Bruised Ego (boyxboy)

Part One

I met him the day I moved in, sweaty and disheveled from lugging boxes up and down. I'd been the second in the flat to arrive this morning, but by late afternoon I was still gathering the last pieces from my parents car. I was getting lazy, only had two boxes left, thought I could carry both at the same time and save myself a trip.

I'd locked the car, bumped the door shut with my hip and made my way towards the building. The staircase echoed with a thump as I placed the boxes down at every step, stopping to let others pass and shove my damp fringe back from my forehead. The door at the top had been knocked closed, someone having moved the makeshift stopper.

It was then, as I'd reached around the stiff cardboard for the pull handle, that I came across Bennett Sykes for the very first time.

I felt inferior from that second, childish in my own skin. My shaggy hair too unkempt, oversized checked poncho a decade out of style. And all at once way too hot. It was still late summer but the weather outside was breezy, chilly. Now I was over heating, both from the excursion and the boys heated gaze. The burgundy skinny jeans and ankle boots were suddenly a bad choice. I should have dressed down, dressed normal compared to others standards.

I'd squeezed passed, clipping his ribs with the corner of the biggest box, bounced myself back. 'So sorry,' I'd rushed out, mortified as I caught his wince. His slim fingers clutched the edge of the door, swinging it wider to let me through. His whole build was long and slim - toned; legs, torso, neck. His arms were thick though, biceps coiled tight as he braced against the safety springs.

He ignored my apology, indicated to his left instead. 'There's a lift over there.' His voice was rough, a deeper tenor than I would have imagined - as though he smoked ten packs a day and drank whisky for breakfast. But he didn't smell like stale cigarettes, I noticed. Just Lynx body spray, the same scent as I'd used this morning, although that was now masked by shameful body odour.

I glanced over, even though I knew where the lift was; I'd been trapped inside with my parents earlier - partly the reason they had decided to sit the rest of the trips out, insisting instead that they'd start to unpack. Another reason was that they're simply too old for much manual labour at an age well into their sixties.

'Uh, yeah,' I acknowledge, bending my knee high to hitch the boxes further. My skinny frame wasn't made for heavy lifting. 'Not really a fan.' I tell him.

He shrugs, rubs his ribs, and saunters out the hallway without further comment.

---

I don't spot his sandy hair and double denim again for some time, kick myself for not getting an introduction, but as it turns out, he wasn't one of my new flat mates as I'd originally thought anyway. In fact, I wasn't even sure he lived in the building.

This was confirmed just under a month later, after I'd pretty much stopped trying to scout him out in the stairway every time I left the flat. No, he wasn't one of my new flat mates, just a best friend of one - someone, I learned, who would become a more frequent guest from then on.

And if I'd known that he'd turn up for the first showing of a hastily put together dance recital - front and centre in the tiered seating - I'd have time to prepare, wouldn't have misstepped. However, I'm Finnegan Kosher, and embarrassing myself was a daily part of my routine.