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Hey it’s cool if I don’t meet up with you tonight, right ?” Eli's slurred voice is barely audible over the noise of the EDM music blasting from the speakers overhead. Bud presses his Nokia closer to his ear to try to hear better.
“You’re not coming? Eli, I’m already here.”
“ Look, I’m sorry! But I met this really cute girl. And you hate clubbing anyway! So really I’m doing you a favor. Now you can go home.”
“Eli,” Bud moans, cradling his beer in desperation, leaning over the bar.
“ I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I have to go. Love you! Bye.”
“Love you t-” Bud doesn’t get to finish before the dial tone is ringing in his ear. Eli already hung up.
He stares gloomily at the beer in his hands. He just ordered it. He decides he will at least finish before he leaves. He glances up at the TV hanging over the bar, sighing. It’s playing a sitcom Bud doesn’t recognize. The subtitles aren’t on. The only thing he can hear is the bass of the EDM music and the other patrons next to him, shouting their orders at the bartender.
The place is packed. It’s Friday night and every college student in a ten mile radius seems to have jammed inside. Bud feels ancient and out of place. He’s only twenty-six, but he’s far too old for this crowd.
Bud is mid-sip when a guy pulls out from the crowd and squeezes into the space beside Bud’s barstool. He’s short—he’s even shorter than Bud seated on the chair. He’s inches away from him, leaning over the counter to try to escape the pulsing crowd pressing in behind him. He’s wearing a gray beanie that covers raven-black hair and a purple flannel shirt open over a strange graphic T-shirt that features an alien and the name of a franchise Bud doesn’t recognize. He turns to face Bud, tilting his head sideways, and Bud takes in a sharp breath involuntarily.
This guy is stunning. He has sharp green eyes that seem to shine in the dim light of the club. His nose is soft and handsome, all of his features work together so well that Bud feels like it must be some trick of the light. The guy has two beauty marks, one on the side of his face, dotting his eye, and the other hovering right above his lip, forcing Bud’s eyes downward.
The guy leans in closer and smiles—it’s wide and mischievous and more than friendly. Bud feels instantly like he’s being let in on a fun secret joke.
“You don’t really look like you want to be here,” the guy says, “want to come to my place?”
Bud laughs. To be read so easily so instantly is comical. He didn’t think he looked that miserable. The stranger is grinning along with him, and he is practically pressed against Bud’s side, having to stand between the barstools, and he’s soft and warm and Bud is only halfway through his first beer but he feels dizzy.
“Is it that bad?” Bud asks, a little ashamed.
“No, no! You only looked like you were hoping the ceiling would cave in. What happened? Stood up?”
“Yeah, actually. By my brother.”
The guy laughs, throwing his head back. Bud’s eyes trail down the soft pale skin of his neck of their own accord.
“Jesus!” The stranger howls, “that’s tough, man. Does that mean you’re single? I’m asking for a friend, I swear.”
Bud nods. “Yeah. Um. I’m single.”
“Oh good,” the stranger steps impossibly closer to Bud. He lays a hand invitingly on the counter, and then shifts it to start tracing shapes into the condensation clinging to Bud’s beer. “I’m gonna come clean. I wasn’t really asking for a friend.”
“What’s your name?” Bud blurts.
“Dylan. What about you?”
“Bud.”
“Okay, that has to be a fake name. Which honestly? I respect that.”
“No. No. My name is really Bud.”
“Not short for anything? Budson? Buddlyn? Budleigh?”
Bud snorts. “Just Bud.”
“Well, Just Bud, it’s very nice to meet you.”
Dylan pulls his hand from Bud’s beer and holds it out for him to shake. Bud takes it and his fingers slip across his skin, wet. Dylan’s fingers are cold. Bud has the urge to pull Dylan’s hand in closer and warm it up. He resists and just shakes it.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Bud asks.
“Oh, I don’t drink. But you can buy me a game.”
“A game?”
Dylan gestures to the very back of the bar. There’s an ancient Mortal Kombat machine blinking near the bathrooms. Bud stands up and abandons his beer on the counter. He grabs Dylan’s cold fingers again and pulls him through the crowd until they finally manage to squeeze into the space by the machine. It only costs fifty cents. Bud fiddles through his pockets—thanking God he paid for his beer in cash. He comes up with two quarters and slots them in the machine.
“Do you dabble?” Dylan asks as the screen throws purple and yellow and red light across his face, lighting up his eyes in so many different hues that Bud is captivated for a moment before he can reply.
“Dabble? What do you mean?”
Dylan nods at the game, where the loading screen has faded to two flashing options.
> ONE PLAYER
> TWO PLAYERS
“Oh,” Bud grips a joystick. “Yeah, let’s play.”
Dylan slams a button, grinning wickedly, and the screen changes. Bud selects a character at random. He’s never played this game before. But Dylan nods at him in approval of his choice and then expertly flicks to his own character selection before he hovers his hand over the start button.
“Are you ready to be destroyed?” Dylan asks, his face deadly serious, his eyes glinting with make-believe malice. The effect is ruined immediately when he grins at Bud, all his white teeth showing. He has dimples. He’s adorable. Bud can’t muster a verbal reply—he just nods.
Dylan starts the game with a loud smack and Bud is immediately overwhelmed. He has no idea what any of the buttons do. He experiments and realizes his character can crouch. Then Dylan unleashes a flurry of attacks.
His hands are flying over the buttons. He has clearly played this game before. Bud is pretty certain his character is dying. He crouches in a desperate attempt to save himself.
Dylan laughs, a hearty, maniacal cackle. “Crouching cannot save you, Johnny Cage!”
Dylan’s character backs away, ceasing her attacks. He pitches his voice up high, trying to sound more feminine. “Do you yield?” He asks as he moves his character forward an inch, as if she were talking.
Bud presses his lips together to try to stop himself from bursting into laughter. It’s ridiculous. There’s something about Dylan’s expression. The glint in his eyes. He’s having fun. He’s having fun with wild abandon—he’s unafraid to walk up to strangers at bars and flirt with them, he’s unafraid to do strange character voices. He’s been nothing but friendly and charming and funny. Bud’s heart is racing.
“I yield,” he wheezes, feeling like his chest is going to cave in.
“TO BAD!” Dylan yells in a very convincing falsetto before he slams his hand down on a button. His character deals the killing blow and the final words appear on screen.
Sonya Blade Wins
FATALITY
Dylan steps away from the machine and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You have much to learn, my young grasshopper, before you can beat the great master!”
