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Stepping out onto the back porch of a party, slamming the door behind him to block out the busy noise of the party and the blaring neon lights and pounding music, Robbe let out a half-scream of annoyance and frustration. The sound that escaped his lips had been drowned out by the pounding music behind him. Running a hand over his face, Robbe stomped down the steps into the backyard, putting more force behind each step than he should’ve, before letting out a loud sigh as he stared up into the night sky. He hated it; he hated how a man who had once been his friend—one of his closest in fact—was capable of eliciting such a strong and intense anger from the pit of his stomach.
Robbe turned back toward the party, hoping that somehow the whole building will catch alight and burn to the ground in fire and ash... all because of one single man who managed to hit every single string of nerves in Robbe’s body with burning hot fingers, aimed to hurt him deep in his soul.
Sander Driesen.
The proclaimed artist prodigy and David Bowie fanboy was nothing more than a self-righteous, cocky, and pretentious prick, who seemed to have the entire campus fooled into falling in love with his every move and whim. Somehow in the entirety of the university campus, Robbe was the only person immune to the charm he held. Even Robbe’s closest friends seemed to be in love with him and admired Sander if possible. With his bleach blonde hair and a leather jacket practically glued to his skin, it was impossible to not find him, to be unable to miss Sander Driesen, because he commanded your attention to be on him, at all times without exception.
God, he was insufferable.
Robbe couldn’t believe that there was a time where they had actually been friends . The two of them had met at the beginning of the semester, waiting for their coffee in a packed coffee shop, and they had joked about their coffees, exchanged numbers—and, for a month, it was okay and the same routine would happen. Once, Sander had even bought his coffee and they sat at the coffee shop together to discuss a project Sander had or a film that he had seen.
Then, suddenly, Sander had flipped a switch.
After a week of not being at the coffee shop, Sander had returned. However, instead of saying hi like he always did, he didn’t glance in Robbe’s direction—didn’t even try to say hello—and it happened for several weeks. In fact, Robbe would argue that Sander went out of his way to avoid him in the coffee shop. One time, he caught Sander entering then immediately leaving. The few times that Robbe had managed to catch him, Sander had said back-handed comments toward Robbe that pierced through his head, leaving a stinging pain in its wake. At first, Robbe had simply been confused on what to do... but then, he ultimately decided that the rumors, the ones that he only heard when Zoë’s friends were over, about Sander were true.
The famous heart-breaker of Antwerp University was exactly like the rumors had said—the type to start a relationship with someone and then drop them unexpectedly, without warning or fight. And, while their relationship was nothing more than coffee house conversation, Robbe felt like one of his latest victims—the ones who had been caught off guard by his sudden and abrupt change of behavior—the latest one checked off a list of people he tricked.
But, overall, the minuscule friendship they had was not all bad.
Now, Robbe could finally see who Sander was deep down. It was like he could see things clearly for the first time since they had met. He could see past the calm and suave exterior that he presented to the other students around him. Sander was willing to drop relationships—to drop friendships—without a thought of the consequences or the ruin that he would leave behind him. Robbe could see now that Sander was not the type of friend that he ever wanted to have. Robbe wanted a friend who would communicate with him... not one who would avoid him at every turn without explaining why he was doing so, leaving him confused and alone.
Behind him, the door to the backyard swung open, making a loud creaking sound. For a brief moment in time, the music escaped into the backyard at maximum volume, piercing sharply through the quiet, comforting silence of the backyard. Thankfully though, the door slammed shut just as quickly, muffling the heavy-metal rock song almost completely back to its original volume. Letting out another sigh, Robbe said, “Not now, Jens. Should you be off with that girl from your communications class anyways?”
For a heartbeat, the backyard was silent in quiet. There was a rhythmic and mechanic flick of a lighter trying to get an ember to fight—someone trying to light a cigarette on the back patio—and soon after, there was a faint smell of cigarette smoke filling the air around them. Finally, after a few long, pointed heartbeats of utter silence, someone spoke—their voice deep and rhythmic—and Robbe knew exactly who it was.
Not Jens.
“I think you have me confused with someone else, Robin .”
Robbe turned back to the house.
Just like Robbe thought, there was Sander Driesen, half-steaded on the railing of the porch. His icy, bleach-blond hair was messy to the point of absolute perfection, teetering on the edge of wind-swept and styled. Like always, he was dressed in a pair of the tightest black skinny jeans that Robbe had ever seen, curving against his thighs, and a black leather jacket that covered a white shirt. With a cigarette to his lips and a pair of green eyes that pierced through the darkness, it was no wonder that half of the university would be so willing to follow him into fire or commit sins on his behalf. In all honesty, it was a wonder that there were still some people left that were immune to him and his irresistible charms and his handsome—
Practically throwing the thought out of his head, Robbe hissed out. “What do you want, Driesen?”
