Page 64 of The Invisible Roommate

“Not possible.” Gerard’s presence was like being pelted by the fierce spray of the safety shower after encountering corrosive materials in the lab. He was soaked to the bone with awareness for the songwriter he wanted desperately to impress and undress.

As if reading Emory’s mind, Gerard said, “Pretend I’m in my underwear, then?”

“I—” Emory’s mouth went dry. That mental image was a sucker punch of hormones.

How, after flirtatious comments like this and nights of kissing and groping and writhing in their shared, squeaky bed, had they still not gone past second base? Wait—was getting naked third base? That would mean having sex was a home run. If anyone were to make a trading card for Emory’s sex life, his batting stats would be abysmal. He didn’t even know the rules of the game.

Maybe they stayed clothed out of practicality. Without clothes, Gerard wouldn’t know where Emory was. That was an easier explanation to accept than admitting he wasn’t brave enough to ask after what he wanted. Doing so required Emory to confess that he was a virgin and opened him to a worse possibility: rejection. He’d had enough of that for one lifetime.

“That’s a bad idea,” Emory huffed, even as his dick grew fuller and pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.

Gerard bore an impish smile. He clearly knew exactly what he was doing. “Well, I’m all out of ideas, then. Unless you’d like me to sing it.”

Easily, Emory conceded the guitar, because otherwise, he was going to spend the next several hours imagining Gerard in his low-cut underwear and doing absolutely nothing productive.

Over the chords Emory had chosen, Gerard improvised a static melody, which he explained meant that it didn’t move much; if he were to graph the melody, it would look a lot like a straight line.

Each time Gerard stumbled over a scientific concept presented in the lyrics, which sounded clunky to begin with, Emory played a game on a fresh piece of paper. First, he’d write the idea out as if he were writing a true research paper for peer-reviewed publication. Next, he’d write it out as if he were regurgitating that science for a pop news article one might find on a splashy culture website. Lastly, he’d summarize it in a sentence with simple words like it belonged on the page of a picture book beneath a very colorful illustration of a lion wearing a tie and a pair of reading glasses.

By step two, Gerard understood most of it, but breaking it down further clearly allowed Gerard to pull it apart for the juiciest sounds in the line and trim the excess.

Hours passed as they volleyed ideas, totally keyed into their work.

Brow furrowed cutely with focus, Gerard stopped and started his strumming several times, murmuring repeatedly to himself about the “Prince theory” as shared by hit record producer Max Martin.

“By using the same melody for the verse and the chorus and then dropping a prechorus in between—oh, you’ll need to write us a prechorus—the listener automatically will think, ‘Huh, I’ve heard this before’ when the chorus with a drastically different energy comes in. Pop is almost always about repetition.”

“Familiarity, as well, I’d assume,” Emory offered. “The human brain craves familiarity as a form of comfort. From a purely evolutionary standpoint linked to our fight-or-flight responses, we’re less likely to flee from something we’ve previously survived exposure to. It draws us in.”

If he’d have blinked right at that second, he might’ve missed it, but with his vision locked, he caught Gerard pitching forward with an unfamiliar yet inviting hunger in his eyes. Almost instantly, he snapped back and erased it from his expression, as if desire were something he could easily turn on and off like a microwave.

And it was desire. Emory felt certain of it, and he couldn’t let it pass this time without speaking up. “Why did you stop?” he asked.

“I’m not stopping.” Gerard toyed with his pick.

“No, I mean why did you stop yourself just now from…” He grasped for the words to finish that question. Jumping my bones? Ripping my clothes off? Even if Gerard did tear him out of his jeans and unleash the semi he’d been hiding for the better part of an hour, there’d be nothing to see underneath. Emory would be better off putting layers on at this point. The night before, he’d considered men’s lingerie and how he could’ve gotten his hands on some.

“You’re a virgin,” Gerard said plainly as if this explained everything. His face was impassive.

“Everybody starts out a virgin, Gerard,” Emory rebuffed.

“I know that.”

“And what if I don’t subscribe to the patriarchal social concept of virginity?” An unsubtle defensiveness burst out of him.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’ve never had sex with another person before.”

“What are you, an amusement park attraction? I don’t see any sign stating you must have had this many sexual partners to ride this ride…” he teased darkly.

“Are you saying you want to ride me, Emory?” Gerard asked in a newly husky tone. An obvious tent had pitched in his pants, but his face remained neutral. And Emory’s mind scrambled itself so badly that he was left stammering.

“Yes or no?” Gerard asked, voice like a firecracker on a quiet night. “I’m autistic. I’m not the best at reading social cues. I can’t see your face. All I have are your words. I’ve been having fun hooking up with you, but I figured you were a virgin based on the story you told about Anderson being your first kiss. I didn’t know if and did not want to assume that you were allosexual or even interested in anything more than kissing, with me or anyone.”

Surprised by the thoroughness with which Gerard had considered all of this—the fact that Gerard had considered it at all—Emory croaked out an utterly unsexy, “I am interested.”

A slow, sultry smile graced Gerard’s lips. “With me?”

Emory choked on how blunt this sexual conversation was. Growing up, sex had been whispered about or written and underlined on a blackboard in health class along with lectures on abstinence. Hell, Coach Block probably used the word abstinence more than he ever spoke the word sex aloud to that group of chuckling, immature eighth graders squeezed into scratched-up desks. “Yes. With you,” Emory whispered.