Bud smiles, sheepish. “I guess so. Maybe you can teach me?”
Dylan laughs. “Of course. But my tutelage does not come cheap. It’s going to cost you a whopping fifty cents! I don’t suppose a peasant like you has that kind of money.”
Bud spots a quarter machine lodged near the women’s restroom. “I will in one second.”
###
Dylan can’t believe his luck. He’s gotten lucky before. He’s slept with enough people over the years that statistically, a few of them had to be smoking hot. But Bud isn’t just hot. He’s a solid ten. No. He’s an eleven.
He’s so tall and his curly hair falls into his dark, liquid eyes. His skin is dark but even darker freckles pepper over his round nose. His jawline can cut glass and his lips are soft and plump. He’s wearing a checkered button down that can’t hide his wide muscular shoulders and arms. Dylan can’t help but learn into Bud’s side as they play the game, enjoying the feeling of his muscles pressing back against him.
And Bud is shy. He’s going along with Dylan’s strange requests with a modest, becoming willingness. Dylan can’t remember the last time he spent so long in a bar. They play Mortal Kombat until the place closes. He’s almost certain Bud is down twenty dollars in quarters.
They spill out onto the sidewalk with the college students trying desperately to locate and crawl into the correct Uber without throwing up. The air is crisp and cool—there’s a light breeze that makes Dylan edge a bit closer to Bud. The man is throwing off heat like a furnace.
Dylan isn’t really sure how to proceed. His pickups don’t usually last this long. He’s definitely never stayed until close. By now, he’s always had a firm yes or no. But he glances sideways at Bud, trying to assess his chances.
Obviously, this guy is way out of his league. But he stuck around for this long. Dylan decides to take his shot.
“So. My original offer still stands.”
“Huh?” Bud asks, leaning in closer to Dylan, his eyes sincere and dark and captivating.
Dylan shakes himself. He’s on a mission, here. Staring at Bud is nice. But he would rather get him back home, in bed. “You can come back to my place. If you want.”
Bud’s mouth drops open. Dylan wants to lean in and kiss him. He waits—hearing his answer is more important.
“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Did you drive here?”
“No. I don’t actually have a car. I don’t live too far away.”
Bud pulls car keys out of his pocket. “Ok. I can drive. If you want. I’m sober.”
Dylan tries his best to contain the joy that is threatening to leap out of his chest. He can’t believe it. He’s actually going to score a guy this hot.
“Okay. Yeah. Where’d you park?”
###
Dylan lives on the fourth floor of an apartment building two minutes from the center of downtown. Bud waits patiently as Dylan unlocks the front door and invites Bud inside.
It’s a tiny studio. There is a queen sized bed squeezed into the back of the room and a kitchen that is essentially just a fridge, a stove, and enough counter space for one microwave. There’s clutter and knick knacks spread about the room. Mostly, it appears to be collectibles and sci-fi memorabilia. There is a two-top table shoved against the wall by the door and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from the bed. On the very far side of the apartment, there’s a door that Bud assumes is the bathroom.
“Thanks for having me,” Bud mumbles, stepping inside. “Uh, should I take my shoes off?”
Dylan gives Bud a funny look. “Uh, yeah. Just leave them there, I don’t mind.”
Bud bends down and toes off his sneakers. He’s eye-to-eye with a DVD stand loaded with movies.
“You watch a lot of movies?” Bud asks.
Dylan has already kicked out of his own shoes and shrugged out of his jacket. He stands facing Bud, blinking in confusion. “Yeah. But uh, if this is your way of asking if we can Netflix and chill, then yeah. I have Netflix too.”
Bud grins. “Sure. Put on whatever you want, I’m not picky.”
Dylan chuckles and turns to the TV, clicking it on and scrolling through Netflix. “You can get on the bed,” Dylan says over his shoulder. “The sheets are clean, I swear.”
Bud swallows down his nerves and walks over to the bed, sitting down with his back flat against the headboard. He is unsure what to do with his legs. He feels weird putting his feet on Dylan’s bed. But it isn’t as if there is a couch. So he finally lets them stretch out in front of him.
Dylan selects The Breakfast Club. Then he drops the remote down onto the bedside table and launches onto the mattress, crawling over the covers. He slots himself into Bud’s side, underneath his arm.
Bud blushes, but he can’t deny that he’s thrilled to be allowed to hold Dylan. He’s soft and warm and comfortable. He shifts his arm up until it's wrapped around Dylan’s shoulders.
The movie begins and Bud turns his attention toward it. He’s really no movie buff. He’s never seen it before. But it seems like it’s about high school or something. He tries desperately to pay attention, but his eyes are drooping within the first fifteen minutes. He worked a long day today—he didn’t expect to stay out this late. And Dylan is so warm and comfortable. Before Bud knows it, his head falls sideways against Dylan and his eyes fall shut. He’s snoring almost instantly.
###
Dylan is no stranger to the art of Netflix and chill. A lot of his previous one-night-stands liked to have something on in the background. Dylan isn’t opposed to a little heavy petting under the guise of watching a movie—it makes good foreplay.
But Bud is snoring in his ear, completely knocked out. Dylan shifts underneath him but he only manages to sink deeper into Bud’s side. This is a first. He’s had people change their minds and pack up and go home. But no one has ever just cuddled up next to him and passed out before.
He’s not sure what to do. So he watches the rest of The Breakfast Club and only extricates himself from Bud’s grasp to ease him down onto the bed properly. Bud mumbles and seems to wake into a half-asleep limbo. He’s certainly not of sound mind, but he’s with it enough to help Dylan push him under the blankets.
Dylan himself squeezes in beside him, unsure if he should resume their previous position. He’s saved from the trouble of deciding—Bud reaches out in his sleep and pulls Dylan into his chest, his breaths puffing hot over his hair.
Dylan’s heart is thudding in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He stopped being nervous about hookups years ago. But this just feels different. It’s nice. Bud is quiet and warm and Dylan lets himself sink into his side and fall asleep.
When he wakes up the next morning, the bed is empty and cold. He lets himself feel the wave of disappointment, sighing.
Bud obviously must have changed his mind. He was clearly too good for Dylan. He was a thousand times hotter and he was even kind enough to try to watch a movie with him. Dylan tries not to be too upset. After all, he still got a decent night out of it. It isn’t so bad to talk to someone, for a change.
Even so, Dylan is going to think about that missed opportunity for the rest of his life. He would have really preferred a lay.
He heaves himself out of bed and glances at the clock. It’s nearing noon. He pads over to the kitchen, smacking his lips together, but before he gets there, he notices a piece of paper laid out on the table.
