A Beautiful Boyfriendship

Chapter Eight: The Truth Comes Out

I want to thank every last one of my readers. It means so much that you consider me good enough to read my work.

There's a Whitney reference in here! First to message me with it gets the next chapter's dedication AND a special prize....! In two weeks, I will post the reference, so If you don't see it, you can find out.--CLOSED

I don't own anything/one.

Enjoy!

-CC

___________________________________________________________________________________

Well, I was two minutes off. Just as I slid the sizzling bacon off the scorching pan and popped the biscuits out of the tins and into the waiting basket, Chris walked warily into the kitchen. I armed myself with a platter of scrambled eggs, pasted a hopefully placating smile on my face, and braced myself for the worst. Oh no, he remembers. He suspects!  He--

"Darren? You're cooking? And you didn't burn anything, namely the apartment?"

Wait, what? Chris's only worry is my cooking prowess? Huh. Did I somehow suffocate him for a while last night and kill a few thousand brain cells?

"Duh! I'm part Italian, doesn't that count for something?" I quipped, easily falling into our normal pattern. The pattern where Chris makes a snarky comment and I try valiantly to defend myself, or I make a goofier-than-average statement and Chris has a laugh at my expense. Not the confrontation I was expecting, where Chris yells at me for tricking him and seducing him while he was drunk.

"Um, in your case, no. Last week, you burned toast. Toast, Darren. It tells you when it's done!"

"One time. I burned toast one time--because I had to go write some AMAZING lyrics. I come back to find blackened bread. That's all it was. Blackened bread."

"It was toast. Do you know who burns toast, Darren? Two types of people: children under eight and eldery people over 95. Last time I checked, you are neither one of those. You know what that says? You're hopeless at cooking."

"Harsh! And no, I'm obviously not. Try these eggs! They're delicious!" I said, shoving the platter in his direction. He dubiously grabbed a fork from the drawer and took a scoopful. Before eating, though, he couldn't resist one last comment.

"Really? You have to resort to complimenting your own cooking? That's low." He shoved the eggs into his mouth and chewed for a few seconds. All of a sudden, a low moan escaped his mouth as his eyes rolled back into his head. Is it bad that the thought of me causing Chris to make those noises was more than a little thrilling?

"Oh, my God, Darren." Chris shoveled more eggs into his waiting mouth. "I soo..." more eggs "love you..." more eggs "right now."

In that moment, I was so thankful that I already set the muffin tray in the sink and put the spatula on the counter, because I knew I would have dropped them both. Because those six words, I so love you right now, hurt so much. After his confession last night, I had hoped Chris and I could stare into each other's eyes and kiss passionately and make heated love and live together forever. I had it all planned out; we'd be engaged for 13 months and get married on Valentine's Day 2012, go on a honeymoon to Jamaica, adopt a girl and then a boy (so the girl would be older and they would be adorable together), watch them grow up, retire happily, and grow old together. That was my dream.

And now I knew Chris felt the same way. But I also knew that my seemed-like-a-good-idea-but-really-wasn't-idea crushed most of my hopes. Because now I was stuck:  either live life without telling Chris and have it be my biggest what-if, or tell Chris and risk losing him forever. The six little words, therefore, pierced my heart with a pain more sharp than a speeding bullet, even though I know they shouldn't, even though I know I shouldn't feel like this about Chris, my best friend, my roommate.