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Barney looked at Gordon, sitting beside him on the curb, his long legs spread out onto the parking lot pavement, burger in hand, a dab of mustard painted on his bottom lip, and he knew that he loved him.
The tarmac was hot, and his skin was sticky, and his clothes felt bonded to his skin in an uncomfortable miasma of sweat and heat.
He loved him, but maybe that didn't mean much. The wrapper of Gordon's burger crinkled as he peeled it back, his teeth sinking into the bread in a way that Barney could not tear his eyes away from. What he would give to be that burger.
The sun beat down, and sweat pooled on the nape of his neck, despite how he had tied his hair up. There wasn't much of a breeze. It was bigger than the both of them.
What was his love to a man who wanted the whole world to know his name? To revere it? To worship it? He was just one guy. One… lackluster guy.
Was his love lessened because he'd loved before? If Gordon wanted devotion, then was that devotion meaningless because Barney was of fickle heart? The girl in middle school that made him think he was a lesbian, the boy in high school that made him realize he was a man, the ‘pansexual’ boy who dumped him when he cut his hair for the first time in years, and Lauren, who’d he could stay up all night gaming with and she’d make him laugh with her obscenely detailed sexual escapades with the parents of slur-slingers in the lobby. He’d loved all of them. Differently, to varying degrees, and sometimes that love turned to disgust or hate, but that didn’t mean the feelings didn’t happen — they did, and they ached.
You know what? He loved burgers . His own sat in his hands, uneaten, still warm, wrapper pushed back to reveal the crispy buns and melted cheese. Gorgeous. His mouth watered. But his mind wandered.
Was he enough?
This was more than just Gordon. It ran deeper, as part of his blood had rotted and it circulated through his brain. It bothered him the first time he cracked the spine of a self-help book for men. He’d read the guides aimed for young boys with clumsy gaits and spotty facial hair — he knew what it meant to be a ‘man’ in the eyes of America, of God. He could appreciate a good body and good rack. He knew a good beer from a bad one, though he was too cheap to care. He folded his pizza when eating and bought a razor that sat unused on his bathroom sink. He knew the vocabulary football fans used, even if he only went to superbowl parties for the free beer, free snacks, and free company. He was a better man than his father, he’d like to think.
But according to all those guides on how to be a man, how to command respect, how to simultaneously be a lone wolf and the life of the party, Barney was a catastrophic failure. He had no vision for his future, and he doubted he could ever provide for a family — hell, he didn’t even want a family! He didn’t have the willpower to stop himself from eating another muffin. He didn’t want to work out every day and drink those disgusting protein shakes. He didn’t want to go into the military and he didn’t want to be all jagged and rugged and alone. All those masculine tutorials made his insides twist in knots. He thought it was just the dysphoria, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Love was good, but being too vulnerable was bad. Relationships were good, but being emotionally open about your struggles to your partner was bad. You had to envision the future. You can’t just “be” a man, you have to become one, you have to be taught. Barney remembered frustratedly flipping through magazines in his childhood bedroom, sour that the world was gatekeeping manhood from him. Why was the bar so high? How was he ever supposed to get over that hurdle when he couldn’t even cut it as a girl. So many arbitrary rules… it was like OSHA, but instead of handrails and workplace safety, it was hard-ons and womanizing. And liking boobs wasn't even enough! He liked boobs plenty! If it was just a boobs thing, he would've been a man long before he knew he was one!
So even after changing his name and style, leaving his home state, taking hormones and fitting perfectly in with the guys back at Black Mesa, he still sometimes felt… inadequate. Because he loved so frequently, so passionately, and no matter how hard he tried or pretended he didn’t, he did. He fell fast and he fell hard. He was a man controlled by his whims, and according to some, that was no man at all.
And then there was Gordon, who deserved everything, but all Barney could give him was cheap beer and cheaper company.
Barney slouched. He managed to bum himself out, great. He stuffed his burger in his mouth, ignoring the thoughts attaching to the base of his skull and sapping his energy. He slouched in further, sinking down to lie his back on the concrete sidewalk.
Gordon leaned over him, glowering. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was boring you,” he chided. He had been talking this whole time and Barney caught none of it.
“It’s not you, I just…” Barney shrugged, the hitching of his shoulders more laborious than it should’ve been. “I wanna take a nap.”
“Don't.” Gordon scowled. “If you do, I'll leave you here. I won't be able to wake you up.”
“That's bull. You wouldn't even try. You'd just leave.”
Gordon smiled sharply. Cocky bastard.
And Barney laid there, looking up at Gordon, his silhouette glowing from the burning sun, his hair looking more auburn than it ever did in the labs, and his heart caught in his throat as he blurted out, “Would you say love is feminine?”
Gordon's face pinched at the question. “Feminine?” He repeated, and Barney noticed how strange the word sounded coming from him, as if it didn't fit his mouth. His expression relaxed back into his regular stony apathy. “No. Definitely not. You wouldn’t even be asking if you’ve met Heather.” He paused, contemplative. “I would say love is stupid.”
“...I think I can live with being stupid.”
“Well… that's good.” Gordon's face was red. Maybe it was just because they were sitting in the sun. “Because you are stupid.”