Dylan,
I’m so sorry for falling asleep last night, and I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer this morning. I really liked getting to know you. I hope it’s okay that I made you breakfast. I used your eggs. It’s in the microwave.
If I didn’t have to work, I would have stayed. I hope I can see you again.
512-759-2679
Call me.
Dylan’s heart leaps into his throat. No way. No way! Bud wants to see him again. He runs to the microwave, trying to make sure that this isn’t another hallucination. This has to be real.
Sure enough, there is a cheese omelet sitting inside the microwave, next to toast that has the crust cut off. Dylan doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He pulls the food out of the microwave and snags a fork from the drawer, slicing off a huge bite and stuffing it into his mouth.
It doesn’t matter that it’s cold. It’s delicious. It’s the first home-cooked meal Dylan has eaten in months. Dylan can’t believe it. He can’t picture it.
Bud must have woken up at the ass-crack of dawn and played silent-ninja around his apartment, cooking breakfast and finding paper to leave Dylan a note, all while making sure that he doesn’t wake Dylan up.
Dylan finishes eating standing in front of the microwave. He throws the dirty dish into the sink and pads across the kitchen again. He falls into a chair at the table and picks up the note, rereading it. He still can’t believe it.
He pulls his phone from his pocket. It’s on 3%. But it’s enough. Dylan opens a text message and enters Bud’s number.
Hey, it’s Dylan, he types.
He waits a few minutes and then sends another message. Text me whenever you get off work.
Dylan checks his phone a thousand times that day.
He keeps the ringer on the next day at work.
Bud never responds back.
###
“ Are you fucking serious?” Eli’s voice is enraged over the phone. “ You finally fucking make a move on someone, and he leaves you on read for a week?”
“I mean, I can’t send texts and I don’t have his number so-”
“ Bud, trust me. I’m very aware that you can’t send text messages from the nineteen-eighties memorabilia you keep on insisting is a cell phone. I know you’re too old for my youthful slang terms. I mean he left you on read figuratively.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Oh, fuck. Don’t sound so sad. Look. Why don’t I come over? We can have some brother bonding time.”
“You don’t have to. Don’t you have class?”
“ It’s Friday! And I’m a theater major. Trust me, I’ll get by. Besides. I owe you a trip to the bar, since I ran out on you last time.”
“No, that’s okay. Really.”
“ Oh no! I’m not letting you get scared of bars just because one guy broke your heart. Do you know how many times I’ve been heartbroken in that very bar? This is non-negotiable. We’re going, and we’re getting wasted. ”
###
Dylan realizes after a week that Bud is never going to text him back. He ignores the lingering pit of rejection lodged in his stomach. It’s been a long time since he has felt like this. He is disappointed to learn that he still hasn’t fully mastered the art of being told I’m not interested.
He knows the cure, at least. Dylan rolls up to the same bar again sometime around midnight. He knows he’s not going to be able to find someone as hot and kind and gentle as Bud. But he may be able to find someone interested, and that is inarguably better.
Dylan strikes out twice in the first hour, but he shrugs off those rejections easily. They don’t linger like Bud’s still does. He walks over to the Mortal Kombat machine and lets his eyes scan the room, trying to pick out someone his age in a crowd of college students.
He doesn’t even get the chance to select a new target before a kid tears through the crowd, making a beeline straight for him.
Dylan’s eyes grow wide. This kid is clearly drunk. He can’t walk in a straight line. When he reaches the edge of the crowd, he stumbles over empty space and glares up at Dylan like he’d pushed him.
Dylan knows for a fact he’s never seen this kid before. He’s wearing a flashy clubbing outfit that includes a sequin crop top that shows off his thin waist. He’s spry and lanky and impossibly tall, and he has a precisely spiked afro.
He steps into Dylan’s space, towering over him, and jabs a drunken finger into his chest. “Y’wanna explain yourself?” The kid snarls.
Dylan raises his hands in defense. “Whoa! Look, the machine’s all you, man. I can get lost.”
“No!” The kid spits, blinking hard and swaying on his feet. “I don’t wanna play with you. You’re evil. You broke my brother’s heart!”
The kid pitches sideways and Dylan reaches out to catch him before he hits the ground. But instead of gripping the kid’s arm, Dylan’s hand lands on top of someone else’s. He glances up and his stomach jumps into his throat when he realizes Bud is the other person hoisting the kid back to standing.
Bud looks flustered. His cheeks are dark with a blush and he refuses to meet Dylan’s eyes. “I am so sorry,” Bud tells the floor, “he’s really drunk. I swear, I begged him not to say anything to you. We’ll just go.”
Bud starts tugging the kid backwards, through the crowd. The kid starts to fight him, but it’s rendered completely ineffective. Bud is beelining to the exit.
Dylan finally pieces the clues together. That wasn’t just any random kid. That was Bud’s brother. And he thinks Dylan broke Bud’s heart.
Dylan races out of the club and throws himself onto the sidewalk, spinning around to look for Bud.
He’s easy to spot. Both he and his brother tower over everyone else. “Wait!” Dylan calls out, running to catch up.
Bud spins around. He has his brother’s arm thrown over his shoulders, supporting all of his weight. But he seems to hold it effortlessly, letting Dylan approach.
Dylan beds over and puts his hands on his knees, panting. “I broke your heart?” Dylan gasps.
“Oh. God. Did he tell you-? Look, I’m so sorry again. I figured when you never called, you weren’t interested, and I told him that-”
“You never texted me back!” Dylan shouts. “I was interested! I am interested!”
Bud gapes at Dylan for a beat before he shifts his brother higher over his shoulder, adjusting his grip so he can reach into his pocket and retrieve his cell phone. He holds it out for Dylan’s inspection.
Dylan loses it. Sitting on the center of Bud’s palm is an ancient Nokia with only a nine-number keypad. It’s victorian. It’s from the bronze age. He can’t believe it. He grips the sides of his stomach and shakes with laughter, relieved.
Bud never texted him back because Bud never got his text. All this time, he was waiting for a call.
“Oh my God. How old are you?” Dylan wheezes.
“He’s a hundred,” Bud’s brother slurs on his shoulder.
“I’m twenty-six,” Bud snaps, looking offended.
Dylan wipes tears from his eyes and straightens, grinning. “I’ve never been so happy to find out the guy I met at the bar last week is a fucking weird o.”
“Uh, I’m-”
“No, shut up, I love weird. Trust me.”
“So…is it alright if…um, can I have your phone number?”
