Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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From the floor, Elliot could see a muscular silhouette in front of the minifridge. He had heard the suction-like opening of the door and then the clanking of kombucha bottles. The tiny LED bulb was bright enough to wash the room with a cool-toned light, revealing a hungover hockey player silently cursing at a half-eaten burger.
Pierce rubbed his left eye and massaged his forehead, desperate to ease his throbbing head. Elliot blinked, unmoving as he watched Pierce chug some coconut water. The sun had yet to swallow the moon, so Elliot guessed it was a few hours passed midnight. He didn't dare illuminate his phone, though - unwilling to give Pierce any indication he was awake.
The athlete finished the whole liter of liquid, tossed it aside, and then stretched his arms above his head. His cotton shirt rose up to expose the slim patch of hair running from his bellybutton to the inside of his waistband, making heat shoot through Elliot's core. He pinched his eyes shut at the sight, not wanting to remember the lower half of the athlete's body.
Without Elliot knowing, Pierce fixed his gaze on the blue-haired boy sleeping on his rug - or rather, pretending to sleep. Pierce didn't notice the difference. He examined the boy who used to warm his sheets and tickle his skin, recalling all his little habits. His breathing pattern was still the same - quiet and crashing. The hushed sound had lulled Pierce to sleep more than once, but nowadays he spent his nights trying to recreate Elliot's sounds, touches, and even scents in his dreams. It made his twin-sized bed feel like a mental prison.
Wanting an escape, Pierce side-stepped Elliot's legs and settled beside him. The dirty carpeting was flattened from decades of constant foot traffic and furniture rearranging. All the plushness was gone, leaving Pierce to sprawl over the uncomfortable spot behind Elliot. His ribcage was being pulverized by the solid subflooring underneath the thin layer of woven nylon.
"Is there something wrong with your bed?" Elliot wondered, keeping his back towards the tired jock. He refused to acknowledge the warmth radiating from Pierce's body. It loomed over the nape of his neck like a seductive snare.
"Yeah," Pierce murmured. "You're not in it."
Elliot's breathing hitched and he knew Pierce was too observant not to recognize the shift in pace. He controlled his lungs, forcing air in and out with precise timing. Every few breaths, he'd swallow - flexing the muscle underneath the dot-like birthmark on the side of his neck. Pierce calculated the movements, but remained distant. He was sober now so he wouldn't be the one to instigate anything physical.
