Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 29 | Gotcha

THE HOUSE WAS BUZZING with life, a far cry from the usual suffocating silence James had become accustomed to. As soon as he stepped through the door, the overwhelming sensory assault hit him like a wave. The deep bass of jazz—smooth but with an edge—pulsed from the record player in the corner of the living room, the rich tones vibrating through the walls and floor. Smoke, faint but noticeable, hung in the air like a veil, mingling with the scent of cheap liquor and the faint trace of someone's cologne. A combination of scents that smelled like freedom, or at least, something forbidden.

James swallowed hard, gripping the edge of his jacket as his eyes darted around the room. He couldn't quite believe it. Everyone here was treating him as if he were just another person, not the outcast he had been made to feel for so long. There were no sneers, no whispered slurs cutting through the air like knives, no one waiting to corner him. Instead, people smiled—smiled at him—as if they'd never noticed the bruises, the beatings, the rumors.

A girl with red curls approached him first, offering him a drink from a tray, her eyes warm, her lips quirked into a polite smile. "You look like you need this," she said with a wink, and James hesitantly took the cup, the scent of alcohol sharp in his nose. He wasn't much of a drinker—he hated the way it burned, how it tasted like fire and regret. But tonight...tonight felt different.

The liquid was bitter on his tongue, but he forced it down, letting the warmth settle in his chest as he glanced around, uncertain. He tried to blend into the background, moving quietly through the crowd. He grabbed a small plate of food—some hors d'oeuvres he couldn't name, though they tasted surprisingly good—and ate while trying not to make too much eye contact. His heartbeat was in his throat, every instinct in him waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But nothing happened. People laughed and danced, brushing past him without a second thought. One of the jocks—Joel, he thought—actually clapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward a bit with the force, but his smile seemed genuine enough. "You alright, man? You look like a ghost."

James gave a nervous chuckle, nodding, though his voice didn't quite work. Is this real?

Every instinct told him this couldn't be happening. His mind was screaming for him to turn around, to leave while he still could. But the easy flow of conversation around him, the laughter and warmth, was disarming. Even the smell of food and alcohol in the air seemed to wrap him in an unfamiliar comfort. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like an outsider.

And then, he saw him.

William.

Across the room, standing in a small cluster of people but noticeably apart, William leaned casually against the wall. The faint glow of the lamp behind him threw his sharp features into shadow, making the dirty blonde's face look more sculpted, more dangerous than usual. He was dressed down tonight, a far cry from the usual crisp letterman jacket and perfectly polished shoes. His dark slacks hung low on his hips, and he wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing the tan, muscular forearms James had imagined touching more times than he could count. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a hint of his chest, and James found himself unable to look away.

Their eyes met.

James' breath caught in his throat, and the entire room seemed to fall away. It was just him and William now, connected by an invisible thread that pulled tight across the space between them. William's mismatched eyes—of green and silver—bored into him, not with the cruel indifference James had come to expect, but something deeper. Something unreadable.

The world slowed down, the music dulled in his ears, and for a moment, James let himself dream. He let himself imagine a reality where he could walk across the room and touch William's face, where they could be alone together and none of this—the cruelty, the games—existed. Where William wasn't just an impossible fantasy, but something real, something his.

But William broke eye contact first, a flicker of something in his expression before he turned and headed for the stairs, his movements fluid, deliberate. He disappeared from sight, leaving the crowd below untouched, unaware.

James' heart pounded in his chest, the rush of blood deafening in his ears. The look. The way William had looked at him before he left. It wasn't just an invitation—it was a demand. A silent order for James to follow, to chase him.

For a split second, every rational part of James screamed at him to stay put, to not follow, to not let himself be drawn in by the trap that this most certainly was. But the rest of him—his heart, his stupid, yearning heart—ignored those warnings.

He moved through the crowd, his body operating on autopilot as he made his way toward the stairs, weaving through the throng of partygoers who were too absorbed in their own world to notice him. His hands were shaking, his breath shallow, but something kept pulling him forward. The thought of being close to William again, the chance to maybe—finally—understand what was between them, was too tempting to resist.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, the noise of the party fading as he reached the top. The hallway was dimly lit, quiet, and William was waiting for him just ahead, leaning against the doorframe of one of the rooms. He didn't say anything—didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to make James' skin tingle, his heart race.

James swallowed hard, the air around them thick with tension as he stepped closer. William's eyes tracked his every movement, and for a second, James thought he saw something like hunger flash across William's face.

Inside the room, the light was dim, a small desk lamp casting a soft glow over the space. It was quiet, too quiet, the sounds of the party below now distant, as if they were miles away from everyone else. James stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing them in their own little world.

And then, without a word, William crossed the room in two quick strides, his hand reaching out to grab James by the back of the neck, pulling him close. The sudden contact made James' breath hitch, his entire body going stiff as their faces were inches apart.

James didn't resist. He couldn't. His heart was pounding so hard, he thought it might explode.

The kiss came fast, fierce—lips crashing against his own with a force that made him dizzy. James melted into it, his mind going blank as all the months of pent-up desire, fear, and confusion collided in one chaotic moment. He could taste the salt of William's skin, feel the warmth of his breath, and for just that fleeting moment, it felt real.

But something was off.

William's hands were too cold, too rough, his touch more calculated than passionate. The way he gripped James wasn't with affection—it was control, possession.

When William pulled back, there was no softness in his eyes, no tenderness that James had imagined might have been hidden beneath his cruel exterior. There was only smug satisfaction.

Before James could catch his breath, there was a sound—a door creaking. James turned, panic twisting his gut, and there, standing in the doorway, were Marcus, Trent, and Ethan.

They were laughing.

A sickening realization washed over him like ice water.

It had all been a setup.

James' heart shattered, the warmth that had briefly filled his chest turning to ash. The camera in Marcus' hand gleamed cruelly in the dim light, the lens pointed directly at him.

They had recorded everything.

His humiliation. His hope. His stupid desire.

William stepped back, his smirk widening, eyes gleaming with triumph as the others jeered from the doorway, their laughter like nails in James' coffin.

"Gotcha."