Sebastian is sprawled on his back, in bed, tossing a soccer ball in the air, then catching it. It’s their last Sunday at camp, but he’s been spaced out since dinner. Something about a good meal and a heap of anxiety puts him under. Only a week of camp remains, then school starts in two weeks. Sebastian isn’t ready for camp to end.
He’s not ready to face his future, whatever that looks like.
The window is cracked open. It’s muggy tonight, and the inside of their cabin smells like Willie’s filthy socks. They’re his “lucky” socks, so Sebastian’s making an exception, but they’re rank. He tolerates so much in the name of friendship.
Outside, Willie and Hunter lead a charge toward the lake; their howls are louder than the chirping symphony of crickets and creepy owl hoots.
“No skinny-dipping!” yells Hunter.
“Boo, Hunter, you’re such an asswipe about nudity,” Jack complains.
“Actually,” Hunter says, breathless, “I just don’t want to see your pale, flat ass anymore. I get enough of it in the showers.”
Willie’s laugh is echoed by the others before their voices drift out of earshot.
Their last traditional bonfire night will be Friday, the day before they head home. It’ll be monumental, but it also means Sebastian still has time for camaraderie. It’s why he’s not pressuring himself to drag his ass out of bed and join the cavalry.
He takes deep breaths. Tosses the ball up. Catch and repeat.
Sebastian refuses to call this this sulking, despite humming Bon Iver and Crowded House, the music of the sulk people. It’s introspection. A bit of reflection is good, in doses. Besides, Sebastian figures the longer he does this, the faster he’ll fall asleep. Practices are grueling this close to the end, and he could use the extra rest.
“Son of a—!”
Sebastian’s head snaps toward the window, where Emir is crawling in—and then crashing to the floor.
Emir’s a pile of upside-down, skinny limbs, grumbling “Stupid window, stupid camp” as he rolls to his stomach. He stands and dusts off his shorts. At least Emir’s scowl isn’t directed at Sebastian. This time, he reminds himself.
Emir stops straightening out his jersey with a sheepish smile. “Well, hey.”
Sebastian’s brow rises. “What’s up?” He’s transfixed by Emir’s fluffy hair. The lamp sweeps honeyed light over Emir’s brown skin and softens the tense line of his shoulders. Sebastian turns the soccer ball like a globe between his hands. “Everything okay?”
“You mean besides your window trying to kill me?” Emir waves an arm behind himself. “Yeah, I just…”
When Emir’s voice drifts off, Sebastian squints at the jersey that’s too big for Emir’s slight frame, and then reality smacks him. Emir’s wearing Sebastian’s jersey, the one he keeps hung up in his locker. Nothing has ever been so poorly-fitting and arousing at the same time.
“I borrowed it,” Emir says, one finger hooked in the collar, pulling.
Sebastian resists saying You stole it because his chest is tight, half with pride, the rest with confusing fondness. “Cool.” His mouth turns up happily. “People might talk if they see you in it.”
“I’m used to people talking about me.”
Sebastian snorts. Emir isn’t rejecting the idea of people assuming something’s going on between them. That threatens to make Sebastian get on one knee for more than one reason.
Emir rocks on his heels and pulls on the jersey’s hem. He’s fidgeting like a child who needs to use the bathroom. He looks the way Sebastian feels. “So. Are you busy?”
“Pretty un-busy,” Sebastian says. He drops the ball to make a grand sweep of the room with his arms.
Emir’s eyes are blown black with a hint of gray remaining. He gives Sebastian a loaded look, one of those “we need to talk” expressions.
Sebastian’s chest tightens. Maybe this is it. Maybe Emir isn’t comfortable with how Grey seems to be catching on. Or how Sebastian got a little too bold the other night after ice cream, blatantly ditching his friends to walk Emir back to his cabin.
Is Emir calling it quits on their non-relationship, or whatever this is?
“What is it?”
Emir stares at his hands. His eyes gradually lift. The pinched corners of his mouth relax. He says, “I was thinking about something.” Artificial light dances over his softly dilated eyes.
“Yeah, sure.” Sebastian waits, holding his breath.
Emir stuffs a hand in his pocket. He yanks out something; his white-knuckled fist is closed. He tosses an object on the bed near Sebastian’s hip.
An ache spreads through Sebastian’s belly, but it’s not panic, not when he identifies the object as a condom. He’s on autopilot, trading glances between the crinkled foil and Emir’s eyes. He believed Emir wanted to cut things off, but Emir’s jumpy about approaching the topic of sex with Sebastian. Go figure.
Shyly, Emir says, “So what do you think?”
“Like, right now?”
Emir shrugs, not making a fuss. But it’s a pretty big deal to Sebastian. He’s nearly choking on his own spit.
Emir says, “If you’re interested.”
Sebastian is seventeen, perpetually horny, and this is Emir; of course he’s interested! Voicing that intelligently is a completely different matter, though. He nods and chews hard enough on his lower lip to draw blood. He pats an empty spot on the bed. “Now is good.”
