Around me, the pit is in chaos, everyone is helping with the setup, and probably wondering what I’m doing here. I’m starting to wonder the same.
I’m holding the tent’s vinyl that smells like rubber and regret because Otis handed it to me, not because I volunteered.
Toulouse peeks out from the sleeve of my hoodie, wedged against my forearm with his little nose lifted like he’s above it all.
Same,mon amour. Same.
I shift the roll of vinyl to my other hand, trying not to wrinkle my nose as it squeaks against my fingers. A banner is halfway hung above me, flapping listlessly, apparently as tired of this season as I am. Bad pop remixes blare fromsomeone’s loudspeaker in a cup holder, distorted by the plastic.
The entire vibe is bad, but it’s still better than silence and isolation. Better than lying in the hotel bed with a fan spinning circles above my head and the ghosts of a conversation withMamancurled around my heart.
After I spent an age talking in circles, saying things like“it’s not even real,”and“he’s not even nice to me,”and“I’m not even gay,Maman, I’m just… tired?”I finally stopped long enough for her to speak.
“It’s okay to be confused,mon soleil,”she’d said, her voice soft and understanding in a way only she can.“Give yourself time to figure it out. People can fall in love with a person, no matter the gender.”
And yeah, that helped.Sort of.
For five whole minutes with Maman’s assurances in my ear, I felt okay, normal, and not like I was falling headlong off a cliff made of identity crises and inconveniently attractive rivals.
But then I hung up and was alone again with my panic in that sterile hotel room. Alone with nothing but a headache, the cloth I’d used to wipe off my cum of shame, and the lingering image ofPetitCrews telling me that we’re not friends.
I shake my head free of the memory and tug my sleeve up an inch to check on Toulouse again. He is now fully lounging in the crook of my arm.
“You’re no help,” I mutter, and he squeaks once. Offended, probably.
“Delacroix!” Otis calls from somewhere near the tool cart. “You holding that vinyl because it’s your emotional support object, or are you gonna actually do something?”
I scowl and stomp over, the roll dragging behind me like a very sad, very unenthusiastic tail.
“I’m participating,” I deadpan. “Look at me. Team player.”
Otis gives me a look. “You’ve been in a mood since Poland.”
“And yet you still wanted me to lift things.”
“You’re tall.”
“Maybe you should get a stepstool next time instead, hmm?”
I drop the vinyl to the ground with athunk. My fingers are twitchy. Always are when I’m tired, wired, or thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“Delacroix, for real?” Otis ignores my tantrum as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “You’ve been weird the last couple of days.”
“Define weird.” I grab a bottle of water from the floor and take a long sip.
“Broody, quiet, less… slutty.”
I snort. “Slander. All of it.” He raises his eyebrows at me, making me roll my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re here physically,” he agrees, taking the water bottle from me. “But mentally? You’re at least one country over.”
I grunt and look away, wanting to deny his accusation.
But I can’t because some part of meisstill back in Poland, rewinding every glance, almost touch, and hiccup like it might reveal some secret code I missed.
And the worst part isn’t that I’m still confused.Mamanwas right, fuck the labels. Who cares if I’m gay or bi or something in between because it’s not about everyone.
It’s abouthim.
