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The False House Ch. 01

By: JT_Thatch



The False House

I've spent the past year now sitting in the same chair, seeing the same slur of familiar faces and listening to the same old man remind us all about how much we've fucked up our lives. "But don't worry," he says, "there's still hope." The look of complete apathy we always wore would beg to differ—it's not like any of us chose to be here.

I started smoking weed when I was probably fourteen. And that was fine for quite some time. But with your father dead and your mother constantly working at the hospital, you get . . . bored. And I got bored. So when I was nineteen or so, I used some of the money Mom always had lying around the house and decided to buy some of the little green pills all the junkies at school were selling. It turned out to be oxycodone, and I got hooked pretty fast. As the story goes with every worthless pill head, I fell into some bad habits. I'm twenty-three now, and about a year ago I got into trouble with the law. Long story made short, I was forced into mandatory drug counseling with a bunch of assholes here for the same reason. It's been a fate maybe worse than prison.

So just like I do every Thursday afternoon, I lazily fall into the chair I claimed as my own. I watch them all file in, slouching and sluggish—and probably fucked up on drugs. The therapist, Mr. Murphy, sits at the head of the circle and takes his sweet time fixing his tie and sipping his Coke.

"Alright," he clears his throat and adjusts his little, round glasses. "We have a new body present today."

I didn't even notice a different face; apparently none of us did because we are all scanning the circle for fresh meat.

"You know who you are—tell us your name."

"My name's Jesse," he says.

A deep voice to the right of me makes me yank my head in its direction. Jesse. He looks nice enough—golden-green eyes and pouty lips. I can't help but smirk. He just looks too young and too innocent to do anything wrong—much less drugs. His hair was messy atop his head; not sure if he knew it or not but the lazy look makes the ladies loco. There's really just something about this guy that I can't put my finger on—his aura exudes an accidental arrogance that masks what can only be described as complete and utter chaos.

"How old are you, Jesse, and what is your addiction?"

There's a nonchalant shrug and a grin. "I'm twenty-one, and I'm addicted to a lot of drugs. The one I'm here for, though, is Klonopin."

"Okay," Murphy says without even looking away from his notepad, "let's get on with our day, shall we? How can we channel our desires to get high into something productive?" He sweeps his eyes around the room from above his glasses. "Anybody? No? Okay. How about you Roman? What would you suggest?"

He has a tendency to pick on me because I have a tendency to keep quiet. Lazy, though, they may be, the others still display an impressive amount of effort. They must really want to change—I, on the other hand, could not care less. I let out a deliberately exasperated sigh. "I don't know, Murph."

"You know, Roman," he says in his condescending tone, "you will stay with me until I tell the judge you are fit to leave." With that, he moves on to claim his next victim. So I dozed off for the next two hours, occasionally glancing at the new guy to see if he hated this as much as I did. He didn't seem to mind it, although he kept his lips sealed when addressed. It looked like he was listening intently, but just did not want to contribute in any way. Fair enough.

When Mr. Murphy dismissed us, I casually caught up to Jesse. I was a bit taken by the fact that as I'm walking next to him, he looks right at me and doesn't acknowledge my presence. I quickly gather my wits and stick out a hand. "I'm Roman."

He flashes me a thousand-watt smile that made his eyes just shine. I was again taken aback by him, but this time it was at how genuine and natural he seemed—this guy was an enigma. Taking my hand, he gives it a sturdy shake. "I'm Jesse, it's nice to meet you." With that, he gives my shoulder a friendly smack and continues walking.

"Never seen you in the area before. You new to the city?"

He gave me the same nonchalant shrug and grin. "Lincoln's a big city."

I wouldn't say he is uninterested and that's why he's so short. It was more like . . . I don't know. Like maybe he really just didn't have much to say. "Well, listen. I'm having a party tonight. You could stop by."

"That's cool. I'll give you my number and you can text me time and place, alright, man?"

I whipped out my phone and keyed in his digits before we went our separate ways. As I said earlier, my mom was almost never home. Being an only child, I get away with pretty much anything. That's what is so good about having tons of money and a big, empty house: I get to do whatever the hell I want to.

. . . .

Mom was going to be gone for two weeks to attend some medical conference in Boston, so I've decided to throw down a bit while she's gone. Our house is pretty secluded, so the noise issue is never really an issue. It's mostly just the bored rich kids from the neighborhood and my "no-good rotten friends" that show up—although the only difference between the two groups is wealth. And, of course, they bring their friends and so on and so forth. So as you can imagine, it can get quite crowded.

