1. Nothing Alike

CHAPTER 1

Nothing Alike

Everett

Bright, early morning light slanted through the tall, narrow windows of St. Augustine's Cathedral on Park Avenue, the second largest Catholic holding of the Upper East Side. The droning of the liturgy assumed a lifeless monotone and struck this odd quality of vibration that tickled something deep inside my chest.

My eyes burned when I blinked. Another sleepless night left them grainy. They had been more common lately, adding a bit of sand under my eyelids with every fresh day.

How was it that I only felt sleepy when the rest of the decent world prepared to meet the waking world?

I closed my right fist and pressed it against my lips, stifling a yawn. This was my third in just as many minutes. And this was the one that earned me a reproachful look from my father, standing on the left side of my mother, who remained between us but was short enough to allow Harold Langley a clear view of his son.

I rolled my shoulders innocently, the white shirt hugging them and my upper back tightly.

At the end of the string of words that had been nothing more than a flat sound on this particular Sunday morning, we all sat down.

Monsignor O'Connor stood before the congregation, his voice projecting with gentle authority through the grand cathedral. After a moment of silent prayer, he began. "Let us now listen attentively to the Word of God. Today, we will reflect upon the Scriptures. Our first reading will be from the Book of Isaiah, chapter 55, verses 1-3. Following that, we will hear from the Psalms, Psalm 65."

I bit my tongue as hard as my body allowed before a reflex yanked it back from between my teeth. Sitting down only made things worse.

My father cleared his throat and wore his listening face, which often resulted in a sullen look he wasn't aware of.

Father O'Connor spoke of the thirsty being invited to the waters for a drink, but I looked at his white alb, and the words faded to the background. It fit him nicely enough. The stole came over his shoulders, and a sleeveless chasuble was again white, purely decorative. I preferred him in his black cassock with a white collar. It made his brown eyes appear brighter and his cheekbones more pronounced.

Something about a man in all black makes my eyes linger , my thoughts wandered before I reined them in. It filled me with this tightening, uncomfortable feeling. It made my lungs feel like I had dived ten feet under the sea before inhaling enough air for the trip there and back.

In the first row, right in front of me, a family of four sat together. I had seen them here before, although I couldn't remember if I'd ever spoken to any of them. That was the trouble with mixing insomnia and early morning Mass. The parents, middle-aged and dressed in formal attire without a hair standing out of place, sat on the left side, with their children on the right. The children weren't children at all but young adults and twins. I had noticed their matching blue eyes and blond hair, their high cheekbones, and pointy chins that made their narrow faces look elven and ethereal.

The girl wore a light blue dress that left her arms bare. The guy wore a white shirt with a black tie and no jacket. His hair was combed to the right, textured with clay or something similar, and showed a bit of darkness underneath the sun-kissed streaks. Hers was woven into an intricate pattern down her slender neck and ended between her delicate shoulder blades.

I directed my attention to her while Monsignor O'Connor held up his forefinger in God's general direction and added a bit of fire to his tone. His voice crackled occasionally, making me want to squirm.

The girl…

I looked at the girl.

At twenty-four and with a fairly sorrowful dating track record, the pressure was high enough that I often found myself measuring and weighing girls I encountered in our congregation. Too rich, too poor, too flirty, too innocent, too prudish…

This particular girl could be labeled as too beautiful and dismissed from my mind. It was a tendency of mine and part of the reason I couldn't get a night of sleep. Except my gaze lingered on her. Her skin showed a nice summer tan, the highlights in her hair just as natural as her twin brother's. Her head was turned ever so slightly to the left, so I could see the outline of her cheek.

My gaze darted to him; his head turned the same, and his face was identical, except it was just a little bigger and a little sharper.

Like picking up a clueless kitten that was stubbornly sauntering in the wrong direction, I forced my gaze back to the girl. She really was pretty. A thin gold necklace against the tanned skin struck me as a perfect combination. She was meant for nothing less than gold.

Monsignor O'Connor moved on to the eucharistic prayer, turning bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.

I wondered if I should introduce myself to her later.

