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Uly has a love-hate relationship with his new roommate. On one hand, the guy is the antithesis of everything he has ever stood for – rich, jacked, stupid, and obliviously straight. But, on the other hand, he’s hot, friendly, caring to the level of creepiness, and the first good time Uly has had without drugs since seventh grade. Ford’s a mixed bag, that’s for sure.
Uly lies on the top bunk staring at the ceiling and debating whether or not having a full-length poster of Sebastian Stan over his bed would make Ford uncomfortable. Uly can’t get a read on him. It was obvious just from orientation alone that the guy was born without even the straight equivalent of a gaydar. No fewer than three guys blatantly hit on him during the tour and Ford replied to it with all the social grace of a straight girl used to being told she’s pretty. But whether or not that obliviousness translates into homophobia, Uly’s not sure. Part of him has a hard time believing Ford would be rude about anything. But part of him has been burned before.
The pot smoke dashes against the ceiling. Uly feels too comfortable, like his body might float away if someone doesn’t tie him down, but he doesn’t mind. He’s never minded. If he squints his eyes just right, Sebastian’s already staring down at him. He reaches a hand down to palm his crotch and lets out an involuntary laugh. The pot’s gone straight to his dick, apparently.
Just as he starts to unzip, the door opens. He startles – or feels like he does – but by the time Ford greets him, he hasn’t even flinched. He’s still lying in bed, one finger on his fly, the world rotating at a crawl. Ford looks up at him with a smile – goddamn that smile– and Uly realizes he asked him a question.
“Uhh…”
“Come on, man,” Ford says. He bounces a little, smile spreading impossibly wider. It’s like the guy is constantly on speed. Uly hopes the endless peppiness stops soon, otherwise he might have to kill him. “It’ll be fun!”
“Umm. Sure?”
Uly has no idea what he’s agreed to but given the way Ford claps his hands together in victory, it can’t be anything good. Uly almost brings himself to care. Whatever torture he’s subjected himself to, Ford’s smile will make up for it. And his arms. And his cute reluctance to go anywhere without Uly despite the fact that he could make friends in a jail cell. Hell, they’re a week into school and Ford already greets half of the student body by name.
“This is it?” Uly asks, trying to sound casual and probably sounding like he wants to kill himself.
The answer to the question is obvious – they’re already standing inside the frat house – but Ford answers anyways. “Yeah, man!”
Uly nods as he looks around the party. The air is thick with smoke and the paint-thinner scent of hard liquor. Music pounds through the soles of his shoes. The structure seems way too classic, and way too expensive, to house a rowdy frat. There are Grecian columns on the porch and stained glass windows reaching for the sky. Sloppily dressed guys surf down the grand staircase on mattresses, slide easily across the marble floor, and crash into the fireplace.
The place still manages to have a scuzzy feeling to it. Maybe it’s the spilled alcohol or the stains on the walls that Uly sincerely hopes are not bodily fluids. Maybe it’s the threadbare furniture, the couch with cigarette burns along its top, or the chairs with mismatched legs. Maybe it has something to do with the hundreds of scantily dressed girls, the shaking bass, and the flickering lights. He never imagined that a room designed to look like a Greek temple could feel so much like a seedy dive bar.
Ford starts into the room and Uly follows. He watches the crowd flash past him and shakes his head. He feels like he’s in a movie montage– a topless girl does a keg stand, a frat bro sits half out the window, a black cat sits on the stairs and then disappears as soon as a mattress flies past it. He may have smoked too much pot. Or maybe it was laced with something. In hindsight, buying pot at the school library off a guy in a three-piece suit might have been a bad idea.
“Uly! This is Candy!”
Uly blinks and a redhead appears in front of him. She stands with a hand on Ford’s chest, one high-heeled foot positioned firmly between his feet. Uly feels a spark of jealousy. I can’t fuck my roommate. I can’t fuck my roommate. He swallows. “You two have fun.” He veers away from them and towards the bar.
“What’s your poison?”
“Umm.” Uly stares at the polished bar. Glass cases behind it display empty liquor bottles. The labels are so rare that Uly only recognizes the ones he stole from the country club wine cellar the first, and only, week he worked there. He raises his eyes to look at the butt-naked guy tending bar. “Do people really say that outside mob movies?”
