HOME | DD

Description
Male/male pairing. Don't like, don't read

It was Monday, and my first class of the day. My professor was a pretentious old windbag who cared more about telling us about himself than about anything useful. All his lectures were printed up on power points. I'd skip, except that he sent around a sign-in sheet and used attendance as part of our grade. So here I was, sitting in the back of class, sending text messages to nobody.

I hate this class. It isn't really a secret. No one likes this class.

It was true. From my vantage point in the back row, I could see all that was going on below me and what my egotistical professor was either ignoring or was too wrapped up in self-glorification to see. At least a quarter of the class was on a social media site on their laptops. Some were taking a fifty-minute power nap. The girl in front of me was playing games on her smart phone. The next row down were doing their homework for their next class and sharing a textbook between them. There were a couple keeners in the first row taking notes, but apart from that, no one was listening to the lecture.

I scribbled out a few lines on a piece of scrap paper. It used to have my midterm exam schedule written down on it, but all mine were done now.

I write poetry, I texted to my imaginary friend. It isn't very good. I like it though.

It was a secret. I really liked poetry, and when everyone was complaining about having to study the Romantic era in British Lit, I was ecstatic. It was a good thing my bored face was the exact same as my ecstatic face.

I scribbled out a few more lines and then went back and scratched out a couple words that didn't fit. All the Romantic poets wrote odes. I wanted to write one too, but I doubted my talent was in any way comparable to that.

I'm writing you an ode. I'm dedicating this line to your blessed silence.

After class, I sat at the coffee shop on campus to research my next essay. It seemed incongruous to enjoy studying at a loud public place like this. I was used to the noise by this point, and it gave me the feeling of mingling without having to actually interact with anyone.

"Hey, Spence!" Matt leaned over the dividing wall between the cafe and the main hallway. "What are you up to? Just got out of class?"

"Yeah," I said. "Waiting for my next one."

To my surprise, he walked around the wall and came to sit at my table. I was surrounded by books, and all my tabs on my laptop were open to various articles. He leaned over my screen to look, and I could smell his shampoo.

"Poetry? I never did get English." He shrugged.

"That's because you're a science major. What was it, biology?"

"Bio-chemistry," he said, sighing. "Some days I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into, but then I come across something fascinating and I want to study it more."

"I don't envy you your textbooks." I cast a pointed look at the one he was carrying. It was two inches thick, hardcover and a brand new edition. It had probably cost the same amount as all my English books combined.

"Well, at least it's interesting," he grinned and nudged my shoulder with his. It was warm and solid through the t-shirt he was wearing. "Poetry is hard."

"I like poetry," I said defensively, bristling.

He gave me a strange look. "That's funny. Someone else told me they liked poetry earlier today."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not the only English major that goes to this university, eh?"

"Yeah, but the thing is––"

"Hey, Matt! A bunch of us are going to cut Anal Chem and go to the pub. You in?" Someone leaned over the wall divide much like Matt had earlier.

"Yeah, sure. Be along in a minute."

The other student waved and then jogged to catch up with his classmates. This is what is must be like to be popular. People would stop to talk to you when they saw you in the hallways or sitting around the cafeteria or library. This was the first time it had happened to me.

"Anal chem?" I asked. "Really?"

"Analytical Chemistry," Matt said in explanation, rolling his eyes. "It's a three-in-one joke. It's a pain in the arse, it's unnecessarily tedious and it's screwing us all over."

I laughed, and Matt looked pleased with himself. "You should smile more. Not that the emo thing isn't working for you, just... well. Yes. Got to go!"

I stared after him, heart suddenly kicked up a notch. It couldn't really mean what I'd like it to, could it? Guys could say that kind of thing to one another nowadays, about smiles being nice. Not like in high school where they'd call you some homophobic slur and knock you into a locker.

Still. He liked my smile.

"Great," I muttered to myself, feeling my cheeks and ears flush belatedly. "It's like I'm fifteen all over again. You'd think I'd be over this kind of thing by now."

I took out my phone and typed out I'm gay. No one knows but you.

I almost didn't send it. No one knew, not my parents, not my professors, not anyone. I wasn't sure why, but my old caution from high school still had a hold on me. This was a place where the majority of people didn't care about that type of thing. I'd seen two girls walking down the hall holding hands just the other week and no one had given them a second glace. But whenever I thought about anyone knowing, some part of me filled with panic and I could never get the words out.

I pressed send.

Half an hour later, I sent another. It is pertinent information, you know. It's just, I have to explain how I like men before I explain fancying my male roommate.

I got back to my essay and sighed. Essay outlines made me want to stab out my own eyes with plastic forks, but if I didn't finish it, actually writing the essay would be an exercise in futility.

I like the British word 'fancy'. It's a ridiculous word for my ridiculous feelings.

I got through half my outline before I realized I was going to be late to my next class. I could slip in the back, but I hated it when people would swivel in their seats to look at me. They knew it was just someone late. It happened frequently, and yet people always had the urge to turn around and see who it was.

I kind of wish you were real.

I hunched down in my seat in the back. This class was on poetry, but I could never bring myself to speak up. I had so many thoughts on it, but I never voiced them. Usually I would just write them down in my notebook, but today I had someone to tell.