In an instant, moments that had not yet happened played out before my eyes. I saw myself walking up to her in a moment when she stood alone after the Mass. I saw us sharing a laugh, although I hadn't come up with a good joke yet. I saw us drinking wine with the view of the entire New York City skyline. I saw myself escorting her back home just a little before the hour that her father had given us. Our families would meet for a Sunday lunch, and it would be the first time her brother and I officially met. I would shake his hand firmly to show I was no wuss. We would look into each other's eyes with a small amount of animosity that was attached to the unspoken knowledge of what his sister and I meant to do. Later, when she and I were alone, I would look at her under the soft light of the full moon, and she would look a little like him, only less. And I would tell myself she was almost perfect. And I would tell myself this was good. This was a good way to settle things. I would, for the most part, be happy, and I would, for all the parts, be relieved. Some temptations of the youth were unspoken of or merely hinted at; some troubles were simply a normal part of becoming a responsible grown-up. Conquering them was like a rite of passage into adulthood.

The bread and wine were offered to those in the first row, and I lost my breath. The twin brother's lips parted, and the body of Christ rested on his tongue. The edge of the wine cup pressed against his lips made him tip his head back. He drank, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he pulled away from the cup. My gaze remained solidly on him as he allowed himself a small smile. Then, his head turned away, and my gaze lingered on his slender neck. I never remembered to look at her.

After, I told myself I would be more careful next Sunday. I told myself I would remember to look at her, catch her gaze, and strike up a conversation. It didn't need to happen today. We had plenty of time to start this slow and steady thing others might call love.

Although I was aware, to some small degree in the back of my mind, that my hopes rose high because he would sometimes be around, I knew that a life with her was absolutely possible. I knew it would be good, too. It would be exactly what someone like me needed. A life of peace and quiet, a life of silence and privacy, a life without too much excitement and without unnecessary questions.

I could have that with her. Or some other nice girl from the church. Some hope in me lingered it would be her, but I knew it was much, much smarter for the ultimate pick to have no brothers whatsoever. Or cousins or dads or uncles.

That was how I could ensure a life of peace for myself.

Roman

My shoulder blades ached dully from being slammed against the door, but the full, red lips that wrapped around my cock a minute later made me forget all about the pain. He was either blessed by Eros or very well practiced, taking me to my highs and lows with a very deliberate tempo. And that, in his view, was only just foreplay. What followed was an hour of what I could only imagine was the worst nightmare for my roommate. This guy wasn't kidding when he'd whispered into my ear that he was desperate for some dicking and happy to leave it at that. He promised that I would remember it someday on my deathbed. I was beginning to believe him.

We rolled and wrestled and grappled until our bodies were covered in sweat, and the headboard of my bed threatened to bring down the outer wall of the building. When it was over, we heaved for air while staring at the ceiling, sweat running through my eyes and blurring my vision.

"What's your name?" he asked in a huff.

"Rome," I said, just as breathless.

He chuckled, and when he looked at my raised eyebrow, he raised one of his. "Now I get to say I've been in Rome."

"Oh?" I snorted. "And where have I been?"

He shrugged. "Colin."

"Well, damn," I said in mock disappointment. "Sounds like I've been in an Irish village."

Colin poked my rib cage with his two fingers and hopped over me and onto the floor. As he straightened, his lean body glistened with sweat and smears of cum. He bent down to pick up his jockstrap, which had snapped down his legs at some point in the blurry timeline of my Sunday evening. "Mind if I shower real quick?" Colin asked.

I sucked my teeth.

"Great. Thanks. And…" He hesitated, picking up the rest of his clothes, pausing, looking at me. "Thanks for this. I needed it."

"Yeah, sure, it was great," I said. "You're fun."

"You, too," Colin said with a grin and slipped out into the living room with only his clothes covering his soft dick and smooth balls.

A moment too late, I sent a silent prayer to the Lord Almighty that all my roommates should be in their rooms. No screams came back from the living room, so I kissed the tips of my index and middle fingers and sent the kiss up to Him.