The guy laughs and pops a beer cap off against the counter. The wood scrapes. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “This isn’t my regular job.”
“What’s your regular job?” As Uly takes the beer, he can’t help his eyes wandering.
The guy chuckles again, lighter this time. “Stripper.”
“Right.” Uly looks up fast, his eyes wide. “So. You’re not a student?”
“Nah. They just pay me to serve beers.”
“Seems overly progressive.”
“They think it gets the girls horny.”
“Ah.” Uly clicks his tongue and takes a step back. He’s about to leave when Ford clasps his shoulder, breathless. Uly says, “Hey, buddy… you want a drink?”
Ford shakes his head. “I don’t drink.”
“You don’t drink?” Uly says at the same time as the bartender. He likes to think he says it with slightly less shock.
Ford looks back at the bartender, smiles, and says, “Wow, man, you’re ripped.”
The bartender winks. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Uly drags Ford away, desperate to get out of there before his roommate offers up the narration to the low budget porno Uly directs every time he closes his eyes. He takes a long gulp of beer when they reach a relatively empty stretch of wall. His fingers itch against the rolled up joint in his pocket and he wonders if anyone here would know the difference between pot and cigarette smoke.
“What happened to you dude?” Ford asks.
“What? Nothing. What happened to Candy?”
“I wanted to introduce her to you! She’s a drama major too, so I thought—”
“Yeah, no.”
For a second, Ford’s perpetual smile turns upside down. Then he shrugs and the smile is back on his face. “I just wanted you to make some friends in your program and—”
“I don’t need your help to make friends.”
This time, Ford’s whole face falls and he looks away, mumbling something that Uly’s sure he’s meant to hear but the music is too loud. Uly scratches the back of his neck and looks away too.
“Here.” He shoves his beer into Ford’s hand. “Drink up.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s a party.” Belatedly, he adds, “Dude.”
Ford swallows and looks down at the bottle. He nods to himself and Uly can almost hear the silent pep talk running through his mind. Then, Ford upends the beer, coughs, chokes, and spits half of it onto the floor. Uly flinches back to avoid the spray but his reaction time’s really taken a hit. He ends up with his shirt half-soaked as Ford tries to apologize without first catching his breath.
“Fuck.” Uly shakes out his shirt. Then, with a sigh, he starts to undo the buttons.
“I’m sorry,” Ford says for the millionth time. “But that tastes… it tastes…”
“Horrible.” He shrugs out of his shirt. “It’s beer.”
“Oh.” Ford stares at the bottle. “It’s supposed to taste like that.”
Uly wipes the beer off his arms with his shirt and tries to avoid the drunk girls’ hungry gazes. Normally, he’d appreciate the attention. A different day, a better trip, and with a dry shirt, Uly could find something or someone fun to do at this party.
“Aren’t you gonna go be social, or whatever?”
Ford blinks. “I want to be with you.”
Surprise washes over Uly followed by the realization that Ford’s statement is obvious. Ford follows him everywhere. Ford followed him through orientation, even though they’re in different programs. Ford wants to go to lunch and dinner together, go get coffee together, and walk Uly to his classes. And now he’s taken him to a party. It’s too damn easy to pretend Ford’s his boyfriend.
“Okay, well.” Uly bites his tongue. He tries to find a way to talk around Ford’s sensitivities and his own ingrained pessimism. “This isn’t really my scene.”
Ford brightens. “Then where is?”
They swing by the bar on their way out and Uly nicks a six-pack. Usually, he’d grab two, but Ford’s new to drinking; Uly doesn’t have the upper body strength to carry Ford back to the dorm.
They walk across the quiet campus, under the too-white streetlamps and over the damp asphalt, until they reach the Bio building. Uly loves it. The tower is made of egg-shaped glass that sparkles blue in the moonlight. Uly pulls the metal door open and enters.
“Where are we going?” Ford asks.
Uly keeps his mouth shut as he ascends the spiral staircase in the centre of the egg. The rooms are dark, the hallways only half lit; a soft rumble of voices echoes down from the third floor.
They reach the top floor and Uly breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the door to the roof is still propped open. The suited weed guy told him Bio students liked to go up there to smoke. Uly steps into a deeper darkness, past the STAFF ONLY sign that Ford reads aloud, and goes up.