Dylan laughs again. “Yes. Yes! Give me your brick, I’ll see if it has enough storage for all nine digits.”
Bud chuckles and hands over his phone, and Dylan hastily punches in his phone number and then calls himself just to ensure he didn’t mess up. He doesn’t want another repeat. He hands it back and gazes up at Bud, ready to pounce forward and kiss him here on the sidewalk. He wants to grab his hand and drag him home, pull him into bed and rip his clothes off.
“Um,” Bud’s brother gags, “I’m gonna throw up.”
He makes good on the promise immediately and retches bright red liquid onto the sidewalk. Dylan has to spring away to avoid getting splattered.
“Oh, shit,” Bud mumbles, pulling his brother away. “Dylan, I’m so sorry. I better get him home. I’ll call you.”
“Yes. No, that’s fine. Call me.”
###
Bud’s heart is in his throat and his hands won’t stop fluttering at his sides as he waits in front of Dylan’s apartment. He can’t believe that he’s really getting to see him again after giving it all up for lost last week.
The door snaps open and Bud can’t help but flinch at the sudden movement. But Dylan is standing there and he looks just as breathtaking as ever, except now he isn’t wearing a beanie and he has a silver nose ring hanging from his septum. It looks good.
“Hi. You look good,” Bud says with unplanned honesty, feeling like a dunce.
Dylan grins. “You’re alright, I guess. Come in.”
Bud walks inside and toes off his shoes at the door like he did last time. He glances up at the stack of DVDs. “You know, you aren’t allowed to make fun of my phone. You still own DVDs.”
Dylan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because they’re director's cuts and stuff. It’s a collection. It’s totally different.”
Bud can’t help but smile up at Dylan, sheepish. “Alright, you win.”
Dylan steps closer to Bud, leaning into his space. He lays a hand on Bud’s chest. “Should I put another movie on?”
Bud nods. He will pluck his own eyes out before he falls asleep again. He won’t make the same mistake twice. “Yes. Sure. Whatever you want.”
This time, Dylan picks Back to the Future and wastes no time pulling Bud down next to him in bed. Bud is planning on sitting up against the headboard like he did last time, but Dylan doesn’t give him the option. He lifts up the blankets and makes Bud sit up on his pillow instead. Then he curls up against his side.
Bud’s heart is going to burst at the sight of Dylan wrapped warm and cozy under his arm. He can’t help but drag his fingers through Dylan’s hair, stroking the long black strands. It’s soft and silky and smells like coconut.
Dylan’s eyes fall shut and he sighs. “If you keep doing that, then I’ll fall asleep.”
“Good,” Bud rumbles, “then we’ll be even.”
Dylan’s hand slides up across Bud’s chest and rests over his heart. “Tempting. But I want to do something other than sleep.”
“What?”
Dylan’s hand grips Bud’s shirt and pulls. Bud rolls sideways, allowing Dylan to move him until he’s nose-to-nose with him. They are pressed together tip-to-tail, sharing a pillow.
Bud’s breath stutters. Dylan chases it, pressing their lips together. His mouth is hot and pliable. His tongue snakes out and stripes across Bud’s bottom lip.
Bud inhales sharply through his nose and pulls Dylan closer. He rolls back onto his back, dragging Dylan on top of him. Dylan doesn’t even break the kiss. He parts Bud’s lips with his tongue and dives past his teeth, sliding over Bud’s tongue with expertise.
Bud is reeling in pleasure. He loves the feeling of Dylan’s tongue and his lips and he loves Dylan’s weight on top of him, pressing him deep into the cushion of the mattress. He loves the feeling of Dylan’s soft skin giving to the minimal pressure Bud applies to his back, his hips, his arms.
Bud wants to kiss Dylan forever. He’s never kissed someone quite like this. Dylan is an excellent partner. He’s needy and demanding and wild. He seems to know exactly what to do to push Bud further over the edge. He writhes on top of him, grinding down on Bud’s lap.
Bud wrenches his head away from Dylan’s, finally breaking their kiss. “We should, uh,” Bud gasps, unsure exactly how to phrase what he wants to say.
We should stop before I can’t anymore, he wants to say. He doesn’t want to go further than this—he doesn’t want Dylan to think he’s that kind of person. He doesn’t want Dylan to think he is just using him.
“What?” Dylan prompts, panting above him. “Are you okay?”
“Um. Yeah. I just. Uh. What do you do?”
“Anything. What do you mean?”
“Like, for work?”
Dylan stares at Bud, his mouth open slightly. “You…are you asking me what my job is? Right now?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I definitely should have asked when we first met.”
###
Dylan ends up watching Back to the Future with Bud while they make small talk. Dylan feels lost. He’s not sure what’s happening. Everything was going so smoothly at first.
Is Bud nervous? It’s hard to imagine someone as good looking as him being nervous to go all the way. It’s not as if he’s a virgin. After making out with him, Dylan is willing to bet his life that Bud has some experience.
He’s not sure what the hold up is. Bud is still holding him, trailing a hand through his hair. When Bud is in between questions, Dylan experiments by tilting his face up and kissing Bud again. But they don’t last long. Bud seems happy to kiss Dylan back. But the second anything starts to get steamy, he pulls away.
The movie ends and the credits roll. Dylan finally manages to get Bud to stop asking questions and kiss him. They make out for a decent length of time, and Dylan thinks finally, they are going to get going, he’s already considering reaching for the lube he knows is in the top drawer of his bedside table, but then Bud pulls away again and sighs.
“I should go,” he murmurs with obvious regret.
“Why?” Dylan tries not to sound whiny. Bud was the one who delayed this. Wasn’t this the point of them meeting up again? Didn’t Bud want to fuck him? Has Dylan been unclear—did Bud think Dylan didn’t want to? “Stay the night again.”
Bud rakes a hand through Dylan’s hair again and looks at him with soft eyes. “I can’t, I have a real early shift tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Dylan protests weakly, “you work weekends? What do you do?”
“Not usually,” Bud admits, “I’m a ranch hand outside the city. But there’s a rodeo down in Saddletree tomorrow and I’ve got to be there at dawn.”
Dylan cannot breathe. Of course. Of course the hottest guy he’s ever seen is a cowboy, as well. “You’re made-up,” Dylan breathes. “You’re unreal. Are you going to be in the rodeo?”
“Yeah, I do cutting and barrel racing. Sometimes pleasure, but that ain’t at this rodeo.”
Dylan has no idea what any of those things are. But for some reason, hearing them coming out of Bud’s mouth makes him nod along, like he’s ever been to a rodeo before.
