5

Whatever had gotten into Wesley seems to leave him after his shower and I don’t bring it up again. He tells me he’s going to check the snow levels outside - where snow blankets the landscape in white, the sun reflecting against the surface like glass - leaving me alone for a while. In that time, I tidy the bedroom and studiously avoid eye contact with the bed.

When Wesley comes back inside his boots are packed with snow. He suggests exploring the cabin and assigns me as his assistant. We take our time opening every door and looking into every corner.

I’m in his sweatshirt, ‘Class of Politics and History’ embroidered underneath the college logo. Wesley wears an old Star Wars shirt that’s way too tight for him. It doesn’t look warm but, every time I brush against him, he’s as hot as he was last night, a living radiator.

We touch a lot, all furtive and shy. Each accidental graze of his hand against mine, each brush of our legs, Wesley grabbing my shoulder to maneuver me out of the way, it all makes my stomach clench pleasantly.

When we’re touching, I forget all my worries about ruining our friendship. That probably isn’t a good thing, but none of that matters when I’m next to him.

Our search isn’t in vain. We find an old, out-of-tune acoustic guitar in the hall closet, hidden behind old brooms and cleaning supplies.

Wesley spends the next hour cleaning it with a soft cloth he found in the kitchen, and I busy myself with my sketchbook. A newly made fire roars in the grate, warming up the tiny living room.

I finish the last sketch on the page and sit back, frowning at it. It’s a portrait of Wesley, bent over the neck of the guitar, the strings tilted to his ears while he tunes it. Neat, white teeth nibble at his bottom lip, and his dark hair flops attractively over his face. It’s good; a still capture of a moment in time I want to remember forever.

But it’s not perfect.

My drawings of Wesley never are. I settle onto the rug to stare at the sketch, sighing contentedly as heat from the fire licks my skin. Behind me, a quiet medley starts playing. Something from the ”90s, probably. It’s nice, soft and lilting. Perfect for our slow, snowed-in day.

I close my eyes, sketchbook forgotten for a moment as I listen to Wesley play. I imagine those long fingers of his gliding over each fret, his other hand picking at the strings expertly. How his calluses protect him from the worst of the discomfort. The nibble of his teeth over his lips, how his brow wrinkles when he’s concentrated.

I’m on my feet in seconds, leaving my sketchbook open on the floor beside the hearth. Wesley doesn’t look up as I approach, focused on the music, but his mouth tilts up into a smirk when I place a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” he says. His gaze is searing, burning me from the inside out.

“Hi”, I say breathlessly. “You’re so far away.”

Wesley raises an eyebrow. “You’re practically on top of me.”

“From the fire, I mean. I want to taste you where it’s warm.”

Finally, the medley stops, plunging the room into silence. Our breaths linger in the air, heavy and deep. Wesley surges up, arms circling my waist, and he leads us back to my place by the hearth.

“Who am I to decline such a sweet request?” he says.

Then, he kisses me and it’s every bit as mind-melting as the first two times.

We sink to the old, worn rug, my hands scrabbling for purchase on every part of him. He sits with his long legs stretched out towards the flames, and I settle into his lap. I pant against his mouth, trying to deepen the kiss, but Wesley keeps it light and so sweet it makes my heart ache.

He pulls away, letting me breathe, and I collapse against his chest.

“Did you draw these?”

I freeze, my eyes snapping open. Wesley holds my sketchbook and flicks through the pages.

“It’s nothing,” I say, reaching for it. “Just a few doodles. They’re not good, or anything.”

“No, no, let me see. These are amazing, Ollie. I knew you were good at drawing, but I’ve never seen these.”

Yeah, because they’re all of you. This is my sacred Wesley sketchbook and seeing the real man flip through pages and pages of his own face makes me antsy. Why didn’t I close the damn thing and shove it under the couch when I could?

Now I’ve made it weird. Wesley would be a saint not to think so. It isn’t a small sketchbook and some of the drawings are… less innocent than the guitar one.

But he doesn’t look angry when I sneak a glance at him. He flips through the pages methodically, like someone perusing the newspaper, only stopping when he gets to that spread. The one I drew earlier this morning before breakfast.

Drawing after drawing of Wesley with his head thrown back, his face the picture of ecstasy. Of Wesley’s hand wrapped around himself, of his abs and pecs and broad shoulders, each memory given painstaking attention. All of it laid bare on 200gsm paper.

When he reaches the end, his eyes lingering on the guitar sketch, he closes the sketchbook and places it aside gently.

My mouth opens before I can stop it. “I’ll burn the entire thing right now if you want, promise. The images just wouldn’t leave my head and I thought I would go mad if I didn’t have somewhere to put them, but it’s such a breach of trust and I know that and-”

“Oliver.”

