and I don't need to tell you what this is about
you just start on the inside and work your way out
-Ani DiFranco, "Work Your Way Out"

It starts on a night when everyone is way too drunk and emotional already. Girlfriends -- past and present -- are there, as well as close friends, and the guys, of course, drinking and having fun in a small, crowded hotel suite, celebrating your wins. You stay out of the way, your throat raw and your head clogged, sick again and not telling a soul.

The peace fractures when Justin starts freaking out, running out of the bathroom and smacking into Lance, who goes flying into a plate of vegetables. You stand up, heading straight for Justin, and Dani is behind you. Justin latches onto her of all people, and JC is already helping Lance up, a wad of napkins dabbing at the dip all over him.

Britney comes into the room, and her face is calm but sad. Kelly walks up to her and speaks into her ear, and Britney looks at you, suddenly. Kelly is a close friend, not your girlfriend, so she's allowed to take sides. When Britney starts crying softly, Kelly leads her into a bedroom. You stay back, and Chris comes to stand beside you.

The people start to clear out, with some, like Trace and Wade, hovering back to make sure Justin is all right, but he's just clinging to Dani and barely aware of anyone else. Soon, the room is empty save for the five of you, Laura and Dani, and you start to hear words leaving Justin's mouth.

They don't make a complete sentence. They're just sound clips of "Britney" and "not me" and "lied," and Lance goes back to check on Britney and Kelly, Laura close on his heels. You and Chris stay back, watching as JC approaches Justin, a gentle hand settling on his back.

"You really fucking confused?" Chris murmurs under his breath. You nod.

Britney comes out again, face wet and blotchy, and says, "he's upset because I came out to him. Okay? I'm a lesbian, and I can't." She presses her hand to her mouth. You stare at it, stunned. "I can't keep doing what I'm doing. I need to be happy. I'm so sorry, Justin."

Britney gets her coat and her purse, and Kelly looks at you before leaving with her, shutting the door behind them. Justin is quiet, looped around Dani, and Chris is gone. Where, you don't know. JC whispers in Justin's ear, and Dani says something to him. Standing up, JC goes down the hall and disappears.

You don't know what to do, so you turn to leave, but you hear it, the soft, "sometimes, you have to let them go, whether or not you want to, and whether or not they want you. It hurts, Justin, but sometimes, the people you love just can't love you back."

"I didn't know," Justin murmurs, "I didn't think."

"We never do, honey," Dani whispers. "Sometimes, they don't even know."

You turn around, and Chris is suddenly there, dark and angry. You tilt your head and look at him, and he glares at Dani then at Justin then back at you. "She isn't talking about me," he says simply, and that's the last you see of him for three days.

~~~

You hate not knowing the whole story. You piece together bits of it, but there's a chance you're wrong. You can't ask Dani or Justin. They probably thought they were alone, and you should have left with JC. Chris says it isn't him that she was talking about, but Chris lies. The things that leave Chris's mouth are what he wants everyone to think. He swallows the truth always. You don't know who to ask, though, since JC and Lance don't seem to be in on it, and you're trapped inside, ignorant and confused.

You try to remember if you've ever seen Chris look at a guy. He kisses them, close friends, but you always thought that he was being funny. Maybe, you think now, he was just taking what he could get. You're worried and concerned, and it's a lethal combination. The next time you're drunk, you try to kiss him.

"What the hell?" Chris says, shoving you away. "Jesus, Joey. You dumb fuck."

He leaves you alone, feeling like a moron, and you think, well, at least he didn't deny it. He didn't say he wasn't gay, and that means you can try again. So long as he holds the truth, you'll keep trying to find it. You'll get him outside his own head. You're persistent. You've done it before. You'll just wear him down.

~~~

Britney shows up at your house to apologise. You always liked her, so you have lunch together, Brianna hooked on your hip. Kelly is out on a date, with a guy you both knew from high school, and you know they've been seeing each other off and on for a few weeks. For her sake, you hope they work out.

"Is Justin still upset?" She asks, sipping her tea as you put your sleeping baby into her bucket, placing her on the kitchen table.

"Eh, he'll get over it," you say, grinning warmly, and Britney smiles at you. "He just hates being caught by surprise. It always seems to hurt him, so." You trail off, and Britney nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. "So. You're gay."

"Yep," Britney says.

