Once a Nerd Ch. 11

Wait.

Did I?

I mean, I made a few insinuations here and there. He just needed a little nudge. Nodding to myself, I say, "no, Jesus Christ, I'm not blackmailing him. He was a bit...uncomfortable with it, at first."

"Uncomfortable?! Dude, he looked like he was about to pass out!"

It's true. Sam was like...a tiny, shivering mouse camped out in the bottom of an overturned mug, scrunched back from a bird of prey pecking at the rim. God, I could've fucked him right there on the sidewalk. I can't even explain what he does to me. "He doesn't want anyone to know."

"Then why'd you say it? I never would've known! He looks—uh, how...old is he?"

I grin, cutting a look at him. "How old do you think he is?"

"I mean, even in person, I thought he was, like...twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

"I've got my reasons, alright? But, no, he's not under goddamn duress. He is going to be unhappy about this dinner, though."

"...please don't make me go. I already feel bad as it is."

I sling my arm around his neck good-naturedly, and he grunts under my weight. "Sorry, man, I need you."

With the game's end comes relative freedom. Some guys will take the bus back to campus, others will find their own way. The immediate post-game festivities are starting to die down, and while most of the team is itching for a shower, some are just as desperate to crawl out of their gear and into sweats. The clubhouse is loud with overexcited conversation, laughter, music, and a tearful speech from Nelson that's being halfheartedly tuned into. My reappearance doesn't go unnoticed, and it takes fifteen minutes to extricate myself from the inquisition.

I answer with God's honest truth: "Scoring a date."

Sam, however, is very, very unhappy about the group outing I've forced on him, and to get through it, he orders a whiskey neat as soon as his ass hits the chair. The air about him is that of a soaked, pissed-off cat forced into a tub. From the few trips we took over the summer, I know he likes sushi and Japanese cuisine in general, so I've brought us to an intimate sushi-ya downtown with the square footage of a crackerjack box. If either Casey or I stood up too suddenly, there's a risk of our heads punching a hole out of the ceiling tile. Now, the million dollar question:

Is it literally the most awkward meal had since the fucking Last Supper?

If I'm at the table, someone's talking about something. At first, it's Casey and I sticking to the safest, easiest topic—the game, or football in general. He's...different than he was before, more guarded against me. I realize it's because he already knows about Sam and I, somehow, and that suits me just fine. It's easier to build a house on a foundation already laid. I'm sat across from him, John to his left. Sam's on my right, sulking into the rim of his drink. But, the more he drinks, the more he loosens up. When he finally laughs, an invisible weight lifts from the table. Soon, conversation flows through a wide array of topics as naturally as snow capping a mountain eventually melts and trickles into the sea.

Sam's more outgoing than he realizes, as he turns John into a regular Chatty Cathy. They find the intersection of their respective majors, and currently, Sam's lamenting something called 'the Violinist in the Metro': "It's heartbreaking, isn't it? You can't blame the passerbyers as much as you'd blame—"

"—the framework of society." John picks up the sentence, shaking his head. "It says less about beauty's ability to transcend banality, more about this...mechanism we've developed to tune out anything that's unproductive. In a place like that, everyone's got somewhere to be, something to do, and it's been browbeaten into us that—"

"—you can't just stop and smell the roses!" Sam finishes, popping a salmon roll in his mouth. Then, simultaneously down to the syllable, they sigh:

"Capitalism."

Meanwhile, Casey's regaling me with the story of how he tore his meniscus in the middle of a game against Stanford. He described it as an uncomfortable pop, but no immediate pain. It was misdiagnosed as a bone bruise, and he actually finished out the rest of the season with some wildly impressive numbers: ninety tackles, six pass deflections, and three interceptions.

"Shit, I bet your draft stock was high, man."

Casey wobbles his hand through the air in a 'so-so' gesture. "It was alright, but that was somethin' like...a reality check. I love playing the game, but I didn't have that mentality where it's the end-all-be-all, y'know? When I was stuck in PT after surgery, I thought to myself: 'am I about to go back out there, just to wind up right back here?' I want to run around with my kids one day, go hiking, stand in lines at the theme park."

"I totally get that." I say honestly, basking in Sam's warmth against my side.

