Requited

* * * * *

Sometimes, I feel like I do all the talking. I definitely talk a lot more than him. Sometimes, I feel like he never tells me anything. Last night, I got drunk, and I told him that. I told him I loved him, too. I'm not sorry I said it. I tell all my friends that I love them.

Why wouldn't I?

"You're my best friend." I told him. I was definitely being a bit of a dork. Part of me is happy I told him though. He is my best friend. I haven't known him that long, but he's already the best friend I've ever had. "Am I your best friend, too?"

I asked him a couple of times, eventually, he looked over at me and then he looked down at his feet, "Yeah," he said, "you're my best friend."

I have a feeling, I asked him about his eyes, too. I seem to remember saying, "I want to know why your eyes always look so sad?"

He denied it, of course. Of course, he said, "My eyes aren't sad."

When he said it, they looked sadder than ever. They looked sad and something else. Sometimes, I get the feeling there's something he wants to say, but he's stopping himself. I really wish I knew what makes him sad. His eyes are so beautiful. They're so big and so dark. They seem to reflect everything. Sometimes, I don't know if they're reflecting or deflecting. I wish I had some clue about him. I wish he wasn't so mysterious. I wish he told me things. I wish he told me everything, the way I tell him everything.

He must have thought I was even drunker than I was, because he whispered, "What's your IQ, West?"

He's been trying to needle that out of me for a while. It makes me laugh. It's ridiculous to think that's the one thing, I refuse to tell him.

* * * * *

I wish to God, I knew what Andy thinks. I wish I knew what he thinks when he sits there at his desk, looking out of the window. I wish I knew what he thinks, then he lies back on his bed, his legs crossed, one arm under his head. He lies there without moving. Just looking up at the ceiling. I look at him, when he lies there, like that. I look at his profile. It's perfect. He has sharp, defined eyebrows. Pitch black. They stand out against his skin. His lips part a little. His bottom lip protrudes a little more than his top lip. Occasionally he presses his bottom lip in and grazes it with his teeth. His Adam's apple moves up and down slowly, when he swallows.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him sometimes. I can't resist it. I try not to ask too often, as I know it's a very annoying question. Sometimes, he looks a little dazed and confused, when I ask it. Like I've pulled him out of a deep day-dream.

"Huh?" He answers, making me repeat the question.

Other times, he seems to jump a little when I ask him. He spins his head in my direction, a little too quickly. Like he was thinking something he shouldn't have been. Those times especially, I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Maybe, he thinks about painting, or about a drawing he's working on. Maybe, he thinks about a guy. If he does, I wonder who that guy is. I wonder, if that guy knows how lucky he is.

I think about that quite a lot, if I'm being honest. About the fact that he's gay. I think about it so much, I've started memorising pie again, to distract myself. I can't get anywhere close to the number of decimal places I used to get to. I can't. Because of Andy. Because he's always here. Sitting here in our room. Lying there, on his bed. Lying there, a few feet away from me. Brooding. Ruminating intensely. Omitting heat waves in my direction, whether he means to or not.

I think about him being with a guy. Not anyone specific. Just a nameless, faceless guy. I think about the type of things they would do together. I think about assholes and cocks. I think about fingers and mouths. I think about his hands. I think about those a lot. He has big hands. Graceful hands. Hands that make art. Hands that make beautiful things. I imagine him touching a guy with those hands.

It would be beautiful, I think.

When I think of Andy like this, sometimes, I think of my school friend, Dylan. He was my closest friend throughout high school. He was nothing like Andy. Nothing like him at all. He was as straight as a guy could ever be. But when I think of Andy like this, I think of Dylan. Not all the time, but every now and again, I do. I wanted to be around Dylan all the time, too. The same way I want to be around Andy. It's true. I do want to be around Andy all the time. I try to find ways to make sure we're together. I have the best time when he's around. I beg him to come out with me, all the time.

"Come on," I say, all the time, "just come for one drink. We don't have to stay out for long."

If he fails first year, it will definitely be my fault. It's just that I have the best time with him. We don't have to be out. I have the best time, just kicking back in our room and talking shit with him.