Sitting on the porch railing, looking all prim and proper as he took a long drag of his cigarette, all beautiful and perfect as he always was, Sander Driesen shrugged his shoulders as though he had been asked about his choice of an entree. Robbe pinched his nose, wishing that he was out alone so he would not have to deal with the headache that was sure to follow. “Came out here to check on you,” Sander said, nonchalantly with smoke spilling seductively from his lips. “Have a cigarette. You stormed out of there pretty quickly. Your friends were worried about you.”
Robbe scoffed. “So, why are you out here?”
For a fraction of a second, there was confusion painted across Sander’s face, but the emotion quickly slipped off his features, leaving indifference in its place. Somehow, the indifference on Sander’s face stirred up his emotions a little more, stroking the blazing anger inside of him. However, Sander did not seem to notice, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips. “I wanted a cigarette,” Sander said.
“Then, why aren't you on the front porch?” Robbe asked.
Sander stayed quiet, his head lowered. His eyes were focused on the cigarette in his fingers with heavy-lidded eyes and it was a few more long heartbeats before Sander said, “I wanted to make sure that you were okay.”
Robbe didn’t know whether to get angry or laugh out loud at a joke he couldn’t see. Sander Driesen—popular man on campus, adored by all—caring about him , “skater boi” Robbe IJzermans? When had that ever been the reality of what their relationship was? Maybe in the month that they would talk casually in the coffee shop and send each other memes and ask each other about their classes. But, since Sander had abruptly started avoiding and blocked him on every social media site? Never. Sander had never once given the indication that he gave a shit about him—and right now was no exception.
Swallowing, Robbe turned to him, looked him right in the eye, and asked, “Since when do you care about me?”
"Since your face started looking like that?”
A beat.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Soon after, the conversation had quickly devolved into their own rage and anger to Sander swinging the first punch.
Robbe was never a fighter. Throughout high school, he had practically prided himself on it. Even when his friends made pointed comments in his direction, even when his father had left his mother the way he did, Robbe had moved past the anger and took care of himself especially once he saw how bad it negatively affected him. So, it took a lot for him to be angry at all. But, it was a lot for Robbe to be willing to fight someone—even someone like Sander Driesen, who was pretentious and cocky and believed himself above all—because he was never like that. Robbe didn’t like to fight—didn’t seek out opportunities to fight or brawl or throw punches—because he can’t win battles with his fists. In fact, if he had the choice in doing so, he never would have fought a day in his life.
Yet, somehow, Robbe found himself flat on his back, with a sharp stinging pain on the side of his face made by Sander’s fist, and the two of them were fighting. Real fighting. Not the fighting with words and half-baked insults and back-handed compliments that they had long grown accustomed to having. It had started that way—of course, it always did—but this time, it was different. There was a force behind each of their blows, true anger or frustration behind them—even the moments where Robbe was simply pushing Sander, too angry to think of anything else.
Of course, Robbe knew that he was partial to blame for their current predicament. With a fire, white-hot ember flaring in his chest, and three and a half bottles of beer in his system, he had been on the brink of an explosion all evening and Sander had simply been the unwitting victim to a Chernobyl-type rage. It was poetic—in a twisted sense—that Robbe had been a victim to Sander’s trickery all those months ago and now, Sander was the victim of Robbe’s misplaced anger.
With his boiling rage, Robbe had shouted things at Sander that he would not have if he had not taken a single bottle of beer. It wasn’t an excuse—okay, maybe it was—but it was also the truth. And, Robbe had said things that he would surely regret in the morning once the alcohol was cleansed from his stomach. Even though his anger-fueled mind would not allow him to see reason in the present moment, Robbe knew that the words that he had said were not true and that Sander did not mean what he had said either.
But, in Robbe’s defense, Sander had been the first one to throw the first punch.
The first punch—on the right side of his face, right near his jawline—had knocked him out flat on his back, taking the breath right out of him. At first, Robbe had been stunned about what had happened that he didn’t move. Whatever Robbe had said at that moment—fueled with rage and frustration—had led to Sander punching him. However, once the shock wore off and the instinct to fight back had returned to his body, Robbe launched at Sander, tackling him into the ground for the fight.