Throughout the meal, he's unconsciously softened to my presence. He leans into me, or bickers in a way he'd only do when we're alone. Feeling emboldened, I reach for his thigh under the table. He's close enough to the edge that it shouldn't be noticed by the pair on the opposite side. Sliding my hand between his legs, I grip the inside of his upper thigh gently. He twitches a little, but that's it. He doesn't stiffen up, nor does he shoot me a panicked, caustic glare from the side of his eye. He keeps eating and talking like it's the most natural thing in the world. Then, he opens his legs a little wider, before clenching his thighs around my hand.

It's a fucking rush, and I'm struggling to keep it together. This is...exactly what I wanted, what I was hoping for. Sam and I, in public, sharing company with people who know our history and are unbothered by it. I want him to be comfortable with me in front of others. I want him to understand I can make that happen. He doesn't deserve to be constantly whittled down by guilt and worry, deprived of normalcy. He should be shown off, not hidden away.

As the one who put him in this position, it's my responsibility to make it a position worth being in. Happy.

Speaking of: "Oh my God, this is so good."

He groans a little too erotically around brown, saucy yakisoba noodles pinched between his chopsticks. Repeatedly, his glasses slump to the very tip of his nose, and he nudges them back in place with his knuckles. I like watching him eat. I like anything that gives him the smallest sliver of contentment. But, I could do without the noises. My dick feels like it'll snap off in my shorts any minute.

"Sammy, Christ." I laugh, plucking the glasses from his face. He turns to scowl at me, but there's no genuine scorn in the expression. Plus, it's belied by the unserious act of slurping a noodle.

"I'm blind, you prick."

"The bowl's six inches from your face, you'll manage." I tuck them in the pouch of my sweatshirt, lest they be forgotten on the table.

"Dean, hey." Casey calls my attention. He's rattling a carton of cigarettes, nodding towards the exit. It's less an invitation to smoke, more a let's talk, and I give an aborted nod of understanding. Thankfully, these shorts are pretty loose. We stand and shimmy around the chairs, headed for the door. There's a silver bell that clatters obnoxiously as we step out. Words aren't had right away. Instead, thoughts are gathered and organized as we go through the motions of plucking those thin, white sticks from their carton and lighting them against our lips.

Out of respect, I won't say anything until he does. He was the one that wanted this sidebar, and I appreciate the candor. However, this guy's only known Sam for...three months? It's not as though they're lifelong friends, and while Sam can be fragile, he's not a damsel. I'm wary of the intention.

"Why are you doing this with him?"

Casey cuts to the heart of the matter after two prolonged drags. His wide frame is propped against the brick, lax, and his tone suggests simple curiosity. I'm facing him, two paces away, one hand tucked to the pouch at my stomach—pinching the leg of Sam's glasses between a thumb and forefinger.

"You mean, is my heart in the right place?" I laugh without humor, leaning into the urge to be antagonistic. "How chivalrous."

"Yeah, that's what I mean." He's unruffled. "I haven't known him long, but Sam's a good guy. He's got a good heart, and he's...sensitive. I'd hate to see him get hurt."

Our eyes connect through whispers of smoke twisting in the stagnant air, and it goes all through me, a bitter burn in my gut. The implication, the subtle attempt at a pissing contest. He might be coming from a place of platonic concern, but it means fuck all to me. Tension in my jaw sets the vein in my neck to bulging, and I feel its press against my skin.

"I appreciate the concern. Sammy needs good friends, people who'll worry about him and watch his back while I'm unable to do it." Taking a long, rolling inhale of cheap tobacco, I step half a pace in his direction. While he's got me squarely beat on bulk, we're the same height. "But, the distance is temporary, so there's no need to work too hard at filling a vacancy that doesn't exist."

Casey gets this small, thoughtful smile. "I'm not sure how you're going about it, but you're serious, huh?"

Hardening my face, irritated by the suggestion I'm anything less: "what the fuck do you think?"

He hefts his big shoulders in a shrug. "That's all that matters to me, man. Sam feels—"

"—guilty."

"Right, but the dynamic is pretty obvious here. If anyone's being taken advantage of, it's not you."

"You think that's how he feels? I'm taking advantage of him?"

Casey studies me earnestly. "...no, I don't think he feels like that. He...likes you."

"I know, and there's nothing I won't do to keep it that way. You get me?"