However, it was 10:00 and I saw no sign of my new friend Jesse in the haze of faces. I hate to lose my cool and admit it, but I'm a little disappointed. He gives off a vibe of confidence that I suppose I like and walks with a swagger that lets you know he's got it going on but doesn't care, and maybe doesn't even realize it. I can't say for sure why but I definitely want in on that.

Another two hours go by before I feel a tap on my shoulder. "You're quite popular." I turn around to see him smiling at me.

"Have trouble finding the place?"

Taking a swig of Dr. Pepper, he shook his head. "I've been in the neighborhood before. I had a friend that lived here."

I'm mighty impressed by the fact that he knew what kind of neighborhood I lived in and, without knowing what kind of guy I was, still came dressed in Adidas Daily Vulcs and a black pullover hoodie. He doesn't at all even seem phased by the glittering girls or the boys in Abercrombie, and wasn't marveling at the size of my house.

"Let me get you a beer."

Before I could move an inch he nodded. "I don't drink."

I feel bad, I really do. But all I could do was laugh, assuming he was joking. He kept a straight face, however, so I just smiled in bewilderment. "An addict that doesn't drink? How do you get that?"

There's that nonchalant shrug and grin. "Tastes like fucking ass."

The blatant nature of Jesse's comment leaves me cackling. So intrigued by him, I lead him outside by the pool. The music is still very audible and there are still tons of people around, but at least out here I can actually have a conversation with the guy. We sit at the table across from each other and shoot the shit. It's a completely natural conversation, but I have to ask. "You seem absolutely harmless and totally laid back. How in the fuck did you of all people end up in drug therapy?"

He laughs and sips his Dr. Pepper again. "Probably the same way you did." He sees I'm expecting more, so he playfully rolls his eyes and continues. "So, maybe a month ago I'm just doing my thing. I'm fucked up on Klonopin and shit, right? I get into this huge argument with my boyfriend and we split up. I'm a mess, you know? I—"

"You're gay?" I'm not sure why, but I'm just shocked. I guess I have this stereotypical image in my head of what gay is. Deep voice and masculine don't usually fit the type. Realistically, though, I can't be too shocked—I only met this guy earlier today. But being as I'm so captivated by him for some unknown reason, hearing that he's gay takes me by surprise a bit more than it probably normally would.

His smile is huge, shamelessly flashing those pearly whites. "I'm so fucking gay."

I laugh it off and leave it alone. It doesn't bother me at all. I've never personally known someone gay, except for students at high school. I never avoided them or anything—but I just never saw myself fitting in with them. Call me ignorant, and that's okay. I just never in a million years would have suspected him. Even more so, I never saw myself being curious about what it would be like to kiss another dude. But I just can't help but wonder, as I'm watching his mouth move while he talks and smiles. He is very, very attractive for a guy.

We continue talking for what feels like forever, and I have to say the guy is incredible. When he finally decided to go home, I looked around and there was really nobody left. And that has never happened to me before. At my own parties especially, I'm talking to everyone and doing dumb shit to get laughs and impress my buddies. But tonight I spent all my attention on Jesse. I'm excited, but mostly scared, to say my interest in him is different than I've felt for other guys—and even most girls. It's something . . . deeper. You know? It isn't just one thing, or a superficial thing. He as a whole is different than anyone I have ever known.

I can't help but be drawn to his brilliant personality. And maybe I've just never met someone before that I think is brilliant. So my excitement could just be my mind appreciating the fact that he isn't just like everyone else. But I can't shake the feeling that it's more than just appreciation. Only time will tell.

....

Clearly just the first installment. Let me know whether or not you'd be interested in more. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

JT Thatch

The False House Ch. 02



The value my mother places on material things is probably the biggest reason I do the things I do. When you grow up with no one around, you are convinced you don't matter much. Don't get me wrong, she loves me; I know she loves me. I just think she places her patients over me in her heart. But don't be touched—she always says she did it to make bank. And if I've fooled you some way, I'm sorry. Because her shitty attitude is one we share. 

I drive around in my big, fancy truck all the time, going wherever I please because I don't have to work for the gas money to do it. You would never catch me dead in a shirt from Target—even my boxers are Calvin Klein. Most of my friends are the same way, and the only reason we get along is because we were born into wealth. 

