“Ugh. Like I said.”
Luke actually feels light inside. Buoyant. A foreign feeling for him.
~*~
“Friends?” Luke asks when they’re in the Jeep and putting on their seatbelts.
“There’s the guys from work. We hang out at the gym together. We have beers sometimes. Watch the game.”
“Ah, your people: the jocks.”
“Luke,” Hal says with a sigh as he pulls out into traffic. “Why do you always have to say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“You know like what. Like we’re so different or something. Like I’m a jock and you’re a–”
“Nerd?”
“You’re not. I wish you’d quit saying that.” And there’s more of that frustrated anger, like back at the restaurant, when Hal was trying to insist that Luke seemed unhappy in New York.
“I say it cause it’s true,” Luke says, deciding to pull at the thread, just because he’s a little shit, just to see what will happen. “It’s always been true. You with your giant shoulders, and your big square head, and football practice. And me hiding under the bleachers, getting swirlies at halftime. In the women’s restroom, I might add. Jock.” He points at Hal. “Nerd.” And then at himself.
And then he sees the way Hal’s jaw clenches in the dash lights; his knuckles whiten as his hand curls tight around the wheel. “Stop talking like that.” It sounds like an order.
And because he really, really is a little shit: “Why?”
“Because.” The word bursts out of Hal’s throat, half-growl, half-gasp. “I’m tired of the way you keep stereotyping people. You stereotype me, and you stereotype yourself. Like I’m this dumb ball player and you’re some ugly little dweeb nobody ever liked. Like we’re just…just…stuckbeing those things. And we can’t change, or grow, or be our own people. Like we have to be what other people think we are.” He’s panting at the end, fighting to catch his breath.
Luke lets his head fall back against the seat, stunned. “But,” he says, quietly, “nobody ever did like me. Nobody but you.”
Hal’s jaw could cut stone, but he doesn’t say anything else.
~*~
The silence verges on oppressive by the time they step into the elevator at Hal’s building. Luke knows he fucked up, because he’s always the one who fucks up, but he has no idea what to say after that last stupid thing he said.
He glances over at Hal as the car trundles silently upward, but his awkward apology shrivels on his tongue. Hal looks straight ahead at their golden reflections, brows and mouth drawn in an expression of acute sadness.
So Luke faces forward, lets the words build inside him until they’re a physical pressure behind his breastbone. He’s used to that feeling; he’s been checking his words when it comes to Hal for years.
It’s once they’re inside the apartment that Hal says, too casually, “So what about you? Anyone special in your life these days?”
Luke’s fingers go numb and his messenger bag slips off his shoulder, hits the floor with a thump. “No.”
Hal stares at him, though he shifts, uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck. “No boyfriend?”
Luke can’t swallow. Can’t breathe. Can’t bend at the waist to retrieve his bag. “What does it matter?” he asks, quietly, breath catching.
Hal finally looks away. “I just want you to be happy, is all.”
“Well…I am.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said.” Hal shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up. “Look, if it’s alright, I’m gonna grab the first shower and then hit the sack. It’s…I’m kinda tired.”
“Right. Yeah…that’s fine.”
But the bathroom door closes before he finishes the sentence.
