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Him. Laundry room. It was the first time Fred could swear his life stopped for a moment. Bleached tips like a knock off halo. His angel looked up from where he was bent over at the washer, gave Fred a once over, and snorted at him.
Angel because in the coming week, he’d be Fred’s only distraction from the absolute joke that was his life. For God’s sake, his dead end job didn’t pay enough for him to live anywhere other than a commune in an abandoned hospital. There was no meaning in anything anymore. Fred had accepted that the moment he’d handed in his deposit. And again when he’d almost slipped in a puddle of piss walking into the hospital. And again when he’d moved into his room. Moved in being a generous description of what he did with his boxes in the old examination room with the yellowed diagram of the different kinds of back pain you could get flopping off the walls.
The morning after the Great Laundry Room Reawakening, Fred saw him again. Eating breakfast at the kitchen bar. There was something so… touching about the way he ate. Chewed. Laughed with his mouth full. Swallowed. It made Fred’s mouth dry. It touched him, needless to say.
Maybe he’d make his room look good in case he came over.
Fred knew this about himself. When he fell, he fell hard. Usually it ended after years of ignorance, petering away after he was moved to a different department or they went to different schools or he killed a fox with a tennis racket, and they—all of them—were none the wiser about him. He’d never lived with someone he… fancied before. His hair was the color of prickly pear. Like frozen rays of sunshine. No, like a sea urchin with an attitude.
“Don’t,” Kate tells him.
“What?” He’s watering a plant, and the pot is overfilling, and—oh no—the plant is going to die from drinking too much, just like his dad. “What am I doing wrong?”
She tilts the watering can back upright in his hands. “Not. Him.”
“Haha,” Fred says. “W-who?”
Nailed it.
Kate tells him his sea urchin’s name is Sam. Wow, Fred thinks. It doesn’t suit him. At all. Sam’s so normal, and he’s so… not. She also tells him, self-purportedly, the best piece of advice he’ll get in his life. To stay as far away from Sam as physically possible. She also hands him an invitation to a speed dating pub night.
“Jessica gave it to me,” she says when he tries to protest. Because he has a complex about accepting free things from people. “I have no earthly clue why because she knows I have a fiance.”
So, he goes. He talks to women mostly and is extremely upfront and apologetic about being gay. One laughs at him, confused. One spills beer on him. Another is ecstatic, says maybe we can be friends, but then an Australian bloke comes up and says, “Would you mind if I borrowed my mate for a sec, dear?”
Will has a nice voice. Fred doesn’t mind listening to him talk, really. He’s funny in his own way. Fred’s sure with time he could find him hilarious. Will tells him he’s looking for a wife. “Nice time to settle down and breed some kids. I’m incredibly reliable. And financially stable. So, what do you say, Fred?”
“What?” Fred says.
“Do you wanna get out of here?”
Fred’s sure he misheard something at some point. He says, “But I’m a man.”
“I know,” Will says. “And I’m saying, do you want to get out of here?”
It’s kind of hot. Fred doesn’t go home with him, but he does give Will his number. He’s full of himself, but then again, who isn’t nowadays? Egoism is a thing you need to survive. Maybe Fred needs to be more full of himself. He just needs to say what he wants.
“I want Sam,” he tells Kate.
“I’m sorry?” she says, furious. “I told you—”
“I want to be on a team with him,” he amends. “I’m not—thank you for the warning—I’m not going to… try anything. It’s just awkward. I’ve been here for a week and we’re always walking around each other. We live on the same floor, and we haven’t said hi.”
“I suppose that’s a little awkward,” Kate says.
Being with Sam is like having a train run over you in slow motion. It’s wonderful. Fred has never felt more disrespected, ashamed, infatuated, or seen in his entire life. He is happy to lie on the tracks while the wheels tear him slowly apart. He is happy to just look at Sam and follow Sam and every hour take a huge, waking breath, remember where he is, and lean back into Sam’s touch.
Sam touches a lot. A lot a lot. Fred likes it, because Sam may not know it, but every part of Fred that he touches belongs to Sam after. He knows Sam’s are probably almost insidious. He slaps a lot of butts. A lot a lot. It’s probably almost maybe a way to wrest back control in his life. Sam feels out of control, even to Fred.