A slick metal walkway rings the top of the egg. Uly sits with his legs off the edge, one arm wrapped loosely around the fence post. Ford sits back a few feet, his heels off the edge because he’s so damn tall. He takes the first sip of his beer and lets it pool in his mouth.
Uly lit the joint the second the fresh air hit him. He blows smoke into the starry sky. Campus looks so small. He can see every building, every sidewalk, and every person in the distance. The frat house lights flare rainbow through the trees but, mercifully, their music is long gone.
“So this is your scene,” Ford says.
Uly puffs out a ring of smoke.
“It’s kind of scary.”
Uly swallows down a laugh. “Nah, man.” He drinks. He hits the high just right and finds the calm that exists only just before he goes too far. He sets the beer down. “It’s beautiful.”
He glances over his shoulder at Ford, who looks as small as the campus below. He stares intently at his own hands, like he’s holding a firefly in his palms. His beer, almost full, stands next to his knee.
“You need to relax.” Uly reaches out to shake his leg. “Get over here.”
Ford’s Adam’s apple bobs hard. Then, slowly, he slips forward, his legs going over the edge. Uly keeps a hand on him, fingers grazing up the side of his leg, then his ribs, and then his arm. He guides Ford’s fingers around the metal post and Ford clings to it like a life line. This time, Uly does chuckle. Ford looks down and goes wedding-veil white. Uly offers the joint.
Ford takes a puff and coughs. His grip fumbles.
“Don’t drop it!” Uly catches Ford’s hand in his own, cradling the joint between them. “Slow down, man. Don’t try to do everything at once.” He guides it back towards Ford’s lips and watches as his lips purse around it. He pulls it away after a second. “Now, let it out slowly.”
The smoke puffs out from Ford hard and he still coughs, but he seems steady now. Uly smiles. “Was that so hard?”
“I like it less than the beer.”
Uly laughs.
“We’re very different people.”
He shrugs and hands Ford the rest of his beer as he takes a drag. Then he reaches for a fresh bottle and pops the cap on the edge of the walkway. The beer cap falls to the ground below.
“Am I high?”
Uly glances over. “No, man. No way.”
Ford squints. “I think I’m high.” He gulps down the beer. “This almost tastes… good?”
“With all that rich people alcohol you’re used to, you’ve probably had worse.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not?” The question is out before Uly can stop it.
Ford shrugs. “Never saw the appeal of losing yourself.”
Uly frowns.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I just… I really like my life. And I like who I am. And I don’t understand why I would willingly confuse myself when it might make me do something that I wouldn’t like.”
“Because it’s fun.” Uly offers the joint again, more out of habit.
Ford takes it. He blows smoke into the air, looking at the stars that seem close enough to touch. “I’m getting hungry.”
“We’ll raid the caf later.”
“Are we friends?”
The questions hits Uly’s ears first and then lands like a ten pound weight on his lungs. Ford’s eyes are too dilated to tell but Uly detects no hint of shame. His heart warms and beats a little faster. “Yeah,” he says, not really thinking it through. “I’m gay.”
Ford’s eyes are closed and his head is turned towards the sky.
Uly blinks. The words have no echo. He wonders if he really said them aloud. He untangles the joint from Ford’s fingers and takes a long drag just to watch the smoke curl into the darkness. He teeters on the edge now as discomfort and paranoia set in. He reaches for his beer and drinks.
“That’s cool,” Ford says. His voice is slow as molasses sliding down an icicle. Time seems distorted somehow.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He hangs his head and breathes out heavily. “Uly?”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. Below them, three girls exit the building, their laughter hitting the concrete like cymbals. One of them wears a neon yellow hoodie but the other two are shades of grey. Uly has the urge to call out to them, but it dies in his throat.
“Am I gay?”
Uly looks at him.
Ford is stoned and very possibly drunk. He has a blank look on his face like the world has pixelated and started to disintegrate before his very eyes. He is powerless to do anything but watch in awe.
Uly stands up. “Let’s go home.”
Home is a dorm room that is so much smaller than the wide open expanse of the night sky that it feels like a prison cell. Uly opens the window and lets the crisp night air in. The rain has started again and the radiator will get wet but they can deal with that in the morning.
