Chapter 11

"Woo-hoo!" Clay calls. He whistles loudly between his fingers, showing off his fangs as we walk past the gargoyles at the entrance to Creelin U. I still can't tell which ones are real and which are statues. "It's not every day your boy turns twenty-one."

"Like you've ever done it," Phil says, hiccuping from our pregaming in my room. "Aren't you, like, stuck at twenty forever?"

"Shut it," I growl. "It's my birf-day. Let him be."

It's Saturday night, and I haven't seen Steve since water polo practice this morning. He said he'd come out and celebrate with us, but so far, he's a no-show. I drop him a pin with the address for Scareoke. I'm sure I'll have a fun night either way, but I don't want him to be all alone. He deserves to have friends.

I text him a robot, music notes, a martini glass, birthday cake, and microphone.

He doesn't read it immediately.

The karaoke place is a long walk from campus, but none of us wants to drive, least of all me. It's a warm night, although the weather's going to turn soon and get all spooky and fall-like. Halloween-y.

Weenie. I giggle. Must be the vodka Clay bought me. He gave me that kind in the black skull bottle—the sixty-dollar one. Sheesh. But he never seems to lack for funds … at least, when he hasn't forgotten his wallet.

After walking halfway across town, we enter Scareoke. The entire water polo team—except Steve—is here, and that's good.

I really hope he can make it, though.

My phone pings with a pin from Steve, and my heart races. He's coming. Yuss .

Clay points us to a reserved area with a great view of the stage, Phil claps me on the back and shoves me in that direction, and suddenly everyone is buying me shots and drinks like Dangerous Mouse and Sleepy Hollow. I have no idea what's in them, and I know enough not to drink them too fast, but it's challenging when people are giving them to me right and left. Word's gotten out that the human's got a birthday, I guess.

We're sitting in two large booths, with extra chairs added, loudly deciding what songs to sing, when Ren asks, "How's it going with your roommate? He's great in the water, but he's quiet."

I don't want to talk about Steve behind his back, so I just shrug. "He's fine." I glance around the table. "You guys are spiffed up tonight. I'm used to everyone in Speedos or pajama pants and hoodies."

They all look down at their jeans and real shirts. "Anything for you, Bran," Clay says.

I draw everyone in for a cheers by putting my shot in the middle of the table. They all hold up their glasses, and we down a drink called Ghost Dusters—even Clay, who doesn't usually bother with alcohol because he says he doesn't get drunk.

"Who's going to sing first?" I ask eagerly. I love karaoke.

Raising his hand, Phil says, "Me!"

I shoo him to the front. He lumbers up, his tall, hairy frame dominating the stage, and the MC hands him a mike. While I'd thought Phil liked rap, for some reason, he starts singing "My Way," Frank Sinatra–style. I know the tune, because my grandma used to listen to it. He's surprisingly good, belting out the high notes with ease.

Phil finishes the song with a flourish, and everyone bursts into raucous applause.

"Huh. Sasquatch has some pipes," I say admiringly.

"Best idea ever," Nick says, toasting me with his drink.

"I dunno," I say. "Phil seems to have thrown down the gauntlet."

"And I'll pick it up," Clay says, sauntering to the stage.

When the notes of the song he chose start, we all howl with laughter at the vampire singing "Toxic" by Britney Spears, the blueish undertones of his skin glowing under the lights.

I get a fit of giggles when he does one of her dances, his black-blue eyebrows expressive. While his voice is just so-so, the dance is perfect, and he brings down the house.

Clay waves at me to come up and join him for the next song, and now I'm really feeling the alcohol. He helps hold me up as we sing "Bad Guy" by Billie Eilish. It's horrible and off-key.

I love it.

I'm about to ask the MC to put on "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen, but the words die on my lips as Steve strolls in.

My heart starts beating erratically, and something zings along my spine. He waves to us and looks at me with those dark, fathomless eyes. The room quiets somewhat, watching me watch him.

I like him. I want him.

"Steve! Hola! Come on up!" I say into the microphone, and Steve obliges. I thought he might refuse, but he is a music major, so maybe he's okay with performing.