What are they even doing here? All of them? In the grand scheme of things—Fred hates that phrase, in the grand scheme of things, because that implies there is a scheme, and he’s the one getting pointed and laughed at—what does it matter if he lets him fall in love a little, even though it hurts? He gets to be in love.
Sam doesn’t ask, he tells Fred he’s sleeping in his bed. As soon as the lights are off, Sam holds him the same way he hugged him earlier that night. Not minding anatomy. Which limbs need to be where. When he thinks Fred’s fallen asleep, Sam cries. Fred feels his sobs vibrate against him. It’s almost as if he’s crying himself.
“Please,” he tells Sam in his dreams. “Give me your feelings. Let me make them my feelings. I’m worried I don’t feel enough. There are days I don’t feel anything at all, so give them to me.”
Sam pulls out a turkey and sets it on the table. “Pushover,” he says with an infuriating smile.
Fred learns how to be angry.
So, it’s confusing when Sam’s not gay. Or bisexual. Or pan. Or whatever. It’s just confusing because Sam seemed like the type to fuck anything that moves. To not care about that sort of stuff. And Fred means that in the least judgemental way. He wouldn’t mind sharing Sam, either. Fred isn’t the type to cling to his partner. Maybe it’s because he’s never had a partner he chose and therefore particularly cared about remaining his partner—and maybe that’s a little harmful, but nowhere as harmful as this sea urchin business he’s gotten himself into. He wonders what type of man those ashes that go into the duck pond came from. He wants to kiss Sam, badly. He really thinks he may find the answer there.
“Sam,” he says.
“Sam I am,” Sam says.
“Do you think the others would care if I invited someone for curry night?”
Sam says, “Psh. No.”
Fred eyes him. His palms are sweaty. He can’t fathom why he’s about to ask this. Because he’s already given up. What he wants isn’t available and either doesn’t want him back or isn’t in the mood to, so…
“Would you care?”
Sam’s head whips around to face him instantly. “Depends. Who is she? Is she hotter than me?”
“Well, his name is Will, and no he’s not.”
“So you are gay,” Sam cries.
“I thought it was obvious.”
“Shut up, I’m going to dress you up like the gayest gay that ever gayed.”
He’s true to his word. He does so well, Fred supposes, that there’s a hungry look in his eyes as he gives Fred the old up-and-down. He slaps Fred in the bum, which makes Fred giggle. The giggle—he thinks it’s the giggle, at least—turns Sam’s cheeks pink.
All of a sudden, Fred finds himself being grabbed by the collar. Sam’s smoothing out a crease with rough hands, tugging his shirt this way and that. Closer.
“Um,” Fred says when he’s seemingly satisfied with the collar but doesn’t let go of it, leaving their faces inches away from each other. “What are you doing?”
Sam leans in imperceptibly. And oh my God, it’s happening—Fred isn’t going to question it—although he absolutely should—shouldn’t he? His eyes flutter shut of their own accord.
“Oh my God you freak!”
Sam erupts with laughter. Fred’s shoved away. His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he falls backwards. All the air feels like it’s been knocked out of him. His head is a balloon.
“You really thought I was gonna kiss you!” Sam says. “You puckered up.”
“Sorry,” Fred says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry, it was just—instincts.”
“I am never gonna kiss you. Never ever ever ever ever.”
Fred nods. He understands. He just… forgot. Back there. For a split second.
“You have a boyfriend!”
He does. A large, hairy, financially stable, Australian man wants him. And he doesn’t want him back. Fred wants… this. Whatever mess this is. He’s ashamed and depressed and angry with Sam, but for some reason, he never wants it to end.
There’s the sound of the door closing. Fred jolts back into the present. Sam’s gone.
He sighs and flops back onto the bed. His thoughts run haywire. Maybe if he’d leaned in faster, they’d be making out against the wall right now. How pathetic is he to think that? Maybe Fred could change Sam with a kiss. Now that’s more unlikely than the sun whizzing straight into the moon. But Fred’s never felt this thing they call chemistry before, either. So, who’s to say?
The door opens again, and Fred sits up so fast he feels a rush of vertigo.
“Here,” Sam says, and tosses him a chocolate bar.
