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Ricky pushed him away when he kissed him. Pushed and yelled at him, looked at him with something akin to fear and dread.
But Billy hadn't been able to stop himself. They'd been talking for hours, about anything and everything, the mundane and the ludicrous and Ricky's own brand of philosophy. It'd been more than Billy ever expected, all of Ricky's attention directed at him, all of his theories and views of the world spoken for Billy's ears only.
And Ricky had listened, actually paid attention, when Billy talked, even about his art. He didn't make fun, didn't crack jokes, didn't make him feel like a tosser. He asked questions, sat beside him and looked through his sketchbook, showed honest curiosity and interest in the one thing that Billy believed defined him.
And when he asked Ricky if he could draw him, just a rough pencil sketch of his profile, he'd said yes with barely any hesitation. Just sat there and smoked and listened to what Billy had to say. And Billy felt alive, like he mattered, like there was nothing he couldn't do. And all the feelings he'd been harboring for Ricky, all the emotions he'd kept locked safely away, they came bursting out like the sun after a long rain, like a river melting after a hard winter's frost.
And before he could stop himself, he'd lunged forward and covered Ricky's lips with his own. It was awkward and sloppy and rushed, over in a mere second. But to Billy it was the most amazing moment in his life.
Because Ricky pushed him away when he kissed him. But he didn't hit him. And he didn't leave.