Heat flashes across Emir’s cheeks. It’s the first time Emir has been this shy around him in forever. He squirms, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his shorts, and—Okay, this is happening.
Sebastian’s keyed up. His brain is fried. His fingers wrap around Emir’s wrist and give a small tug until Emir falls forward.
“Whoa.” Emir has his palms flat on either side of Sebastian’s head, half straddling him, and his eyebrows touch Sebastian’s hairline.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Emir accuses, amused.
“You’re right.”
Sebastian doesn’t know where to put his hands. Great. He’s every bit the virgin Mason teases him about being. A frustrated wrinkle appears between Emir’s eyebrows before he’s inclining until they’re chest to chest, their noses almost touching. Sebastian goes for his hips, a safe bet.
“I can’t stop thinking about you. All the bloody time,” whispers Emir huskily. He gets a hand under the collar of Sebastian’s shirt; his thumb ghosts the curve of Sebastian’s collarbone. “It’s proper annoying.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Both,” Emir rasps. He shivers when Sebastian’s fingers curl into the waistband of his shorts.
“Good.” Sebastian pulls. “I’d hate to think you were losing your touch.”
Something dark and hungry glazes Emir’s eyes. “How did this bloody happen?”
“Not sure.”
Emir’s lips part. Sebastian palms his cheek; the stubble is scratchy and rough against his skin. Emir turns his head enough for Sebastian’s thumb to nudge his lips. His eyes flicker shut.
Sebastian whispers, “Are you mad it did?”
“Yes. No. How the hell am I supposed to know?”
Sebastian has no clue himself. But he figured Emir has more common sense than he does. Maybe they’re both two extremely lost teenagers? Maybe, when they’re older, they still won’t have it all figured out. It’s not something Sebastian needs to dwell on because he’s in bed, with a guy.
This isn’t about reflection. This is scratching an itch. It’s sex, and Sebastian doesn’t need to overthink it.
They kiss. It takes them a moment to find a rhythm between mouths and bodies. Emir’s hand is flat against Sebastian’s chest. Sebastian has fingers in Emir’s hair. Their foreheads thump at a wrong angle. Emir hisses “Ouch,” but then Sebastian attacks his mouth, and they’re good again.
Not perfect, but imperfectly amazing.
Sebastian is wasted on bliss. His legs get caught in his stupid jeans. Emir reclines, biting his lip, and shoves the condom into Sebastian’s open palm.
No turning back.
He gazes into Emir’s glassy eyes, which are bright like stars. Emir’s right. Girls can be handsome and boys—boys like Emir—can be beautiful too.
Sebastian gets his shirt off and goes for Emir’s—nope, his—jersey next, but Emir swats his hands away. “Can I—” Emir pauses, inhaling. “I want to keep it on.”
Sebastian blinks so hard fizzy dots cloud his vision. His fingers release the hem of the jersey; his hands drop onto his belly. Emir’s hunched over; the lamp casts pale light across his features. His breaths come in short bursts. Sebastian nods. “Yeah, that’s—that’s hot.”
Fluttering eyelashes and crooked lips are Emir’s only response.
“I’ve never done this,” says Sebastian. Leaving that out was an option but, if he’s bad at this, he at least owes Emir the truth. “Not with a guy or a girl, so this has major chances of sucking.” Sebastian winces at his own words.
Emir’s eyes are amused.
Perfect, Sebastian is a joke.
Inching closer, Emir says into Sebastian’s mouth, “You won’t.” Before Sebastian can protest, he whispers, “Trust me; it’s not hard to figure out.”
Sebastian’s calmer, something he never imagined after his last admission. But that’s Emir’s fault. He hates Emir Shah for making him this hungry for anyone, ever. He’s going to write a list of all the ways Emir has screwed up his life, starting with this moment.
Sebastian slept through Sex Ed his sophomore year. He tenses trying to figure out the condom. Emir doesn’t comment.
“Ready?”
Emir rolls his eyes like he can’t believe Sebastian. Sebastian doesn’t mind. This is all he’s ever wanted.
* * *
Sebastian is hardcore smiling.
It’s an amazing feat, since he’s breathing so hard he sounds asthmatic. Emir’s laughing into a pillow next to him. Fortunately, considering Sebastian already lacks an ego, Emir isn’t laughing at him. His blush is only an aftereffect of what just happened. The incredible, toe-curling thing that just happened. And, no, he isn’t going to tell anyone he thought that, ever.
Sebastian is sprawled on his back. Emir’s flat on his stomach. Sebastian’s arm is still caught under him, and there’s a searing line of heat where their thighs touch under the sheets. The open window provides minimal circulation without the usual nightly draft. His nose wrinkles at the cabin’s new scent: sweat and an earthy, boyish smell.
“Are you okay?”