Colin showered and left without a goodbye, which was just as well because I was in a bit of a hurry. Across the street, in the bar that was the heart of the neighborhood, preparations for a welcome party were well underway. The matron of the somewhat run-down establishment that Neon Nights was hadn't seen me leave with a cute, hung twink who had been in need of dicking. She would worry if I didn't show up soon. Lady Vivien Woodcock, born Roger Sable and remaining Roger Sable on paper and out of drag, was a diva with a heart of gold and a tongue like a whip.

I strolled casually to the bathroom after Colin had left, not minding if my roommates saw my ding-a-ling too much since they had to be used to it by now. I wouldn't be the first or the last guy in our small apartment to cross the space with his bare ass out for slapping. After showering, I dressed quickly and wondered why the place was so quiet. Sure, Tristan, my best buddy in the world, wasn't here—I checked the time and determined that Tristan was very likely at JFK having his passport stamped—but the rest of the guys were quieter than usual.

Madison, who occupied the last remaining single room on the far end of the apartment, was a broody one and unlikely to make much noise, but I hadn't heard a fight from Lane and Oakley's shared war zone—ahem, room , as they called it—in well over three hours. They're probably at Neon Nights , I decided. Tonight was the big night, and even the less social of the residents of the Peeling Palace were attending the party.

Tonight, over a week since we got the news of his success, Tristan was returning to the United States from Verdumont, a slice of land nestled between France and Germany ruled by the Valois Montclair family. And Tristan wasn't returning alone. He was bringing Prince Cedric Montclair with him. The very same one we had all known as Cedric the busboy a mere three weeks ago.

After a short while of dating, Tristan and Cedric had gone through a rough patch, him being a foreign royal engaged to an heiress and Tris being your everyday Joe. Still, with some meddling and matchmaking, Tristan flew to Verdumont to win over a freaking prince of a freaking kingdom. And the fucker succeeded.

As I dressed and thought about Tris and Cedric, a smile touched the corners of my lips. It was a rueful one, but I wasn't jealous. I was happy for my friend, but his sudden twist of fate seemed so random that I struggled to imagine I would ever find something more than a slutty twink to warm my bed for a night. Don't get me wrong, slutty twinks were my favorite demographic, but they weren't exactly the type I'd bring home to try my mama's casserole. Not that I was in a hurry to go back to our Sunday lunches anyway.

I checked myself out in the big mirror in the common area, decided I'd already gotten laid and wasn't out to get any more, and headed out.

Across the street, the bar was lit with bright yellow lights as opposed to the dim atmosphere it normally had on party nights. People were slowly starting to gather, and not all were there for Tristan and the Prince. What are the odds? I wondered. But I didn't have the brains for crunching numbers. Oakley could have told me the exact odds, probably by counting the number of gay princes in the world and dividing it by the number of atoms in the universe.

I didn't even need a prince. I needed…

I sighed.

I didn't know what I needed. There was this cold and slimy emptiness in me as I paused near the bar's entrance. It felt like I had walked down into a countryside house's basement that had been out of use for a decade. It turns out I'll never need an earth-cellar in my life, for I have an earth-cellar right here, ha-ha , I thought and mentally pressed my index finger against the middle of my chest.

Colin was cute and sexy in that cute and sexy way of twinks who cringed at the idea of exchanging names before exchanging fluids. I wasn't that much different in my behaviors, sure, but at least I was self-aware. I knew this bohemian life was a bitch. I knew I couldn't go on like this forever without turning bitter. My cynical nature was starting to cast very long shadows over my more refined qualities. I had more refined qualities, by the way, I just couldn't remember where I'd put them.

Swaggering into the bar, I pulled on a big smile for my friends. Many familiar faces had arrived since I'd taken up Colin's offer a couple of hours ago. Rafael Santos and Luke Whitaker, who had gotten married at this very bar a few months ago, waved at me from a corner table. Bradley, our diligent maestro behind the bar, was shaking a cocktail shaker to the beat of "Heaven Is a Place on Earth," hips swinging back and forth and left and right. Madison brooded at the bar. Oakley was with a group of girls I'd never seen before, and Lane, Oakley's roommate and the general of the right-side battlefield in their war of the contested room borders, was alone at a table, fiddling with his phone.

