Jesse regarded Nicholas suspiciously in return. “Please stay back. I don’t wish to contract mad cow disease.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “You’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious—I don’t want to,” said Jesse.
Seiji was direly embarrassed by Nicholas’s presence, not to mention his appearance. He hadn’t wished to see Jesse again. If forced to, he would have preferred to see him while winning Olympic gold. Failing that, Seiji would’ve preferred to see Jesse literally anywhere other than here. In the middle of the woods, in a state of undress, with a companion who had apparently been raised by wolves and then abandoned by the pack for being too scruffy.
There was… another consideration, besides embarrassment.
Sometimes there were people who were obviously not on the winning side, and never would be. Bad at fencing or at words or at life in some crucial way Jesse could always ascertain. Occasionally, Jesse would casually amuse himself at some unfortunate soul’s expense. Seiji wouldn’t laugh because he never actually understood the jokes or why they were funny, but he didn’t care much. It was simply Jesse’s way. Now he recalled with unwelcome vividness how those people’s cheeks would bear sudden swift streaks of red, as though slashed. Or they might slink off with a curious look of defeat, as if a lunch table were a fencing match. Some of them, Seiji had noticed, never came back again.
Seiji didn’t want to see Jesse do that to Nicholas.
Not Nicholas.
The wind whipped around and around the tops of the pine trees, an almost mocking sound—like kids chasing one another around the playground, and singing taunts in thin, cruel voices.
Nicholas Cox was an absurd wreck of a person. But he’d said they would be friends. He’d once congratulated Seiji on his win, in a match that didn’t even matter much—not in the gracious public way other people did, more as if they were congratulating themselves on their own good manners than anything Seiji had done—but sincerely because Nicholas thought Seiji had fenced well and was glad he’d won. Nobody else ever congratulated Seiji like that. Jesse and Seiji hadn’t congratulated each other on their wins against lesser opponents. Victory was assumed.
How was Seiji supposed to stop Jesse from hurting Nicholas? He’d never been able to stop Jesse from doing anything he wanted.
Seiji edged toward Nicholas. He didn’t get in front of him, but he tried to be in the position he would’ve taken on the piste in order to deflect a blow, if one came.
It was something a fencing partner would notice.
Jesse’s eyes went dark.
“I have no idea what’s going on here,” he said, his voice bright as ice, “though it appears to be extremely sad and strange. Does it make you feel better about yourself to hang out with losers, Katayama?”
Nicholas, who apparently hadn’t noticed Seiji’s careful maneuvering, charged right past Seiji as if he wanted to head-butt the limousine. He hit Seiji’s shoulder hard on the way past. Seiji clenched his teeth with annoyance.
“Who are you calling a loser, jerk?” Nicholas demanded.
“You,” said Jesse. “I’m calling you a loser. You were born to be one. That much is obvious.”
He didn’t spare either of them another glance. He yawned and stretched, gold watch gleaming above the cuff of his shirtsleeve in the dying light, then strolled back to the limousine.
“Let me know when you’re tired of sulking, Seiji, and ready to fall in line.” He closed the door.
Seiji watched the retreating red lights of the sleek car, like evil eyes in the shadows.
Fall in line. That was the crux of the matter.
If Seiji was with Jesse, he would be where he belonged. He wouldn’t be awkward or out of place or wake up at night with a knot of misery in his chest.
And if Seiji was with Jesse, they would never be equals. Jesse had always assumed that was understood, but Seiji hadn’t realized it until recently. Once he did, he shocked everyone—even himself—by finding it unbearable.
“That guy,” Nicholas spat at the retreating car, “is—”
“Probably the best fencer of our generation,” observed Seiji. “And everything he said was true.”
Nicholas reared back. Seiji stared him down. For a moment, Nicholas seemed a symbol of everything that had gone wrong in Seiji’s life, all order lost and only chaos remaining. For a moment, Seiji hated him.
Nicholas made a graceless snorting sound and plunged into the woods. Seiji wasn’t worried about losing him. Nicholas was practically crashing into the trees and trampling the undergrowth with his stop-traffic-red sneakers. His path of destruction would be simple to follow. For now, Seiji lingered on the dark road where Jesse had been, as night fell.
Nobody could rival Jesse. Nobody could replace him, either.
Seiji was alone.
8: AIDEN
Aiden kissed a boy and saw stars. He was lying on his back in the grass, staring up at the night sky, and there were stars in it. There were also several clouds, though not as many as Aiden could wish for.
“Does it seem like hurricane weather to you?” asked Aiden.
“—you’re so hot?” said Whatshisface.
“Feels like the wind’s picking up a little though, right?”
“No,” murmured Aiden’s date. “Seems to me it’s going to be a really nice night.”
“Why would you say something like that?” Aiden demanded.
The boy gave him a somewhat quizzical glance. Aiden had to admit, he hadn’t been bringing his A game, so he stretched out languidly on the picnic blanket, laced his fingers through the boy’s long brown (red? It was dark out here) hair, and pulled him down for another kiss. The boy gave a soft, delighted sigh.
“I used to watch you in the halls,” the boy murmured in his ear, “and wonder… Did you ever think about me, too?”
Aiden wasn’t thinking about this boy now.
Before Aiden could say “So, this is awkward,” the boy kissed him again. He wasn’t a bad kisser. Hooking up made Aiden think of fencing, sometimes. The sheer physicality of it, the smooth, skilled movements flowing and arching to a victorious end. Knowing your opponent’s moves, weaknesses, what would get to them. Scoring all the points you could. And, in the end, turning away.
The boy began to unbutton Aiden’s shirt, and Aiden turned away from stars and kisses.
“Are you finding it difficult to concentrate?” Aiden asked, and the boy stilled, looking slightly helpless. Aiden grinned and shrugged. “Just me, I guess.”
When you weren’t feeling it, you weren’t feeling it.
Shortly after, Aiden found himself alone in his room, which hardly ever happened. On the rare occasions it did, Aiden was used to knowing where he could go to find Harvard and expect a warm welcome: at his house or hanging out with friends or in the salle. Tonight, Aiden couldn’t go be where Harvard was. Tonight, Harvard was on his stupid date.
Aiden decided he would take advantage of the peace and quiet to write his essay. He’d done some reading about what might be expected from this sort of assignment, and one idea had been life lessons Aiden had learned from trusted authority figures.
Aiden’s father had remarked once that some women were sports cars on the way to champagne brunch, and some were family vans headed to soccer practice. Aiden knew which his father preferred.