Ford is quiet now, deflated, but hungry. He rips into a bag of chips sitting on top of the dresser and crumbs scatter to the floor. Uly approaches and grabs a handful himself, chewing noisily. He pokes at the top of the yellow bag and leans in to get a better look. Ford shoos him out of the way and gets another handful. He must be swallowing air at the rate he eats.
“Wait,” Uly says. “Whipped cream.”
“Whipped cream!”
Uly rushes to the mini fridge and pulls out a can of whipped cream. Ford holds out the chip bag and Uly sprays it inside. They dig their hands in.
“This is better than sex,” Uly says.
“Beer!” Ford grabs a bottle and tries to pop the cap off on the edge of the desk but fails. He frowns.
“Harder!” Uly coaches.
Ford smashes it against the table and dents the wood. They’re both laughing too hard to care. He tries again, this time with a lighter touch, and the cap opens halfway, foam and beer spraying everywhere. Ford tries to lick off the bottle and his hands; Uly just laughs.
Part of his brain, maybe the last rational part left, tells him to slow Ford down. But then there’s another beer in his hand and he’s drinking it and that rational part is drowned out and they’re lighting another joint. The window’s already open. The snacks are made. They sit down on the floor and smoke.
Uly tries to count the splinters in the upper bunk’s frame as Ford lists the Christmas gifts he got when he was eight. The list includes all the expensive things Uly’s parents would never waste their money on, even if they could have afforded it. He loses count at thirty-two and starts again. Ford kicks his foot.
“What’d you get?”
Uly turns his head and his nose brushes against Ford’s. He barely remembers lying down and then squishing against the wall so Ford could squeeze in beside him on the bottom bunk. With a rush like a shower turning on, Uly feels Ford’s heat pressed against his own. His bony hip rattles against Ford’s muscular one. Their arms press tight together; Uly’s fingers have fallen asleep. A wisp of his hair brushes Ford’s cheek and Ford blows it off with sharp, warm breath.
“I don’t know,” Uly says. “Cash?”
“When you were eight?”
“Every year.”
“That sucks, dude.”
“Yeah.” Uly shrugs. That twenty bucks under the tree meant the world to him right up until when he was sixteen and could work three hours at McDonald’s to earn the same kind of cash. At eight, he had no expenses. Twenty dollars then was like eight hundred now or his entire college tuition or enough to buy a boat.
Now he counts the freckles on Ford’s cheek. He wonders if Ford knows just how goddamn hot he is but he must. He has to know that his smile lights up a room and his body fuels every dirty thought Uly’s ever had. Uly’s never been big on relentless positivity but something about Ford makes the weight on his shoulders feel lighter. Without asking, Ford took up some of that burden and smiled while doing it.
Uly looks back at the bed frame. “So, uh, you’ve never had a job?”
“I worked one summer at the country club,” Ford says. “Customer service.”
Uly snorts. “Seems like you’re calling.”
Ford shrugs.
Uly feels Ford’s arm slide against his skin.
“I don’t understand why everyone was so mean.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
Ford laughs. “That’s what my dad said.”
Uly wrinkles his nose– of all the dad’s to be compared to, he least wants to be like Ford’s wildly rich, white dad. They must have stopped smoking hours ago. Or maybe it was minutes. Time lost all meaning once they left the frat and probably won’t assert its power again until his eight a.m. class Monday morning. Luckily, that’s two days away.
“What do guys usually talk about at sleepovers?”
Uly swallows a laugh. The question – and Ford – is so innocent that he resists the urge to ruin it with cynicism. The first thought he has is that sleepovers are for girls. The second is that every “sleepover” he’s had with a guy involved a lot less talking and a lot less clothes.
“Their love lives,” he says instead.
“We just got here. How could we have love lives?”
“Speak for yourself.”
Ford turns towards him and the whole mattress shifts under his weight. Uly feels his breath against his cheek and resists the urge to lean in to its warmth. Ford says, “Dish!”
Uly sighs and lets his head flop to the side. Ford’s eyes sparkle. Uly shakes his head. Ford prods his shoulder. Uly sighs again, then turns on his side as well to keep the guise of sleepover friends going. Or maybe he wants to see Ford’s face when he mentions fucking someone else.