“Oh,” Fred says, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry. (He doesn’t, though.) “Thanks.”
He watches Sam as he eats. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed. He looks… pleased with himself.
“Alright,” he says suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Kate’s asked for my help, so I probably shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer. See you in the kitchen?”
Fred nods. When Sam’s gone for real this time, he grabs a pillow and screams into it.
After that, it’s even harder to read Sam. Will sticks around, and if Fred didn’t know any better, he’d say Will was purposely putting himself between him and Sam. He doesn’t know what to do. He hopes things can just naturally sort themselves out—which is a lot to ask when it comes to Sam—and he alternates frequently between trying to embrace Will with his dull senses, trying to land a kiss without fumbling, and giggling and flushing all over his body whenever Sam tickles him.
Fred knows that when someone touches you—and keeps touching you—that means they like you. Or at least he used to know that. He’s not quite sure now. Sam turns everything topsy turvy. Fred can feel him everywhere, but still he wants to be closer. He wants to be flush with Sam, feel their tongues rasp over each other, have Sam stand on his feet, have Sam’s hands under his shirt. He thinks about Sam when Will touches him. He gets off alone in the communal showers, wondering if this is also where Sam has jerked off before. He’s too far gone.
He’s kind of disgusted with himself. The way he only knows how to smile at everything. This demeanor he’s built for himself over twenty-eight years, he doesn’t know how to dismantle it as easily as Sam can. His parents taught him to be hardworking, to be quiet, respectful, polite. They didn’t teach him how to be gay. And certainly not what to do when you wanted something so bad that sometimes your fists clenched of their own accord and desire threatened to tug your heart out of your chest and every word of your own you breathed in was heavy-laden with want.
“Why do you look so constipated, cummybuns?” Sam asks him when they pass each other in the hall on the morning of their eviction notice.
“Maybe I am,” Fred returns.
“Too much information,” Sam says with a gasp. “You want me to unblock it for you?”
He turns and saunters back toward Fred. He’s still covered in paint, and his breath stinks. Fred has never wanted him more. Knowing this place is about to go under and that they might never have another reason to see each other again makes his hands twitch.
Sam crowds him, and Fred backs up until he’s against a wall.
“Pull your pants down,” Sam says—whispers.
“No,” Fred says. “Why?”
Sam just stares at him. Fred stares back. He can’t move. He can’t trust himself to move. He won’t make the same mistake twice. Sam’s not coming in for a kiss. Not that Fred would kiss him even if he were. He’d have to break up with Will first. Will’s a serious monogamist.
“Got you,” Sam says, and then he’s wrestling Fred’s head under his armpit and giving him a noogie.
Fred laughs because he’s sort of uncontrollably filled with elation whenever Sam touches him. He complains about it, though, after an acceptable amount of time. “Stop, let go of me.”
Sam doesn’t listen. He keeps at it until Fred’s on the ground, and Sam is sprawled on top of him. Sam’s biting his bottom lip, but he’s laughing through it. Fred suddenly feels cold.
This isn’t enough.
“Are you homophobic?” he says suddenly.
Sam stops. His eyes turn to stone. He says, quietly, “No.”
“Are we friends?”
“Yeah?” he says, rolling his eyes. “The best of friends.”
Will calls for Fred, then, and he’s almost too happy to scramble up and run off to him.
Everything is going to shit.
Everything.
Goes.
To.
Shit.
Eventually.
Fred thinks there’s something secretly wrong with himself. Why else would he feign obliviousness? Why else would he put on his Smiley-Fred skinsuit every day and go about his shitty, shitty day without complaint? There has to be something that explains his inability to feel. To want anything unless it’s out of his reach. What if that night in bed after Sam had cried, he’d allowed Fred to get closer until Fred was pressing soft, wet kisses all over his face? What if he’d allowed Fred to drink his tears? What then? Would Fred still be in love with him the way he was now?
Love has to fester, he thinks. Love, as a concept, is rotten.
He hates himself. He’s glad that, for a moment, he knew a train wreck as messy as him. Rest in peace Sam the sea urchin. May your days be filled of good fucking and fulfillment. And may mine be filled with Will until I kill him. Or become him.
