I Want To Kiss You In Public [ LGBT+ / MM Romance ]

8. What's your number?

We walk the way back in silence. Hidden behind my shades, sneaking side glances at the quiet Michael next to me, I can't help thinking about gay François. I picture them both tucked away in the reading nook at the Shakespeare, having it out. It sure churns my stomach to imagine them together. I might be a homophobe. Damn it. There's already so much wrong about me, now I'm a homophobe? Life's not fair, really.

François is gay. That, in itself, doesn't exactly come as a surprise. The fact that he's stalking Michael doesn't come as a surprise either. It's not like the guy's ugly; even as I speak, sunlight bounces off his curls in an attractive way. Now, the important question is: Is Michael gay? If he is, is he interested in François? But why should I care? I'm being ridiculous. Or am I?

After all, the first time I saw Michael, wasn't he looking at me strangely? And in a public toilet!

I'm the one who took him to the best bookstore in Paris, by the way. And honestly, am I not better looking? Not that I would... But if Michael is gay, shouldn't he be attracted to me? That's it, I'm officially losing my mind. All because of François. I never thought I'd live to see the day.

Rewinding the last words we shared outside the Shakespeare, I start over-analysing everything. How they got out of the shop, laughing at some secret joke, and the way François kept leaning toward Michael conspiratorially.

"Didn't buy anything, François?" I took an enormous drag of my cigarette.

"Not today." He was smirking. "I come here all the time, though. The staff know me."

I said nothing, but my leg started twitching. So what, if no one knows me? Michael doesn't need any help to pick up a book, he's not mentally disabled as far as I know! François rearranged his perfect strands while staring at my limp mop of hair, then point-blank asked Michael out, wanting to know if we would go to the cinema and watch a movie with him. "We," he said, staring pointedly at Michael.

"We have to work on this Dorian Gray thing," Michael said.

François made a face. "You can do it later. There's time."

Rich, coming from the teacher's pet who never fails to submit all his work in advance. I shoved two sticks of gum into my mouth to keep myself quiet.

"I'd rather be done with it," Michael responded.

Yes, he said that. I started fuming. Why not go around town wearing a sign that says 'I was forced to work with this idiot, please send help' while you're at it? And all the while I thought he'd started to like me. François gave us a fake smile, frozen at the edges, and said his goodbyes. Michael and I have walked in silence since, occasionally exchanging looks, but for once I'm happy no one's trying to break the silence.

When we reach Place Monge, Michael stops. "Where do you want to go?"

That's a valid question. Not that I'm trying to impress this guy, but considering the state of my bedroom, or the fact that my father barely categorises as a life form, I'd rather keep my home life a very well-guarded secret. Besides, going to Michael's seems like the perfect plan: if his bedroom walls are covered with posters of men, then I'll know he's gay, and I can move on.

"Can we go to your place? Mine is a proper mess."

Michael leads the way, smiling. "If you're lucky, you might even meet my mum."

Okay, gay or not, that's definitely a weird thing to say.

Michael's flat looks like a model home, like it was decorated only to take pictures for a magazine, and it wasn't really made to live in. Perhaps it's because they just moved in, and their stuff isn't there yet. Or perhaps they're renting it as such. Save a few plants and generic books with nice pictures of boats on the covers, most shelves are bare. Everything's maddeningly neat, and the cream linen sofa looks so perfect that I would never dare sit my arse on it.