“Orientation night, I fucked James in the girls’ bathroom.”
“James?”
Uly inclines his head in the general direction of the door. “Across the hall.”
“Really?” Ford’s nose crinkles.
A flurry of emotions runs through Uly as he tries to parse Ford’s reaction. A wrinkled nose could mean disgust, curiosity, judgement of him, judgement of James, and the list goes on.
Uly continues, “The next night I fucked his roommate. That was hard to explain.”
“Why?”
“He rooms with his brother.”
Ford laughs and buries his face in the pillow.
Uly watches him with the same distant affection he offered the stray cats that lived in the alley behind the McDonald’s. His mouth feels dry; he looks for a beer to numb the dawning realization that he might not be high anymore. “And then there’s this guy.” He sighs. “This gorgeous fucking guy in my acting class who I’m half in love with.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nathan.”
“Nathan,” Ford repeats with an edge to his voice, something like jealousy.
Uly shifts a little closer. “He’s got nothing on you,” he whispers.
“Aww, thanks.” Ford claps a hand against his cheek and leaves it there. It weighs down Uly’s head and pushes him into the pillow as Ford’s sweat comes off on his skin.
Uly waits for him to move it but he doesn’t. He waits for Ford to blink, to breathe, to realize, but he doesn’t. Their faces are so close together that Uly breathes in Ford’s warm, rank breath. He feels his blood rush downwards.
But Ford’s still oblivious.
The radio changes over, one mindless pop song transitioning into another, and Ford lights up. The guy is a billion-watt bulb that goes strobe over every little thing. Uly has no idea how he keeps up the enthusiasm after a lifetime of rich-people-levels of stimulation.
Ford scrambles to his feet. He grabs Uly’s arm and pulls him up too. Then he starts to jump and screams the lyrics at the top of his lungs. Uly feels his blood attempt to redirect to his limbs and tries to figure out what the hell is going on. His head swims. Ford clasps his wrists and waves their arms around wildly as he dances. Uly tries to focus on the beat as he bops along.
“I’m gonna marry that girl! Marry that girl! Marry her anyway!” Ford sings off key as he bounces around like a crazy person to a song with the beat of the wedding march. “And we’ll be a family! Why you gotta be so ruuuuuuuude.”
Uly laughs. He starts to jump too.
Ford’s eyes are wide, sparkling, and teary. He belts out the words like he knows exactly who he’s singing to. His need to know that kind of love, to have it, is infectious. Uly wants to change the pronouns and sing along too. He wants Ford to feel the same.
Uly has known Ford for a week and he wants him down on one knee. The song gets at the hopeless romantic in him that he tries so hard to suffocate. And Ford, who is the antithesis of everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s ever been, makes that hopeless romantic feel at home.
“Say yes, say yes, ‘cause I need to know!”
Uly sings along when the chorus comes around. He laughs and shouts. Ford lets go of his hands to throw his head back and belt out a high note that the song never hits. Uly laughs harder and starts to cough. He reaches out a hand to steady himself. One of Ford’s large hands comes down over his own and tugs his palm so it lies over his heart. His other hand touches Uly’s cheek again. “You all right, man?”
Uly coughs as he nods.
The song fades out and Chandelier comes on. Ford lets out a victorious whoop and Uly laughs harder. His hand creeps up Ford’s chest and he grabs his shoulder for leverage. When he tilts his head up, he meets Ford’s green eyes. Goddamnit. He’s in love again.
Ford kisses him.
It’s not a real kiss. Adrenaline fuels it in the same way a touchdown in the last quarter fuels declarations of love. Ford kisses like there’s a stiff board in front of him, not a person. Apparently, straight bro kisses happen when Ford is really into a song. And really drunk.
It means nothing to Ford.
Uly knows that as soon as their lips part.
It means everything to Uly, even though he’s been kissed like this before.
Ford whoops again and turns away to crank up the volume.
Uly touches his arm and immediately panics. He pulls back, his hand leaving sweaty skin, but Ford’s already turning back to him. The question in his eyes hurts too much so Uly just steps closer, tilts his head up, and kisses him again. He wraps a hand around the back of Ford’s neck to pull him in,
Ford freezes for a heart-stopping moment. Uly almost apologizes against his lips. Then, Ford’s tongue licks at Uly’s lips and Uly parts them quickly. A rough, wide tongue pushes into his mouth. His nails scrape down Ford’s neck as he tries not to stumble backwards and fails. Ford’s weight propels him backwards until he hits the bunk bed’s frame. Ford cups his face, holding him in the kiss.
