Transparency and Rebellion - One-shots

the roadtrip

I worked with this kid from Indiana pretty early on in my college career. We had the same basic supplemental ideas on what to do in life, and relatively similar personality traits and characteristics—in the sense that we could joke with each other properly, and I could share something personal with him understanding what I was going through.
I think the first time he realized I was gay was late in August of our Freshman year--I kissed one of my good friends on the forehead, then on the lips before driving away. He asked if we were just good friends messing around—we were, but in his mind this was some form of chicken for us. I suppose he was more into the college partying scene than I ever was; I assume he was familiar with the basic frat hazing rituals that totally escaped me at the time.
I didn't really need to explain anything to him, and couple days after, he knocked on my dorm room and kissed me on the forehead, laughing before I even said anything. It caught me off guard, and at this point he was so much like a good friend—closer to a brother—than anything of a sexual preference.

August came and went, and the sexual tension between us slowly dwindled down to a stop towards the end of the first semester.
I recall one time, just a few days prior to midterms, I walked into his dorm to him smoking a blunt out a half-opened window. He offered me a hit, we smoked for a short while and listened to some fucked eighties disco tracks and Melodies From Mars. I found a distinction between him and the rest of the rave scene this school seemed to offer. I saw them quite frequently in the halls, and he typically accompanied them to whatever new party came to light every Friday or Saturday night.
Back then, I guess I saw guys like that as less of an imminent threat than kids in the scene opposite to any sort of rave culture. It was less of a shock, also, because being who I was—less out than closeted, and only to a select few amount of people, I leaned more towards kids who I knew had seen two guys kiss before—at least at one point. Now, I can gravitate towards whoever I feel comfortable with, and that includes those seemingly anti-anything-and-everything kids, too.

I wasn't getting anywhere with what we were smoking, but I was feeling paranoid--he kept jolting at any slight hint of a sound coming from outside the dorm, despite the door being locked and his roommate being nonexistent. That was another thing--I asked him one time if he liked the idea of having a roommate or if he thought it would be too much work coming home to another drunken mess he'd need to talk into going to sleep at a reasonable hour, though I knew from personal experience that he would probably be the drunken mess out of the two of them, no matter who it was—he told me he'd be afraid of something of his getting stolen. I don't know what he had that someone would want to steal. He had probably seven thousand CDs—all that he'd burned himself—because his car didn't have Bluetooth, a bunch of mangy vans and a watch his dad gave him as a little kid.

"God forbid someone touch your sneakers."
He shook his head.

"God forbid someone touch my meds, bro."

He had four separate orange Kaiser bottles set out on his nightstand, he seemed to use more as a trophy case. They were all empty, and even when they weren't they were just basic sleep help and antidepressants.

In mid summer I called him and one of our mutuals I didn't know too well to ask if they'd want to come down to Meriwether—there were these golf playoff tournaments every summer and I knew vaguely where there was a big lake where they let kids swim freely. They both agreed, and I took charge of the caravan situation with my mom's old Flex.
I knew a kid who lived down in Meriwether, I knew several, actually, but I really wanted to invite this one friend in particular because I knew he would appreciate the scenery and white-suburban feel juxtaposed with this shitty minivan covered in stickers and filled with smoke from a few poor college goons.
He sat in the front with me, but fell asleep halfway there, so I talked with this girl I'd known from being in my high school junior and senior chem classes.
I don't exactly know how she knew my friend, but they hung out in his little group—not the rave-goers, moreso the art kids, I suppose, because she kept wanting to talk about music or avant-garde feelings rather than anything outside the car. I knew if my friend were awake, he'd be going on about some dumb shit that just came off the top of his head, rather than anything that required deep thinking and any sort of attention. I guess that's what attracted me; his opposition to talk about anything even slightly academic. I knew he was ahead of me in a lot of the more analytical subjects we took together, but he seemed to relish in this anti-pressure system he had going on in smoking and sleeping for eleven hours a day.
I took off my jacket and tried to gently stuff it under his head so he wouldn't break one of his teeth out from hitting the window sill too hard. He kissed my hand and then smiled when I looked off the road to his face, and he tried to suppress a laugh.