On a typical day on campus, their fights and run-ins always drew the eyes of a crowd of nosy gossipers, eager to get new details on the University’s famous heart-breaker . However, they were alone in the backyard and, even as he punched at Sander’s chest with all his might, Robbe was thankful for this face. If his friends had ever found out that he had a fight with Sander Driesen, Robbe would never be able to hear the end of it and their teasing would become physically unbearable to cope with.
Reaching up to place his hands on Sander’s chest, Robbe pushed him hard , forcing the taller man off of him in one swift move. Moving quickly, Robbe clambered on top of him, digging his knee into Sander’s side, and pinned him down against the grass with his surprising strength. Robbe could see the surprise on Sander’s face as he raised his arms, blocking his face. Without thinking, Robbe reeled his hand back, ready to punch Sander, when his brain hissed: Wait .
Robbe paused—Sander stared up at him confused. Even as they stayed completely still, Robbe could feel their breaths heaving rapidly, moving in almost perfect sync. Robbe closed his eyes, struggling to return his breath to normal.
What are we even doing?
Letting out a sigh, Robbe lowered his hand, resting it down on the grass beside them. However, Robbe made no move to unpin the man from beneath his arm... and Sander made no move to break free. The two of them simply sat there, staring at one another, brown eyes mixing with green. “I’m tired, Driesen,” Robbe gasped, still hovering above Sander, still practically straddling his waist.
Sander swallowed, gasping out. “Me too.”
Sander stared up at him—those alluring, seductive green eyes blown wide, managing to steal Robbe’s breath away—wait, no, that was definitely the punch to the ribs. Beneath Robbe, he leaned back against the grass, fisting the blades in his hand. Even bathed in the moonlight with a pink splotch in the form of Robbe’s fist on his cheek, he looked on the edge of perfection, a statue carved out of stone. Somehow, the realization made Robbe want to punch him one more time—just for fun.
“So,” Sander said, gasping out. “What are we going to do?”
Robbe let out a sigh, trying to steady his breathing. “I don’t know.”
As the two of them sat there, Robbe could feel the adrenaline leave his body—the fight or flight response leaving his bones too—but, as his heart settled in his chest, he could not bring himself to move a muscle, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive. Their chests rose and fell with their frantic breaths that they were struggling to regain. For two long heartbeats, all the two of them did was simply stare at one another—large, blown green eyes boring into large brown ones. Sander pushed himself up on his elbows, moving closer and close to Robbe, the sliver of distance between them closing rapidly. Robbe let out a heavy breath, struggling to maintain his breathing with Sander so closer, tilting his head to the side without realizing, and—
As soon as their lips met, hard and fast, Robbe felt a sudden flurry of harsh warmth and ecstasy flooding through his body. Robbe had to force himself to breathe through his nose as Sander wrapped his arms low on his waist and brought him closer, forcing their chests to press together. Robbe dug his fingers into the icy blond strands of his hair, grinning in triumph when Sander emitted a grunt into their kiss. When Sander opened his mouth, pushing Robbe’s open in the same rough movement, Robbe felt on top of the world, dragging him closer and closer—but that was just the three and a half bottles of alcohol in his system.
Right?
One of Sander’s hands dropped from Robbe’s waist to his thigh, gripping at the muscle through the fabric of his jeans. Even though the fabric, Robbe could feel the creases of Sander’s palm—the divot in the warmth that was his ring—and it sent a shiver down Robbe’s spine. He leaned against Sander’s chest, pulling tighter on his hair. Sander let out a sharp breath into their kiss and his grip momentarily tightened, before Robbe’s world spun around.
Literally.
Landing flat on his back, their lips disconnecting harshly, Robbe blinked in confusion. In all honesty, Robbe expected to find Sander stood up, stomping back into the house without a second thought, and whatever this was long forgotten. However, to his surprise, Sander was crawling up between his legs, bracing himself above Robbe’s body, and his large green eyes dropping down to Robbe’s lips. Grabbing a fistful of Sander's stupid leather jacket, Robbe tugged him closer connecting their lips again in an unrelenting fury. Sander’s hands dug into the curls on Robbe’s hair, pulling them tight, and Robbe groaned into the kiss, wrapping one leg around his waist.
When the two of them finally pulled away, their breaths more labored than they had been immediately after they fought, Robbe let out a breath. He waited—for a fight, for a retort or a back-handed comment—but to his amazement, and confusion, Sander’s eyes dropped down to Robbe’s lips before he gasped out, “My place or yours?”
Unsure why he was even saying it, Robbe breathed out, “Yours,” before his lips were captured in another flaming kiss.