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Blair chuckles across the room, low and a little throaty but light, and I hear the rustling of clothes, not daring to look anywhere else aside from the popcorn pattern above me.
“Thank you.” There’s something in his voice that breaks my resolve, cuts through my embarrassment, and I drop my eyes to find his.
The fond smile and pink hue to his cheeks is enough to settle my nerves, and I drag a hand through my hair as I try to shake off the weird feeling and half chub in my pants.
“Thanks for showing up.”
He cracks open the door and raps on the frame. “I’ll always come for you two. Either of you. As long as you need me.”
Blair gives me one more smile, offering one to his sleeping brother before waving goodbye and shutting the door behind him. It takes a whole five minutes for me to calm my dick down, and maybe I can chalk it up to the beers making me frisky.
Something scratches at the back of my mind, though, and when I crawl under the covers and turn out the light, there isn’t a chance in hell that I’m sleeping.
My mind is torn between worrying about Shiloh, worrying about Blair, and I can’t get the image of him standing there—the moment right before the towel dropped—out of my mind. When my dick decided it liked something that it saw.
My dick doesn’t like anything. Not unless I wake it up first.
I pull the covers back and walk to the door as quietly as possible, sneaking through when there’s just enough space and leaving it open a crack as I make my way down the hall. A couple rooms over—across from the bathrooms—I stop in an open doorway.
Corvin is sitting on his bed in the single room, a notebook on his lap and wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. He’s messing with a band in his hair, holding back his tightly coiled black curls, and hasn’t noticed me standing there yet.
“Hey.”
His eyes immediately flick over to me. “It’s late.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I just wanted to say thanks.”
“What for?”
I rest my shoulder on his door frame, crossing my arms and biting down on a smile. “For calling Blair.”
He shrugs, neither confirming nor denying, but he was the only one at that party that would have even noticed us, let alone called someone to help. Plus, for as much as Blair does around campus, I know his pool of acquaintances isn’t exactly a long list.
“I appreciate you for it. For everything you’ve done for us.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me this time, just drops his gaze back to the notebook in his lap and digs his teeth into his lip. I wait for a beat, then clear my throat.
“Corvin.”
He looks up again, and this time I can see RA mode creeping in.
“Do you still have one of those cards? The anonymous queer support thing?”
When Corvin initially put in the request to have Shiloh and I transferred to his dorm building after the attack, he’d given Shiloh a card. Someone to talk to who wasn’t me, because for a few weeks he entirely shut down. Shiloh and I shared everything, but after that it was like there was a barrier. One wrapped in barbed wire.
Eventually, things went back to normal, and I know his Secret Support Person—as he called them—had a lot to do with that.
Corvin digs around in a table beside his bed, pulling out a color coded index card sorter—wow, I thought only people like my dad used those to organize bills and passwords and shit—and takes out a shiny, rainbow colored card from inside. He shakes it in the air, and I cross the room in quick, short strides to take it as he holds it out.
Alphabet Mafia Alliance
Buddies for Bi-Curious, Closeted, and all around Fruity Friends
The back of the card hosts a QR code for an app with a list of pseudonym support people, each accompanied by tags like, ‘Bi, ‘Ace’, ‘Trans’, ‘Questioning’ along with a note beside each name that says, “Chat with me”.
“And this is completely anonymous?” I ask, and Corvin nods, tucking his sorter away and settling against the wall.
“Only what you want to share. They’ve each picked an alias. You can use your real name, make something up, it doesn’t matter.”
