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unknownjpegs · 8 months ago

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in the closet

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t out to your dad?”

“I tried!”

The floorboards in the middle of Xavier’s room creak when Adam paces them. He remembers dancing around them to sneak out as a teenager. They’re well worn in the areas where his feet would land, jumping in from his window.

Xavier’s childhood bedroom becomes absolutely suffocating with every single squeak as Adam walks back and forth from dresser to bed, dresser to bed. There’s still posters of his favorite athletes on the walls—very apt, considering the type of guy he’s ended up with. Adam looks handsome in the outfit he’d picked for Christmas dinner. Nice cashmere sweater, fitted chinos, loafers. Xavier was in a old crew neck sweater that had a hole in the back from where he’d snapped the tag out with his teeth.

Adam doesn’t just look handsome. He looks furious. His pale cheeks are tinted maroon, sharp brows yanked in tight as he fumes. He always kept his hair swept back from his forehead in a very careful way, but strands keep falling forward. It would be cute, if the situation weren’t so awkward.

“Bullshit,” he snips, finally pausing to stand in front of Xavier, who sits on his bed. Adam’s willowy with his height, only an inch shorter than Xavier, but much leaner. He’s got a classic rowers build, as Lark had put it when he’d introduced them. It was been, simply put, absolute lust at first sight and then a relationship sort of stumbling along after.

Telling Adam anything about his family after only dating him for a few months felt…wrong. Like he was divulging their secrets to a stranger; we grew up poor, my mothers a nurse, my little sister is autistic so she’s going to ask you weird questions, but she’s very sweet, by the way my dad has no idea that I date men. Adam didn’t need to know these things, only now he did. Because he’s here, in Boston, on Christmas, with Xavier’s family just downstairs.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Xavier says lamely, putting his hands to his hair and then behind his neck. He groans out, stares at the ceiling where a poster of Alice Deejay keeps almost falling. “I didn’t know how to tell him! He’s—I mean, he’s—my dad is a good guy, Adam. He’s just—”

“Republican?” Adam snorts, crossing arms over his chest.

“Fuck no,” Xavier replies hotly. “He’s a union worker—he hates republicans—stop it!” Xavier stands quickly, presses himself forward. Adam doesn’t give inches, stares up with narrowed, venomous eyes. Xavier likes that about him, usually. Most of the time, arguments can quickly dissolve into irritated, frantic sex that resolves everything. Not happening in his shitty twin bed, one floor above his family. His father.

“Let’s just—let’s have dinner.” He reaches for Adam’s hand. It doesn’t move for a long moment, until he finally sighs and takes it. Xavier laces their fingers. Adam has thick calluses from rowing. They feel fantastic down his sides, over his spine, usually. He squeezes their palms together, brows upturned apologetically. Adam leans in then, gives Xavier a kiss that lingers for a long moment. Arms entwine around each others necks, kiss deepening.

Xavier day dreams about his mothers sweet potato casserole while they kiss.

—

Naturally, the fight happens directly in the middle of dinner.

“You’re being rude,” Xavier seethes, leaning across the end of the table. His father sits directly across, on the other side. Men at the head, sort of thing. Which placed Adam very awkwardly beside him, tucked close to Emily, who was squeezed in next to Jesse who was staring at their father with her giant, disapproving eyes. She’d recently gone vegetarian, so she was also at odds with the senior Wolffe.

“Does anyone want another drink?” Xavier’s mother stands from the table quickly. She gives Adam a charming, Massachusetts mother’s PTA smile, all teeth. Hospitable even after a double shift at the hospital. “Maybe more wine?”

“Please,” Adam says, returning the expression, only his is pinched and his voice is desperate.

“How am I being rude?”

“Say boyfriend,” Xavier hisses. He hasn’t put his knife down, so it sticks up in his fist like a weapon, holiday ham still clinging to it. His father continues cutting through his own food, without looking up. He’s not made eye contact with Xavier much in the last few hours, since he’d walked in with Adam and introduced him as boyfriend. “Not friend. He’s not my fucking room mate.”

