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The first thing Feuilly says when they walk out the door is, “I’m not going back.”
Bahorel gives a shrug; Grantaire flicks Feuilly in the temple. Feuilly jerks away.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he hisses, but Grantaire’s heard it enough when Feuilly means it to know this time isn’t a big deal. “I’m serious. I’m not. I don’t belong there, and I shouldn’t have come with you guys in the first place.”
“You’re a dude who sometimes likes other dudes,” Bahorel points out. “I’m pretty sure that means you do belong there.”
“I don’t.” The anger in Feuilly’s voice surprises both Bahorel and Grantaire. They miss a half step, and it’s enough that Bahorel stumbles on the cracked, crumbling sidewalk, and Grantaire has to lurch after him. Feuilly keeps walking. His hands are jammed into his pockets and his shoulders are slouched. “I’m not a…” He yanks his right hand from his pocket and runs it forcefully through his hair. “I’m practically straight. I shouldn’t keep intruding.”
The confusion is obvious in Bahorel’s voice. “What? No—I mean, I was pretty sure, last time I checked, you were like textbook bisexual?” Feuilly shakes his head.
“No, I’m—” He presses his first two fingers to his eyes. “I haven’t been really, like, properly interested in a guy in—a little while, I shouldn’t be—” Feuilly cuts off and picks up his pace, half stomping as he rushes off.
“Feuilly!” Bahorel makes to go after him, but Grantaire catches him by his shirt sleeve and shakes his head.
“Let him be,” Grantaire says softly, frowning. They watch as he fades to a speck on his way back to the dorms. “He’ll calm down.” Bahorel nods, but does not seem completely convinced; it’s moments like these that make Grantaire jealous, because even though Grantaire’s known he was into guys by middle school, he’s still had plenty of hate for himself over it and Bahorel never really has. But he doesn’t express this, just clasps Bahorel’s shoulder and urges him on back toward their dorm.
Feuilly doesn’t let the tension out until he’s safe in his dorm room, slumped on his bed. Then he presses his hands to his eyes and rocks back and forth, head bobbing along until the frustration has dissipated. He takes a few more deep breaths and feels all right, then fishes his phone out of his pocket where it’s been sporadically vibrating the last twenty minutes.
He’s got four texts. One is from a girl in his art history class named Melissa who wants the reading, which he gives her. One is from Bahorel, saying “sorry to upset you man, hope you’re all right”. The remaining two are from Grantaire.
‘I’m not about to give you a self righteous lecture on ~accepting yourself~’ the first one reads.
‘But know I understand the gay panic so if you need to discuss it, well, yeah.’
Feuilly sighs. He knows Grantaire means well and is genuine in his intent, but thinking about it all feels bad. Feuilly knows he’s gross: that fact seizes him every time he sees a guy and his first thought is ‘hot damn’. But that’s has been happening to him a lot less often with guys than it has with girls. And that… maybe it works for some people, to think they’re not straight even when this happens, but he’s not some people, he’s Feuilly and he just needs to get over this whole phase of liking guys.
Because that’s what it is, a fucking phase, and there is a reason they don’t have a word for him: because he’s not supposed to be this way.
‘thanks but ill be alright,’ Feuilly texts back, the keys on his slightly outdated phone clicking. Grantaire apparently doesn’t buy it.
‘You sure about that?’
Feuilly sighs. ‘yeah.’
‘If you say so. Will you come next week?’ Feuilly hesitates. He hadn’t wanted to go in the first place—Bahorel (who had actually introduced himself to Feuilly using the phrase ‘I’m the gayest person I’ve ever met’ a year prior) and Grantaire had dragged him along, so there won’t be any real shame in backing out. Hell, the two of them probably expected it at some point—Feuilly is always hesitant on groups that contain more than a couple of people, easily over stimulated as he is. And yet…
‘I don’t know,’ he replies and means it. He has no idea if he’ll go back—he doesn’t quite feel like he fits, especially with the “out and proud” vibe he gets from the group. (Which is fine, of course, but there are probably a total of ten people who know he’s not… well, probably not, or at least pretending he’s not, straight. And half of those reactions had gone poorly.)
Feuilly’s phone chimes again. ‘Well, you’re always welcome to come with us. Or just get smashed after.’ He smiles at the screen: even if others wouldn’t be able to tell, Grantaire cares a lot.
‘i’ll keep that in mind.’
And he will.