"Loud and clear. I won't patronize you more than I already have." He chuckles.

Satisfied with this mutual understanding, we snuff our butts and toss them in a nearby bin. Once back in the bar, Sam and John look to be having their own quiet, somber exchange. Sam's got a good sense of his limits, so he pumped the brakes after that second whiskey. Casey suggests they top off with a tokkuri of hot sake, and Sam takes to the idea like it's the best he's ever heard. He's pleasantly buzzed by the dinner's end, and it concludes on a note I'm content with. Now, it's time to part ways, and I'm once again put at a disadvantage by my lack of a vehicle.

I came with John, and Sam and Casey rode together in Casey's car. The options are:

1. Bum John's truck, and damn my poor, abused roommate to an Uber.
2. Third-wheel back with Casey and Sam, find my own ride back to campus tomorrow.
3. Sam and I catch an Uber and make due with a hotel, but then we'd both need rides back tomorrow.
4. Drag my sorry, defeated ass back to the dorms with John, and let Sam and Casey return from whence they came.

Shitty, shitty options.

Everything's going so well, I can't imagine just...letting Sam go. There's time to figure it out, as our cars are in a pay-by-the-hour lot fifteen minutes from the bar. Sam's nudging into my side as we walk, unsteady on his feet. He reminds me of a bumblebee swept up in a draft, so I anchor an arm around his lithe shoulders. He lets me do it without a fuss. John and Casey are a couple strides ahead, acquainted enough to make casual conversation. For Sam's sake, they're giving us privacy.

Fresno's downtown isn't the most walkable, so the byways aren't jammed with pedestrians. It isn't yet completely dark, that point where the sun's gone and the horizon is bruised by its absence. Finally, it's a day where the wind cuts with cold, demanding upturned collars and hands stuffed to pockets. Sam's wearing a buttery, black pair of joggers that cinch around his waist and ankles, and a thin, hooded shirt with the sleeves bunched around his forearms. He's got the hood pulled halfway over his head, as the top of his ears are beginning to redden in the cold.

For most of the trip, we don't talk. There doesn't feel a need to. Simple, precious skinship to the orchestration of life happening around us: rubber grinding against asphalt, dialogue near and far, faint laughter from a remark we'll never know. The air's weighted with food smells, stale beer soaked in the sidewalk, and a metallic tang that's absent from nature. On the opposite side of a little sect of greenery, the lot is fast approaching. There are trees, benches, and panels of grass between cement paths, but it falls short of being labeled a park. Unbeknownst to me, Sam's been bottled up this entire time.

His steps slow, until he's stopped altogether.

Casey and John have already made it out of the not-park, and there's no one else in it but us. You know that...nagging inkling? You think, something profound is about to happen here, and I'll remember this insignificant place for the rest of my life. This stupid, small, dirty excuse for an intercity park, and there's nowhere else I'd rather be than in it with him.

"Dean...?" He's caught me by the hem of my sweatshirt, a featherlight grip that he's uncertain about.

Turning back, it's like being slugged in the sternum. Like he always does, Sam's using his hair to hide his face. But, I can see his mouth, and he's got the corner of his bottom lip pinched between neat teeth. He'll make it bleed if he doesn't let go. Urging him in a soft, unhurried way: "Sammy, come on. Look at me."

After a moment's hesitation, he does. His eyes are bright and wet, dark brows drawn like he'll burst any second. I startle, terrified something's wrong. He's upset with me. He's genuinely hurt by the meddling and pushing, and he's buzzed enough to let it show.

"Shit, hey—"

"I have a really, really hard time being honest when...it comes to you." He starts, voice splintering off the words. "But, today, you were...so amazing, Dean, and I'm—"

He pulls a quick, hard breath, looking away for a beat. He's trying not to fucking cry, and I can't breathe. More than sprinting, tackling, and being tackled for almost two straight hours, Sam tightens my chest up. Sam steals my ability to function without even trying.

"I'm so proud of you." He breathes, looking up at me like I hung the moon outside his bedroom window. "I know I don't say it a lot, it's hard to say kind things when I'm not sure if it's...actually okay. But, I really do...love you—"

I pull him into my chest, because I might collapse without the contact. He said it. He said it on his own. Sam loves me, and I feel like I could explode. My body's not big enough for the rapid expansion of emotion, and it hurts. It's so goddamn good, it hurts. Nothing, no one, has ever touched this place inside of me. Where the world was taped over with a gray film, now there's a spectrum of brilliant vivids I never knew existed. I didn't used to think there was anything wrong with me or my life, but in hindsight, it's strange and sad to be so dispassionate. Bored.