“You want to come?” Bud asks. “Only if you ain’t up to anything tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Dylan agrees before he can think better of it.
###
Bud walks Flower out of the stable, leading her by the reins. Dylan gazes up at her, hesitantly reaching out to pat her nose.
Bud is sweaty and dusty, he’s still breathing a little hard from riding just a few minutes ago. He is happy with his performance—knowing Dylan was in the crowd was motivating. He watches Flower lean into Dylan’s cupped hand and he grins. Flower likes him. Of course she does. She’s the best judge of character Bud knows.
Dylan giggles, delighted. “Hello, giant horse that could kill me,” he whispers. “You’re fucking cool.”
“She likes you, she won’t hurt you,” Bud tells Dylan.
Dylan finally tears his eyes away from Flower and looks at Bud instead, his face is open and happy. The mischievous glint is missing from this grin. There’s no joke here—just pure childish wonder. “Good, I like her too,” Dylan says.
Bud clings to the horn of Flower’s saddle in an attempt to keep himself upright. Dylan just makes his legs weak.
“I can’t believe you’re like, a real cowboy,” Dylan continues, flicking playfully at Bud’s hat. “People wear hats like this all the time in the city, and I always thought they were bogus. But you’re for real.”
Bud takes off his hat and spins it by the brim, nervous. “Yeah, this old thing is my lucky charm,” he mumbles, embarrassed. “My mom and dad gave it to me when I was sixteen. Kind of their way of supporting me, I think. Didn’t really do the family business stuff.”
Dylan gazes at the hat, his eyes soft and a little melancholy. “You seem close with your family.”
“Yeah. Are you?”
Dylan’s eyes scan over Bud’s, back and forth. He is frowning. It makes Bud’s heart ache. Dylan is meant to be smiling all the time. It makes it worse that his frown does nothing to make him less attractive. Instead, it gives him a serious quality, mysterious, dark.
Dylan shakes his head and suddenly brightens up. “I’ve got two brothers and two Moms, so can’t really complain, all these doubles, huh?”
Bud is surprised. Did that mean Dylan is adopted? Why is Bud suddenly not convinced by his bright smile? Flower stamps her foot down in the sand and shifts forward to nuzzle at Dylan’s hands again. Even she can tell Bud has managed to upset him.
Bud flounders for something to say. He didn’t mean to pry. He just wanted to know more about Dylan. “You want to come back to my place, this time?” Bud asks. “You can ride with me in the truck. I’ve just got to bring Flower back to the ranch, and then I can make you dinner.”
Dylan nods. “Okay. Sure.”
###
The radio is lilting an old country song, the volume so low that Dylan can’t make out any of the words. The windows are rolled down and the wind rushes into Dylan’s ears. It blows his hair around his face but he’s happy for the noise and the distraction.
He can’t decide what he thinks he’s doing. Earlier, he had been tempted to tell Bud about Alaric. He can’t believe it. Just yesterday, he would have bet his life he’d take all that with him to his grave. Dylan is fucked in the head. There’s a reason he only does hookups. He glances sideways at Bud, who’s just looking out onto the road, both his hands at a perfect ten-and-two on the steering wheel.
Bud is perfect. A literal angel sent from heaven. He has a loving family, he takes care of his little brother, he’s kind and respectful and gentle. There is no way he is prepared for Dylan’s tragic little backstory. Dylan can’t look at the normal, put-together hunk and tell him he has Daddy Issues. Or worse, that he’s not just in desperate need of therapy. He actually goes to therapy, because he has a psychiatrist, because he’s literally, medically, insane.
Bud still hasn’t fucked him. And Dylan is starting to realize that maybe there’s a chance that was never Bud’s intention. Maybe Bud really does want to get to know him. Somehow, that first night at the bar, Bud was convinced that Dylan is a worthwhile person.
Bud pulls the truck into a driveway. Dylan knows he’s miles away from the city. He doesn’t have a car. He’ll have to take the bus or an Uber to get home. He finds he doesn’t care. He steps out of Bud’s truck and looks at the house.
It’s a tiny one-story building with stucco walls and a red tile roof. Bud heads to the front door and pushes it open and lets Dylan inside.
Everything is neat and orderly. It’s like a real grown up lives here. There’s a real kitchen and a real living room and a dining table that can accommodate four whole people. There’s a hallway to Dylan’s right, and he guesses that there are two bedrooms, maybe even a master suite, with its own bathroom.
“You have a really nice place,” Dylan breathes, honest.
Bud shrugs. “It’s too big for me, but my brother sleeps here half the time. And I have cousins that come over too.”
Of course this perfect man is close with his extended family as well. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s well adjusted. He’s responsible. He’s probably never done anything wrong in his life.
Bud pulls off his cowboy boots and hat and runs a hand through his hair. “You mind if I take a quick shower? Then I’ll start dinner.”
“No, go ahead.”
Bud situates Dylan in the living room and gets him a glass of water and tells him he’s welcome to anything and to make himself at home before he disappears down the hallway. Dylan listens to the shower hiss behind the wall and leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
What is he doing ? What does he think is going to happen, here? He’s never put himself in this kind of situation. He’s never had one of hookups treat him like this. It’s usually a hit and run—they don’t fall asleep on his shoulder. They don’t leave him breakfast and notes in the morning. They definitely don’t invite him over for dinner at their place.
Dylan sits on the couch in agony for several minutes. He is halfway to leaping up and fleeing to the nearest bus stop. He can’t do this. He’s in too deep. He can’t let himself be wined and dined by this perfect, beautiful man just so he can get his hopes smashed on the ground when Bud realizes who he really is.
Dylan stands, his mind made up. It pains him, but he has to go. It’s better this way. He wants Bud to remember him as the one that got away. Not as the escaped mental patient.
Before Dylan even makes it out of the living room, Bud pads out of the hallway, wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of jeans. His hair is wet. Little droplets are falling onto his shoulders and soaking into the thin fabric that is already stretched across his wide chest. Dylan’s mouth waters. His throat closes up. How is it possible for Bud to get even hotter ?
“Sorry for the wait,” Bud mumbles. “Do you like shrimp? I’m thinking about gumbo.”
Dylan can’t tear his eyes away. He can’t move. He can’t take another step. How can he, when Bud’s voice is so sonorous and rumbling and safe? How can he leave now, when there’s still a chance that Bud will kiss him again?
Dylan wants to tear across the room and pull Bud into his arms and kiss him and cry and beg him to never leave him, never change, never find out who Dylan really is. But he can’t. All he can do is nod.
