Misery loves company

I got some inspiration that didn't fit in my story so I'll do a one shot to get it out of my system.

He is too close, far, far too close. I'm hit by the sudden urge to regurgitate what little I'd eaten. He radiated heat. He was so warm that I started sweating, or perhaps I was simply nervous. A boy should not be this close to another boy. It was incorrect, it was a taboo, and it was frankly terrifying, if not a little intriguing. His endless brown eyes stared deep into my own eyes, into my soul. People should not look into other people's souls without their permission. I'm vaguely aware of the sweat on my palms and the heaviness of my breathing and the petrified thrum of my heart as it struggles to break free of my chest.

I feel as if we stand there forever, there, in the garage as the festivities are everywhere but here. I feel my back ache from being pressed against the wall for so long, my hands ache from my balled fists, and my mouth is an endless wasteland, void of saliva, and my lead tongue cannot help me in my time of need. I lick my lips, and I don't know why I lick my lips, out of habit I suppose. He inhales sharply as I exhale, not aware that I was turning somewhat purple. I don't think he was aware either. So close, yet so far, he wasn't touching me, and I wasn't touching him, so we stood there, me pinned against the wall, his arms caging me in.

His hair falls in the pleasant way that it does and I'm hit by a remarkable urge to bring him close, though I'm afraid to break the silence. He closes his eyes, and opens the cage doors.
"I'm sorry, Tom, I don't know what came over me..." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. I know things will be awkward now, forevermore, if I don't do anything. He will be humiliated for the rest of time if I don't do anything. This will nag at me for the rest of my life.

It is a very odd experience, kissing a boy. It didn't feel wrong, though. It feels weird, kissing your friend, who is the same sex as you, and who you though has always been interested in the opposite sex. It is not my first kiss, that would be twice as awkward. But it's a new experience. The kiss lasts longer than I thought it would. It is not a sweet, pretty one, its more like jockeying for positions, neither weaker than the other, neither supposedly the one taking charge. It is more of a mutual effort, and it's much more violent than kissing a girl, and I'm very sure that it involves more saliva and teeth.

It's about the time that I'm sure my body will run out of air and fluids that he disentangles himself from me, his previously neat hair now a mess. His mouth is swollen and his face glows with pleasure and he seems relieved and satisfied, so that means I am relieved, and a little more than satisfied. It has only taken us ten years for this new, rather strange thing to develop.

Perhaps it was the teenage hormones, or perhaps I really did want to kiss him, or perhaps it's just that we were meant to do this at this point in time, but we kissed more times than we probably should of, lack of air and the fact that people would be wondering where the birthday boy went. I'm not particularly sure how they got there, but as my teeth were scraping against the side of his neck, he finally puts an end to this madness.
"Tom, people will be wondering where I am." He mutters hoarsely. My brain agrees with him but my mouth says something that surprised us both.
"Who gives a fuck?"
"Tom..." He says in a pitiful voice that I know means he won't be able to stop me, because he doesn't want me to stop.

But I do stop, my better judgement overtaking my sudden, strong urges. He blinks. It's obvious he didn't want me to stop right then and there.
"You're right, Jordan." I say, a smile permanently stapled to my mouth, which wants to frown. He sighs and stretches. I run a hand through my equally messy hair.

Again, we simply stand there, looking at each other.

But this time, the garage door opens.
"There you are!" Gillian says in that squeaky way of hers, both annoying and endearing.
"Hello." My voice is unusually low, I realize. Like I've just woken up, yet not, because it has an added element which I am not aware of. She blinks, noticing me. Then she looks at us both, taking in the messy hair and the wrinkled shirts and the slight flush the both of us are still wearing.
"Have you two been making out?" She is joking, I realize after a second of panic, "Ha, yeah, like I'd be making out. I uh..."
"He fell on his face. And when I tried to help him up, he dragged me down."

Gillian is, thankfully, as bright as a sack of potatoes.
"Okay." She grins and kisses him on the lips. I struggle to not cringe and stumble out of the room, disoriented and strangely hurt, though it had been his girlfriend. She had more right to him than I, of course. I drive home, because I cannot stand parties. But it was Jordan's, so of course I attended. I feel like I could almost cry, but that would be weak and girlish, and though I enjoyed kissing a boy, I was not a girl.

Though I know we both wanted it to happen again, it didn't. He married Gillian, and I decided to stay solitary. I don't revisit that day often, though when I do, it causes me some sort of heartburn so painful my eyes water. He and I keep touch sometimes. Not often though, because he has a family to think about. The occasional brush of the hand. The lingering looks, the gentle touch on the shoulder. His kids have taken to me quite well. Uncle Tom. I am Uncle Tom to two children who wouldn't exist, had we been selfish. Had he not married the sack of potatoes named Gillian, after he'd gotten her pregnant. It would've been a shame; they're both quite lovely and quite bright, and they both take after their father.

It's hard, sometimes, to think about my senior year of high school. That memory of Jordan's eighteenth birthday in which we kissed though we shouldn't have. It's hard to think about what could've happened. Especially when the spirit of it remains, buried deep in my heart.

But we all live, and we make mistakes that cause our eyes to water when we think of them. Humans like to deny themselves of what the truly want, for some odd reason. Maybe we're stupid. Or maybe we think we're noble in not doing what we so wish to. A sign of will, perhaps. For whatever reason, we enjoy to make ourself miserable. And for that reason, humans are completely and utterly unfathomable.

If you liked it, good. If you didn't, tell me what you didn't like. I'd prefer if you didn't just say "Bump", though you can if you want.

 

At the end, *it if

 

Bumping my own story, because for once, I really like something I wrote. Ah, memories.