Untouchable (boyxboy)

Chapter 3

"Here you go, Dad."

I hand him his dinner on its tray. Soup, salad, and a sandwich. Nothing fancy, but homemade, and from fresh ingredients.

"Thanks, Felix," he says, reaching out to squeeze my arm. He knows I don't like to be touched, but he's never been able to reconcile that with his own more physical nature. It's how he expresses his affection.

He's one of those men who can't easily say "I love you," out loud, but for whom a pat on the back means the same thing.

"Sure Dad. You want the TV on?" I ask.

"Ah, sure. Why not."

I find the show he's been watching and start the next episode for him, then leave him to eat in peace.

We used to eat together when I was younger—all at the table, all at the same time; but since he got sick and Dylan left, those old habits have dissolved, fallen away and become things of the past. Things we used to do, once upon a time.

Now I eat later, by myself. If I remember.

I'm hungry tonight, so I take my plate upstairs with me to my room, but my appetite vanishes like a rabbit under the shadow of a hawk when I see Dylan waiting for me in the hall.

"What do you want?" I ask, opening my bedroom door and stepping through.

"I saw how you were looking at Isaac," he says, following me into my space. My room isn't big, and I immediately feel crowded. Doing my best to conceal my feelings, I set my dinner on my desk and pull out my chair.

"Oh yeah?" I say, going for careless. "And how was that?"

As I move to sit, he grabs my wrist, squeezing hard enough I feel the bones grind together and I can't help wincing. "Like a faggot, that's how," he snaps. "Keep your fuckin' freakiness to yourself, got it? If I hear one word of shit about you from any of Belle's family, I swear to God—" he cuts himself off, shaking his head.

"You'll what?" I challenge. "Kill me? Jesus, Dylan, we're not kids anymore. You don't scare me."

"Oh yeah?" He squeezes a little harder, making me bite my lip to avoid making a noise. "How well can you play your stupid music with a broken wrist, huh? You wanna find out, just keep making goo-goo eyes at my fiancé's brother. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," I say, glaring up at him. "Happy now?"

He lets me go with a huff of disgust. "Happy? What's happy got to do with anything?"

I rub my wrist. "How should I know?" I retort.

He looks at me sharply. "You don't have to stay here, you know. Isabelle's family is loaded. We can afford to put Dad in a home if you want—or hire a caretaker, even. And then you can leave and, I don't know, fuck all the go-go boys you can get your hands on."

I gape at him. "Is that seriously what you think I want?"

"Isn't it?"

"Wha—No!" I yell, and then lower my voice, worried I might disturb Dad. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I want to fall in love, not go on a sexcapade. The way you talk, it makes me think you're the one craving dick, not—"

He slaps me, hard enough to make my ears ring, and I know it will leave a mark.

"You—" He's breathing hard, obviously furious, and I brace myself for more violence, but he just pokes me in the chest. "You keep away from Isaac, understand? Keep your fuckin' freak eyes to yourself, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it, Dylan," I say, fighting back tears of rage. "Tell you what—once you've married your rich fiancé and have everything you ever dreamed of, you leave me and Dad alone, okay? Just...leave us the fuck alone."

"Deal," he sneers. "Just don't fuck this up for me. My wedding's three weeks away. Even you can manage to act normal for three weeks, right?"

"If it means I never have to deal with this again, then yes," I snap.

"Good. Then we understand each other. For once."

He leaves, slamming my door shut behind him.

I look down at my dinner. I'd put a lot of effort into the baby arugula salad, and made sure the panini press made perfect grill-marks on the sandwich.

So fuckin' gay, as Dylan would judge.

I set it aside. Maybe later I'll feel hungry again, but right now my stomach is already full.

Not with food, but with pain.

I love my Dad, and once upon a time, I loved my brother. We'd been something like best friends. We'd played together, liked the same movies, the same games; we'd eaten dinner together every night, and taken turns with the cooking and the chores.

And then, something had changed.

Dylan had been fourteen and I'd been ten when, gradually, there was less laughter, less fun, and more hurt. By the time he left for college when I was fifteen, we were officially enemies. Only my dad's diagnosis with COPD—a chronic lung disease—when I was seventeen, had hurt more than the death of our friendship.

Maybe it wouldn't have been such a big deal if I'd been 'Normal.' Instead, I had a hard time making friends, and a harder time with anything more. Not wanting to be touched kind of puts a damper on the romance, not to mention the fact that I needed a really strong emotional connection with a person before I felt even a hint of sexual attraction.

There'd been one boy, in my senior year in high school, who I'd crushed on hard. He was an exchange student—sweet, a little naive, a little strange, and in need of a friend. I'd latched on, and for a few weeks, I was in heaven. We did everything together. I was so happy, I thought I'd found a life-long friend.

He'd caught on eventually—got a hang of the culture, made other friends—and left me behind. 

I wrote a song about him.

Then I'd burned it.

I can't deny that Dylan is right: I think Isaac is hot, and I felt attracted to him. On the other hand, I have no illusions.

As Dylan aptly and frequently observes—I'm a freak. What are the chances that Isaac would ever like me back, or even consider me a friend?

We're thrust together because our siblings are getting married—against medical advice, in my opinion—and nothing more. In a few weeks, Dylan and Isabelle will embark on a new life together, and Isaac and I will probably never speak again unless circumstance and fortune force us into proximity.

Still, a guy can dream, right?