Dylan pinched Auggie’s nipple using his nail, and Auggie let out a sharp noise. The pain was intense, but so was the electricity arcing to his dick.
“Be quiet,” Dylan growled again. He hoisted Auggie up, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. Auggie lost contact with Dylan’s dick, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what was happening. Then his butt settled on the chrome safety bar, and Dylan hooked Auggie’s leg over his shoulder. The bar was wet and cold. The tile behind Auggie was wet and cold. Dylan was sweaty and hot, panting, his breath like steam on Auggie’s chest and shoulder. This new position made Auggie’s heartbeat accelerate. He was open. He was exposed.
“Dylan, I’m not sure I’m ready—”
“Relax; we’ll be safe.”
Then Dylan’s finger was there, prodding, pressing, and his other hand encircled Auggie’s dick again. Sweat eased some of the friction, but when his finger popped through, it burned.
“Ow,” Auggie said. He tried to reach for Dylan’s wrist, but Dylan’s other arm was in the way, still pumping. And Auggie was shaking, his muscles worn out from exercise, the rush of hormones making him drunk. He was nineteen, and in spite of the discomfort, he had another guy’s hand on him, and he was on the brink of orgasm.
Dylan worked his finger in and out. In and out.
“Ow, Dylan, hold on.” His tone changed. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”
“I want your load all over me,” Dylan said. His eyes locked with Auggie’s, refusing to release him, and Dylan said, “Come for me.”
Auggie came. He was vaguely aware of gritting his teeth, trying not to make any noise, his head cracking once against the tile. Then the crest of the orgasm passed, and Auggie was shaking harder, his hip aching from having his leg forced up over Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan was staring at him, his gaze still holding Auggie’s as he jerked himself off. A moment later, hot wetness streaked across Auggie’s leg.
Outside, a couple of guys were talking—from their voices, older men, probably staff or faculty using the campus gym around their work schedule. Laughing. One of them talking about a bike ride from the weekend before. Auggie’s hip was on fire, and he slowly worked it down from Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan leaned against Auggie, the damp curls on Auggie’s chest, his hands tight on Auggie’s waist again. Tight enough to hurt. Auggie played with his curls.
Dylan lifted his head, kissed Auggie, and helped him down. Picking up Auggie’s compression shorts, he said, “Go grab my soap and towel, would you? You really hosed me down, and I want to get cleaned up.”
That night, washing his face, Auggie still felt the pain between his legs, still had one nipple throbbing. He looked in the glass. Dylan’s fingers had left faint purple marks on his hips. Water ran down to his jawline, beaded, dripped off. I guess it’s going to hurt, he thought. I guess it’s really going to hurt the first time.
The next day, when he tried to copy Dylan’s advances in the locker room, Dylan shook him off.
“Are you kidding me?”
“It was fun. I thought—”
“It was fun. Great. That was a transformational moment for me, Auggie. That was something special and serious when everything changed between us. But for you, it was fun. That’s great. I’m not interested in playing jerkoff games; sorry.”
He had to spend the rest of the day apologizing over text before Dylan forgave him.
The next day, he didn’t try anything. He just did what Dylan told him. He showed him the app where he was tracking macros. He asked about plant-based protein powders and ordered some while Dylan watched his phone screen. He displayed the gallon jug he was using to stay hydrated. And that day, everything went smoothly.
On Friday, though, he messed up again. It was the Sigma Sigma back-to-school party (the spring semester edition), and Auggie had gotten his cast off that morning. He snapped Dylan a picture of two outfits and the message, What should I wear to the party?
The snap back was just a black screen and the words, Whatever you want, I guess.
A snap of Auggie’s face, eyebrows raised—hopeful and curious was the expression he was going for. What time are you coming over?
The next message wasn’t a snap; it was a normal message. I can’t even believe you’d ask that.
I’m sorry. I did something wrong, and I don’t know what I did wrong. Will you please tell me so I can make it right?
I really expected better of you, Auggie. As a person, and also as someone I’m trying to build something unique with. How is this going to work between us if you don’t listen to me?
What did I forget? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, D.
The demonstration for Deja.
But Auggie didn’t remember Dylan telling him anything about the demonstration. He composed a message saying that, and then he stood there, sweat prickling under his arms, and deleted it. Instead, he typed, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realize that was tonight.
The composition bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared, disappeared. The message didn’t come through for five minutes, five minutes that Auggie spent perched on the edge of his bed, sick to his stomach, the smell of flop sweat building in the room.
I can’t even believe I have to say this, but I expect that the person I make my life with is going to care about social justice. Sorry if that’s not something you’re interested in. Have a great time at your party.
Auggie had to call three times before Dylan picked up.
“I was planning on going,” Auggie said. “I just got the days mixed up.”
Dylan’s breathing was slow and assured. “I feel like you’re telling me what I want to hear.”
“No. Dylan, you know that’s not who I am.”
“I’ve tried really hard to communicate with you. I’m worried that you’re too distracted with those people you call your friends. And all you care about is your social media stuff. You’re not listening to me, and I know it’s because you don’t have room in your life for anything else. You don’t have any place for stillness, inner peace, harmony. Those things are really important to me.”
“They’re important to me too,” Auggie said. “I want to have those things in my life. I want to have you in my life.”
Outside, Peter, a junior who lived a few rooms down, was singing Kesha, “Tik Tok.” Music thumped in the background.
“There’s room for you,” Auggie said. “In my life, I mean. I can—I can think about ways to spend less time on social media.”
“If you want to come with me,” Dylan said, “you need to be at my apartment in fifteen minutes. If you’re not here, I’ll know why.”
Auggie pulled on clothes. The Civic was still at the mechanic’s, so he sprinted out into the cold and snow and ran.
6
Since winter break, when things had turned a corner with Cart, Theo had decided life was getting better. When he went to Downing in the morning, Lana seemed more alert, although her physical needs meant she still had to have a full-time caretaker. At school, assisting Wagner had turned into a cushy job once Auggie was no longer in the picture. Theo still drew his full stipend, but he spent most of class reading articles for his thesis, and the grading was minimal. Cart hadn’t moved in, but he was at Theo’s almost every night. He’d started framing the basement, even though Theo had told him that he didn’t have money to pay for materials. Cart bought them himself, ignoring Theo’s protests.