“—be my boyfriend,” his voice pulled Theo back, “or be boyfriends or however the fucking hell I’m supposed to say it. And I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want. I just need to take it slow. I’m scared shitless, but I’m even more scared I’ll lose you if I just stand around jerking off.”
“No,” Theo said softly, walking his fingers up Cart’s shoulder, feeling the wiry, country-boy strength there. The erection that had been so difficult to maintain a few minutes ago was suddenly there, and Theo nudged Cart with his knee, rolling Cart onto his back, Cart’s eyes widening. Theo slid into him, shushing him as Cart whimpered. “Neither of us is going anywhere. Now let me show you how good this can be.”
After that, Cart slept over more often. He was there the night before spring semester, flat on his back, one arm under the pillow. Theo’s hand was on his belly, the brown hairs over Cart’s country-boy abs tickling his palm. The Percocet was doing something different tonight. Theo hadn’t been able to get hard, but he’d asked Cart to fuck him anyway, and a white noise, like a train’s steam whistle, built in his head through the sex. It was still there now, a silent scream inside his head, making everything foggy. Tomorrow: pick up the copies of the syllabi, make sure the projector works, grab the interlibrary loan that just came in. Go back, start over: shower, make Cart oatmeal and bacon and eggs, pump up the bike’s rear tire. Go back, from the top: put an extra bar of soap in the shower for Cart, then shower, then make Cart oatmeal and bacon and eggs. He could do another year of this. On the outside, Theo thought as he slid his hand along Cart’s belly, he could do five.
3
The message appeared in Message Requests, which meant it had come from someone Auggie wasn’t friends with. It also meant he almost missed it—he checked the requests regularly, but he mostly skimmed because too many were from fans who assumed that Auggie’s cheerful, happy-go-lucky, and adorable virtual persona meant they would be automatic best friends.
Genesis Evans: I need to talk to you and your friend.
Auggie considered the message. Then he went back to the comments on his latest video: a goofy montage of Ethan dragging Auggie out of bed for class. Even though he no longer tried to respond to all of the comments—even if he’d wanted to, it would have taken too much time—he still made sure to stay in touch with his fans. He always hit the three S’s: sad, sweet, and silly. For sad, he thanked tommyin_da_house for asking about his injuries and explained that a full recovery would take a long time; for sweet, he answered aplolsgirl03’s post where she asked to marry him with a quick spin on how talented and funny she was, and how she’d find a straight guy soon; for silly, he found gayfratbro’s comment about climbing into bed with Auggie instead of dragging him out and informed him that he’d have to provide his own footsie pajamas.
Throughout all of this, Genesis’s message was in the back of his head. His thumb paused in the middle of scrolling, and he remembered the cane catching him on the shoulder. He was typing out his joke about footsie pajamas, and he remembered the weeks after the attack, Theo’s glassy eyes and the way his head rolled on his neck. When he’d finished answering the comments, he closed his social media apps and started getting ready for class. This semester, he had a relatively late start—nothing until eleven.
But his phone buzzed again almost immediately. It was a snap from Dylan. He was lying on his stomach in bed, one hand playing with his curls in way that accentuated the muscles in his arm. The message said, Rambo, let me see them guns.
Since the attack—and the story Auggie and Theo had concocted about Auggie defending himself from a mugger—Dylan had dropped “little bro.” Now it was thug, beast, monster, stud, and the one that seemed to be Dylan’s personal favorite: Rambo. Auggie took a picture of a corner of his face, his eye squinting in mock anger, and wrote, Creep.
Dylan’s next snap was of him on his back, shirtless, his lower lip caught by his teeth, his fingers playing with one nipple. Please?
Auggie immediately screenshotted the image. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he sent Dylan a picture of his coat.
The snap that came back was of Dylan’s abs, his thumb hooking the waistband of a jockstrap. I keep thinking about how you fucked up those muggers. I know violence shouldn’t turn me on . . . The next snap came almost immediately: Dylan’s fingers inching down the elastic to expose matted blond pubic hair, the bulge of his dick outlined where the jock’s fabric pulled tight. . . . but you’re just such a fucking man.
The heat that started between Auggie’s legs pooled in his belly, ran up his chest, and sent a flush into his throat. He wriggled out of his tank, adjusted the lighting in the room, and did a few pushups. Then, after checking himself in the mirror—his arms were tiny next to Dylan’s or Theo’s—he perched on the desk, fist under his chin, elbow on his knee. He sent the selfie before he could reconsider.
Dylan’s response: his hand squeezing his junk, the words fuck yeah. Then, almost immediately, another: his face, the curls a messy tangle over his eyes. Been missing you and that killer body. Gym?
Part of Auggie thought about the vast silences that opened up in their messages, all the times Dylan didn’t answer, even times when Auggie really needed someone. The usual flood of excuses followed. Dylan was busy. Dylan had made it clear he wanted to build something real, which meant moving slow. Dylan hadn’t known that Auggie needed someone because Auggie hadn’t told him. And so Auggie walled away the tiny voice that said Dylan ought to have known, at least for the big stuff, without Auggie telling him.
Another snap came from Dylan. This one was a checklist: 1. Gym 2. Yoga 3. Meditate 4. Smoothies 5. Chill and catch up.
Auggie snapped a picture of himself rolling his eyes.
Dylan’s snap back was cockier than usual, on his back again, arm behind his head, exposing the blond fur of one pit. Fuck yeah, slayer.
Auggie went to the shower and jacked off. He got ready for the day, snapping his way through the process, and then, dressed in Sperry’s, khakis, and a Vineyard Vines sweatshirt, he sat on his bed. He kept thinking about the interaction with Dylan, about being called Rambo, about the way Dylan got hot just for a picture of Auggie. Dylan didn’t worry about Auggie getting home safely. Dylan didn’t nag about Auggie finishing his homework. Dylan didn’t give humiliating lectures about condoms or about how most people couldn’t separate sex from the emotions that came with it. Dylan didn’t even seem to think about that stuff, probably because Dylan saw Auggie as an adult, as his equal, instead of as a kid.
Auggie tapped out his message to Genesis before he could reconsider: Where and when?
Almost immediately, the composition bubbles appeared by her name.
While she was still replying, he opened a separate message to Theo and typed, I’m meeting with Genesis today, if you want to come. As soon as he sent it, he regretted opening the message that way. Oh, and happy New Year, Merry Christmas. I got back to Wahredua last night.
Because Theo still used an ancient flip phone, Auggie had no idea if he was replying.
Genesis’s message came through: Library? 1:30?