He stands next to me and shifts his weight from foot to foot. We're the same height, and kind of the same build. Now that he's here, my evening is complete.

"Are you going to sing something?" I ask into the microphone. "This is my roommate, everyone."

"Yes, good. You asked for ‘Let It Go.' I will sing that for you," Steve says into the microphone, and everyone hoots and hollers. "And happy birthday." Even Steve can't suppress a smile. He whispers something to the MC, who nods.

I hop down back to our seats, and Clay follows me. At the table, I sip a glass of water, because I don't need to be puking my guts up on my birthday. I still am not one for hard liquor.

Under the lights, Steve resembles a rock god, with that shoulder-length black-green hair that's now—since he's properly hydrated—shiny, eyeliner, and tight black jeans with a studded belt. Combat boots and a band T-shirt complete his outfit, and his pale, slim fingers hold the microphone in a sensual caress. The edges of his body are still staticky, like he's not holding his shift.

The iconic music starts, and Steve opens his mouth to sing, starting in low tones.

The room quiets.

Goose bumps erupt all up and down my body. Steve's eyes close, and suddenly the world is nothing but him and the music, all of us under his spell.

His voice is like a singing brook. Like a waterfall. It's natural and enticing, sweet and sensuous and also kind of dangerous.

Steve hits every note. He's better at this than any Disney princess.

The music he creates makes my skin tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His voice sends pleasant flutters through my belly. I'm rapt, wanting to look nowhere else.

As Steve starts the first chorus, he opens his eyes and looks at me.

Clay whispers in my ear, "Watch out. nokks can have an allure."

He certainly does have an allure. I don't understand it, but I want him to never stop singing. This emo boy.

This guy I have a crush on. This guy I might want to be bonded to.

When he reaches the climax of the song, Steve throws his arms out, and he brings the house down as he hits the high notes, ending with a final flourish.

The room is quiet for a moment. Then the whole audience bursts into applause, as if it was a real concert.

In some ways it was a real concert. Steve has a voice like none of the rest of us do—even Phil. Steve smiles shyly and bows. The crowd roars some more.

He walks off the stage and over to us, and I make room for him next to me. He murmurs in my ear, his cool lips brushing my skin. "Happy birthday. Do you want me to teach you a song as well? Or are we even?"

"We're even. I loved hearing you. Do you want a drink?"

He shrugs. "Sure, fine." He gets a glass of vodka from a waiter and downs it, looking looser than he ever has before. He fishes in his pocket.

"Don't worry about the drinks," I say. "We've got it."

"No," he says. "Well, I mean, yes, I am— I'm —happy to pay for mine, and I would like to treat you, but I also wanted to give you this." He shoves something into my hand.

It's a folded piece of paper. I open it up. It's sheet music, with notes written by hand. "What's this?"

Steve's cheeks flush slightly. "It's a song I wrote for you for your birthday."

My jaw drops open. "You wrote me a song?"

He nods. "I … I will have to sing it for you in our dorm, because I will need my guitar. It is— it's —not on any karaoke playlist, of course."

I throw my arms around him and give him a hug that he returns after a moment, his grip surprisingly strong, given how slim he is. But I suppose he has monster strength. I love how he feels next to me.

I definitely have a crush on him.

"That's the coolest present ever, Steve. Thank you so much."

Steve smiles at me, and it does something to my insides. His smiles tonight might be the first I've ever seen from him when he wasn't in the water, and I treasure each one.

"You are welcome," he whispers.

Savannah the harpy walks in, along with two other girls, and when they spot us, they make a beeline to our table.

"Sit down," I say, scooting so we can accommodate them in the booth. I'm between Clay and Steve, both of their cool bodies pressed up against mine. Steve's feels more familiar. Perhaps because I live with him, I'm used to the way he smells. Not bad at all. Like water or water plants or something. I dunno. I'm pretty drunk.

"You definitely are," Steve says.

I wonder if I said something out loud.

"Yes," everyone at the table says.

"Oh no."

Clay shoves at my bicep. "It's your birthday. You should get laid."

