezing my lids, I allow the single tear to drip down over my cheek, my nose, staying there until I finally wipe it off on the back of my palm. I get up, eyes glossy and hot. Picking up my pillow, I slap it down onto the mattress as violently as I can. "I hate myself!" I scream, "Fucking hate myself!" The pillow strikes the bed again, I crunch my teeth down. "I. Hate. Myself!"

My heart rattles, pulls apart, and then I set down, pillow tight in my grasp, and cry for real.



...Not ze tears.