“Language.” His father raises his fork slightly at that, but otherwise continues his meal.

“I like your sweater,” Emily says softly. She’s the only Wolffe at the dinner table with black hair, which she’d been dying for years now.

“Thank you,” Adam replies, smiling kindly at her.

“He is,” James Wolffe starts, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Your boyfriend.” It seems a difficult sentence to get out and he still doesn’t make eye contact, chewing his food thoroughly before swallowing. “So, he is a boy, that is your friend—”

Xavier tosses the knife down on the table, laughing in a way that is ice cold and devoid of humor.

“Well, we do a lot more than friends, Dad.”

“Xavier James Wolffe,” his mother snaps, overfilling Adam’s glass of wine. Red splashes over the good tablecloth, the one that gets used every year. His grandparents had sat down at this table, with this tablecloth.

“Do you need a cigarette?” Tess asks desperately, tugging at Xavier’s sleeve. She’s leaned in close, trying to communicate with her eyes alone, but it isn’t working. Because Xavier is staring directly at his father, who is staring directly at his son. Both of them have the same ruddy color to their cheeks, a vein throbbing in their temple. Xavier kicks back from his chair at the same time James Wolffe does.

“You are an asshole!” Xavier starts, walking around the table.

“Do not talk to me like that, in my house!”

Adam sips at the overfilled glass of wine.

—

One month later, they break up.

Xavier is panting when he pulls away, his face cradled in warm, callused hands. Adam groans, looking down at him. Those strong, athletes palms brush Xavier’s hair back from his forehead, away from his temples. They massage softly, sweetly and Xavier closes his eyes to the sensation—to the attention. His mouth is sore, but in that way he sort of likes. Enjoys the affection more, but he’ll take both. He kisses wetly from Adam’s hip up to his rib, lathes his tongue over his sternum and higher.

“You’re ridiculously good at that,” his boyfriend comments, breathing still irregular. His lays the back of a hand over his face and sighs out contently.

“Aw shucks, thanks,” Xavier coos as he leans in to try and get a kiss. Adam laughs and puts his hand to Xavier’s cheek, pushing him away.

“Gross, not directly after,” he says. Xavier dives in again, playfully but Adam dodges it, rolling onto his side and then away, off the bed. He lays there still, soaking in the warmth that he’d left on the mattress, the smell of him—lake and nature—on his pillow. Xavier tucks it up under his chest and watches Adam begin to dress.

“Oh.” Xavier frowns and then tries to smile, but his brows pinch upward. “I thought you were spending the night.”

“I have early practice. You know I have to be up at like four in the morning.” Adam leans over and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Xavier’s temple. “But after, we uh,” he pauses as he unfolds to stand straight. He fidgets with the strings on his sweatpants, glancing around Xavier’s room. “I’ll come over after practice, okay?”

“Sure.” Xavier turns onto his back, hands on his stomach. For some reason, he waves, because he actually isn’t sure…what else to do. The awkwardness lingers in his stomach like a fat, heavy stone as Adam leaves his room. The feeling lasts through out the night, when he doesn’t get any text messages. He feels an itch forming between his shoulder blades, an ice cube between his ribs the size of a fist starting to melt.

Adam tells him over breakfast that they should see other people.

“What the fuck?” Xavier throws his hands into the air. The bagel and cream cheese have one giant bite from him out of it, still half wrapped in tinfoil. It almost hurt that Adam had remembered his favorite flavor, onion. Even got it extra toasted.

“I don’t want to be back in the closet, Xavier,” Adam explains. He sits across from him at the absolute poor excuse for a table. It’s a round, pub style one that he was pretty sure Benny had simply found one day and brought up himself. As is most of the furniture in the apartment. Xavier tucks his arms around his waist. That ice feeling is back, only now it’s simply a cool puddle that makes his appetite disappear.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on.” Adam flips a hand in the air, looking away, uncomfortable. “I know you’re bisexual, Xavier, but—”

“But what? I’m not bisexual enough? I mean, I gave you fucking head this morning,” Xavier laughs—and then the laugh cuts off and he swallows a hard lump that suddenly wedges itself behind his trachea, because he had given Adam head that morning. And Adam hadn’t said no. Hadn’t stopped him, but, the way he talks, makes it so clear that he’s been thinking about this seeing other people break up for longer than a morning.