I love the imagery in this poem. I like the idea of comparing fog to a sentient creature. It's fascinating. Sorry if I bore you. I just like it.

The class was still discussing the poem, but one of the more annoying students had taken the reins of the conversation and were running rampant with their own ideas. She never took the professor's hints that the rest of the class wanted to move on. I wondered if she just liked to listen to herself talk. That might be an unfair assessment, because it was apparent she loved the subject matter as much as I did. I just kept it to myself.

Mostly. I would read you poetry. I'd build you a house out of it, and all the walls would rhyme.

My roommate doesn't get poetry. The sonnets I would write him if I weren't such a coward!

The epigraph was in latin, and I wanted to ask a question, wanted to ask its significance. I wanted to ask why latin, and why an epigraph and how does it tie in with everything else? I raised my hand, slowly, tentatively, like someone testing to see how cold water is before they jump in.

The professor didn't notice. I was too far back, and my hand wasn't high enough, and the annoying student was talking again, talking all over my questions and trampling it down. I couldn't remember what I wanted to ask anymore.

I lowered my hand.

No one notices me.

I got that feeling, the one where I wished I wasn't talking to someone who didn't exist. Empty words to a non-entity would receive no comfort. I really hated that I wanted comfort, and I hated that I wasn't going to get it.

It's my own fault, really. I try so hard to be invisible, I shouldn't be surprised when it works.

When I got out of class, I made a break for the cafe. I needed more caffeine, and because class had just finished, no doubt everyone else would have the same inclination. I arrived at the back of the line-up, panting slightly. It wasn't a long line, but no doubt in a minute or so, one would form behind me.

"Spence!"

It was Matt again, an impossibility I hadn't imagined once he'd wandered off with his mates. He joined me in the line, grinning. I couldn't imagine why he'd seek me out so often. I wasn't really that interesting, and I shared nothing in common with him.

"Fuelling up?" Matt leaned into me slightly, his arm pressed up against mine comfortably, as if such an occurrence were natural. Maybe it was, to him.

"Yeah, classes were brutal."

"No doubt. Hey, it's snowing!" Matt's face broke out in a delighted smile. "Want to go outside?"

"You're in a t-shirt," I pointed out wryly.

"You can be my personal heater. The wonders of body warmth, eh?" We reached the front of the line while I was busy being speechless. "Here, let me get it."

I couldn't think of anything to say, and every protest I had died in my throat as I replayed the words in my head. He was joking, right? He was hardly paying any heed to the words he'd just uttered, as if it was no big deal.

"Here," he handed me a paper cup, and I automatically took a sip. It was made just the way I liked it, and I wondered if he knew my preference or if it was a fluke.

"Thanks," I whispered.

"No problem. Let's go, it's sunny out and it's snowing! Not often that we get that combination!" He looped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards the doors.

It was true, that was rare in winter. I didn't mind, as I was wearing a fleece hoodie and gloves, had a warm drink and a hot guy. Not to mention that I loved it when it snowed like this. It was snowing huge, fluffy flakes, and they were drifting down like feathers. It was literally the most perfect weather one could hope for during a season of ice and darkness.

Five minutes later, Matt shivered, and wrapped his arms around his middle.

"I told you that it was cold," I reminded him. He gave me a tragic look and I sighed in defeat. "Hold this," I said, handing him my coffee and digging into my bag for the scarf I'd worn down in the morning. Trying not to blush and give away how flustered I was, I reached up and knotted it around his throat. "Is that any better?"

"I still like my shared body heat idea," he told me as he handed me back my coffee.

This time, I couldn't hold back my blush, and I looked away to try and hide it. But on a bright, sunny day like today, there was no way he could miss it. He simply laughed, and before I could move, he'd wrapped his arms around my shoulders from behind. He plastered his front to my back and gave a contented sigh as he buried his nose in the hair behind my ear.

"Much better. You're warm."

He was right, it was warm. This is what hugged feels like, I marvelled, unused to the sensation of being this close to another person. It was comfortable, like lying on a fluffy sofa or having a hot shower on a damp day. He smiled against my neck, and it startled me to realize I could feel it on my skin.

"You really don't have personal space issues, do you," I asked, hoping my voice didn't come out shaky.

"I don't. Do you?"

It was a little late to ask that one. "I don't mind."

At least from his position, he couldn't see how red my face probably was. My heart was throwing a fit though, and some deep breathing exercises would likely be required to get it back to its normal pace. That's when I felt it. Matt's heartbeat was steady against my back, not going out of control like mine. If I could feel his, he'd probably noticed mine go haywire. Strangely, once I'd focused, it was slowing to match his, which was fine by me.

"You're really okay?" His voice was low against my ear.

"Yeah," I replied, leaning my head back a fraction so it could rest against his shoulder. "I'm fine."

This wasn't something normal guys did together, was it? I didn't know, because normal guys didn't usually hang around me all that often. But this seemed like something that was outside the ordinary bounds of friendship. But he hadn't said anything about it one way or the other, and I was too much of a chicken to ask.

I wish I knew if he liked me, I texted later. I'm probably imagining things.