My Best Friend Is GAY?!? (boyxboy)

Part 1:

Part 1:

    This can't be happening.

    This absolutely, positively, most definitely, surely, 100%, certainly is not happening. Nope. It's not what it looks like. Because what it looks like, is bad. Very, very, bad. Really bad. So it's not happening. My eyes are playing tricks on me.

     Because I know, for a fact, that that is not my very, very, straight best friend. On the steps. Leaning comfortably on the rails. With a drink in his hand. And staring lovingly. And flirting. WITH ANOTHER GUY.

     We're at a party, some end of school party for only seniors at some random jocks house that Cabe is friends with. Cabe Johnston. That's my best friends name. You know, the one NOT flirting and making googly eyes with another guy.

     No one notices them but me, and for his sake, I'm thankful. Everyone is shit-faced and plastered or making out. They don't notice him.

     Cabe is a tough guy. A big , brawny, buff, but easy-on-the-eyes guy. The guy who gets every girl he wants, but is waiting for his 'one'. The guy that plays sports like they're his life line, the guy that every guy wants to be and every girl wants to be on top of. That's my best friend. The guy I'm proud to say I've known since the first grade when he kicked a soccer ball at my face because I said I liked The Hulk better than Superman.

     And now he's starring dreamily at another guy, while he stands on the first step of the stairs that lead to the second story of whoever the hell's house this is.

     In case you were wondering, or care at all, I'm not staring at them directly. Oh, god, no. I'm in the kitchen, leaning on the counter in front of the sink with a red plastic cup in my hands and looking at their reflections off the window. To anyone and everyone, it just looks like I'm bored out of my mind.

     I take notice of the other guy, the one who was standing right across from Cabe on the stairs. He's a bit shorter than Cabe-but then again everyone is, he's got them crazy giant Russian genes-but very handsome. The guys got fiery short red hair and bright neon green eyes. He doesn't have freckles and he's rather skinny and is in skin tight clothing. A blue pair of skinny jeans and a white t-shirt. He's the opposite of Cabe. He's looking at Cabe like he's a piece of meat; the way a guy would look at a girl he's going to screw, or guy, I guess.

     Cabe's intense blue eyes are soft and loving, a look I haven't seen him give anyone. Ever. Jealousy courses through my veins, but not in the way fan girls would assume. I'm jealous I don't have somebody to look at like that, and for a second, I forget that he's looking at another guy.

     Then I'm not looking at them anymore, I’m thinking. About my parents, about my life and future and about love-which I don't believe exists. I've never been in love or had anything more than a crush or a girlfriend, for like, two weeks. But that's not why I don't believe in love, because that would be an idiotic reason. Love is just a stupid overreaction of hormones and then it'll disappear. It always does, it always will.

     “Tag!” a voice yells from behind me.

     I startle and turn around to see Ryan swaying back and forth a bit. “Hey, you okay?”

     “Yes! But you're not drunk! So you're not okay!” he grabs my arm and pulls me past the steps and I realize that Cabe and the guy are gone.

     I'm forced to play a drinking game that I suck at. It's not a big deal though, because being good at a drinking game is nothing to be proud of, but neither is sucking at said drinking game. By the time I need a break I wobble back into the kitchen and stuff my mouth under the facet and take large gulps of water.

     The world is kind of spinning and I stand up and wipe my dripping wet mouth with my arm, which isn't doing anything but make me even more wet. I giggle at that. Dirty.

    I look up and in the reflection of the window, against the dark night, I see Cabe coming down stairs and running a hand through his dark dark hair. His shirt isn't buttoned correctly.

     I grip the sink. I feel sick.

     And then I am.

     I am 50 percent sure my best friend is gay.

A/N:

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