I've got lots of friends here. Lots. Just like school. It's exactly the same. Lots of people wherever I go. Lots of people waving me over. Lots of people calling my name. I'm in several different groups. I'm friends with The Nerds. Guys from class. Calling them nerds isn't an insult, by the way. These guys are proud of their intelligence. They call themselves nerds. They are guys who like numbers, like me. I like talking to them. It's nice to be able to talk to people about things like Markov processes and Fenchel duality, without their eyes glazing over. Then, there are The Guys. Sam, Mark and Riley. They are really good guys. Really great. If I didn't spend all my time hanging out with Andy, I'd probably spend most of my time with them. Andy likes them, too. He doesn't mind hanging out with them. Lastly, there are The Bro's. They are a big group of ever-changing guys. The type I'm happy to see when I'm out. The type of people I go to house-parties with. The type, who greet everyone by yelling, "Bro," or, "Bud," or, the worst of the worst, the type that call everyone, "my guy," or, "my dude." These guys are not Andy's cup of tea. He's not a fan. They're not his type.

"Come on," I say, "just come for one drink."

"Who's going to be there?" He asks.

"The Bro's." I admit, begrudgingly.

"Ugh," he says, "I know you're only calling them bro ironically, West, but I'm telling you, if you aren't careful, it's going to become a habit. If you aren't careful, you're going to become a bonafide bro yourself. Seriously, West, you really have to be careful."

I laugh. I can't help it. I love his sense of humour. I laugh, even though I know, tonight, I'm not going to be able to talk him into coming out with me.

I go out alone. It's just the same. Exactly the same as it was at school. Sometimes, when I'm in a big crowd, I feel a little forlorn. A little out of place. Not a lot, but a little. It's not a big problem, or anything. I love my life. I'm the luckiest guy alive. I know that. It's not a big issue, it's just that sometimes, I feel like all these people who like me, don't really know me.

I never feel like that, when I'm with Andy.

Never.

Not once.

* * * * *

I called him again last night, to come and help me get home. I'd been out with The Nerds. Those guys cut lose, when they look up from their books. I didn't really cut lose, last night. I wasn't even all that drunk. I felt bad that I'd called him, because it looked as if he'd already been asleep for a while. He was all groggy and a little grumpy. But still, he came.

Of course, I told him I loved him, again.

Of course, he just said, "Oh, Jesus."

That's not why I call him at night. I don't call him just so I can say that. I don't need to be drunk to say it. I say it all the time. I can't help it. I don't mind. I mean it, so I don't mind.

The reason I call him, is so he'll walk close to me. I call him, so he'll put my arm over his shoulder. So, he'll put his arm around my waist. So, we can walk together like that, in the dark. I show off a lot, when we're together like that. I joke loudly and I exaggerate things. I do that sometimes. I show off for him. I don't think he notices it. I don't think he notices how often I have to adjust myself when he walks close to me, like that, either. There are lots of things he doesn't notice. I'm absolutely positive, he's oblivious to the way people react to him. He's in a world of his own. He has his head in the clouds, most of the time. I honestly don't even think he knows that Tyler's crazy about him. I honestly don't think he's even noticed.

That's what he's like.

* * * * *

It doesn't take a remarkable intellect to deduce that I'm attracted to Andy. I am. I admit it. I am attracted to him. When I look back now, I can see I was attracted to Dylan, too. I didn't realise it at the time. Now, I realise that even before Dylan, there were other guys. Guys in real life. Guys in porn. Sometimes, when I watch, I watch the guy, more than I watch the girl. Don't get me wrong, I like the girls too, obviously I do. I just have a bit of a fascination with dicks. I thought everyone did. I just assumed that's what everyone did that, when they watch porn. You know, take turns watching the guy and the girl. Imagining you're the guy, with your dick in the girl's mouth, and then, imagining you're the one on your knees, with a dick in your mouth. I thought everyone did it. It's only recently, this douchebag called Alex Meeking, who lives down the hall, was talking about someone and said, "He's the type of guy who probably watches the guy more than the girl, when he watches porn."

He said it like it was a bad thing.

I don't think it's a bad thing. I can't see why it would be. But it did make me realise, not everyone thinks like I do.