Ford kisses in a heady, unpracticed way that betrays his surprise that his lips have met a warm, wet, human mouth instead of the stuffing of his teddy bear. Uly wants to explore the broad expanse of Ford’s chest and lose himself in it. He can feel Ford’s heartbeat against his skin. Uly touches one hand to the hem of Ford’s tank top and nudges it upwards.
Ford breaks the kiss but doesn’t move.
Uly freezes.
Ford breathes heavy and hot across his lips. His eyes are closed, wrinkled at the edges. His lips are bright red and swollen. He licks them and Uly stifles a groan. Ford is fuckable in a way that shouldn’t even be legal. The government should require him to gain weight or shave off his eyebrows to lessen his effect on the general public.
Uly tugs at Ford’s tank top. “Is this all right?”
“I think I’m drunk.”
“I know you’re drunk.”
Ford smiles and one of his eyes opens.
Uly stares back at him, waiting. Yes, he kissed Ford but Ford kissed him first. He also didn’t back himself up into the bunk bed. His dick throbs in his too-tight jeans. Ford’s hips are angled away from him – his body is oddly far away considering how close his mouth is.
“I might be straight,” Ford says.
Uly shrugs.
Ford kisses him again like he’s searching for something. Uly’s too drunk and high and horny to care. In the morning, he’ll care. For a week, he’ll agonize over what Ford was searching for and if it could have been found in his mouth. He’ll spend all of his college years wondering what pathetic lack of judgement allowed him to be used for a straight boy’s experimental phase. But, in the moment, he thinks with his dick.
Uly pushes up Ford’s shirt and runs his fingers over his abs. Ford giggles into his mouth, mumbles something that must be, “that tickles” but sounds more like “thammtickssm.” He digs his hands into Uly’s long hair.
Ford finally moves closer and the friction makes Uly curse. The word is half relief and half shame. He must feel like a rock against Ford’s thigh. And Ford’s not even hard.
Uly starts to push him away but then Ford’s lips are on his neck. Uly melts under the ministrations of his tongue. Ford tugs on his hair and Uly groans. He ruts against Ford’s thigh and Ford presses his leg closer, letting him.
That’ll have to be enough.
The lucid part of Uly’s brain tries to stop him – does he really want to get off humping Ford’s leg while Ford licks his neck like a popsicle? – but the miniscule amount of blood in his brain redirects fast when Ford steps forward and pins Uly against the bed frame with one large, muscular thigh. The sound that leaves Uly’s lips is inhuman, unethical, and wholly embarrassing.
He clutches Ford’s back as he thrusts against him. His skin burns and his dick throbs. Ford kisses his neck, pulls his hair, and takes him apart inch by inch. Uly turns his head and catches Ford’s mouth again.
Ford is the least experienced sexual partner Uly has ever had. He might be the least experienced person Uly has ever kissed with the exception of his first grade girlfriend. But he does something to Uly that’s unexplainable.
Or maybe it’s the weed.
Uly breaks the kiss and bends his head into the crook of Ford’s neck. His feet are barely on the ground. He reaches unzips his pants and the release of pressure is almost enough to push him over the edge. He strokes his dick, hard and fast, worrying only that he might die if he doesn’t come soon.
Ford steps back and looks down. “That’s your dick,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You have a dick.”
Uly laughs. “Did you not know that?” He groans in the middle of the sentence, savouring the delicious friction. His sweat is a sorry excuse for lube; it’s uncomfortable and dry but he’s too close to care. He’d fuck a donut if it’d get him over this painful, delicious, excruciating edge faster.
“Of course I did. I just…” Ford swallows. His expression blanks and he steps closer. “Of course I did,” he repeats, more to himself than to Uly. He’s still looking down.
“Wanna help?”
He means it as a joke.
Ford meets his eyes with pure terror.
And Uly comes all over them both, ruining every piece of clothing in sight. “Fuuuuuuuck.” He lets out a heavy breath as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. He slumps onto the edge of the bed and knocks his head on the top bunk. The pain barely registers.
