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Victor
Don’t turn around. Don’t touch me. Don’t speak.
Don’t go.
Fall asleep between me and the door. Give me your dreams, the dreams of someone who has never done anything wrong.
You tasted good. You sounded even better. But I’m not what you deserve.
I just needed to make sure you’d stay here, between me and the door.
And I don’t know any other way to ask.
Sometime in the night, you climb out of bed and put on a shirt, some shorts. I watch you go, because I’m not asleep, and I expect you to leave. Maybe for good. Maybe, after everything I've done, it was this that drove you away.
But you don’t leave. You pull back the sheet and climb in next to me.
No one ever comes back for me. Until you.
Ethan
I wake up on my back, tangled in sheets. Last night returns to me in moments, memories of breath and sweat and skin; I wouldn’t believe it happened at all if it weren’t for the clearer recollection of scrubbing dried cum off my stomach at three in the morning.
When I sit up, I feel a tug on my shirt and look down. Victor has lost his pillows and sheets, balled up in a tangle of limbs in the middle of the mattress, his t-shirt pushed up under his armpits. I see the curve of his ass, part of a soft cock under one of his long legs, ribs rising and falling with uneven breaths.
It doesn’t feel right to look, so I drop my eyes to his hand, which is wrapped tightly in the hem of my shirt, gripping so hard his knuckles are popped out and flexed. Not wanting to break open the quiet morning, I lie down again and close my eyes, pretending to sleep.
A few minutes later, he shifts his weight and coughs, sits up, mumblesfuck. The tension on my shirt disappears. A pause—I think he’s looking at me. It’s so quiet I can hear his tongue moving in his dry mouth. Something in the air feels heavy and wrong today, like the pressure change before a tsunami.
He coughs again and stands up, shuffling across the room.
“Don’t go to the party,” I say suddenly, keeping my eyes closed.
“Jealous,” he mumbles, voice sleep-thick and scratchy.
“No,” I lie.
I hear the synthetic rustle as he pulls on one of his swimsuits, then the door slams. Opening my eyes, I reach out and press my hand against the bed where he lay, feeling his warmth. I roll over and bury my face in it.
What the fuck is wrong with me. I take the coldest shower I can stand. Our schedule looks empty today while the crew sets up for a big shoot, so I pull on loose jeans and a Sounders jersey Peyton got me for Christmas. I drag one of the balcony chairs into the sun and curl up in it, flipping through the photo album on my phone in an attempt to ground myself.
This is who I am. This is where I live. These are my people.
Life isn’t that complicated, even when we try to make it so. Good and bad are more clear cut than we like to admit. Victor betrayed his sport, derailed his teammates’ careers, stole world records that shouldn’t have been his, and did it all with a smile, knowing his daddy’s money would shield him from serious consequences. Now I know he also used illegal drugs and blew countless strangers with no thought for the millions of young fans who looked up to him. If there’s anything he’s good at, actually good at, without the help of steroids, it’s manipulating and using people.
Look what he’s already done to me.
I can’t stand to see his face right now, so I dig through his wallet on the side table for a handful of euros and head out into the street, determined to finally find out the name of that castle.