Lady Vivien Woodcock appeared out of nowhere, grabbing my forearm. "They're almost here, Roman," she said in a surprisingly deep voice. It meant that the man beneath the glamorous makeup was pretty nervous.

"Mama Viv," I said reassuringly. "Why on earth are you worried?"

"Why? Why?!" Mama Viv pressed the back of her hand against her brow in a true Old Hollywood move as if suffering from a fainting spell. "I told a foreign royalty to sweep the floors more thoroughly, or the mop would leave dirty smears, Roman. What was I thinking?"

I cleared my throat. "You were thinking he was your clueless employee. Like everyone else thought at the time," I said.

Mama Viv produced a big, colorful fan seemingly out of thin air and began to fan her face. Her wig was deep red, and her dress was an elaborate piece of her own design with a very low neckline, fit for a royal reception with classiness and a touch of good old-fashioned indecency.

It was another hour before the new couple arrived, and the crowd of friends, acquaintances, and strangers swelled in the bar. Mama Viv's parties were known to all in the neighborhood and beyond. She was a tireless planner, and this place had worn so many different faces that it was hard to say what Neon Nights was all about. Sometimes, it was all about the '80s music, sometimes about peculiar foods, and at times, it was a brunch café. The one thing it never, ever let itself be was boring.

The bright lights that were supposed to welcome Tristan and Cedric revealed the crowd much more than I was used to, but they rendered the outside completely dark, the many windows doubling as mirrors by chance.

An immense round of applause that thundered inside Neon Nights must have startled some of the unsuspecting guests, but Tristan and Cedric strolled in with confidence and big smiles.

Someone started a chant for them to kiss, kiss, kiss, and the boys looked at each other in that flirty way of early romance. Cedric swept Tris off his feet in an instant, tilting him back like a plank and slamming his lips against Tristan's. Wolf whistles and whoop, whoops filled the bar.

When Cedric pulled Tristan back to his feet, they were both a touch red, and their smiles were bigger.

The two boys walked through the space where the crowd had parted and stood right in front of Mama Viv for one moment of uncertainty. Some harsh words had been said, and the time to fix it all had been short, but Mama Viv seemed like she was the nervous one. She had also once warned Cedric that she would personally hunt him down if he ever hurt Tristan. I wasn't sure if there were caveats for fixing the mess he'd made when he had left.

But in a heartbeat that followed, Tristan melted into the hearty hug in Mama Viv's arms. The queen of drag patted Tris' head and spoke quietly just to him. After a moment, the two were nodding and parting. Cedric, who had indeed been a kitchen helper and any kind of helper one might need, approached Mama Viv just as I pushed myself nearer to them all.

Mama Viv did a fine curtsey, but Cedric simply came forward and hugged her as tightly as Tristan had. "I'm so glad he's got you," I heard Cedric say to Mama Viv.

Tristan occupied my attention when he approached me. We hugged it out like brothers, and then I shook hands with the prince, feeling slightly different now that I knew that the guy's family ruled a country.

"It's good to have you back," I said. "Both of you."

The guys smirked and agreed that it was good to be here.

"The palace bored you to death?" I teased Tristan, then turned to Cedric. "I'm sure Mama Viv will find you some work if you need it. Or even if you don't need it."

"Oh, shut up, darling," Mama Viv huffed. "That's enough talking. It's time for you boys to dance."

At the snap of her fingers, the lights went out, fog machines filled the space with mist, and laser beams cut through. The party officially started.

In the whirlwind of dancing and celebrating whatever each person wanted to celebrate, I retreated to the bar. Tristan and Cedric danced together, absolutely dominating the dance floor. I had never been much of a dancer, and I could keep up with others if I had to but not with those two.