Fred makes his peace until he finds out that Sam’s flower guy. Inside, he’s enraged. Inside, he experiences a vision of growing old with Sam, surrounded by sunlight and flowers.
Inside, he watches his mother’s hands hang wisteria over the door of their restaurant. “They mean welcome,” she says. “The English are big on the language of the flowers.”
Fred never understood how a couple petals attached to a stem could mean something. Who decided what they stood for? How was it fair to people who didn’t know? What if you wanted a bouquet to mean something, but you couldn’t find the right flowers? Or if they looked bad together? He used to ruminate on the wisteria for hours at a time behind the hostess counter, instead of doing his homework, until it was all dry and wilted. His mother replenished them regularly, but never after his father died. The last sprigs stayed up there for years, brown and withered. Fred used to wonder if they meant the same thing if they were dead.
Now, he thinks he gets it. Sam in the sunlight with two flowerpots means I’ll never stop seeing you wherever I go. It means you could be the love of my life if we gave it a try. It means let me live beside you and around you and in the middle of you until you grow tired of me.
Maybe this is what it means to be in love. To accept all that someone is willing to give you and say thank you as he hands you the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen in your life. To not want more. To not ask for more. Here’s the person who can make you happy. He is broken and more complicated than he seems and yet not complicated at all.
He doesn’t count on Will having a flat. Or wanting to move in together so quickly. All of a sudden, he feels like he’s playing pretend again. The right thing to do is… The right thing to do. The right thing. What does that mean? The right thing to do. He looks around the office for a flower or a sign that means something else other than its shape and color. Something that’s supposed to guide him, to tell him he’s doing the right thing.
He was raised to obsess over the right thing. It’s hard to let it go so easily. He’s fallen off the tracks so far by moving into the hospital. By falling in love with a sea urchin. By letting that sea urchin ruin his important pitch. And ruin pretty much everything about his life as well. Moving into a real flat with a real long-term boyfriend would be a step in the right direction. The right direction. Huh, what does that mean? To have a right direction would imply he’s already decided what his destination is. Right?
It makes sense when he passes out. He’s not making sense. His brain is so addled and stretched that he thinks it’s a dream when Sam kisses him. It’s not until they make it home by five a.m. that Fred realizes it was real. And that he thinks of the hospital they’re about to be kicked out of as home.
“Did you kiss me?”
Sam looks at him with a gaze so fond that Fred thinks, again, he must be dreaming. Or that Sam thinks he’s someone else. Or that Sam’s accepted something about himself. None of those seem very plausible.
“I did,” Sam says. “And you called me your tiny prince.”
“You said it first.”
“Yeah, but it was funny when I said it.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
Sam stares at him for a long time. “Because I wanted to.”
And he kisses Fred again.
Fred stares back at him. “Why did you do that?”
“Do you not want me to?”
“No—I mean, yes. I mean, why didn’t you do it earlier? Why’d you tell me this wasn’t happening and then break me and Will up and then leave me fifty-seven voicemails and then kiss me in my dreams?”
Sam puts a hand over his mouth. Gently.
“Because, darling, sometimes things don’t make sense. Until they do.”
Fred sticks his tongue out and licks the inside of Sam’s hand. He’s angry. He’s so angry. He’s boiling.
Sam jumps back like he’s been shocked. “Ew! Did you just lick—”
Fred strides forward and kisses him like how he’s meant to for ages. He fists Sam’s collar and lifts him half off his feet. Sam’s hands slip under his shirt just how he meant to, touching the places he’s claimed skin to skin. They crash against the door, and Sam presses him so hard into it that the doorknob becomes his vertebra. Sam’s saliva is sweet, and his tongue is magical, and Fred doesn’t know how to tell him how long he’s waited for this. So he kisses him.
The little prince’s imagination was the best part of him. Fred’s doesn’t even compare. Sam is the best Sam that exists, inside and out of any dream. He tells Fred, “When you jumped on my back, I wanted to keep you there forever.” He tells Fred, “You’re so handsome. Like, so handsome. Like, so handsome I could die just looking at you. Or come.” He tells Fred after the sun rises and they’re still curled up in Fred’s bed pressing kisses onto each other’s swollen mouths, “Most people get tired of me after about now.”
“I’m not,” Fred says. "I won't."