Xavier feels like chewed up, discarded gum suddenly. Like his insides are dirty from it. His throat burns, the urge to wipe at his mouth strong. He’s used. Easy. His face goes blisteringly hot. He doesn’t find the courage to say that at all.

“I’m worried about you,” Adam says, but the concern feels as fake as their entire relationship suddenly feels. He stands from the table, but Xavier stays sitting. His arms tuck further around himself, cupping his ribs protectively. Xavier doesn’t watch Adam start to leave. “I just feel like you’re going to do what your dad wants. And—he’s going to want you to end up with a girl, Xavier.”

“Fuck off, Adam,” he snaps finally. His teeth clip together with it, nearly bite the tip of his tongue. He almost wishes he had—almost wishes something physical actually hurt, to explain the way his chest is twisting about. To help with how badly his stomach suddenly burns. He swallows to stop himself from saying anything else and listens to the sound of Adam’s annoying, squeaky sneakers as he leaves.

—

Xavier is rolling the joint as his sister flicks through his phone to find the appropriate playlist. It bluetooth connects to a speaker and she makes sure to turn it up just loud enough to probably annoy their downstairs neighbor.

Tess tosses him a lighter and leans back on the couch, sighing dramatically. She’s shaved her head down again, leaving wisps at her ears, microbangs that look fluffy. She’d been with him when he got his bridge pierced, so she has a matching one—and more. Tess looks authentic. She looks like herself. Like, someone utterly at ease with shaving her head one day and wearing a mens button up and leather shorts. She kicks one of her booted feet up onto the coffee table and holds out her hand.

Xavier passes the joint.

“I don’t know how to look more gay,” Xavier explains tiredly.

“You wear flannel like every day and you have your tongue pierced. Xavier. You’re fucking gay,” Tess replies puffing on the joint. She looks at it with an arched brow. “You’ve gotten way better at this.” He holds out his hand and she tucks the joint between his fingers, grinning wickedly. He can’t help but smile back at her.

“But people look at me and think I’m straight, still.”

“You listen to techno music.”

“And I like hockey.”

“You have a mullet,” Tess leans over quickly to ruffle his hair. He swats at her hand, the joint nearly falling from his lips. She takes it from him and leans back on the couch again, glaring. “Adam was an asshole, but—” she cringes, takes a drag from the joint, waves off the smoke in the air. “Dad freaked him out. I can’t blame him for that. Like, fuck him? You know? Fuck that guy. If I see him, I’ll kick his fucking knee out—but, Dad’s a lot. That was a lot for someone you were only dating for a few months.”

Xavier sinks into the couch, blinking up at the beige ceiling. The weed makes him suddenly feel warm and cold at the same time, dead in his limbs and exhausted. He rubs a hand over his face.

“What if he’s right?”

“About?”

“Ending up with a girl because Dad wants me to.”

Tess is quiet for a moment, her thumb nail in her mouth, joint burning away between her fingers. She’s always been bad about passing back, but he doesn’t hassle her for it. She’d traveled all the way from LA to come see him, drop of the hat type of shit. Tess does that for him; always had. Always will. People used to confuse them for twins when they were younger, had always asked her where’s your twin, Theresa? And she’d have to correct them.

“Xavier,” she starts, leaning toward him.

“Well, well, well,” Benny’s sleazy drawl makes either of them look up. He stands there, in a loose fitting tank top that has the American flag on it and a giant X spray painted over it—custom work of his, since Ben never missed an opportunity to both thrift clothes, and alter them to look worse. Or better, in his opinion. Tess lights up at the sight of him, launching herself from the couch to throw arms around his neck. He picks her up in the hug, swinging her around as they both dissolve into high pitched, loud laughter.

