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You shove your hands deep inside your pockets, sweaty fingers twisting into the change he gave you after paying for everything. Can almost hear them clink against each other as you trail after him across the parking lot.
A snack run, he had said. Because he was just that kind of person. Someone who volunteers to do things for others because he felt like it. Because Emil was nice. And nice people offered to get food for the roommates he got along with.
And if a nice guy like Emil needed someone to come along, you were the obvious choice. Even if you weren’t nice. Even if you don’t help him with it.
Even if he doesn’t look too bothered that you’re not helping him with it, not missing the lightness in his steps despite having his hands full, the two paper bags in his arms overflowing with chips and drinks.
Somehow that bothers you instead.
—
When Emil looks back at you, you wish you had hesitated.
Your fist moves before your brain does.
—
You trade blows for a while until you’re both lying on the asphalt, the bags of chips scattered around your bodies making a hard, crunching noise, probably turning the contents into fine powder though neither of you cared. Neither of you making any move to separate.
The warmth was there again. The same slick, gooey feeling rearing its ugly head as he rolls you over to your back and you hiss as the gravel tears the skin of your elbows apart. He tries to catch your wrists, but you manage to slip free at the last possible second to strike him in the ribs. Again, and again, and again, if only to make sure he couldn’t reciprocate more than he already had.
“Stop,” he coughs out and you’re close enough to hear the pathetic wheeze that slips from inside his chest. “Stop it—"
But you don’t stop. You can’t. Not when he’s still giving you that look. That same exact look every single time he catches you staring too hard. The slight furrow in his brow, the upward tick of his lips, the tight crinkle in his eyes. Just a stray dog asking to be let in.
It made you feel sick.
You look up at him then, no doubt disheveled, no doubt looking just as angry as you feel. Your fingers shake but you clench around the pain, nails gripping his shoulders by the fabric of his shirt.
"Wait…just— Andres."
—
To him, it had probably been sudden. You don’t doubt that he expected to walk back without any fuss. Had no idea what had been building up inside you all this time. You can already hear the cogs turning in his head, wondering what he did to piss you off this time. Just another one of your moods, another tantrum to weather through.
To you, though, it was different.
To you, it was a long time coming.
Everything had been leading up to this moment. Months, weeks, hours even. All of it spent cataloging every lingering glance, every casual touch, every moment spent awake trying to figure out why you’ve been losing sleep at the sound of his voice, why his face kept you up at long hours of the night. Why your mind kept drifting to the feel of his hands on you.
Eventually, you knew something had to give.
—
It only takes one clean kick, one small shove, and he topples over to the side, bits of dirt licking at his brow as he lands ungracefully next to you. He groans and shuts his eyes tight, so tight you start to wonder if he can hear the earth shake when you pull yourself up to your knees. The world spins then for a moment and your vision blurs at the edges from the exertion, but you manage to force yourself upright.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling something slimy and wet gliding across your lips—and suddenly, too suddenly, you’re back in your childhood room. The tiny, sticky clumps of lipstick feeling like clay on your fingertips. You don’t see yourself in the mirror.
But the walls are still so thin. Can only hide you away for so long that when your father calls, you almost hesitate to wipe it off as you head out to greet him. Hands trembling with a force you couldn’t control in the same way you still couldn’t now.
Yet for all that you’ve done, Emil doesn’t move, staying worryingly still save for a couple of ragged breaths. The weakling. You could spit on him right now and he would let you. Could do nothing but bear the wet warmth as it slides tantalizingly down his cheek. It wouldn’t take much effort.
But you don’t.
You hate that you don’t.
Even now, you’ll always be that little boy playing dress-up, putting on the heels that mother forgot to take with her. Even now, you’re still unable to hide the evidence of your weakness, the remains on your shorts still so easy to spot even from a mile away. And you can’t fight the wince from showing on your face at the reminder of how badly you fucked up.
—
“Tell me why.”
Your voice comes out a dry rasp. “Just felt like it.”
—
Emil’s long gone but you don’t head back to camp until much later, waiting until the sun tired itself out to make a beeline for the showers.
The water stings at your back, but the pain is a dull echo of what it used to be, numbed from the stolen hours spent under him, above him, beside him. The push and pull of something raw and untethered.
You keep your head low, watching dumbly as all the blood and dirt from the fight is washed down to your toes. The sight of his split lip, the thought of you leaning in to taste it. The brief flash of hurt in his eyes that you wish you didn’t catch. Twin heads knocking hard against each other to make a resounding echo. All of it trickles down the drain as you close your eyes, shoulders hunched and forehead kissing the tiled walls.
Yet something lingers, rooted deep inside your mind.
He’s still there. The feel of him. It’s almost laughable, how easy it is to get lost in the ghost of his touch, the phantom weight of his thighs as it straddled yours, his breath hot against your neck.
You press your lips to the bruise forming on your wrist.
Next time, you think to yourself. Next time it should last.