"I just wanted to say I was happy for you, not for being a lesbian, you know, but for coming out. I've heard it isn't very easy," you say then visibly wince. Britney looks bemused. "No, all right, I'm lying. I'm bisexual."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "No shit."

"No shit," you repeat, biting into your sandwich. "I mean, it's not advertised, and I don't think anyone actually knows I am save for my mom and my aunt Patty, who's a lesbian, too. But, you know. I admire the fact you told everyone."

Britney swallows her tea. "I was just so tired of lying. I love Justin. I just couldn't love him enough, not like he deserved. A girl is going to come along for him, a girl who likes his manly parts as well as his brain and his heart. The manly parts kind of freak me out."

You grin, licking your lips clean of crumbs, and she grins back.

~~~

Chris isn't really your type, but the moment you met on the back lot of Universal Studios, you crushed on him fiercely. It lasted through Europe and hasn't particularly waned in the following years. It's a comfort thing, at this point. You've felt the same way about Lance at times, though not nearly as strongly.

You long over gay-acting straight men; you always have. Lance is the worst, you think, he's the gayest straight guy you've ever come across, but the fact remains that he likes women, loves their breasts and their hips and loves touching them and kissing them and fucking them.

Chris is pretty straight-acting, which is another reason you can't understand why you moon over him. He's tough and prickly and aggressive. He loves hockey and football, and he calls himself the epitome of a dude to Rolling Stone magazine and means it. Chris is everything you don't like in a partner.

Not that you've ever really dated a guy. You've had an occasional fuck-buddy and there's a guy you knew from high school that you still hook up with on occasion, who thinks you're a straight guy who just likes to give head. You've always laughed about that. Now, it isn't quite so funny. You're not a straight guy; you're a bi guy.

And you do like to give head.

~~~

You phone Chris, but he doesn't pick up. JC is in LA, producing, and Justin is with him, not talking to anybody else. Lance is with Laura, being a boyfriend, and you hate them all. You're ready to spend the entire night wishing your friend don't suck when Chris shows up with Kentucky Fried and a case of coke, Cool Ranch Doritos, and two pounds of licorice.

"You shut the fuck up about anything other than what's on the television, my excellent taste in fatty foods and the shitty weather. And if you try to kiss me again, I swear to God, we're going to take this outside, all right? All right. Now let me in."

"You fucking sweet-talker," you say, grinning. He comes in and sits his ass on the couch, and you proceed to bond over Sly Stallone movies. He's your enabler for unhealthy snack food and he always had been. When you get put into the category of chunks instead of hunks and start to get down on yourself, he says he'd rather be fat and happy than skinny and suffering. Taco Bell, he says, keeps him alive. Most of the time, you can believe it.

You start gazing at him all lovelorn and shit midway through Demolition Man, and he gives you a sidelong glance, catching you. Great, you think, now he's going to beat me up, but he just moves away and rubs his temples, like he's tired. When the doorbell rings, you run to answer it.

"Brit?"

"Hey, Joey. Are you busy?" She asks, holding a pizza, and you look back over your shoulder, where Chris is standing, eyes narrowed. She stands on her toes and peers at him. "Oh, I see that you are. I'll go."

"Stay," you say, grabbing hold of her wrist, and she nods mutely. Chris doesn't look very happy but then Chris never looks very happy. It's misleading. She smiles at him then sits down in front of the television, cross-legged on the floor. "Want some chicken?"

Britney eats Chris under the table, and he swallows most of her pizza because it's the kind he likes, too much meat, too much cheese. "I have a high metabolism," Britney explains, "like JC, but not sickly looking, you know? I mean, lettuce is for rabbits, really. It's grass. I might as well graze on my lawn. Same difference."

Chris spends a lot of time looking between you, and you want to explain to him that you're not betraying Justin's suffering by hanging out with his ex-girlfriend. When she gets up to grab more soda, Chris stares at you.

"She needs a friend," you mumble, "she didn't have anyone but us."

"Justin's going to be pissed," Chris says.

"Justin's being a dick about this. I mean, I haven't talked to him at all, and I'll tell him if he ever bothers to get over himself," you say, and it comes out a lot more angry than you feel it. You're protective of both of them, and you don't want to pick a side. "We understand each other, Chris, me and Brit. She's fun."