Emir turns enough for Sebastian to have a nice view of his elated eyes.
Yeah, Sebastian feels like that too. Like someone just cracked open his whole world, poured a mountain of candy at his feet, and told him to have at it. He’s stoned on how great the last twenty minutes of his life were. He withholds that from Emir, though.
“Stay here?”
“Are you sure?” Emir’s eyes are hesitant.
Sebastian clears his throat. “Positive.” When Emir’s lips open to protest, Sebastian says, firmer, “Emi, stay here.”
Emir nods; his eyes begin to crinkle. He tentatively shifts closer. Sebastian yanks him the rest of the way. Emir’s face smooshes in his neck. Sebastian ignores his slight embarrassment and presses a kiss to the top of Emir’s head.
It takes all of five minutes for Emir’s breaths to even out. Sebastian grins, smug; Emir has no problem falling asleep when he’s in Sebastian’s arms.
A roaring yawn escapes Sebastian. Sleep doesn’t follow. His eyes follow the haunting shadows tree limbs create on his ceiling. Emir’s breath tickles his jaw. His mind is currently involved in a high-speed, Olympic-level ping pong game. How long has he wanted this: a guy to make his heart race and move slow tempo at the same time? Sex with Emir was—well, he just went with it. No overthinking involved. It’s a missing piece of himself finally shoved into place.
Emir’s hazy in Sebastian’s peripheral vision: a mix of sepia skin and dark hair. Sebastian strains to get a better view. Emir’s eyelashes flutter every few breaths, but he’s mostly still and content. Obviously, Emir isn’t affected by the fact that they just had sex. So why is Sebastian sweating the small stuff?
And just like that, apprehension subsides, and Sebastian’s okay. He’s more than okay. Emir is still here, in his arms. Sebastian might not be an authority on great acts of intimacy, but they did something pretty amazing tonight. So what if a tiny bit of vulnerability is scratching at his skin? He’s fine with panicking a little. Emir, who is major-league stubborn and a hair shy of being an asshole, panics sometimes too.
It’s okay. He tightens his arms around Emir. It’s cool that everyone has their moments of overthinking.
* * *
Sebastian startles out of a dream about soccer balls and cookies having a dance-off to the music of Grease, sits up, and peers at the cabin doorway. Specifically, at Willie leaning there.
The moon is barely a crescent tonight. Willie’s silhouette is bathed in silver starlight. Sebastian swallows; his mouth is cottony, and his throat is tight. Crossing his arms, he pulls his knees to his chest.
Willie cocks his head just enough to highlight his blank expression. His curious blue eyes settle on Emir. He’s still unconscious, curled around one of Sebastian’s pillows.
“I, uh…”
Sebastian’s a tool. His face is hot; nerves prickle up his arms. Willie, his best friend who would fight an alien invasion for him, is staring at a mostly naked boy in Sebastian’s bed. Willie, who is much more level-headed than Mason, isn’t going to freak out. He’s just going to blink his eyes and stare.
“Will—” Sebastian chokes on the rest. What’s he going to say? That he wishes Mason had never blurted out Willie’s “thing” for him? That he just wants things to go back to normal? Sebastian has no clue what “normal” is supposed to be anymore.
Whatever is happening between Hunter and Willie now doesn’t eliminate what Willie felt for Sebastian, does it? Do people simply get over crushes on their best friends by snapping their fingers? It can’t be that easy.
Willie obliterates most of Sebastian’s anxiety by smiling. He says, “I’m gonna go stay at Hunter’s tonight. If that’s cool?”
Sebastian nods.
“Looks like you could use some privacy, bro.”
Next to Sebastian, Emir’s mouth is parted; little breaths come out. His fingers are curled against the sheets. Sebastian lifts his eyes. “Is that okay?”
“Definitely.”
Willie treads quietly around the room. He takes his laptop, leaves his iPod.
“So.” Sebastian’s being an idiot. He’s about to open a big, ugly book of topics they’ve been dancing around. “Are we good?” slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
Willie rotates on his heels. He strides to Sebastian’s bed. Dread wrecks Sebastian’s stomach. This is when Willie finally goes Incredible Hulk.
Instead, he ruffles Sebastian’s hair and says, “Absolutely, bro. I’m happy for you.”
Fighting off a need to puke, Sebastian whispers, “Good.”
Before he walks away, Willie flicks Sebastian’s forehead. “But next time, put a sock on the door. You know the rules, man.” He waves a hand at Emir. “Seriously, things could’ve gotten really weird if I walked in on that.”
Sebastian smiles so wide his vision goes blurry. Willie doesn’t hate him. They’re friends. No matter what outrageous decisions he makes in life, there are still people who will always accept him: ones that’ll punch him, hug him, and tell him corny jokes.
Willie salutes him at the door, then shrugs his bag higher on his shoulder.
The door shuts, and Sebastian whispers, “Thanks, Willster,” to the shadows.