Paint and Grease

Chills

Theo

I'm curled up in bed with the blankets hiked to my chin and I still feel chills, even for spring's balmy night. Perhaps if I think hard enough, I can imagine Mat beside me, still happy, his grease-tinged scent warm against my body. The sleep I sleep is not sound, but gentle. I dream of Mat.

I stumbled into robotics orientation by accident, just a shaggy-haired, weak-kneed freshman with paint chips under my nails. They took one look, thought an artist would be just the spark of creativity the dying team needed, and welcomed me into the fold on the spot. It was there that I met Mat. My first thought was that I was paying a little too much attention to the glimpses of muscle I caught beneath his hoodie. My second thought was that I wanted to be on the same team as him.

As expendable freshmen on a team full of computer nerds, we were assigned to the dirtiest fabrication tasks: drilling, tapping, and lathing the most finicky pieces, while attempting to avoid our shop teacher's wrath. It wasn't a far cry from the painting I loved. But the beauty of fabrication was that two men could be uncomfortably close to one another while assembling the robot — and no one would think a thing.

I came to associate him with the smell of hot metal and WD-40. I found myself distracted by the thought of his body pressed against mine. Hell, I even caught myself considering how I'd paint him. Perhaps with rippling muscles, like some scantily-clad Greek god.

No. Mat was better than any god.

I never explicitly transformed my dirty thoughts in art, although my sketchbooks inexplicably ended up filled with drawings of him. I never painted him, though.

The rest of the school — they probably figured it out years ago, maybe even before I did. As the artsy loner, I basically fit the stereotype of a gay man.

But my father. No. I don't know if he was simply clueless — he basically lives under a rock — or if he refused to see what everyone else was seeing. He never suspected a thing. And I'd like to keep it that way. Not that he's homophobic, per se. But he wouldn't be thrilled to find out that his already contrarian son wasn't going to give him a pretty daughter-in-law.

Which is why I try not to think about what I saw on social media. The photos of my drunken mistake are blatant proof, and while my father doesn't have social media — or talk to any parents who might find out — I still don't want to know how he'll react. It might just be a matter of time.

When I squeeze my eyes shut, I dream of Mat's arms wrapped around my body. He's only wearing a t-shirt, and I can feel the sculpted muscle and burning skin right through it. His fingers trail from my throat to my stomach, skimming over each rib along the way. They dip under my waistband, tugging.

My eyes flutter open. It's 5:00 am. I swear, cover my eyes, try to fall back asleep, but instead I'm hit with the realization that turns the pit of my stomach into ice.

He sent me a text last night. I've been called slurs before, but coming from Mat — it feels so much worse.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't stop the tears from dampening my pillow.

Mat

I should probably stop assuming people's sexualities.

Saturday meant work at Ace Hardware. Conveniently for them, I was scheduled for the 11 to 4 shift — long enough to keep me in the shop during peak hours, short enough that they didn't need to pay for a meal break. Inconveniently for me, it ended up consuming most of my day, which was normally a point of complaint — but I kinda liked having something to do.

Except it was a slow day, and I may or may not have brought a polaroid of me and Theo, and I may or may not have left it on top of my register, and I may or may not have been staring at it. I also may or may not have been crying.