"She is," Chris admits, albeit reluctantly.

~~~

Britney drinks German beer, which is awesome, and you break out the cans midway through Rocky. Britney knows how to box, and Chris claims he can, too. He can't, and she ends up giving him a black eye, but he's being good about it, whining but good.

"You seeing anybody?" You ask, and Britney shakes her head.

"It's impossible to find someone, but I have this ex, right. Julie. I dated her in between the two Justin experiences," Britney explains, on her fourth beer. You're lying on the ground, playing with your own beard, and Chris is draped over the ottoman, eyes closed. "We only broke up because I was doing the pop princess thing. We're still really good friends. She's studying physics. She's, like, so smart."

"I sucked at physics," Chris mutters, tongue hanging out of his mouth, and you smile at him, shaking your head. The crazy fool. "Actually, give me numbers, and I'm just stupid, but languages, man. I know, like, six."

"No shit," Britney says. "See, that's awesome. I can barely speak English."

You bark a laugh. "Ha. Me neither."

"Plebeians," Chris says dismissively, waving his hand around. "So when you'd know you were a dyke?"

You go to punch him, but she just laughs. "Oh, I don't know. I said I was bi for a while, which was more comfortable for me at the time. I told Justin that, like, years ago. I used to jerk him off while telling him all about girl-on-girl sex. He loved it. Didn't love it too much when I said I was gay," Britney murmurs, pressing her hand to her mouth.

"Brit, man," you say and rub her back. She folds into you, and you hold her tightly, giving her your best hug. Chris watches you, eyes narrow, and you rub up and down her back as she cries softly, apologising for being such a girl.

"I should go," she says finally, wiping her face dry. "Can you call me a cab?"

You send her off with a tight hug and she smiles weakly, nodding. You shut the door then walk back to Chris, who is reclining on the couch, flipping through the channels. Sitting down at the other end, you put his feet in your lap and close your eyes.

"Hypothetically, if I was gay, would you be, like, pissed to hell I hadn't said anything sooner?" Chris asks quietly, and you turn to look at him, an eyebrow raised. "Hey, I never said I didn't get to talk about other things. Answer me."

You rub at your nose. "Well, for all you know, maybe I haven't told you important shit about me either, so if you were to say something to me, I would probably end up saying something back, to even up the playing field."

"Dani shouldn't have opened her fucking big fat mouth," Chris mumbles, and you stare at him, thinking that this was much easier than you thought it would be. "Listen, she says I'm gay. I say I'm still straight. Like, fuck. I'm a man's man, Joey."

"I'm bi, if that helps."

Chris sighs. "Well, at least you didn't try to kiss me out of pity then. That was fucked up, man, no more making passes at me, even if maybe we're both marching for the opposing school's band, which I'm not saying I am, but you evidently are."

"You're, like, the fourth person who knows, so don't go blabbing it with your own fucking big fat mouth, all right?" You grumble, arms crossed over your chest. You've gone through brief periods where you've hated Chris as a person, felt that he's too mean and too blunt and just generally an unpleasant bastard. This is one of them. "I'm going to bed."

"Well, I'm not coming with you," Chris says and moves to leave.

"Well fine!" You shout after him, and slam the door.

~~~

Chris's head must be a scary place. You've always suspected this, especially after the time he had a panic attack while in a harness on one of the earlier tours and freaked out so much he ripped three braids out of his own scalp. He's intense, and not always the picture of sane, and that's never really bothered you. Until now.

"You aren't my type, Kirkpatrick,"you tell him the next time you see him alone, which is in JC's cellar as you both try to help him track down the wine for his dinner party that JC remembers buying but can't find. Lance is taking the middle floor, while Justin half searches, half calms on the top floor with JC.

"Well, you aren't mine, mister," Chris adds, almost like an afterthought. You snarl at each other like dogs for a while then he pinches your nipple, and the next thing you know, you've tossed him down on the ground and you're wrestling.

"If you try to kiss me again," Chris warns.

"I wasn't even thinking about it," which is a big fat lie. Of course you were. You put your hand on his face anyway, which twists up under your palm, and you press your lips to his, just briefly. His breath catches, and you think that it's almost romantic.

You aren't prepared when the kiss, which is innocent and tongue-less, changes into something more. Suddenly, he's clinging to you, mouth wide open, and inside, bumping over your teeth. His goatee is shredding your face, and you don't fucking care. You keep going for as long and as hard as you can, your hands low on his hips, until the end.

"Shit," Chris says, shoving you away, "shit. Shit. Don't. You fucking stay right there, all right? I'm getting Lance, and you guys can scour the cellar together. I can't. I'm not up for dealing with this right now, all right? You. Shit."