Sam's given me a gift he'll probably never understand, but I'll be sure to give it back for the rest of my fucking life. His thin hands are curled in the back of my sweatshirt, and he presses his face against the racket of my heart. The scent of his shampoo is thick in my nose as I bury it against the crown of his head. My eyes burn from the back, and I can't tell you the last time I cried. Infancy, maybe.

"I love you, Sam, and you'll never fucking know how much." I rasp.

I don't want him to know, because any sane person would run far, far away. I'm even frightened by the ferocity of my own feelings. Now that I've got it, Sam isn't just someone I want. He's a need.

"Lift your face, please." I murmur.

He does, and he's the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Nose shiny where it curves from his face, a little string of snot connecting to my sweater. Thick, black lashes stuck together with tears, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and reflective.

He's fucking perfect.

"Don't kiss me, I'm gross." He huffs, sensing the intent.

"I'll die if I don't, so open your mouth."

His face contorts with embarrassment, but his lips creak apart as requested. Smoothing my palm underneath the back of his shirt, gently catching the nape of his neck, I lick into his mouth reverently. He tastes like wasabi and whiskey, and any combination would taste good out of Sam's mouth. Our lips mash together at an angle that makes a perfect, slick seal, interrupted only by frantic bites and a struggle for more. His hands slide against my jaw, behind my ears, into my hair. Sparks fly down my spine as he rakes his short nails across my scalp softly, a tease of sensation.

I'm not sure we've ever kissed like this before. I know I can be aggressive. I'm usually attacking, and Sam lets himself be attacked. This isn't that. It's filthy in its own way, but also sweet and meticulous. I crack my eyes open, and fuck, Sam's are too. Lidded and glazed, drunk off the way I'm making him feel.

He makes me feel like a God, and also an unworthy sinner begging at the altar. Everything, nothing.

"Dean—" He gasps between kisses.

"Tell me." I mumble back, too starved to keep my mouth off of him.

"Will you stay with me tonight?"

The stupidity of that question does call for pause. I pull back to look at him. "Sammy, you're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm going anywhere that isn't right beside you."

He drops his head, laughing wetly. "You don't have to be a dick about it."

Sorry, John.

Uber's on me, buddy.

—

The hour drive to Sam's apartment is just as quiescent, but only because the combination of food, alcohol, emotional release, and riding shotgun at night have him dozing in the passenger seat.

I'm reminded of his birthday, driving him back after showing up spontaneously to wine and dine him. We don't see each other as often, so I'm not sure how frequently he wears it, but the watch I bought him is strapped around his wrist. In the brittle hush of the cab, a song I can't remember the name of droning at a low volume, I'm aching. I feel antsy, trapped, and frustrated. I know I should better appreciate the opportunity I've been given at FSU, the canyon of possibilities that's opened up for me. But, it's like bouncing off the walls of a box. Dancing in the court of public opinion.

Expectation, age, assimilation.

Even Sam holds these things over my head. Prioritize your future, but don't think you know what's best for yourself, you're too young. Be normal, don't step on any toes. I just want to do what the fuck I want, go where I want, be with him when I want. I want to make these decisions for myself, and if I have to strongarm the entire shiteating world into accepting it, that's what I'll do. The physical distance between us wouldn't be so hard to endure if the time we do share wasn't stolen away in alcoves and planned in whispers.

I want him to feel like he has just as much of a right to my spaces as anyone else does.

I want to live with him now, not at some random point in the future. I want to sleep next to him every night and prepare his too-sweet coffee every morning. I want to listen to his rasping, honeyed voice as he reads aloud. I want to share every thought and sit in silence for hours. I just want to do my life with him, all the time. The boring bits, the exciting bits, and everything in between. But, he deserves more than I can give right now. I had to borrow my fucking roommate's truck just to get him back home. I need money and a place in the world that can't be fucked with. Because I've never desired anything this badly, I've never dealt with an emotional struggle. I never had to learn how to be patient, because I wasn't waiting for anything.