On my other side, Steve stiffens. "I can, uh, leave our room for some time if you want to use it."

For some reason, Steve's offer irritates me. I brush both of them off. "No. I'm happy where I am."

Another song starts up, and we all begin to sing along with the person up front.

Steve's holding me up as we go down the street. I think it's a street.

I'm drunk.

"I know that," Steve says. He sounds amused.

"I guess you do. You're very smart."

"Perhaps. But you are smart, too, Brandon."

We walk a while longer, and I ask, "Where did Clay go?"

"He is making out with his date."

"He had a date?"

"I guess he met up with someone."

"I wonder if it's that guy he likes," I say, leaning farther into Steve and trying to be subtle about inhaling his hair, which smells like the freshest water.

"Does Clay date a lot of people?"

"I think so, but maybe he's just looking for the right one and it's taking him a little time to find them."

He falls silent. I want to tell him that I've been questioning my sexuality. That I may be trying to find the right one. That I'm interested in him .

I have enough presence of mind to know I shouldn't drunkenly confess all that to him.

Instead, I lean on him as we walk down the street and over the bridge, pass the gargoyles, and somehow make it home. The last thing I remember is Steve taking off my shoes and tucking me into bed.

I want to kiss him, but I fall asleep instead.

Sunday morning I wake up with a splitting headache, and Steve goes to the cafeteria and brings back food, including a coffee and a werebear claw for me and a coffee and an apple for himself. Again, I'm tempted to kiss him, especially when he later gives me an electrolyte drink.

"Someone once told me it was very important to stay hydrated," he says.

"Hmm. That person was smart," I mumble. "Why don't you feel bad, too?"

"nokks thrive on vodka. Besides, I drank less than you did."

"Lucky." I pout, and Steve smiles at me, which makes me focus, again, on his full, pouty lips.

I suppose with the whole nokk bonding thing, though, we should be careful about kissing. Make sure we both want to do it before starting anything. He says he likes me, but I don't want him to be saddled with me if that isn't what should happen. I yawn.

"Do you want to sleep some more?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then I will go to the river. When I return, I will bring you lunch."

I smile weakly at him and snuggle deeper into my bed. "Thanks, man."

By the afternoon, I'm feeling immensely better. Between pain relievers, electrolyte drinks, and sleep, life is back to normal. I do a few loads of laundry, take a long, hot shower, and eat the sub sandwich Steve brought me. When I'm done, I say, "Let's watch a movie!"

Steve looks at me like I've suggested that there's no such thing as nokks. "A film?"

"Yeah! I don't have any homework left. Do you?"

He shakes his head.

"Then let's watch something. Come hang with me."

"Yes. Okay. Right," he says. With some words, he doesn't seem to have an accent, because his English is so good, but then the lyrical way he says other things makes it clear where he's from. I adore that about him.

"We can watch on my laptop." I point to my neatly made bed. "Just come over here, bring your pillow, and we'll make it like a couch."

Steve stands for a moment, suspended, like he's debating whether it's safe. I pat the spot next to me.

He swallows, nods, and snatches his pillow, then puts it at the foot of my bed.

Steve settles in with his back to the wall, and I join him, closer to the head of my bed, with my back also against the wall. His feet are tucked up next to his ass, hands holding his knees. I'm sprawled out, my legs wide.

And I'm trying not to hyperventilate because he's so close to me. I want him even closer.

I turn my laptop on, navigate to a streaming service, and start scrolling. "Do you have a preference?"

He looks fascinated at all the choices.

"What? nokks don't watch Ghouloo or MonsterFlix?" I tease.

"We do. But my father is old-fashioned, so most of the time I was out in nature."

"Makes sense." I hover the cursor over The Princess Bride . "What about this? It's one of my all-time favorites. But we don't have to watch it if you want to watch something else."

"I … I do not know. We can watch what you want to," he says hurriedly.

I touch my shoulder to his. "Thanks."

The movie starts, and Steve at first pretends he's not into it.

"Do you want me to put subtitles on?" I ask. "I bet there's Norwegian."

"My English is good."