So his head, it's a very scary place indeed, and when Lance comes down, you say Chris just got spooked by the small space and that's it. You can taste him in your mouth, and you want to lock yourself in the bathroom to jerk off. You'd forgotten how much you missed it, until that moment, and you are going to get him outside, out of his own head, if it kills you.

~~~

When you can't stand Justin's silence any longer, you track him down to his guest bedroom, where he's watching kung-fu movies and eating potato chips. He looks awful, all greasy and unshaven, and you feel for him, you do, but it's not the end of the world. Britney wants to be happy; you just wish he would try to be happy for her.

"So, I'm still talking to Britney, and I'm hanging out with her. Chris thought I should tell you, since I'm supposed to be on your side," you announce, watching Justin's face. He glares you, looking miserable and pathetic. "Justin, did you really want her to pretend her entire life away?"

"Chris does," Justin whispers, "and no. Not really. It just. She told me she was bi."

You sit back. "So you know about Chris."

Justin rubs his nose then eats more chips, shoving them into his mouth and chewing mournfully. "Well, he's never said anything, but I just. I mean, Chris is all fucked up in all sorts of ways. He's overly violent, and he's mean, and he has his phobias, and his manic behaviour, and he denies most of that, even though it's obviously the truth. Continued exposure to him lead me to believe he was probably gay."

You look at Justin sadly. "And you never thought that about Britney?"

"Of course I did. But I loved her, and I didn't, I mean. Oh, god, Joey." Justin lays his head back, chip crumbs all over his lips, and you rub his shoulder supportively. "She shouldn't have told me when I was drunk. I really freaked out. I would have been better. She's, like, my best friend, outside you guys. I miss her."

"Then call her," you say, "okay?"

Justin nods, and you steal a bag of his chips, eating in silence as you watch Passions. It's fucking awful tripe, but it's a bonding moment. Eventually, you sit up and move to leave. Justin grabs your wrist, looking up.

"Chris is just so deeply inside himself that he doesn't realise the outside is better. He's a fucker, but I love him. He's all messed up now because of what Dani said to me and what you heard. He's so in denial, Joey. I don't know how he lives with himself. I'm too scared of what he might do to me if I try to help him." Justin looks at you, sad. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I will," you promise but now you're scared too, on top of everything else.

~~~

It's some time later when the situation between you and Chris escalates again to violence. You're not used to this, to the aggression in a situation so sexualised, since you were never into that, never thought you liked it. You don't particularly like it now, especially since he seems to be blaming you for this. Somehow, it's all your fault.

"You're being such a fuck," you hiss at him, just trying to get the chicken out of the deep freezer to bring to Justin, who can't watch basketball without wings. Chris follows you down; you don't ask for this. It's become a weird fight-club mentality. In a second, you're going to grab him, and he's going to pull you as much as he pushes you away.

"You're the fuck," Chris says, and he shoves at you. You grab his hands and pull him between your legs, and you bite at his lips, quickly, just enough to sting. He body-checks you into the wall then kisses you, keeping your hands against your sides. His tongue is angry and violent, pushing its way in, and you pretend to fight when all you want to do is swallow him whole. It doesn't really hurt. It would, if he wasn't holding himself back, too.

When he tries to pull away, you break your hands out of his hold and roll them in his shirt, mouth open and devouring him. His fingers twist in your hair, and his leg is trying to curl around your calf as the other steps on your foot. In two seconds, one of you is going to try to the fuck the other, and you hope it's him. You think you're ready.