“Wh-when did you get in town?” he asks, still holding her around the waist. They’re the same height, especially since they’re both in combat boots. She slaps her hands to his cheeks, shaking his head.

“Baby brother emergency, I flew in.”

“Big spender.”

“You know it.”

They squawk at each other, a back and forth conversation that Xavier tunes out, but listens to none the less. Watches Benny’s open, happy expression and Tess gesturing with her story. He sinks further into the couch, into himself. He blinks lazily, trying hard to be content. To be warm and happy. To feel something, other than dread.

What if he’s right?

“So you w-wanna come?”

“What?” Xavier blinks and sits up, glancing between Benny and his sister.

“Party.” Benny claps his hands together in front of Xavier’s face, making him recoil and cover his ears. “Tee says you ne-need to get out the apartment. Have fun.” He contemplates saying no. He could say no. Benny is the kind of guy that takes no for an answer, lets it be a complete sentence with no explanation. His sister is the same, but they’re both looking at him, and making him anxious. Making the pit in his stomach feel bigger. So he smiles, in a way he hopes is convincing and stands.

“Okay. Party.”

—

Xavier closes himself into the bathroom with giant, gasping breathes for air. He folds his hands over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. His heart beats out of rhythm, out of sync. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s even pumping blood correctly. If his limbs are going to decay and fall off because it’s not working right. He’s not working right. He lets his hands fall, pulls in big desperate breathes of air.

“You’re okay,” he whispers to himself. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” The party thumps loudly at the bathroom door. It begs for his attention, screams at him to come back. Continue, drink more, smoke more. He’d lost track of Ben by accident, and his sister hadn’t tagged along. “You’re okay” he repeats again, folding hands behind his neck.

Xavier feels briefly pathetic, thinking he needs either of them. Like he isn’t a grown adult. Like he isn’t a man. His father’s face flashes across his mind, this horrible painful strike of a memory, of being at Sunday mass, at his father smiling down at him, proudly. He slaps his hand on the door, the other to his forehead.

It takes what feels like, a very long time, for the panic attack to go away. Xavier trembles with it, fixes the collar of his shirt. He tugs at the crucifix necklace until its out so he can hold onto it. Then he feels silly, childish, and stuffs it back in. Xavier spares himself a glance in the mirror to poke his hair back into place.

When he shoves the door open, someone shrieks.

“Oh fuck,” Xavier dances around the door, quickly grabbing onto the person he’d slapped it into. The girl stumbles as his hand clasps around her bicep. She stares up at him with giant, pretty brown eyes that blink furiously. “Oh fuck, I am so sorry.” He lets go quickly, taking a step back, jumping when he runs into someone else. It propels him forward and closer to her—and he’s shocked to hear a giggle.

It’s a nice sound. Something dainty and soft.

“Wow,” she says, tucking strands of hair behind her ears and smiling up at him. “You have huge hands.” He looks down at them, palms up and then back up at her. She’s blushing furiously, curved into herself slightly. “Uh, I didn’t mean to say that.” Xavier feels his smile return a little bit, the back of his neck still clammy and cold. He slowly extends a hand, wraps it around her shoulder and laughs.

“Sorry about that.” She bites her lip and shakes her head.

“That’s okay.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence, that is filled by the pounding music. He tucks closer to her.

“I’m Xavier,” he says, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her bicep, to her petite forearm. She looks absolutely mesmerized by the trail. It makes him feel good, to see her look at him like that—like he’s something to be in awe of.

“Daisy,” she replies, her smile demure. Daisy, he thinks. My dad would like that name.

—

More than half a year later, Xavier is falling onto the couch.

“Tell me if this is offensive.”

“Yeah?”

“No, like, please, tell me if this is offensive, I won’t be mad, I swear.”

“Why d’you think it’s offensive, Xavier?”