Ford shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He rubs the back of his neck where Uly is sure he left marks, maybe even drew blood. The air smells like rain and sweat and alcohol and sex and wet pavement. The pot doesn’t linger, which is good if the RA ever gets the urge to visit.
“I’m sorry,” Ford says.
Uly looks up from his come-stained hand. “What?”
Ford clears his throat. “I didn’t mean… I’m not homophobic.”
“I know, man.” Uly licks the come off his fingers. “You’re just straight.”
The words sound heavy around the memory of Ford’s tongue in his mouth. They taste funny mixed with come. But Uly means it. He knows it.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Uly gets up and tucks himself back into his stained underwear. Then sheds his pants. He takes the ladder two rungs at a time and flops onto the top bunk before taking off his shirt and dropping it to the ground. “’Night, man.”
“Shouldn’t you…” Ford’s voice catches and he tries again. “Shouldn’t you take a shower or something? Or go to the bathroom?”
Uly rolls the words around in his head and decides against correcting him. “In the morning.”
“But—”
“In the morning, Ford.”
The hopeless romantic in Uly, the part of his personality that he likes the most, hopes Ford will crawl into the top bunk with him. The rational part of him predicts the future. Ford turns off the light and sheds his clothes in the dark. Uly watches out of one half-open eye but closes it when Ford removes his boxers. Then, Uly hears Ford’s steady breathing under him. He remembers it unsteady from minutes before, from Ford’s lips on his neck, from his hands in his hair.
His dick twitches.
Uly scrunches up his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Hey, Uly?”
Uly hesitates. “Yeah?”
“What was the name of that song? The one on the radio?”
“Uhh…” Uly tries to rewind his memories without replaying Ford’s mouth on his. He opens his eyes and the ceiling stares back at him. He’s definitely putting up that Sebastian Stan poster. “Dunno.”
“I’ll Google it,” Ford says. His voice brims with confidence and surety and general cheer. A few seconds later, he has the answer. “It’s Rude. By Magic.”
Uly dreads the morning. He stays in bed, pretending to be asleep, until Ford leaves. His starvation and hangover and pounding head can wait. The sun shines in through the open window directly into his eyes.
When it’s safe, Uly jumps off the top bunk and pulls on a fresh pair of jeans. He shuts the blinds and rummages around in the dark for a bottle of Tylenol. He finds a half-smoked joint instead and lights up. By the time the door opens, he’s high.
“Hey, man,” Ford says, his voice pitched low. “I got breakfast.”
Uly opens one eye. He breathes in the scent of eggs and sausages and pancakes and the sweet, sweet grease that will soak up the last of the alcohol and hopefully the dregs of his embarrassment.
“My head is killing me,” Ford says.
Uly offers the joint.
He shakes his head.
They sit down to eat – Ford on the bed and Uly on top of the desk – and munch in silence. Eventually, Uly finds the Tylenol bottle and tosses it Ford’s way. The rattle of pills makes Uly close his eyes against the jackhammer in his head but it’s worth it to hear Ford’s sigh of relief. Uly lets a small smile slip across his lips.
“Ford?” Uly says. He almost swallows the rest of his sentence when Ford looks up. This is no longer the small, vulnerable man that he sat with on the roof of the Bio building. No, this is Ford at his best – cheery and oblivious. Uly feels stupid saying it, stupider still because Ford seems back to normal, but he says it anyways. “We’re cool, right?”
“Totally cool.”
Uly tries to read too much into that, tries to find discomfort or a lie. He wants Ford to have replied too fast or too slow. But sleep has erased Ford’s awkwardness and replaced it with easy-going nonchalance. Uly wishes sleep did the same for him.
“Cool.” Uly picks up a pancake with his bare hands. He folds it in half and stuffs it into his mouth.
“Dude.” Ford wrinkles his nose. “Have you even washed your hands?”
Uly almost chokes he laughs so hard.
The jokes dwindle fast and the memories fade and soon enough, Ford’s smile doesn’t take him over anymore. Eventually, Uly forgets if it happened or he dreamt it or the pot fuelled it, but he never brings it up again. At least not to Ford.
For the moment, he’s just happy they’re laughing about it.