Untouchable (boyxboy)

Chapter 13

With Spencer and Mike having beaten a swift retreat before the onslaught of gay, Isaac resumes his fevered worship, kissing me again and moaning softly against my mouth as he presses his body to mine, his hands sliding up my back and down to my hips to pull me close.

"Isaac..." I say, pushing him away gently. I don't want him to think I'm rejecting him, but he's going a little fast for me. "Slow down, okay? It's not a race. In fact, isn't this the game where no one gets a prize for finishing first?"

His green eyes are wide, thick lashes casting fan-like shadows as afternoon light spills through the windows and across his face. Color spots his cheeks, and his lips are flushed and full. He's just on the pretty side of handsome, his features too fine to call rugged, yet too strong to call feminine. His beauty is as hard to pin down as his mind seems to be, everywhere and nowhere at once, and yet undeniably present.

"Oh no," he whispers, withdrawing a pace and pressing a hand over his mouth. "I did it again. I'm sorry, I just...the music was so beautiful, and you're so beautiful, and I—I couldn't help myself."

I can't help laughing. If it was anyone else, I'd suspect them of playing with me. I mean, who gets that excited about Schubert? And while I've fallen in love with a good performance or two myself, I haven't suffered an irresistible desire to make out with the musicians.

"I don't know what you heard, or what you see," I say, shaking my head, "but I guess I'm flattered. And I like you, too. I'm comfortable with you, and I trust you. You've checked all my boxes, I guess." I smile but he doesn't look entirely reassured.

"But...?" He looks at me as though he's bracing for a blow. The openness and sudden vulnerability in his expression somehow make it easier for me to admit what I need to say.

"But...I'm kind of inexperienced," I say, feeling my face warm anyway. "I kissed someone once, but it was...well it was for a play I was in. I've never actually...'been with' anyone, if you know what I mean."

"That was your first real kiss?" he asks, eyes going wider still.

I nod.

"And you've never...done more?"

I nod again, blushing harder. I try not to be ashamed of it, but it's difficult when all the messages I get from society tell me I should be.

"Oh my God, Felix..." Isaac gasps softly, "I'm so sorry! I should have asked. I took your first kiss without asking! What if you were saving it? You weren't saving it for someone else, were you?"

He's so ridiculously sincere that I laugh, and my embarrassment disappears. "Are you a twelve-year-old girl? No, I wasn't saving it. You're the only one I'd want to give it to, anyway. I just wanted you to know that I...I haven't done this before, so...if I suck..."

He grins and I immediately regret my choice of words. "Hey, that's okay. We can suck together," he winks.

"Ugh." I make a face. "That's the other thing. Being demisexual means I'm...not 'on' very often, and..."

"Hey," his mirth vanishes and he steps close to me again, lightly touching the sides of my face. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of you, I promise. Whatever boxes you want me to check, I'll check 'em all."

I make another face. It sounds like I'm making him fill out a form at the post office or something.

"What?" he asks, brow creasing. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I assure him, and tentatively join my arms around his waist. It feels weird to initiate contact like this, but not bad. "I just wish I was normal, you know? I wish I wasn't such a freak all the time."

"Who here wants normal?" he asks, leaning into me and laying his head on my shoulder. "And who says you're a freak?"

"Dylan," I say after a pause.

Isaac's body goes slightly rigid, and he pulls away from me again. "What's with him anyway?" he asks. "He was being such a jerk to you earlier. Is that what you meant about you and him not getting along?"

"Sort of," I hedge.

Now would be a good time to come clean, while we're both being open with each other, and before things get more serious than they already are. The problem, or one of them, is that I'm having a hard time picking a place to begin.

"It was after Dylan started high school that things began to change. He—"

I'm interrupted by a loud crash of smashing glass followed by a torrent of profanity. Isaac and I break apart and hurry into the main room to see what happened, only to find Dylan standing over a shattered vase.

He looks up at us as we approach.

"Isaac—fuck. I'm so sorry," he says. "I was walking back from the bathroom looking down at my phone. I bumped right into it," he says, hands on his hips, staring at the mess of glass, water, and flowers littering the floor. "I'll pay for it, of course," he offers, and then laughs. "It wasn't some unique art piece was it?"

"No, man. Forget about it," Isaac assures him, going to a closet and coming back with a dustpan and a small broom. "It's just a cheap vase. My uncle subscribes to a flower service—they send a new arrangement every week. The vase comes with it."

Somehow, I think Dylan probably knows this already, given that the glass has the word "Youquet™" engraved on it along with the logo of a man delivering flowers—features I'm fairly certain high-end glassware tends to lack.

"Oh—whew!" he sighs with relief. "Thank fuck. I thought it was like, Gucci, or Ming, or something."

Yeah, right.

Isaac starts to sweep up the broken glass and I bend to help, gathering up the fallen flowers, while Dylan mops up the water with some paper towels. We find another vase from the same company (apparently you're supposed to give them back when a new delivery arrives, but Uncle Reg tends to forget), and soon all signs of the mini disaster have been erased.

Just like my opportunity to tell Isaac the truth, and something tells me that might not be a coincidence.

A few minutes later, Spence and Mike return, and then everyone but me gets ready to head out to get some food before the show.

"You're sure you won't at least come for dinner?" Isaac asks. "I mean, you're welcome to eat whatever you want here—Ana usually leaves something in the fridge—but it'd be more fun if you came along. Please?"

I'm tempted, but I decline. I'm actually looking forward to the chance to relax in solitude and play some music without the niggling awareness that people might be listening to me pick my way through a new piece. There are people (supposedly) who can sit down and sight-read music they've never seen before with near-perfect accuracy. I'm not one of them.

I can tell Isaac is disappointed in my refusal, but he lets it go easily enough and doesn't continue to press, which I appreciate. Nothing makes me feel like more of a party-poop than having to say "no" to the party more than once. 

Spencer and Mike are having a great time grilling Isaac about what he did to me once we were alone, and he's playing along with a good-natured ease I could never manage. Dylan laughs with them, but doesn't join in. As the door closes on their backs, I breathe a sigh of relief. That was enough excitement for one afternoon, thanks.

Still, as I watch out the window as they all pile into Spencer's car, a strange feeling rises in my chest, like the fine bubbles of a good champagne, and after a moment, I recognize it for what it is.

It's happiness, and as it's source turns back to the house and waves, even though he can't see me through the tinted glass, even though he can't know if I'm still watching, it increases just a smidge.

And then a shade of sadness darkens the edges of my joy.

I'm twenty-five, and I can't remember the last time I felt this way, or even if I ever have before. Now that I know it, I don't want to give it up.

I want to hold on to this effervescent feeling for the rest of my life, and I'd do almost anything to keep it alive.

And maybe, I think, Dylan did me a favor, knocking over that vase. Maybe I'm better off keeping some things to myself, after all.