Benji leans at the other end of the couch, arms folded over his chest. He’s trying to hold in a smile, but it’s fighting it’s way onto his face, just the way Xavier likes it. He wants to coax at that grin, tell a shitty joke that’ll have Benji bursting with a real laugh. Instead he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and starts tucking it around them.

“You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I don’t,” Benji replies with a charming nod. He starts to wiggle, get himself comfortable. Benji has to pat at the pillows around him, arrange them just so. Xavier thinks of it like a cat that’s clawing things up to get them perfect. He watches, mutely enjoying the show as his hand curves around Benji’s ankle. His own long legs are tossed up onto the coffee table, green and red striped socks on.

The apartment is horribly decorated, and all of it is Xavier’s doing. Ben hates the holidays and Lark has been dragged away to meet Matilda’s parents for the first time. They’d all wished him luck at the airport while Matilda rolled her eyes, their tones grave, their hands patting his shoulders like it was the last time they’d ever see him again.

Still, snowflakes hang from the ceilings and lights are strewn up around the edges of the walls. A terrible little fake tree stands in the corner, where underneath presents are wrapped and tossed. There’s one that has “DO NOT OPEN, CONTAINS BOMB” that Xavier is fairly certain is for Benji, from Benny, even though he won’t be around when the clock strikes midnight to watch Benji open it up and find shiny maroon Doc Martens.

Doctor who? Xavier asked playfully, watching Benny tape the box shut haphazardly. Fuck off, Xavier.

“I just like the movies, okay?” he whines pathetically, patting at Benji’s thighs to get the blanket tight around him, the way he knows he likes.

“Colonizer,” Benji sighs, tucking hands behind his head and scooting down further, so his legs can fully drape over Xavier’s lap.

“No one can resist A Charlie Brown Christmas,” he replies sagely as he turns the TV on.

He isn’t home for the holidays, because, truthfully, he hasn’t talked much with his father since the Adam Incident, which is how Jessie refers to it. She’d called him earlier that day, with Emily and their mother, to wish him a Merry Christmas Eve. Asked, even then, if he was going to find a Greyhound bus to take him home.

Xavier feels a little lost without the traditions of his good ol’ Irish Catholic family. Without them; without his sisters bothering him, or his mother making him extra food because his stomach never gets full. Xavier hates admitting that he feels lost without his father too, but he can’t approach that. Doesn’t know when he will—if he will. His hand squeezes around Benji’s ankle, looking at him out his periphery.

“Maran says hi,” Benji comments and Xavier fully turns then. He crawls over his boyfriend, Charlie Brown forgotten.

“What? Tell him hi—tell him to call—facetime us. It’s already Christmas over there!”

“Maran is Jewish.”

“Oh my fucking God, I am offensive, aren’t I?” Xavier blurts, his eyes widened in horrified surprise. It makes Benji burst into that laugh he’d wanted so bad, this loud thing that causes his head to toss back. His legs drum a bit, jostling Xavier, who starts to settle over his lap. He leans down, grinning ear to ear, cheeks painful with that stretched smile.

Instead of calling Maran, Benji sets his phone to the side. He puts his hands to Xavier’s cheeks, brushing thumbs over his skin, his head tilted slightly as his laugh peters out to just a smile. Looking down at him, hands braced on the couch and on Benji’s shoulder, he feels adrift—in the best sort of way. Not lost at sea without a life jacket, but calmly drifting, the beach still in sight.

“M’not saying Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Holidays?”

“That’s fuckin’ cornier, Xavier—”

He gets cut off by the press of a kiss. Just one that turns to two, that turns to many, until Xavier is fully laid on him. Their arms wrap up around each other, the kissing turning deeper, but not yet intimate. Just—kissing. For the sake of kissing, for the sake of being close in a way that can convey differently than words. Benji kisses him so thoroughly, Xavier feels dizzy when he pulls away. Their warm breaths fan each others faces, Xavier’s cheeks pink and Benji’s that warm dark color that lives pretty underneath his brown skin.

“Nice,” Xavier says, slightly ruining it just to make Benji laugh again.

#writing #hj #college au #xw #bp #bp x xw

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