Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 2

"Good. Wait—you think I'm a virgin?"

"Well, aren't you?"

"I don't have to answer that—"

"Because you are—

"No, because I don't have to answer that if I don't want to—"

"Honestly, only a virgin would say that."

"You know what? Whatever. So nothing happened—good."

"Coming out is not nothing."

"I was drunk—I have no knowledge of that—it doesn't count for anything," I huff.

"Try telling that to straight people—"

"I'm not gay—you can't tell anyone about this—you can't tell any of my friends any of this—" The panic washes over me as I imagine what everyone will do if they hear any part of this. Whether it's true or not, he's right—nobody will care—my family, all my friends, the popular group will all disown me—or worse. Goodbye social life—hell, goodbye everything—I'll have nothing—nobody.

"Calm down, that's not what I meant."

"I know, but you can't. You have to promise me—"

"I promise."

"You promise what? I'll hear you proper say it—"

"I promise I won't tell anyone anything about what happened while you were drunk."

"You swear it?"

"I swear. I swear it—all right? I know what it's like, you know. I lost everything when I lost you."

"Lost me?" It's now that I wished I'd let him turn on the lights to the room—if only so that I can read his expression, because I'm pretty sure he's going to deny what he'd just said, that is, lie and say that he didn't mean to imply that he had feelings for me.

"Your friendship," his voice counters—perhaps a little too quickly. I clear my throat, but this time, purposefully. "It meant the world to me back in those days."

"My friendship? Really?"

"Yeah—look, I know you didn't really consider me very close, and you certainly didn't consider me as your best friend or anything—but, in a way, you were my best friend, because you were the only, real friend I had."

"I'm sorry." I clear my throat, the dryness returning. I take a sip of what little water is left in the bottle as I realize how terrible of a person he must really think I am—and how terrible of a person that I realize that I've been to him. "I'm sorry for everything—I'm sorry that I didn't have the courage to remain your friend—I was a horrible, terrible person."

"I forgive you." His dark figure rises up to stand and places a hand upon my shoulder, squeezing just before he lets go. "Get some sleep—I can drop you off in the morning."

"Where are you going to sleep?" I ask, confused. I've already caused him so much trouble—I don't want to be any more of a hassle than I've already been for him and I, certainly, don't want him to sleep on the floor on my account.

"Behind the counter, on my good old, air mattress." He pats me on the shoulder once more, before returning to the bathroom, shutting off the light. I pull the blanket over my head, hearing his footsteps as he shuffles through the darkness and into the kitchen and into his bed. Eyelids heavy, I fall into a deep slumber.

~ ~ ~

I wake up, still within complete darkness, to the furious flood of buzzing coming from inside my pocket, my phone vibrating like an angry hive of bees. I glance the time from the lock screen of my phone: 3 a.m. What in the hell is going on? What could possibly be so important at this hour?

Unlocking my phone, the names from all the messages start whizzing across the screen—all the names are from people within the popular group. My heart drops into my guts as I glean the gist of it all—they're asking where I am—if I'm really with Jordan—someone says that they saw me get picked up by him. They all know. I'm going to be in some deep trouble, especially with Brogan and Base.

Then, I get a call from one of them. Some odd name flashes onto my screen, drowning out the flashing of innumerable text message notifications—Travis—one of the newly minted, newly acquired people into the popular group. I must have gotten his number previously at some party or another—although, I certainly don't remember getting the number or putting it into my contacts, and I can hardly say that I even have a face to go with the name.

Feeling hardly threatened by such a new, faceless nobody of a name, I feel the urge to answer—if only so I can tell him off—which will be so much easier than talking to any of the others, especially Brogan or Base. Then, this Travis guy will spread the news and that'll help set the record straight so much easier—or, at least, that's my idea when I answer the call.

"Hello?" I ask, nonchalantly greeting the person who's never called me before.

"Is it true?" Travis' voice asks immediately—not even so much as a return greeting or anything else that can be considered polite.

"Is what true?" I ask, flatly.

"It's okay. I'll protect you. Is it true?" His voice, although sounding reassuring, carries something beneath and behind it, perhaps a well-hidden tinge of dreadful deceitfulness. Now I'm really annoyed.

"First of all—Travis—was it? Travis, I hardly even know you, so you've really no right to be calling me, especially not at three in the morning. Secondly, protect me? How would you protect me? And from whom would you protect me from? Lastly, you didn't answer my question—you just repeated yours—now, answer mine and don't make me repeat myself."

"Is it true?" His question is even more insistent this time.

"Oh, for f—what did I just say?"

"Is it true that you're gay?" Travis asks, calmly—throwing me off balance, driven to silence by the word that I dread to hear so much and how its come up and how much sooner than I thought it would. I was hoping that nobody from the group would jump directly into that conclusion, but I guess that I was wrong. Now I'm angry. Angry at the accusation and angry at the accuser.

Honestly, he wouldn't even normally be able to challenge me under most any other circumstance because he's—and I find myself hating myself for saying it, but—so far down the popular totem pole and so far beneath me that he may as well not be considered on it at all—I shudder at how elitist that makes me feel just to spell it out, but it is, in fact, the truth. Now that he hears a rumor that I might be gay—hold the press!—he thinks he can just waltz on in, challenge me to a duel, knock me down, and take my place in the upper ranks—it all sounds so stupid now that I mention it—I feel so stupid and so immature for even playing this whole popularity game. I laugh the kind of laugh that says he's an idiot, but also the kind of laugh that secretly and inwardly tells me that I am one, too.

"You're out of it—out of your mind."

"It's okay—"

"Whatever, Travis." I hang up the phone, truly believing that I've won—that's that—I've shut him up with not only a pure and simple affirmation of my straightness, but I've also shut him down with a simultaneous denial of his very character, his believability, the very essence of his integrity.

Just to be sure and just to be safe, I text Brogan and Base with everything that just happened with that Travis idiot. I'm especially sure to insinuate that he's probably drunk or on drugs for even thinking that I might be gay. I shudder as I try to get back to sleep.

Nothing will come of this now. Come morning, it'll have practically swept itself under the rug of nonexistence—I tell myself. I basically called him a crazy liar—and crazy liars get ousted from the popular group. With my word backed by Base and Brogan against his, nobody will believe what he says and they'll kick him to the curb—but I can't help but feel that if I'm wrong and if I've miscalculated, perhaps I'm just describing what the popular group will, in fact, do to me, instead.