“That sounds good,” he rasps.
Bud sets to work and Dylan watches him cook, a tight feeling in his chest. Bud begs him to sit down, but Dylan needs to do something with his hands to keep his mind from exploding into mist. So he helps Bud dice onions and he laughs when Bud’s eyes start watering, red and irritated.
He stands on his tip-toes and presses a kiss to Bud’s lips in a not-so-ingenuine apology for making fun of him, and Bud pulls him by his waist and leans in and Dylan is breathless and out of control. They finish dinner together and they sit down at the table to eat it and they don’t talk much but the silence is homey and domestic and comfortable. And afterward, Bud washes the dishes and yawns and asks Dylan if he wants to spend the night.
Dylan realizes that Bud likes him. He wants to cook Dylan dinner and he wants to take him to his rodeos and he wants to kiss him and only kiss him and Dylan wants to sob because he realizes that he wants it too. But he can’t have it. He feels like the most evil person on the planet for turning Bud down. But he can’t—he can’t let this get any further.
Bud seems to notice Dylan’s panicked, paralyzed state and he quickly dries his hands on a dishcloth and comes to stand in front of Dylan. “I can drive you home, too,” Bud says quickly. “Don’t feel like you have to stay here. I really don’t mind. I’m sorry if I came off too strong. I just like spending time with you.”
Dylan breaks. He’s not strong enough. He can’t possibly resist Bud’s sad, worried eyes. He steps forward and kisses him, holding the sides of his face with both of his hands. Dylan kisses him until the hot, pressurized feeling in his eyes goes away and his throat opens up again and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to start sobbing.
Bud kisses him back. His arms wrap around him. Dylan tugs him toward the hallway and hopes that Bud gets the hint. Bud finally does. He grips Dylan around the waist and pulls him into his bedroom.
The bed is huge and it has a real comforter and real pillows and there is a master bathroom and Dylan doesn’t care. He pushes Bud backward onto the mattress and follows him down, splaying on top of him, kissing every inch of Bud’s skin that he can see. His lips, his cheeks, his neck.
Bud hoists Dylan up higher and runs his hands down Dylan’s spine and they finally pull away for air and Dylan is breathless.
They kiss for what feels like hours. Dylan gets Bud’s shirt off and he trails his hands over his pecs and his abs and Bud just kisses him and lets Dylan do whatever he wants. And Dylan isn’t tempted to reach for the buttons of Bud’s jeans, so he doesn’t. It’s the first time Dylan has ever kissed someone in bed and not wanted to push further. He knows something is wrong with him—it doesn’t make any sense not to fuck Bud right now, while he has the chance. It’s just that these chaste, gentle kisses are somehow better than any sex Dylan can imagine.
They finally have to stop kissing sometime around midnight because both their lips are used and red. Bud yawns and offers Dylan pajamas and a toothbrush. They brush their teeth together at the sink and Dylan leaves his toothbrush in the cup next to Bud’s. He stares at the sight of it, disbelieving.
Bud’s biggest shirt is tight on him and the elastic of the basketball shorts he offers stretches tight around Dylan’s waist, and for a second he wants to die of embarrassment, but Bud just pulls him back into bed and curls around him and Dylan realizes that Bud doesn’t care.
Dylan falls asleep in his arms, resolutely not thinking about what all this means. Not thinking about what is going to happen tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
###
Hey, it’s Bud. I got a real cell phone.
Dylan’s message comes back almost instantly. Holy shit. You ditched the Nokia??? Did your brother finally convince you that you are actually 100 years old???
Bud smiles and leans over the phone. No, I just wanted to text you.
This time, Dylan’s message comes in much later. After several minutes, his reply finally pops on screen. You bought an iPhone so you could text me?
Yes.
This time, Dylan’s text message takes even longer. Bud puts down his new phone and gets halfway through folding his laundry before he gets a response.
Are you busy tomorrow? Come over.
Bud grins, his heart soaring. Sure. I’ll come after work. 6?
6 is fine
###
Dylan opens the door to his apartment and Bud is wearing his cowboy hat and dirty cowboy boots and Dylan feels even more confident in his decision.
He is certain that he just needs to finally fuck him. Once he actually gets Bud undressed in bed, his mind will be clear. He won’t be so confused anymore. If he does what he was planning to do all along—he’ll be able to move on and stop feeling like the world is going to cave in every time he gets a text message.
Bud is holding out Chinese takeaway. “I picked up food. Did you eat?”
Dylan takes the bag and the food smells amazing. He watches Bud take off his shoes, numb. “I haven’t had dinner yet, no,” he responds, monotone.
Bud groans as he straightens back to standing. “Would you mind if I used your shower?” He asks. “I came straight from work and I’m sure I reek.”
Dylan doesn’t think Bud smells bad at all. And the dirt clinging to his clothes gives him a rugged look that Dylan can’t bring himself to be turned off by. He sets the food down on the table and gestures to the bathroom door. “Knock yourself out,” he mumbles. “There’s a towel in the linen closet in there.”
Bud smiles at him and opens the bathroom door. “Don’t wait for me to eat if you’re hungry. Go for it,” he says before he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
Dylan unwraps the takeout and realizes that Bud brought enough food to feed an army. There’s beef and broccoli, noodles, rice, chicken, egg rolls. Dylan pulls two plates from the cupboard and sits down at the table. He eats by himself, trying not to think about how he wishes this could go on forever.
But he can’t. He can’t keep Bud around. It’s a miracle he hasn’t had a bad hallucination yet—it’s a miracle Bud hasn’t already figured him out. At this point, it’s only a matter of time.
The shower hisses off and Bud comes out in a cloud of steam wearing the same clothes. Except now he’s missing his flannel and he’s just wearing a white tank top and he sits down at the table across from Dylan and starts eating as if he isn’t a God among men and the hottest person Dylan’s ever seen.
Dylan is uncharacteristically not hungry anymore. He pushes his plate away and stares at Bud. His hair is wet again and it’s dripping onto his bare shoulders and his skin looks smooth like copper and Dylan wants to bite it. He wants to suck on the damp skin below Bud’s ear. He wants to rip that stupid tank top off his body. He finally, finally, wants to tear open the button of Bud’s jeans.
Bud looks up at him when he finishes eating, smiling softly. “You, uh…want to watch another movie?”
Dylan shakes his head. He stands from the table. “Fuck the movie,” he declares. He grabs the collar of Bud’s shirt and hoists him to standing. He crowds into Bud’s space and presses close against his chest and stands on his tip toes so he can wrap his arms around Bud’s neck and kiss him.
