Avi spent the last week buzzing about the plan he developed with in-ring stretches, and he managed to secure a time and date specifically for Mitch. After some artful prodding on Mitch’s part, Avi admitted that due to this being off the books, he wasn’t getting paid for his time. “It’s fine,” Avi insisted, “We’re friends!”

But the other night, Toby sent a text of his own to relay that the very same night happened to be the only night which he had any availability to get together. The Wickburg Art Museum was in the thick of setting up a new exhibit -a huge gain for them, Toby noted- and as their newly appointed curator, he couldn’t risk disappointment. He claimed that it may be weeks, if not months, before he had any free time at all.

Mitch assumed that Toby either withheld the entire truth or adjusted it to fit a particular narrative; regardless, he shouldn’t have disclosed the dates that he wasn’t available, because by doing so meant the game was officially afoot. However, his dick started working again for the first time in almost a year, so he was an easy mark.

The worst part: he didn’t have much interest whatsoever in sleeping with Toby. And though there wasn’t a guarantee that it would happen, no contract signed nor promise made, it was the world’s safest bet. But within a rapid span of time, the want to be wanted nagged far worse than any injury. If he got laid, maybe he’d be less out of his mind.

Because his reward for at last clawing out of the chasm of depression was for his dormant hormones to reawaken with the potency of a pubescent teenager. It wasn’t conducive to living with someone attractive, especially when he was on the receiving end of physical contact from said person almost every day. Albeit for medical related reasons. Not that it mattered to his dick.

It reached a boiling point during their most recent session, which Mitch cut short so that he could rush into the bathroom and get off. He wasn’t proud of that and tried his damnedest to keep it utilitarian, but his brain relentlessly supplied him with the memory of Avi asking what it was like to bottom; genuine and vulnerable and nearly undressed, splayed out on the bed, but not an invitation. Torture, that’s what it was. Look and admire, but don’t touch. Never touch.

When he came, he swore that he blacked out for a second.

And now he was terrified to be alone with Avi for another session, because he didn’t want to accidentally get hard and then have to explain that shit. Or pretend that it didn’t exist. Or, god forbid, if it happened and Avi tried to play it off as though it wasn’t a big deal. He could already hear Avi’s voice, all sweet and reassuring and calm.

Fuck that. He would rather eat glass than be validated about an inappropriate boner. Speaking of which, his jeans tightened as he drove, and he readjusted them while muttering a string of curses in both French and English.

So in came Toby, messy but flirty, and most importantly, familiar. A bad idea always, but also not the worst option, either. If nothing came of it, he could try his luck elsewhere, or die horny. Nate’s awkward attempts at flirting sprung to mind; that could be fun, he decided, provided they exercised discretion. If Jodie found out she’d never forgive him, because despite it being totally fine for other students to date one another, Mitch was forbidden from partaking.

To be fair, he understood why; being a walking disaster, he also wouldn’t want to deal with himself.

For every mile gone by, he wished that his tires hit a pothole hard enough to cause damage and keep him from going through with this. But paving started at the beginning of the season, so many of the haggard roads already received their patch jobs. He’d even gone on the most out-of-the-way route to get to the bar that Toby picked. The school was nowhere near the destination -quite the opposite- and that still wasn’t enough to keep him from still pursuing this. What a disappointment he proved himself to be. An absolute asshole. “Whatever,” he grumbled, exhausted and desperate to be anywhere other than Monument.

With the exception of Nate, no one else chomped at the bit to go out with him; and in Nate’s particular case, Mitch held little interest in someone that repeatedly failed to be upfront. His loneliness was horrible and unbearable, the last calendar year serving as an isolation chamber within his home and with his own partner. He didn’t need reservations that would only deplete his self-worth any further, he needed to be openly wanted.

And at least with Toby, there were no pretenses. Both parties knew what they were getting into. It was comforting, in a messed up way that everyone hated.

The piss yellow backlit sign of a gas station came into view, a lighthouse amid this storm of foul desperation. Pulling into its parking lot, he overlapped two spaces but was too pressed for time to readjust. He bought a 3-pack of condoms and a pack of American Spirits, and sped off into the night.