Kevin's POV

I first realized my crush on Damon after English class my sophmore year. It was maybe the fourth week of school, and I'd already deemed him a decent human being. He hadn't stolen anything from me as he was rumored to like to do, and he'd protected me from a handful of bullies. I had his number, we had talked a few times, but it wasn't a close friendship by any means.

We were studying the Great Gatsby at the time, and we were just far enough into it to get a taste of a few of the main characters, early in the book, before everything goes to shit.

I was leaving my class, feeling less enlightened about the book than when I had entered, when Damon approached me with a few of his skater friends.

He didn't say anything to me for a time, just stared at me long enough for me to feel uncomfortable, then said, "Kevin is a bit like a rose, don't you all think? An absolute rose?"

I know that he was only saying it to look intelligent and funny, to get a laugh out of his friends. But he quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald at me! The way he said it, the way the words absolute rose fell from his tongue and bounced on my conscience for the rest of the day, was new to me. It made me feel timeless and beautiful, like everyone had no choice but to admire me because I symbolized affection. It was the nicest complement anyone had ever given me, if it was even a compliment.

I read into it way too much, but I was only fifteen, and I had never been considered attractive by anyone, let alone been flirted with.

We got to be friends pretty quickly after that. He charmed me effortlessly, protected me like a knight in shining armor, listened to all of my problems, kept me up at night in ways that I had thought only hard drugs and paranoia could achieve. I became addicted to the feeling too quickly, and now I'm going through withdrawal.

I haven't spoken to Damon in eleven days. Between Cal, Seymour, and Abel, I've been distracted enough for it to seem like only a few moments have passed, but when I'm alone, I count the days. Eleven. I often wonder if he'll ever speak to me again. Part of me says "Good riddance! He was no good anyways," but a deeper part just wants my best friend back.

As if on cue, my phone vibrates.

From: Damon :/

You wanna come over, maybe hang out for a while?

I stare at my phone for a while, then drop it and pace around the room for a thirty paces, then sit back down.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

To: Damon :/

I'll be around in a bit.

I take a deep breath and look down at my clothes. I look well enough, for going over to a friend's house. I grab my house key, my wallet, which is absent of a driver's licence or sufficient cash, and head out the door.

Damon's house is in walking distance, only a few minutes away, so by the time I had really left, I was already there. I stand on his doorstep, finger hanging over the doorbell. I've never had to ask permission to go to his house, not even the first time I had visited.

I ring the doorbell, feeling more like a stranger than ever.

It takes a moment for him to answer the door, and my hands swing back and forth aimlessly. When the door does finally swing open, it seems as though it's been thrown open with force. Damon is shirtless, his hair disheveled, jeans hastily buttoned but not zipped. He has a lingering primal scent about him, one that smells of hunting or sex.

I grimace, turn it into a smiley face. The sight once would have made me drool, but now it makes me feel disappointed. Bro, sort your life out.

"Oh, Kevin! Hey! I hadn't thought you'd be here so soon." Damon trails off with a fake laugh, purposely blocking as much of the doorway as possible.

I smile at him tightly. "Well, I do live just down the road. Like four minutes down the road. By foot." I try not to sound too petty about it, but I don't think it works, my words absorbing the bitterness like pancakes suck up maple syrup.

Damon nods, then says, "Well, I sort of need to, like, clean and shit real fast, so-"

"Day? Aren't you coming back to bed?"

Oh hell no.

The red-headed waitress from Fred's stands in the hallway entrance, hair mussed, lipstick smudged, grinning like she's won the lottery.

She's wearing a Panic! At the Disco pullover, and not much else. I nearly growl at her. Firstly, how dare he sleep with this buttfaced bimbo minutes before inviting me over to chill, and secondly...

"Damon," I say, trying to remain calm, "Is that my sweatshirt?"

"Uhhh..." Damon looks away. "I don't recall."

I get feel my pulse quicken, my muscles tense, hands drawing themselves into fighting stances. "The Panic! sweatshirt that cost me forty two dollars of borrowed money, the one that you swore to keep safe for me, the very sweatshirt that you promised never to lend to anyone else? You gave it to her to wear, after you had sex with her?"

Damon looks apologetic and doesn't open his mouth for half a second. For that half second I forgive him. Then he shrugs and

says, "She asked if she could wear it. I didn't know if you still wanted it."

I blink at him. "You didn't know if I still wanted it?" I repeat, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question. "Damon, I haven't talked to you in eleven days, because you said you'd come to me first. That does not mean that you can give my favorite belongings to the nearest playboy bunny," I spit, glaring at the girl in the background.

Damon frowns at me, actually frowns. "Don't bring Hailey into this."

I gesture wildly, not even sure what I'm trying to communicate. "Don't bring her into it?!" I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. "You brought her into this when you put her into my sweatshirt."

Damon sighs. "Maybe we shouldn't talk today. Obviously, you aren't ready. You're still holding onto some hard feelings, some resentment, and I can feel that. I'll text you next week."

I purse my lips, feeling confused and insulted. "I am ready to talk to you. I am not ready to confront you freshly after sex with someone who's been nothing but mean to me. I am not ready to confront my favorite piece of clothing ever on another human's naked body without my approval." I can tell that I'm being a little bit nit picky with him now, but I'm still offended.

Damon rolls his eyes. "I meant that I didn't know if you still wanted your old clothes. You know, you recently having become a fag and all."