"Guys, come on! We're starving!" Justin shouts from upstairs, and Chris steps back, a hand going to his puffy lips. You try to catch your breath, and when you can't, you grab the wings from the freezer anyway. With one last look to Chris, you turn and leave. Chris joins you all fifteen minutes later, his mouth a straight line, tight and angry and hidden.

~~~

Dani phones you, concerned because Chris is being an asshole to her, and you try to explain what's going on without saying what's actually happening. She hums, like maybe she gets it, and apologises. Even though you don't say it's her fault, you know she remembers her words and realises the correlation. When she hangs up, you sit down and think.

Chris is an absolute dick when he thinks he's being attacked or betrayed. Maybe, in his head, Dani betrayed him by telling the truth or letting him go or both. Chris masks his hurt as anger, always has and always will. Maybe he's so sad that he just can't deal with it. Maybe he's at home now, overwhelmed with darkness he can't control and not realising where it's coming from. Chris probably thinks he's mad when really the hurt goes much deeper than that as something akin to sorrow.

You put on your jacket and a really big hat, sliding sunglasses onto your face. Outside, the weather is sunny and bright, and you hop on your bike, pedalling to Chris's place. It's so absurdly normal that you feel like an idiot doing it, worried your fat ass hangs over the seat, frightened you're a fool for putting yourself in this position.

You're alone in this fight. Justin thinks he understands, but he doesn't because he doesn't understand you. To him, you're a straight man trying to help your gay friend. To you, you're a bisexual man so deeply in love with your gay friend that you're willing to be the surface he tears through to get out. The only one who could understand is the one person you haven't talked to. So you phone up Britney on your cell phone a block away from Chris's place.

"Hey, Brit," you say warmly, and you can almost feel her smile.

"Hey, Joe, what do you know?" Her laughter tinkles across the line clear and pure, like rain in the morning, and you scratch at your jean-covered knee, still feeling obese on your too-small mountain bike. "Is there something wrong, Joey?"

"I love Chris," you blurt out fast, and she makes startled noises over the phone, like she didn't know. Nobody does, you realise sadly, and you wish they did. It's probably one of the few honest emotions you've ever felt, especially since you aren't known for really loving anyone in the romantic sense of the word. "And I don't. I mean. Chris is gay, and he pretends like he isn't."

"I thought so," Britney says, and her voice sounds far away. For a moment there, you forgot your only connection was your Motorola cell phone. "I don't know Chris very well. I don't think he likes me very much, but from what Justin says, it doesn't seem like something he'd want to be. He's very much inside his own head, his own image."

"I know," you murmur. "I'm trying to get him out, but he's. It's not how I pictured," you amend. You thought it would be romantic and sweet, that he'd take one look at you and know that you were it, that one kiss from you would put the world right. Instead, he plays like he hates you. "I think he might actually want me dead or something."

"Oh, Joey, he loves you. He loves you all so much, that may be the only thing I can say for sure about him. He's just complicated. He isn't hurting you, is he?" Britney asks, and her voice changes abruptly, from warm like the sun to cold like ice, all in a breath.

"Just my head. I'm on my way over there now, to see if he wants to do something, or something." You scratch your forehead, thinking you probably should have worn a helmet. JC was almost ran over once by a guy in a car who hated them. You're sure there are people who world drive their cars right over you. Hopefully, Chris isn't one of them. "I'm just being chickenshit. I'm sorry I called. Thanks for listening to me, Brit."

"Hey, man, it's okay. I'll talk to you later, all right? And thanks, Joey. Justin called me today. We're going shopping on Wednesday. He said you told him to call. I appreciate it." You exchange goodbyes, and she hangs up first. With a snap, you close your phone and tuck it into your back pocket. It settles comfortably against your fat ass.

~~~

Chris lets you in with a raised eyebrow, like he's suspicious, and you slink into his living room with slumped shoulders, already defeated. He's such a basket-case, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's driving you nuts. You just want to kiss him and have him kiss you back, like normal queer more-than-friends would do.

"I'm watching the game," Chris says blandly, and you nod and sit down. You hate the game, whatever it might be, but living with Justin and Chris has worn you down and now you can sit through most sports. You curl up against a pillow, your ass sore from the bike, and you watch Chris, who's squinting at the television. He should be wearing his glasses.

"Quit staring at me," Chris says.

"No," you murmur, not caring right now, because you hurt from biking. You should have just driven. You don't know what you were trying to prove, other than the fact you're not so fat that you can't get on a bike. "Shut up. I can stare if I want."

"Fine," Chris says, and he rolls his eyes, but he hasn't turned into an asshole. Yet. You rest your head and nap for a while, jumping awake every time Chris bounces on the couch, happy when his team gets points.

You must pass out because when you wake again it's dark and you're covered with a blanket. Sitting up, you looked around, like you've never been in Chris's house before, and Chris stares at you, the television off. You wonder who won then remember you don't particularly care. Chris looks agitated, but you don't know if it's you or the game.