Instead of dancing, I ordered myself a little margarita and watched Bradley mix it. Bradley was a single dad at twenty-four, the same age as me, and he worked tirelessly to support his kid. It was the kind of life I couldn't imagine for myself. I was barely staying afloat as it was, let alone having someone so helpless and fragile as a four-year-old girl depending on me. Bradley was also gay, which made things extra saucy, and explaining the entire history of how it all happened required more words than Bradley was happy to use. A quiet guy with a purpose, he was Mama Viv's right hand.

That was the thing about Neon Nights; it gathered the exiles, the runaways, the usurpers of the status quo. It was like there was a magnet attached to that shabby door in the front, pulling us toward the heart of Hudson Burrow. The greater neighborhood had a long and complicated history that lived in the hearts of all queer New Yorkers, but Hudson Burrow was a biosphere within it all. It was rough, but it was warm; it was poor, but it had people that made it richer than the Billionaires' Row. It had a living, beating heart.

Mama Viv offered work to everyone who needed it, and if she couldn't employ everyone, she had connections. The same was the case with accommodation. She had personally accepted Cedric, then a runaway with a past he didn't speak of, to work here and live here, never asking questions but doing the deeds.

If I were taken with the moment's passion and soaked with tequila, I would have said she was my hero, but I was sober enough to keep my cynical edge sharp. Even so, the edge blunted when it neared the matron of the bar. There was a person I couldn't look at and think what her secret motives were. There simply were none. She had lived through the rough patches her entire life, missing opportunities, losing chances, and getting knocked down by the times she lived in. And she had gotten up whenever she had fallen, dusted herself off, and got down to work.

I sipped my margarita and looked around the bar. We were all refugees of some kind. Some ran from families, some ran from tragedies, and some, like Cedric, had run from an arranged marriage. Others ran toward something—a better life, better friends, more money, a reputation, or a quiet, cozy lifestyle. It didn't matter what anyone's reasons were for being here. We all had them. And most people didn't hide what theirs were.

Which led me to the guy standing in the shadows by the window closest to the door. A long wooden bar ran under the windows all the way around Neon Nights, but this guy always stood there near the exit, alone, unapproachable, seething with something that wasn't exactly anger. I could see it in his eyes, like sparks of a snapped electric wire. I could see it, but I didn't get it.

Everett

I wished he would look away for good.

His attention only made me dig my trench deeper and scrunch my face more sourly.

The guy sipped something pink and fruity from a big, girly glass, his sharp, pissed-off gaze falling on me like frothy waves licking up a sandy beach. Here, and then there, and here again, and then back. It made me look back. It made me stare.

I knew the guy, of course. Some two weeks ago, when I had last visited this damp, run-down den, that sheared playboy had drunkenly come up to me for a chat. It had scared the living hell out of me and almost turned into a fistfight. Close enough, anyway. I'd grabbed his T-shirt in one fist and pulled him close enough to feel the heat of his body against mine.

The proximity had been so sudden that my body reacted in this wild way that was revolting yet too powerful to resist. I had brought him so close that I could smell his sweet breath when he huffed and cracked a smile. He had this twisted glare in his eyes, like being pushed around by a guy who was half a foot taller than him was his favorite pastime. I hated it. It sickened me. It sickened me so much that I had to push him away and hurry outside for a breath of fresh air.

"Ever tried it with a guy to make sure?" he had asked me before my temper snapped. But that wasn't the worst of all. It was his smug laughter like getting me angry had been his personal mission, and seeing me break and lurch at him was somehow fun or exciting.

I had seen him before that, too. He was a regular here, and he also worked the bar on and off. Of all of them who practically lived here, he was the one I wanted to avoid the most, but he haunted me. I'd seen him with a black eye once, and my heart murmured and sank. I had seen him with a bloodied lip, laughing and wincing in pain, and it made my chest crash on itself much like it had been crashing this morning when I had gazed at the way that twin brother ate the sacramental bread and drank the wine. More so. This guy…

Fuck.

He was pushing himself away from the bar and walking toward me.

I set my beer down and made for the door, but the fucker cut through the crowd and stood right in front of me, looking up in defiance.

"Let me pass," I said in a flat monotone.