I clamp my mouth shut. He’s not smiling but there’s a bright look in his eyes that sends shivers down my spine. He places two of his large hands on the tops of my thighs, fingers splayed and digging into the soft fabric of my sweatpants.

“You are a marvel,” he says, and the tone of his voice rips a gasp from me. “How long have you been drawing me?”

I fist my hands in the hem of his t-shirt, looking everywhere except for at him. “Not long. That sketchbook is all I’ve done, I swear.”

“I like them all. You make me look like an underwear model.”

I feel myself blushing and I bury my face into his chest. Despite his words, I can’t help but feel horrible.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, inhaling his scent to calm myself down. “Tell me more about your crush. Have you ever kissed them?”

Wesley squeezes my thighs. If he’s surprised by the change in conversation, he doesn’t say.

“I have. I’ve only kissed him three times but it’s my new favorite thing.”

Maybe it’s the way my nerves feel rubbed raw from exposing a deep part of myself, or maybe I’m just being emotional, but suddenly I hate this mysterious crush with a passion. I get up, almost crawling off Wesley’s lap before he grabs my waist and pulls me back.

“Let me go,” I say. I don”t really mean it.

“Wait for a moment, Ollie, please.” He runs a hand through my hair, and I lean into the touch. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to talk about your crush anymore.”

Wesley frowns. “You’re the one who asked. Wait— you can’t be serious.”

The mean, vicious feeling in my stomach from before has blossomed into a monster I don’t know how to put away.

He dips his head and brushes our lips together, our mouths so close that when he exhales, it feels like I’m inhaling his breath. My skin prickles. This is a new level of intimacy, more so than him licking my come from my fingers.

“You really don’t know?”

I cross my arms. “Know what?”

“I was talking about you, Ollie,” he says, and my heart stops. “I’ve wanted to kiss you senseless since I first laid eyes on you at Callum’s party.”

I don’t know what to say to that. All this time, he was talking about me? I’m barely aware of myself pulling away and scrambling to my feet until I’m staring down at Wesley.

The smile from earlier is gone. He gets up, hands held out like I’m a wild animal in the mountains ready to attack. But I don’t feel like attacking. I feel like running away, curling up in our bed, and going to sleep for a thousand years.

“How long?”

“I just told you-”

I shake my head, cutting him off. “No, I mean how long have you known you liked me? Not just wanted to kiss.”

“Maybe a few months later,” Wesley says. “I’ve had feelings for you for years, Ollie.”

Panic seizes me like a sharpened claw and for a moment I can’t breathe.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to wait until you were ready.” Wesley rubs a hand over his face. “You seemed to be taking a break from the whole dating thing, I didn’t want to rush you.”

I’m feeling rushed. I hadn’t allowed myself to think very hard about what we were doing. Sure, it feels good, but I didn’t think it would go farther than a few kisses and whatever it was that we did yesterday.

Still, something in me calls out to him. But I can’t let myself get carried away. Because what if we try this, whatever this is, and end up hating each other by the end of it? We’ve been best friends for years and I don’t want to lose that. I thought he’d be the logical one and understand.

My heart squeezes in my chest. I miss the feeling of him under me, the sweet, comforting smell of him. I force myself to keep my distance, shaking my head.

“So, what does this mean?” I say.

Wesley tilts his head towards the ceiling, eyelashes fluttering like he’s asking for patience. That horrible thing in my chest squeezes harder.

“Don’t make me say it out loud,” he says. “Please, Ollie.”

I stare at him until he clears his throat, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair.

“It means I’ve fallen for you, Oliver. I care about you, and I want you to be happy. Even if that isn’t with me.”

Embarrassingly, my eyes well with tears. I can’t break down. I’m not sure I can pick up the pieces of myself if I do.

Wesley’s gaze is hot, eyes flashing with some indecipherable emotion, and I can’t help what comes out of my mouth.

“I like you, Wes. But only as a friend. It’s nothing more than that.”

I know it’s a lie as soon as I say it, but I refuse to think about that. I can’t let this go too far. He feels like this now, but I’m no stranger to people leaving me when I get too much for them to handle. I’m saving both of us a lot of pain.

Wesley’s face shutters, and he takes a step back. Then another, and another, until he’s by the front door and grabbing his hiking jacket from the coat rack. I watch him put on his pants and hiking boots in a daze, rooted to the spot.

He says nothing as he opens the door and slips outside into the cold, dreary afternoon. The door shuts with a loud bang, and I’m left standing in the middle of the living room.

Alone.