The Queerest [🗸]

so damien cortez is my muse

 "Hey," I say, and a soft smile rises to his lips, one that makes my heart hurt with so much want and fucking softness that it's hard to breathe. My arm slides around his waist, and he leans into my touch, just gently as we make our way down the hall.

He's tense at first, and I ask him if he'll feel more comfortable with me removing my arm from around him, but he shakes his head, and I tug him closer to me if that's possible. Damien eases into my touch, and soon, we're out of the school gates, shoes making the familiar path towards the lake.

Our lake.

Everything Damien wears seems perfectly tailored on him. The long-sleeved white shirt underneath the vintage oversized t-shirt that stops at the waistband of his jeans. Hell, even the way his curls are pulled up complete his entire breathtaking image.

I'm falling so fucking hard. 

So fucking hard that I don't want to get up, don't want to resurface. Sure, I was in deep since before that moment I saw him at that party earlier in the year, but now, it's like I've fallen further and quicker, like my entire heart has been accelerated in feeling.

But I don't want to scare him away, so I don't tell him that. Instead, I keep my arm slung around his waist, and he continues to lean into me, and when we finally make our way into the clearing, the shimmering blue-gray water and the patches of grass with faint dew dotting each stalk.

I only let go of Damien to grab the bottom hem of my t-shirt and tug it overhead. But then, I'm stuck in that position of pulling my shirt off, and I exhale a laugh. "Help would be nice."

And I can hear Damien's soft laugh as he approaches me, pulling my shirt off the rest of the way. While I'm ready to toss it onto a patch of grass, he brushes the creases away, folding it meticulously and placing it in my backpack, which I've dropped onto the grass beneath us. 

Then, I'm smiling and glancing up at him, and he's smiling too, eyes drifting to my chest. To the birthmark that sits at the top right of my chest. I've always been self-conscious about my body, about the narrow waist and too-skinny torso, but Damien offers me a soft look as though he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"You look perfect," he's whispering as though this is a secret between the two of us, and I can feel the heat in my face rising as what's likely a dumbass grin before I give him a light push, and he laughs, as I leave myself in simple shorts, diving into the lake, and submerging beneath the surface.

When I resurface, my hair is wet and plastered against my face. I push the hair away from my line of sight and exhale a whistle.

"Get in here," I say, my eyes finding Damien's as he stands at the edge of the riverbank, shoes off, jeans rolled up.

He shakes his head, and he's smiling, and it's the prettiest thing. "I'm going to wade, okay?"

So, he does—he does wade in, legs slowly submerging into the deep as his eyes rest on mine. He keeps on stopping himself, hesitating before wading further. 

I swim up to him, watch as the water starts to reach his thighs, and it can't be comfortable with the jeans. He slides his black vintage shirt and off, tossing it toward my backpack as it flies to the ground. He's left with the white, long-sleeved shirt that was beneath the over-shirt.

"What?" I gasp as he turns back to me. "No folding?"

He scrunches his nose at me, hands flying through the water to splash at me as I exhale a laugh. He keeps wading further in, slowly and hesitantly. When he's close enough for me to reach out my arms and touch him, my lips quirk into a grin.