You frown. It's probably you.

~~~

You stay the night, even though he wants you to go home, you can tell that from the pained looks he gives you, but it's midnight, and he's been drinking. You're not pedalling that bike of death home, and you're not wasting your money on a cab when you know Chris has a perfectly comfortable couch.

"Listen," Chris says, with one foot on the stairs, "listen, man. I don't know what you want from me."

"What, like, right this second? I just want to sleep on your goddamn couch, Kirkpatrick. Lock your door if you're so afraid of my sinful urges. I'm not the type to molest my friends in their sleep." It sounds vicious, coming out mean and cold and sarcastic. Horrified, you nonetheless resist the urge to apologise. Chris needs a taste of his own medicine, anyway.

Chris gets huffy, which he does when he's tired and miserable. "You don't have to be a dick about it, man. And I didn't mean it like that, either. Like, fuck. This is goddamn complicated. All of it. I don't know what to fucking think or do or anything, and it's pissing me off. I just. I don't know. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole. Do you need more pillows?"

"No, I'm fine," you say, and you feel the first tickle of pity in your chest. He does look pathetic, and you know he's messed up when it comes to approaching anything normally. You just wish you knew why he's fighting this so much. You know he isn't straight. So does he. "And it's okay, Chris. I'm used to you. It's all right."

Chris nods and turns off the overhead light, and you listen to him walk away, his stairs creaking. Busta and Korea start barking at him, and you'd wondered where they'd gone, but you know they like his bed more than he does. His stupid dogs are as freaky as Chris is. Right now, though, you don't mind it. You turn over and fall asleep.

~~~

You and Chris start talking like normal people again, which is cool, but he also isn't pushing you around, demanding kisses anymore either. Even if you never really liked how that all went down, you were getting used to the taste of his mouth. You think you might be a co-dependent psychopath or something. Whatever it is, it isn't healthy.

But you've been in love, lust, something, with Chris for so long that it's easy to snap right back to it. Every morning, you take your dick in hand and jerk off, kissing the shower wall until you feel so lame that you have to stop. You sing sappy love longs when you're by yourself, and you hook up with three girls on three different nights, but it's not the same. You're in a dick-phase. You need it. You want it. You're screwed.

"What's up?" JC finally asks because you're moping. You're sexually frustrated, and Justin has his best girl friend back, so she's not yours anymore. Besides, Julie and her are dating again, which rocks, but you want Chris to, like. You don't know. Do something with you that isn't hot or cold, violence or ignorance. You want him to be Julie.

"I want to have sex," you mutter, rubbing your face.

JC smiles. "Uh, Joey."

"With a dick. I want to suck someone's dick, and I wanted to be fucked in the ass, and I just. Probably gave you way too much information, huh?" JC is blushed with pink, eyes wide as he struggles to remain cool and collected, like he expected this. "See. That's why I'm miserable. My only option that doesn't involve, like, a confidentiality agreement is too fucked up to make up his own fucking mind. I suck, Jayce."

JC scrunches up his face. "Hold on, Joey. I have to process." You watch him count to ten on his fingers then untwist, placing a warm hand on your back. "Okay. Well. All right. I think we're talking about you and Chris, which explains everything. And even though I didn't know you, like, dug guys, I'm totally supportive, and yes. Do you need me to get you something? Porn? You know I don't get embarrassed about buying porn at all."

You laugh shakily, leaning into him. "Jayce, thanks, but if anyone saw you buying gay porn, we'd be screwed. No, it's okay. Listening to me whine is enough." You sigh deeply, feeling better even if your problem still exists. "It's so stupid. I don't know. It's dumb."

"It probably just seems like that to the people on the inside," JC says and lays an arm over your shoulders. JC looks thoughtful as he taps his finger against his chin. "To me, it seems like you're in love. You could sleep with, like, any number of guys, but you're not. That's sweet, Joey. Chris just wasn't an easy choice."

"I didn't choose it," you murmur, and that's only a half-truth. You didn't choose to fall for him to start with but you chose to keep loving him, even when it was too hard, even when he was hating you, even when he's ignoring you now. "I don't know, really. I guess I'll just wait for him to, I don't know. Come out, I guess. Work his way out."