"Wait," he said, his voice softer than two weeks ago. He had been drunk, I recalled.

"Didn't you get enough already?" I asked, hands closing into fists.

The guy lifted his hands in surrender and stepped back, but he was still in my way. "Easy, there," he said. "I just want to talk."

"Good for you," I bit off.

"You don't want to hear me apologize for the other day?" he asked.

My jaw moved left and right as I stared at him. "If you're trying to get a read on me, don't."

"I'm not," he said. "I mean, maybe, but I mainly want to buy you a drink and say I'm sorry." He looked at the bar behind me and cringed. "Beer? You really are straight ."

It was an arrow aimed right at my heart. My nostrils flared. "Are you some fucked-up psycho who likes getting punched?"

"No," he said, laughing. "But it happens more than you think. I have a very high pain tolerance." He tacked on the last part as if it was important. I hated that it made my guts twist and knot, and I didn't know why.

"You should back the fuck off," I warned him.

"Hey, I was a dick," he said, not backing the fuck off. "I was drunk and angry, and I made assumptions. You have to admit, we don't get a lot of straight bros around here. And those we do…well, let's just say they don't need much talking before they take their wedding rings off."

A horrible realization came over me. Before I could stop them, the words tumbled out of my mouth. "Is this a…brothel?"

"What?" He frowned, then threw his head back and laughed. "My man, never do something you love for money, or you'll start hating it."

"So what? You just…?" I couldn't get the words out of my mouth. I was furious that he'd dragged me into a conversation, to begin with, and then I was extra angry that I was such a gullible fuck.

"Hook up," he said. "But I don't do it against anyone's will if that worries you."

I snorted. "As if you could." But my stomach was rising just from insinuating that he might try something funny. That wasn't why I was here.

Still, the thought lingered. He was shorter, but he was feisty and scruffy and accustomed to physical confrontations. Not that I was interested in finding out more about him. I was not. I had no business learning anything about him or any other guy in here. They were all here to indulge in their most basic instincts, not caring if it was right or wrong.

And you're here just to watch it , a small voice told me.

My throat tightened. Yeah. I was watching. I was watching them make fools out of themselves, dancing, touching, groping, pressing against each other. But I did none of that. None.

I thrust my arm forward and swept this annoying fucker away, then marched to the door and walked out.

Last time, that had been enough to get him off my back. He had stayed behind. I'd scared him enough into quitting whatever he was trying to do. This time? He ran after me. "Hey, no, wait. Don't do that."

I kept walking another five or six paces before stopping. My throat was still tight, so I spoke hoarsely. "Why not? What the fuck do you want?"

"I want to make it right," he said. "And to leave you alone if that's what you want."

"Please," I said in an exaggerated voice.

"I don't want to be the reason you leave every fucking time," he said sulkily. "I'm sorry, alright? That's all. I'm sorry I tried picking you up that one time. I thought you were cruising."

I frowned, but then I put it out of my mind. It was unimportant. What mattered was this image, or a vague idea, of him intending to pick me up. I knew he had thought I was there for the same reason as everyone else. If my parents even suspected I had been here, they would…

I shuddered.

"It's got nothing to do with you," I said. "Don't you get it? I don't care about you, dude. I don't even know you."

He shrugged. "Name's Roman Cross. And you?"

I shook my head.

"I'm not flirting with you," he said, coming closer.

Hairs on the back of my neck stood stiffly.

"Whatever's your deal, it's not my business," he said. "You obviously like the place. And everyone's welcome, that's what Mama Viv says, so who am I to question you, eh?" He reached over, and his hand briefly touched my bare biceps.

I moved swiftly and on an instinct I hadn't even known existed in me. My arm jerked away, but my other one moved forward, my hand closing around his throat before I could stop myself. "Don't touch me." His back pressed against the brick wall, and he huffed, lifting his hands in defense.

"Alright, alright," he struggled. "Jesus, fuck. You really like to play rough."

My grip was loose instantly, and there was virtually no pressure at all. He could have slipped from my hold as easily as a fly could buzz out of an open jar. He just didn't. And I didn't let go.