* * * * *

Sometimes, when Andy's sitting in our room, drawing, I watch him. I can watch him openly, when he's working. He's so absorbed in what he's doing, you could drop a bomb next to him and he probably wouldn't notice. I watch him a lot. Mid-year exams are coming up soon, so he's been working a lot. I've been noticing, that recently, I'm watching him more and more. I try not to, but I can't help it. I'm not sure, if it's decent to watch him, the way I watch him. I don't know if he'd like it. I can't help it though. The problem with Andy is not just that he's good looking or that he's so cool. He's sexy. He's deeply, deeply sexy. I try to figure out what exactly it is about him that makes him so sexy. I can't work it out. I think it's something about his eyes and his voice. Or else, it's got to do with the way he walks. There's something almost feline about it. When I watch him walk, sometimes I think it looks like he's stalking something, or someone.

Sometimes, I think about saying something stupid to him. I think about saying, "Hey, Andy, have you ever been with a guy who's curious?" Part of me would like to just say it. Part of me would like to say something crazy, like, "Can I touch your dick, to see what it feels like?"

Sometimes, I spend a whole afternoon, sitting there while he works, willing myself to say something. I make little deals with myself. I say to myself, "If he looks up in the next two minutes, you have to ask him if you can touch him." Or, I say, "If he combs his hair back with his hands, like that again, you have to reach down and stroke his dick." I just want to do it once. Just once. Just to feel if he's as hard as I am.

Obviously, I don't do it. I'd never really do it. I just lie there for hours, thinking about it.

I think it's very, very problematic of me to be thinking of him like this. I really do. Not because he's a guy. Not because he's a gay guy. Because he's a gay guy, who never, ever seems to hook up with anyone. I've never even seen him flirting with anyone. He never seems to notice guys or girls coming on to him. I'm obviously sexually objectifying him. I don't know if I'm doing it because he's gay. Either way, I think that's very wrong. I'd never do that to a woman. I don't think he'd like to be thought of like this. I'm not happy with myself about it. Sometimes, I think I should talk to Sarah about it. At the very least, I should ask her for a recommendation for a book I could read, on how not to be a huge asshole.

Maybe, I should ask Sarah about Andy.

That thought makes me smile. Sarah would never dream of saying anything about Andy. She's the most loyal person I know. I can see the way she watches Tyler and Andy together. She looks like she's watching a crash that's seconds from happening. She knows how Tyler feels. She sees everything. I know she's never said anything about it to Andy, though. I know that. He's clueless about it.

Maybe, he has some huge sexual hang up. Maybe he's a prude, or something like that. Maybe, he's waiting for marriage.

That makes me laugh a little. I can't imagine Andy being the kind of guy who would be into marriage.

"What's so funny?" He says, looking up from his sketch pad.

"I was just wondering if you took some vow of celibacy, or something." I'm a little surprised to hear myself say it. I wasn't planning on mentioning it.

He looks at me blankly for a second.

"I have sex all the time."

I hear the words, but it takes a second for me to understand them. It's like when you see smoke rising up from an explosion. You see it, a few seconds before you hear the sound. Even once I hear the sound, the words feel strange. They rattle around in my brain. They settle in my groin. They settle uneasily. Uncomfortably.

"Yeah, right." I say, my voice feels tight and constricted, "When was the last time you got laid?"

"I had sex this morning."

He says it casually. He hardly looks up from his notebook. He says it, as if it's no big deal. As if it's neither here, nor there. "Truth be told, I'm kind of a slut."

"I never knew that about you, Andy Montgomery."

I'm having a huge amount of trouble processing what he's just said, so to stop things from becoming uncomfortable, I add, "I'm kind of slut, too."

He laughs. A real laugh. The type that makes him throw his head back a little. "You're not wrong there."

A little while later, once I've decompressed a little. I say, "Andy, I hope I've never done anything to make you feel like you couldn't bring a guy back here, if you wanted to. You can, if you want to."

When I say it, I mean it. I would hate him to think I have a problem with him being gay. I would hate him to think I think there's something wrong with it.

* * * * *

This thing with Andy, it's confusing the fuck out of me. I feel like my personality has been torn down the middle. Torn into two. Ripped, like a page from one of his sketch books. Ripped, like a drawing he wasn't happy with. One side of the page, one side of my brain, sees him as Andy. My friend, Andy. My best friend, Andy. The best friend, I've ever had. I care about him deeply. Maybe, more than I've ever cared about anyone. I want to know him. I want to know everything about him. More than anything, I want to know what he thinks. I want to know how his mind works. This side of the ripped page is good. Noble.