I flinch at that. He's crossed the line. My blood begins to boil, rising to my cheeks, drawing my eyebrows into angry angles. "So, we aren't friends anymore? Is that what you want? I can accommodate that gladly."

Damon, for a heartbeat, looks afraid. He leans closer to me. "Listen, Kev..." I wait for him to finish his sentence while he stares at me. "I just can't do this with you when you're angry. Stop by when you've calmed down enough to see things straight." The bitch- I mean, Hailey, giggles, and Damon closes the door in my face.

That bastard didn't even ask if I wanted my sweatshirt back.

I rip through Damon's lawn because to hell with his grass, making sure to leave ugly mud tracks in my wake. How I never realized that he's such a tremendous asshole, I'll never know. I spot a rose bush at the end of the driveway, and they're just barely red enough not to be pink. I want to kill those roses, I want them to bleed.

My anger is bordering on irrational, so I sit down on the end of his lawn to think.

Someone once told me that humans always do what they think is best. How on Earth could he have thought that was best? My phone buzzes in my pocket.

From: Damon :/

I'm sorry Kevin... Can I call you later?

I roll my eyes. I want to tell him that sorry doesn't fix everything. I want to tell him that sorry doesn't suck the word fag from my memory, that sorry doesn't make that bitch un-wear my sweatshirt. But none of that happens.

To: Damon :/

Okay.

I get off of the curb, storm to my house, and slam the door. I'm thankful that my dad is at work and my mom has gone to the store for an hour or two, because then they won't hear the noise.

I flop onto the couch and scream silently into the plushy cushions. Why does he have to be able to get through my walls so easily? Why can't I just get angry enough to yell at him? I sigh deeply, inhaling deep seated dust and breathing it back to its place.

My phone vibrates, and I pick it up, preparing my defenses. I will not let him worm out of this one. "Hello?"

"Hey, Blue. What are you up to, cutie?"

Abel. My cheeks blush, my defenses turned into jelly. "Um," I say, intelligently. I can't think straight because my neurons are too busy playing volleyball with the word cutie. "I, I'm just. You know. Nothing." I face palm myself.

Abel laughs. "That sounds interesting. So, you're free, then? I was wondering if you wanted to catch a movie later, or get dinner or anything like that."

I take a deep breath, trying to gather my scrambled brain. "Let's make dinner." I wince at myself. Why did I say that? "It could be kinda fun, yeah? Like we could just throw something together-- that is, if you want to, but we don't have to, um, do that. If you don't want. Movies are nice."

Abel snorts. "I like your idea. Maybe later today we can go grocery shopping and then go back to my place." The last sentence takes on a little bit of a seductive tone, and I take a deep breath.

"Yeah?" My voice comes out breathier than I hoped, nearly begging him to say more, and it makes me want to slap myself.

"Mm hmm." Abel is purring into my ear, and I can tell that he's teasing me on purpose and loving it. "You could even stay the night, if you wanted." I blush, wanting to continue this conversation so badly, but not knowing exactly what to say. Abel continues for me. "You could wear my clothes again, because I love the way you look in them, and we could just chill, that'd be cool, right? And then we could cuddle-"

"Oh, hell," I blurt, because as much as I want him to keep talking, I don't think I can take much more of this before my brain explodes from anticipation. "I- I have to go do... Stuff. Now. I'll text you l-later, mkay?"

"Yes, Blue," he laughs through his nose, sounding triumphant. "Go, take care of your 'stuff', and I'll talk to you later."

Once he's hung up, I hang my head in my hands. I'll need to learn how to handle these things better if I'm going to keep hanging around Abel, because he's a pro. My phone buzzes again, and I check the caller ID. Damon.

I huff, angry at him for ruining my mood. "Hello?" I try to keep my tone icy.

"Kevin, listen. I'm so, so sorry."

He sounds sincere, but I promised myself not to let him off so easy. "Do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

Kevin hesitates, but when he speaks again, he sounds confident. "For giving away your sweatshirt. For sleeping with Hailey right before you arrived. For calling you a-" His voice falters. "A fag," he whispers.

I feel like crying, and I don't know why. "That hurt, Damon. You know? I never thought you'd be cool with the gayness, but I never thought you'd be like that."

Damon sighs. "I know. I just, I was nervous about Hailey not liking me, so I tried to assimilate? I don't know. It won't happen again, I swear."

I nod, finding myself accepting his apology before getting my own approval. "Okay. If you promise, then I guess it's okay."

Damon says, "Great!" I can feel that he's grinning now. "So, do you wanna go out tonight, maybe to the arcade?"

His reminder of my new evening plans makes me smile. "I can't. I have plans with Abel."

There's a cool pause, and I can feel Damon judging me. I pretend that I can't. "Okay. Well, have fun or whatever." He doesn't sound so happy anymore, and for once I'm okay with that.

"Okay. I'll talk to you later, then." I hang up before he can answer and change into a different sweater, a softer, larger, more comfortable one.

I want to look nicer than I do, but I'm not sure how. I eye the bottle of burgundy nail polish on my dresser hesitantly. I'd bought it on a dare, but what would it look like? Would Abel like it? Would it freak him out?

There's only one way to find out.

I call Abel at five forty-five, twenty minutes later, feeling irresistible in my cream yellow sweater and freshly painted nails. Damon is not going to ruin this day.