I stared at him. He was lightly pinned against the wall, his chest rising and falling, his lips curling into that twisted smile of his, his arms hanging at his sides. As I stepped closer, our bodies were an inch apart. His breath smelled like strawberries. It was warm and sweet when he hissed and laughed.

"I told you already," I whispered heatedly. "I'm not like you. I don't want to be like you. And I don't want to be around you. So, please, leave me the fuck alone."

He grinned. "I lied. We do get straight guys there. Plenty. They come to see a drag show or to attend their gay friends' engagement parties. We've had all sorts of people in there, but you…" He laughed, still not even trying to remove my hand from his throat, although my hand was less holding his throat and more hanging from it for my own support. "You, my friend, are a little fucked-up. You're either a hypocrite or a liar."

I licked my lips. This nasty feeling deep in me rose and rose; it sprouted and bloomed its rotten blossom until I realized it was guilt. And not the kind of guilt I felt at night when I was trying to sleep or at the church when a part of me knew I didn't belong there. This was a raw and bitter guilt.

I snapped my hand away from him and took a pace back. Everything that had happened in the last three minutes was more than I had bargained for. Touching his bare skin with mine and watching his defiant chin-thrusts made my blood heat up, but hearing his words made me feel like precisely the person he thought I was.

"I thought I could help with whatever's so fucked-up with you," Roman Cross said.

I frowned, bewildered.

He scoffed a chuckle. "You can act as innocent as you want." His pause filled me with terror. He glanced down between us. "Your dick's hard."

And then it hit me. It hit me with the power of a boulder rolling down the side of a hill before landing on me. My face was hot, my armpits sweaty, and my dick throbbed painfully. It was clearly outlined inside my gray sweatpants, bulging from the middle to the left.

Roman dusted himself off, although he hadn't touched any dust. "And here's a free tip. Next time you wanna play rough with a guy, have a talk first." He turned on his heels and marched away from me. Two paces, three, four. He stopped and turned around with his shoulders slumped. "Feel free to say it's not my business, but that thing you're feeling right now, that guilt and sickness with yourself, denial, and all that hatred…" He stared into my eyes from a short distance as if he felt it, just like me. "We've all been there. Every single one of us." Then, with a cooler tone, he added, "No reason to be a dick about it."

If I had imagined the last time I had seen him was a disaster, this was an Armageddon. He had left me disintegrated. He had shredded me with nothing but a few jokes and a couple of well-aimed jabs. He had ruined me, and I felt treacherous tears rise into my eyes. But I forced them down and leaned against the exact spot where I had had him pinned. Fuck , I might have whispered. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

All I had wanted was to have my beer. I sure as hell didn't mean to make a stranger feel like shit, and I hadn't wanted the stitches in a badly healing wound to be prodded by an amateur.

Part of me wanted to run after him and apologize for acting out, but another part hated him for pointing out everything I fought so hard to keep in the shadows.

Why the fuck are you here? That small voice was relentless.

And the answer was too simple to keep locked up for too long.

Because it feels nice , I thought. It feels nice to see what they're all up to when I don't have the balls to do it.

For all my cherry-picking between the girls who hardly knew I existed, the truth was plain as day. I didn't see myself with a girl. I had tried, and I had failed. I had tried so fucking hard that I knew for sure it was never going to work. So I came here to Neon Nights when my parents had too much to think about to notice me gone, and I watched all these people with a mix of joy at their freedom and jealousy at the same. I loved them and hated them.

And Roman…

Nobody was as sure of himself as Roman. He just didn't care. And I was jealous of him the most.

When God created us, he gave Roman all the courage, and none was left to be given to me. So Roman could stroll around like a peacock, and I had to hide in the shadows. Roman could act however the hell he wanted, and I had to be embarrassed about being seen at that bar, even by its regular patrons.

That night, I stalked away with my tail tucked between my legs. I didn't go back to apologize. My apologies would mean to him even less than his meant to me. So I returned home and surrendered to another sleepless night.