"Maybe," JC says, "he's waiting for you to do the same."

~~~

You don't think you're all that closeted, but you phone home and tell your dad anyway. He laughs loudly and talks to your mom, who confesses she already knew, and then they're both shouting at you in a merry and encouraging way. Steve and Janine are both there, you find out, and they're told, and suddenly, your whole family is asking if you have a boyfriend.

"No, no, no," you insist, over and over again, even though your dad tells you not to lie to your father, then laughs again. Somehow, Steve gets the phone, and he teases you, saying the drag act as Cher in high school finally makes so much sense, and Janine tells you she's proud of you, her baby brother. You weasel your way off the phone and hang up the receiver, numb.

You cry, and you don't know why you do it. You cry until your hands are soaked, and you just don't think you'll ever be happy again. Tentatively, you lick at the salt water then cry some more, your belly twisted and aching. When you think you're empty, it just starts again, and when the doorbell rings, you keep going and don't answer it.

"Shit," Chris says, standing in your kitchen, and you look at him miserably. He's been so nice to you these past few days, and it's not right, not if he's going to look at you like you're just a friend. "God, Joe. Are you okay? Jeez, man. You're a mess. Did someone die?"

"I came out to my family," you mumble, accepting the six paper towels he yanks off the roll. You wipe your face, blowing your nose in the scratchy cotton. You sit with the disgusting rag of sobby snot clenched in your hands. "And they took is so well. Now I'm wondering why I just didn't say anything before, and somehow, that's so fucking sad, Chris. I don't know."

"I think I understand," Chris says, and shifts from foot to foot, like he always does. You watch his sneakers, which are old and worn, but he won't throw them out, not until they fall apart. Like he says, there are shoeless children in South America, so he should be grateful that he has anything at all. You never bring up the millions of dollars that separate him from them. "You want me to go?"

"It's all right. You can stay," you say, blowing your nose one last time then tossing out the soiled paper towel. You wash your hands at the sink with dish soap. When you're done, you dry them on your jeans. "I was gonna order in pizza. You want some?"

"Sure," Chris says, and you pick up the phone, ordering what you both like, all the shit you shouldn't eat, but it's Chris. You never feel like a pig with Chris, not like you do with perfectly fit Justin or lean and lank JC or well-proportioned Lance. You let Chris watch the game and pay the pizza guy when he comes, giving him a tip that's nearly twice as much as the pizzas themselves. People have probably been shortchanging him all night.

"The funny thing," Chris says later when the pizza's eaten and the game is over. You're just sitting around, waiting for the world to change. You're in your backyard, which is completely invisible to the outside world. You made sure no one could see you if you didn't want them to. "The funny thing is, after thirty years and nearly half of those spent with a dick in my mouth, I'm still saying I'm straight. I mean, that's not really straight behaviour, you know. Or so I've been told."

"I like to suck dick," you say miserably, hating him for bringing this up again. In a few minutes, you're sure you're both going to be fighting for kisses, all angry and shit for no reason at all, other than Chris's complex about being gay and somehow, by default, effeminate. You don't understand why they have to be the same for him, and you sure as hell don't get why he's so afraid of it. You just want him to be himself.

"It's good," Chris agrees, nodding. You watch him scratch at his face then tug on his beard horns, which are so long and so fucking cool. They make him look awesome, you think. They make him look like he does in your head, where everything about him is perfect and right. "So, okay. That probably makes me gay. Because, really. Boobs. I'm sorry. Weird, weird concept, though I accept the more, like, functional purposes, but Lance's fascination? No."

You smile to yourself.

"So, yes. God. I'm sounding like JC. Complete sentence much, Kirkpatrick? Probably not. And, like, see. You could, hypothetically, lean over and kiss me to shut me up because the more I try to pretend I didn't like kissing you, the fact remains I did. And I came over here tonight to, like, tell you this, or goad you into touching me again, or something, because I don't know how to ask without sounding like I'm exactly what I'm pretending I'm not. I've been ignoring you, you might have noticed, because it's all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. And Joe, man, any time you want to, I don't know, put your tongue in my mouth, please do --"

You fold over him before he can say another word, your hands on his face and holding him. He tastes like pizza, like pepperoni and bacon and cheese, and sweeter, too, like the chocolate bars he's probably been eating all day. One by one and never tearing your mouth from his, you pull his clothes off, so desperate for this that you're shaking with it. You flip over, so your back is in the grass, and he works at you, inch by inch, touching your masculinity.

He tops you and you let him, knowing in time, with every step outward, that maybe he'll let you be in him, filling his body as completely as he's filling yours. You arch, and you writhe, and you laugh. You don't mind so much when he's shaky afterward and a little ashamed, curled up in your lap and full of confessions that you've already heard because you've been listening all along. You just needed him on the outside, where you could trust it came from his mouth and not yours, and not yours alone. Outside, well, it's just about the happiest place to end the story of how you got together that you can think of, so you do.

Fin.

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