Bud closes his eyes and leans in, his hands coming around Dylan’s waist, gentle and innocent. Dylan wants to scream. He can’t bear another modest night. Not again. Bud is either going to fuck him this instant or he’ll have to promise to disappear off the face of the planet. There are no other options.
Dylan tears away from their kiss and stares Bud in the eyes. “I want you to fuck me,” he demands, curt.
Bud stops breathing underneath Dylan’s hands and Dylan holds himself perfectly still. No matter what happens here, his goal will be accomplished. If Bud refuses him, then Dylan will be well and truly rejected and he can finally move on. And if Bud somehow finds it in his heart to fulfill Dylan’s request, then Dylan can get his fill and not have to ever see him again.
“Okay,” Bud says, his voice a whisper.
“Take off your clothes,” Dylan demands.
###
They’re both still naked under the sheets and Dylan shifts out from underneath Bud’s arm, rolling out of bed and searching for his discarded clothes.
Bud watches him go and then stands to do the same. He wants to hold Dylan a bit longer. He feels sated and sleepy. He hopes that Dylan will tell him to stay for the night. Hopefully, that isn’t pushing too far? He’s done it before. They’ve been seeing each other for weeks, now.
“Is it alright if I stay here tonight?” Bud asks after he pulls his tank top back on.
Dylan turns to face him. There’s something terrible in his expression. Bud’s stomach immediately drops to his knees. A sense of foreboding creeps over his spine. Dylan looks sick with something—melancholy, regret.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan mumbles, looking at the floor.
Bud comes around the bed and takes Dylan’s shoulders, his heart twisting in his chest, anxious. “Dyl, what’s up? Did I do something wrong?”
Bud can only see the top of Dylan’s head. He isn’t looking at him—he’s staring straight down at the floor. “No,” Dylan whispers. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re perfect. I’m sorry. I’ve been leading you on this whole time.”
Bud’s hands tighten on Dylan’s shoulders, squeezing. His throat feels dry and tight. “What do you mean?”
Dylan finally tilts his head up from the floor and he looks at Bud. There are tears in his eyes. His nose is red. Bud can’t breathe—he feels like he’s been kicked in the gut.
“I can’t see you anymore,” Dylan cries, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I don’t do this, usually. It’s always just one night stands.”
Bud pulls his hands away from Dylan. It takes effort to unclench his fingers. He feels distant, like he’s not in his body. “You’re breaking up with me?”
Dylan sobs, his whole body wracking with it. He scrubs a hand across his nose and tries to rub away the tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Fuck,” Dylan hisses. “I didn’t—don’t tell me you thought we were dating. Please don’t.”
Bud steps backward, feeling like someone just yanked the rug right from under him. Dylan is still crying in front of him and Bud can’t do anything. He feels like he can’t think. He can’t do anything but stare in disbelief as more words pour out of Dylan’s mouth.
“I’m fucking crazy,” Dylan mumbles. “Really. I’m diagnosed and everything. Schizophrenia.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Bud admits, feeling numb.
Dylan laughs, bitter. “I see shit. Okay? I have fucking hallucinations. I literally hear voices in my head. So that’s why I can’t do this shit. I don’t do relationships. I don’t date. I don’t want to be around people too long. I can’t see you anymore.”
“Oh,” Bud exhales. “Am I…do I make it worse, or something?”
Dylan wails loudly, crying even harder. “Please. Bud. I’m sorry. But can you leave?”
Bud holds up his hands and stumbles backward, toward the door. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, Dyl.”
He bends down and shoves his boots back on. He feels like he’s going to be torn to shreds. He’s blind with tears. He fumbles for the doorknob and wrenches the front door open. He steps out into the chilly night air and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t even make it halfway down the hallway before the tears finally spill over his cheeks.
Dylan never wanted to date him. He didn’t want to see Bud again. All he wanted was to have sex and go—he isn’t looking for a relationship.
Bud sniffles, ripping his car keys out of his pocket. He’s grieving. Dylan is just too good to be true. He can’t have someone that funny, that charming, that cute and good at kissing and comforting and nice. He can’t have it all. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised.
Bud makes it to his truck and gets inside. He shoves the keys into the ignition and the truck roars to life. He stares up at Dylan’s apartment building through his tears, mournful.
He’ll never see Dylan again. He’ll never see that mischievous grin. He’ll never kiss him again. He’ll never laugh with him. It’s over.
Bud cries in his car for half an hour before he finally manages to pull himself together enough to drive home.
###
The second Bud leaves, Dylan completely loses his mind. Figuratively and literally. He’s completely blind with regret. He crumples to the floor and sobs, shaking.
He just pushed away the best thing he’s ever had. He even told Bud about his schizophrenia, and he didn’t even blink. He just asked if he made it worse.
Dylan is having a hallucination now—it’s just strange, whispery voices. He knows he probably needs to take an antipsychotic. They’re in the bathroom. He just can’t pull himself off of the floor.
What has he done? Why is he like this—why can’t he just be normal ? That’s what Alaric used to ask him, back when he was still a kid and undiagnosed, back when Alaric was still his father and he glared down at him, demanding, “ why can’t you do anything right?”
Dylan curls into fetal position and hugs his own knees. “I’m sorry,” he weeps. He’s not sure who he’s talking to. Himself. Alaric. The voices in his head. Maybe he’s talking to Bud.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan repeats, again and again.
Eventually, Dylan manages to crawl to his feet and slam open the bathroom. It’s still humid from Bud’s shower. He ignores it and wrenches open the medicine cabinet. He dumps his pills into his palm and takes them dry. Then he falls back against the wall and deflates to the ground once again.
He tries to take deep breaths and wait for the meds to kick in. The hallucination is getting louder. The voices are becoming distinct, he’s starting to be able to make out words. Freak. Crazy. Loser.
Dylan shivers until the voices go away, the meds making his mind go dull and empty. Only then does he finally look up and realize what’s hanging on the doorknob of the bathroom door.
It’s Bud’s cowboy hat. He left it behind. He wasn’t able to grab it before Dylan chased him out of his apartment. The hat that’s his “lucky charm.” The hat his parents gave him almost ten years ago.
Dylan starts crying all over again.
###
Bud drives home in the pouring rain. He’s bone tired. He’s been taking on extra shifts at work to get his mind off of Dylan, but he doesn’t think it’s working. He’s happy for the thunder booming overhead and the rain splattering like bullets against the roof of his truck. It’s a little comforting to have the weather match his mood.
