Again

Chapter 11

Wayne hadn't slept. Not really. He'd tossed and turned for hours, his sheets a tangled mess beneath him, every shift of his body pulling him back to the same thought—the kiss.

Now, sunlight crept through the half-closed blinds, painting thin stripes across the wooden floor of his apartment. He blinked against the light, groaning as the world pulled itself into morning clarity. His laptop sat open on the coffee table, waiting like a guilty reminder of the restless night. He dragged himself off the bed, scratching his head, feeling the weight of the kiss still heavy on his lips.

"Am I seriously Googling this?" He mumbled to himself, padding barefoot into the small kitchen. The cool tiles beneath his feet barely registered as he aimlessly reached for a mug, his thoughts miles away.

Wayne's apartment was quiet, too quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional soft creak of the floorboards under his pacing steps. He poured coffee, barely noticing as it overflowed a little, dripping down the side of the cup. His mind was on Ben.

Ben's lips.

Ben's laugh.

Ben's stupid, infuriatingly soft lips.

He nearly dropped the cup. "Focus, Wayne." He whispered, setting the mug down with a thud on the counter and wiping the spill with his sleeve. But his fingers moved on autopilot, and no matter how hard he tried, his brain just wouldn't let go of the night before.

It wasn't supposed to mean anything, right? He'd been wanted and dared to try Ben's ice cream. It had just escalated. Got out of hand. That was it.

Nothing more.

He stumbled back to the living room, picking up the laptop he had abandoned earlier. His fingers hovered over the keys for a second before he aggressively typed: "Is it gay to kiss a man?"

His heartbeat faster as the search loaded, but instead of the answer he expected, the page blinked with something else entirely: Kissing someone of the same gender doesn't inherently define someone's sexual orientation. It depends on the context and feelings involved...

Wayne blinked at the screen, then leaned back into the worn-out cushions of his couch. He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Friendship, cultural norms, affection..." He let out a frustrated sigh, scrolling further. "Context? Feelings?" he muttered, almost laughing at how casually the article brushed off what felt like the most confusing moment of his life. "Yeah, sure. Context. It was just a dare. Definitely."

But then his mind whispered it again, the thought he'd been pushing away all night: But I liked it.

A frustrated huff escaped his lips, and he slammed the laptop shut. Standing up, he paced the length of the small living room, running his hands through his hair. His apartment felt too small all of a sudden, like the walls were closing in, suffocating him with memories of the way Ben's lips lingered against his. His steps echoed through the quiet space, but all he could hear was his own voice spiraling in his head.

Ben, gay? He scoffed, pausing at the window, staring blankly outside at the early morning streets below. "He's the straightest guy I know. Damn, even Arthur and Jake are zestier than him." Wayne shook his head, though the image of Ben laughing softly, the way he sometimes looked at Wayne during their late-night hangouts, flickered at the edges of his mind. A little too long, maybe. A little too close.

"No," Wayne said aloud, shaking his head as if the motion would clear the fog of confusion. "It didn't mean anything. We've been best friends since forever." His voice felt hollow, though, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.