Bromosexual

Yet whether I won or lost, it always felt like winning when my opponent was Stefan Baker.

It was almost three in the morning when we no longer had the energy to wrestle or play any more Xbox. Stefan yawned and stretched so wide that he nearly knocked me in the face. He said something about tasting cheese, hopped off the bed to clean up the spilled bowl of my new favorite orange snack, then took it all downstairs to the kitchen. I followed him, padding barefoot through his darkened house where, just four or five hours ago, the whole baseball team was crowded around the living room TV playing games and shouting at one another. It felt like a century ago. Was it possible that this night could last forever?

We went back upstairs and into the bathroom down the hall from his room where we quietly brushed our teeth at the sink, being mindful not to wake his baby brother who was in a crib just across the hall. Stefan let me have a spare, unopened toothbrush from the medicine cabinet—it had a white handle with blue and red striped bristles—and let me share his peppermint toothpaste.

“Here,” he mumbled when we were back in his room, tossing me a pair of red gym shorts and a loose gray tank. “Only if you want something clean to sleep in.”

They smelled just like him, the clothes. “Thanks.” I changed right there while he turned his back to flip through channels on the TV—despite the volume being at a nearly inaudible setting—and set the sleep timer to an hour.

His clothes fit me loosely, but they were so comfortable. Was it just psychology playing a trick on me? Or did his clothes have some kind of magic about them?

When he hopped onto his bed, I did the same, occupying the other half of it. The bed wasn’t very big to begin with—maybe a double, maybe a twin, I don’t accurately remember the size—but I remember Stefan giving me a short, questioning look. For a split second, a jolt of fear surged through me. Did he expect me to sleep in the guest room down the hall? Am I supposed to find a sleeping bag in his closet and take the floor? Was I expected to hop back down the stairs and sleep on his couch?

Then the moment was over as fast as it’d come. He scooted over a bit, nodded at me, then said, “G’night, bro.” Then he put his head on the left side of his huge pillow, turned away from me, and shut his eyes.

He was occupying only half of the bed, practically sleeping on the edge of it to make room for me. Now I really wondered if he actually intended for me to sleep elsewhere and was now having to compensate for my clear desire to sleep in here with him.

Screw it, I remember thinking. Let it happen. Just let it happen. You worry too much. You think too much.

Let it happen.

I settled on my side of the bed, put my head on the other side of his pillow, then lay down on my back to sleep.

But of course I didn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t.

Not with Stefan Baker lying there just two inches to my right.

He was wearing this form-fitting plain white t-shirt, maybe one of his baseball undershirts or something. It hugged his broad shoulders and wide backside, which seemed to be the only thing that filled my eyes whenever I barely turned my face his way.

That, and the way his breathing made his whole body inflate, then deflate. Inflate, then deflate.

Inflate, then deflate.

Was he asleep yet?

I turned my body toward him, finding lying on my backside to be too uncomfortable. Or maybe I just wanted to face him so I could fall asleep looking at the back of his head and his clean-cut neckline.

“Are you one?” I recall him asking the first time I was here.

Then Stefan began to stir. I shut my eyes quickly, pretending to be asleep. Stefan shifted on the bed, groaning slightly, and then he resettled into a new position. My eyes were closed, but I could hear his breathing had gotten significantly closer.

My heart beat so loudly, I was sure it was rocking the bed.

The excitement that danced inside of me from one end of my body to the other was making me feel ill.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally dared to open an eye.

Stefan had rolled onto his back. His eyes were still closed and breath still slowly drew in and out of him. I was convinced he was still asleep.

But with Stefan on his back, his big shoulder was now pressed against my chest. I stared at the side of his face forever. I admired him so much. His strength. His personality. His confidence.