I grin at him. "I know it is. But that doesn't mean you don't want a little help."

Steve opens his mouth and closes it again. "I … So far I'm understanding it. Mostly."

I pause the movie and click the subtitles to Norwegian. Then it keeps going. The way he exhales and settles in next to me, I know I made the right choice.

"Why do you like movies from the 1980s?" Steve asks.

"No one ever asks me that," I say, a lump rising in my throat. I pause the movie again. "My grandpa—my abuelo—he loved them. He babysat me a lot when I was little, because my parents both worked, and he would always watch them with me. So they remind me of him. They also often have this cheerful innocence and optimism. I dunno. I like thinking about him when I watch them." I swallow. "He died two years ago."

Steve looks like he wants to give me a hug. "I am sorry, Brandon. You must have loved him."

"Yeah, I did. I still have my abuela, and my mom's parents. But I miss his big, booming laugh and the way he played double solitaire with me."

"I wish I could give him back to you."

"That's a nice thought."

"But we can honor him. Thank you, Abuelo, for introducing Brandon to these movies as he is now introducing them to me." I restart the movie, and Steve goes back to watching the screen, but it's hard for me to see for a moment, because my eyes are too watery.

As the movie goes on, I notice that Steve's not giving off any body warmth. All he's wearing is a thin black T-shirt and jeans. "Are you cold? I could get you a blanket."

"I am not cold."

"But …"

"Brandon," he says. I like the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. "I have a lower body temperature than humans. I do not need a blanket."

"You sure? Even if you don't need one, it might be nice."

He nods.

I get up anyway and grab the hoodie I washed today. I hand it to Steve, and he looks at it dubiously. I raise an eyebrow.

When he sighs and slips the hoodie over his head, I feel better. He needs to be comfortable. I'm like a furnace next to him.

My hoodie is huge on Steve. I'm muscular, plus I like oversized hoodies, and he's a little smaller than me. The hoodie is black, with the logo of my favorite social media streamer. He picks at the embroidery and seems content. Then I think I see him sniff the fabric.

I know the hoodie is clean, but that makes me wonder …

"Do I smell bad to you?" I blurt.

Steve shoots me a startled look. "No. Of course not."

"Okay. I was just worried. nokks might like different smells than humans, after all."

The edges of his ears turn pink. "You smell good, if you must know. You smell like sunscreen and the beach. I like the way you smell very much."

That makes me smile. Then I remember what he caught me using sunscreen for the other day, and my face heats.

So I focus on the Dread Pirate Roberts.

As the movie goes on, my eyes start to get tired. The next thing I know, it's dark, and my head is on Steve's bony but comfortable shoulder.

I yawn. "Hey. Sorry for literally falling asleep on you. I must still be worn out from partying last night."

"It's okay. The movie was good."

"Aren't you tired?"

Steve shrugs. "I do not need to sleep as much as humans do. It's more an indulgence than a necessity."

"Hmm. Well, sleep with me for a little bit."

"I beg your pardon?"

I think about what I just said. "I meant that literally, too. It's late. I'm tired. Lie down." I snap the laptop closed and haul him down with my arms around his middle. I grab the pillow on the way, and then we're lying together on my narrow mattress. He huffs but makes no attempt to move away, so I consider it a win.

I used to have this black cat who wouldn't want to be touched, but she also wouldn't want to be far from me. She liked being just out of reach, never quite able to be cuddled.

Steve reminds me of her. Only I've caught him, at least for now—and he seems willing.

With Steve in front of me, both of us on our sides, I have a sense of everything being right. I fall back asleep fast.

I drift to consciousness in the middle of the night with my dick hard against a soft ass. I thrust my hips and groan. That feels good.

Then I startle fully awake. I'm not with a girl. It's Steve in my bed.

Shit. I don't want to be a perv. I like him very much, and he likes me, too. But that doesn't mean I can just rub myself against him without his permission.

I pull back, not wanting to scare him. He might be awake, since he said he didn't sleep much. But he doesn't move, and before I can do anything else, sleep takes me over again, and I contentedly doze off.