Honourable West.

The other side of the page is anything but. This side, sits there, watching his friend, thinking about him naked. I imagine him on his hands and his knees. I imagine him open and full. I imagine him so full; he can't move. It's not a nameless, faceless guy I imagine him with anymore.

It's me.

I imagine his hands on my body. I imagine them all over me. I imagine my hands on him, too. Running them up his chest. Running them down, too. All the way down. I imagine myself rubbing his dick. Finding it hard. When I think of him like this, his dick is always hard. Mine is hard, too. I lie in bed at night, and I wait for him to fall asleep. I listen to him breathing. I wait until his breathing slows. When he's fast asleep, I start stroking myself. I stroke long and hard. I imagine it's his hand, curled around me. I imagine him, kneeling between my knees. Looking down at me, with those eyes. When I think of him like this, his eyes aren't sad. They are on fire. They're burning holes into my body.

This West has no honour. This West isn't honest. I imagine Andy like this in secret. I watch him and watch him, and I don't say a word. I pride myself on being honest and open, but obviously, I'm not. This side of me is not who I thought I was. This is not who I want to be.

Dishonourable West.

* * * * *

More than anything, I wish I hadn't asked him about getting laid. At this point in my life, if I had to take back one thing I've ever done, I think it would be this. I regret it every day. Ever since I asked him, I see it everywhere.

I think of him saying, "I'm kind of a slut."

I think of the way he looked when he said it. I think of the way his voice sounded. Even and matter-of-fact. I think of the way his lips moved, when they formed the words. They moved slowly and deliberately over his snow-white teeth. I must have had blinkers on before. Now, I see it everywhere. I see the slight way he lifts his chin when he acknowledges a guy he's slept with before, or is planning on sleeping with soon. I see the way he leans down, bending his neck and tilting his head a little, so a guy can lean up and whisper something into his ear, when we're out. I see the way he is on his phone, turning the screen away, so I can't see it. I do see it though. Yellow and black. I see it open on the Grindr app. I hear it, too. I hear it rattling on his desk or humming in his pocket. Then, I pretend not to notice when he makes an excuse and leaves the room, or the bar, or wherever we are. I know what he's doing. I know. I know and I know, and I know, and I fucking hate it.

I hate it so much.

I hate myself for being like this, too. He's not like this. He doesn't give a shit who I sleep with. He's all but told me that. He encourages me to bring girls home. He seems happy for me when I get laid.

Obviously, he isn't attracted to me, the way I am to him. Obviously not. I tell myself this all the time. I tell myself again and again, but for some reason, I just can't seem to get it through my thick skull. When we're together, it feels like there's no-one else in the world. It feels like we are the only two people who exist. Our room is like an island. Just him, and me. Sometimes, when I get changed, I convince myself I can feel him looking. I can feel his eyes on my back. It feels so genuine, I could swear it's real. I could swear it. It isn't real though. Whenever I turn round, his eyes are exactly where they should be. On his desk, looking out of the window, or staring up at the ceiling.

* * * * *

I've been waiting for him to get home. It's just after midnight. I can't sleep. He said he was going to hang out with Tyler. I know now, that's code for, "I'm going out to get laid." I hate waiting for him, like this.

I hate it.

I'm relieved when I hear his key in the door. He wasn't gone all that long. Maybe, he struck out. It happens to everyone. Surely, it even happens to Andy. I'm about to sit up and say, "Hi," when I see he isn't alone. I can't see the guy clearly, it's dark, but I can make out two shadows.

Two people.

Two men.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Says the guy. "I don't want to get my ass kicked."

"It's no problem, Chad. My roommate's cool. He's not an asshole like that."

Chad? Chad?? Are you fucking kidding me? Is that some kind of joke?

I'm lying on my side, facing them, when they walk in. I'm paralysed. It seems too late to turn over. I don't want them to know I'm awake. So, I lie there. Unmoving. I lie there and lie there. I try to keep my eyes closed, but that seems to exaggerate the sounds coming from them. I can hear them kissing and breathing. I know Andy's breathing. He's breathing faster than usual. I try to recite pie. I barely get to one hundred places. I keep getting confused and start randomly multiplying the numbers. I multiply them exponentially. I multiply them every time fucking Chad moans. I multiply them until I think my head is going to explode.