It’s been a week since Dylan broke up with him. Well—if you can call it a break up. Bud was an idiot for assuming they had something going on. He feels like a moron for just assuming Dylan was into him too. He really thought they had a connection.
Bud knows he’s kind of boring. His exes have told him that much. He’s not charismatic. He’s awkward and shy. He doesn’t know what to say. Of course Dylan didn’t like him back. Dylan is side-splittingly funny and confident. What does Bud even bring to the table?
That’s why he’s been trying to get over it. After a week, he’s not sure he’s ever going to forget Dylan. But he hopes he’ll stop feeling like this—heartbroken.
Bud pulls into his neighborhood and the rain is coming down so hard he almost doesn’t notice someone standing in front of his front door, caught in the headlights of his car. For a second, Bud thinks it might be Eli or Maverick or maybe even Mellie, drunk from the bar and wanting to crash at his place.
But it’s not. It’s Dylan.
Bud launches from his truck and steps out into the rain. He’s soaked almost instantly. His hair flattens on his head. He’s staring at Dylan in disbelief.
Dylan is soaking wet, too. His flannel shirt and graphic T-shirt are sopping wet, drenched. He’s holding Bud’s cowboy hat by the brim, startled.
“Dyl,” Bud gasps over the distant rumbling thunder. “You’re here.”
“Sorry. Yeah. I just. You left this at my house.”
“You don’t have a car. How did you—”
“There’s a bus stop.”
Bud’s shoulders slump. Dylan walked here from the bus stop in a thunderstorm to return his hat. His lucky hat. He didn’t even miss it. He just missed Dylan. He steps forward and takes the hat from Dylan’s hands. Dylan lets him, and then he steps away, looking at the ground.
“I’m sorry for just showing up. I was…I didn’t want to text you. I figured I could just leave it at your door.”
Bud shakes his head. “You were just going to drop it off and go? In the rain?”
“Um. I just felt bad. I just-” Dylan cuts himself off. Then he fully steps around Bud, back onto the driveway. “Anyway, I’ll just go. Sorry again.”
Bud reaches out and stops Dylan with a hand on his arm. “Wait. Dyl. At least let me drive you home.”
Dylan shakes his head vigorously. “No. I’m not going to ask you to do that. It’s fine. The bus stop is just down the street.”
“Come inside, then,” Bud suggest, desperate. He can’t let Dylan go. All this time, he thought that his feelings were one-sided. He thought Dylan didn’t like him back. But he showed up, here. In a storm. Just to give Bud back his hat. He has to care about Bud at least a little. “Please,” Bud begs, “just until the rain stops. Come inside.”
Dylan stares at him and a bolt of lightning flashes overhead, making them both jump. “Okay,” Dylan agrees, finally.
Bud lets him inside and they both stand dripping on the tile floor of the foyer, looking at each other. Bud still has his hat in his hand. “I’ll get some towels,” he mumbles, fleeing.
His mind is racing. Dylan is here. Does that mean Bud has another chance? He isn’t sure he can get his hopes up again. He especially doesn’t want Dylan to feel pressured—he doesn’t want Dylan to feel like he’s only welcome here if he returns Bud’s feelings. Bud isn’t sure if making a move is the right thing to do.
He pulls two clean white towels down from the linen closet and stares at himself in the mirror, seeking answers. Should he tell Dylan how he feels? Or should he let Dylan make the first move, like he always did before?
Bud’s eyes trail down to the two toothbrushes sitting in the cup by the sink. He hadn’t had the heart to throw away the toothbrush Dylan used last time he came over. Bud plucks it out of the cup and leaves the bathroom, headed back to Dylan.
###
Dylan knows he’s crazy, but this is a whole different level. He already ruined this. He already pushed Bud away. He already told him his biggest secret, chased him out. He didn’t mean for this to happen. He didn’t mean to be here, inside Bud’s house again.
But he can’t quash down the hope rising in his chest. Bud invited him in. He knew about his hallucinations, and he invited him in. He isn’t freaked out. He isn’t afraid of him.
Bud comes back from the bathroom with two towels. He stands, still soaking wet in front of Dylan and holds out something small in his hand for Dylan to take.
Dylan stares at the toothbrush.
“I figured you can at least use it,” Bud mumbles. “I never…I couldn’t get rid of it. So…it’s yours. Guess it’s a trade for my hat.”
Dylan’s heart is pounding in his chest. Tears prick in his eyes all over again. He hasn’t been to Bud’s house for three weeks. He slept here once. But Bud saved his toothbrush. He saved it because he expected Dylan to come over again. He saved it even after Dylan told him about his diagnosis. All this time, Dylan and Bud’s toothbrushes were sitting next to each other on the counter.
Dylan starts crying. He takes the toothbrush and stares at it. No one has ever liked him like this before. No one has ever known. Bud is perfect in every way and he knows Dylan is crazy and he knows Dylan doesn’t have a good body and he’s a huge sci-fi nerd and he knows Dylan does funny voices and plays Mortal Kombat and he saved his toothbrush for him.
“Please don’t cry,” Bud begs, “I’m sorry. Am I…do you want to be alone?”
“No,” Dylan wails. “I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you,” Dylan rips the towels out of Bud’s hands and lets them fall to the floor. He fists one hand into the soaking wet fabric of Bud’s shirt. The other one is still holding tight to his toothbrush. “I want to be with you,” Dylan repeats, shaking, “please. I’m sorry. Please, please.”
Bud gasps. He holds Dylan’s elbows, gentle. “I ain’t going anywhere,” Bud mumbles.
Dylan nods, still crying. “I-” Dylan sucks in a shaky breath, “I really, really like you,” he admits.
Bud smiles, soft. “Does that mean…uh, do you think you’d consider dating me again?”
“Yes,” Dylan cries. “I liked you this whole time. I was just worried once you found out I was crazy, you’d leave.”
“Dyl,” Bud says, serious, “I will stick around as long as you’ll have me. I swear.”
Dylan stands on his tip-toes and kisses him. Bud’s lips taste like the rain. Dylan leans into Bud’s embrace, ignoring the tears still dripping down his cheeks. Bud wraps his arms around Dylan’s back and he squeezes him tight. He kisses him slowly, thoroughly, lovingly. Dylan thinks he’s going to drown in it.
Bud finally pulls away. Dylan stares into his eyes, breathless. He’s still holding the toothbrush in his hands.
“I’m putting this back,” Dylan declares. “I’ll need it in the morning.”
Bud holds him and laughs.