Breathe, Tommy (BxB) (Frat)

Four・Childhood Best Friend Protocol

In my wildest, unprecedented dreams, existing outside on the front lawn of the Kappa Epsilon house makes sense. Here, in the flesh, I think I've tripped over stupidity and the concussion I've received has made all prior reasoning for staying the heck away from this fraternity, and all fraternities included, exit my brain. I don't have a chance to reconsider as Christian leads me inside.

There's barely anyone here, several lectures and practicals still in session, just a few muffled voices that come from upstairs.

Cigarette smoke in the humid air yet there's a 'No Smoking' plate drilled to the first burgundy wall I see; couldn't scream fraternity any louder. As Christian passes us by the archway to the living room, I can't feel anymore out of my element, fading into my shadow in this grand statement of a house. The dark, polished, wooden flooring is abruptly replaced by speckless white tiles and cabinets that mimic the hue of a deepset forest, and a questionably clean surface comes into view. The smell of smoke is stubbed out with lemon-scented cleaning spray; couldn't scream fraternity any more indistinctly. I notice a 'wet floor' sign nearby and realize I'm dripping all over someone's mop work.

Christian peels his T-shirt off and when my eyes wander his smooth skin and toned upper body, I have to force myself to remember why I'm here. Endorsement. The Childhood Best Friend Protocol. Ultimately, proving you're not gay.

"Pretty clean in here," I comment, cutting my eyes away as he wrings out the water in the sink, then I bin the empty to-go cup from my substitute coffee and hang by the kitchen island.

"You sound surprised."

"Where's the mess?"

"Judgemental." He looks over his shoulder at me. "It's a frat house, not a hoarder's home. This immaculate cleaning job is the result of Drew Kovac up the asses of every pledge."

"Including yours?"

He points his hip out and cranes his neck to look at his butt as if to double-check. "Nope, he's not up my ass, lucky me. Think I'd be shitting cannabis if he was."

"This is incredibly T.M.I."

"And philosophy isn't?"

"Pretty sure I'm not here to talk about your ass's philosophy."

"Aristotle has entered the chat."

"Who made you admin? Exit him back out."

"Wouldn't that be peachy?"

I think I underestimated how nonchalantly gay some fraternity guys can be, and just how irrelevant being stereotypically macho and anti-feminine becomes when they're talking about asses and being up one.

"Another coffee?" Christian offers, concentrating on filling the electric kettle with water. "Made by myself, of course."

My eyes find a resting spot on the curve of his lower back and it feels invasive staring long enough to notice the two faint indents of dimples. Stop staring, he could catch you. Worse — someone could walk in.

"Another coffee it is," he decides. "How do you take it?"

Not nonchalantly gay, obviously, clearly, blatantly gay. He didn't mean it that way. It's just coffee. Yet his ass was a topic of conversation. My chest feels funny.

"Strong it is. One sugar, right?"

I nod.

As he makes a show of emphasizing the amount of instant coffee granules he's spooning into one of the two black stoneware mugs, lavender-dyed, tight curls drag a fragrance into the kitchen that's part overwhelming and fully cough fit-able. I'm ignored by the girl who beelines for Christian.