It isn't as dramatic as it sounds. It's not like we think of ourselves as royalty and refuse to mingle with the lower class—that isn't the case here at all. But just because we aren't that snobby doesn't mean we aren't snobby, and I don't think I've ever seen most of those people hang out with anyone who isn't surrounded by glitz. Maybe it's because "poor" people don't understand. Here's a little secret: we are all miserable and crawling out of our skins. 

To make money, you have to make some sort of sacrifice. Most people think that sacrifice is the very thing you are trying to earn. Isn't that the saying? To make money you have to lose money? But that isn't it. Most of the time it's family time and loved ones that are being thrown away. We always think monetary gain won't consume us just because it's in our reach, but it always drags us down and gets the absolute best of us. So, we—at least my group of friends—act out because we have been neglected like crazy and loved only after riches and the opinions of strangers. We would never say it aloud, though. We all have far too much pride and arrogance, and seek approval from one another like our lives depend on it. 

Money doesn't buy happiness. I'm proof of that. That's why Jesse had me so awestruck at my party a few weeks ago—he seemed to know we met simply because we both sought in drugs what we lack in life. Isn't that the reason everyone does drugs? Well, we think so, at least. It's one of the things we've talked about, among many others. Like I said, it's been a few weeks now, but I barely know anything about his history or what, specifically, it is that he lacks. It's like talking to a brick wall when serious talks like those arise, and it's very evident in our group sessions on Thursdays. If Mr. Murphy addresses him, Jesse ignores him until he's forced to move on. My curiosity is a painful itch that I just can't scratch. 

Anyway, we're sitting in my bedroom jamming out to some Alice in Chains. I hit the blunt and offer it to him, even though I know he doesn't smoke. As expected, my gesture is waved away and he walks over to my desk. Earlier in the afternoon we crushed some Vicodin and didn't finish it. He leans forward and snorts some. Catching myself staring a little too long, I quickly avert my eyes and nod my head to the music. 

"Fuck that's good!" he laughs, throwing himself next to me on my bed. "Hey, how come you still stay at home?" 

It took me a moment to think of the answer, because a big part of me didn't know why I never left. So I shrug at him and lie down. "Why not? I have almost unlimited freedom every day. Why go live in some quiet ass apartment complex if I can live here?" 

"You party too much," he responded matter-of-factly. "Get a job." 

I wrinkle my brow at him, a little bit of sting on my heart. But all I get back is a wink and a huge grin. "Do you work?" I ask. Honestly, it's been close to a month since I met him and we haven't really had any real conversations. Most of our time together is cracking jokes and bullshitting, partying and getting high, or just hanging out and playing video games. He's such a cool guy and I don't have to impress him by spending money. 

Jesse shakes his head. "I do. Unlike you, I have to pay rent," he grins lazily, and I see the high coming on. "I'm a waiter." Long pause. "And I deal drugs." 

"Oh really?" 

He nods slowly and tilts his head, almost in a thoughtful way. "I have a prescription to Klonopin. It's easy to sling on the streets. A neighbor I grew up with—we're great buddies. We sell all kinds of shit together. Such easy money." 

I stare off into space, somewhat envious of him working and having such easy access to drugs. "I couldn't be a drug dealer. Too much temptation, too much addiction." 

"Well, man, that is the perk of dealing K-Pin. It's so addictive that it sells fast." 

"I'll have to try it." 

It's gotten a bit quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. Our music is in the background, and we're both dozing off, in our own worlds. I'm not quite high anymore, but I feel myself staring into space and watching my ceiling fan rotate rapidly. The deep, unspoken connection I feel to him is nagging at me for some odd reason, and I can't help but feel at peace where I'm at. 

See, I'll show you things, never seen before 

For your mind to untangle. 

On your own, all alone. 

Yes, I know now; 

Yes, I know now it's all on my own. 

Yes, I know now; 

I'll watch as you go. 

Yes, I know now; 

It's alright. 

Completely unaware of how much time we spent quiet, I look over at him and realize something seems wrong. He somehow looks so deep in thought to me—maybe even sad. I nudge him playfully. "Hey," I grin. "What's going on up there?" 

Without a change in expression he sighs, somewhat desperately. "Don't you ever get bored of this?" 

"This is fun. Are you not having a good time—" 

"No," he says—and rather impatiently, if I may add. "Of this. Relying on a stupid fucking pill to keep you happy. Don't you want to be normal?" 

Now it was awkward. "No offense . . . but no, dude. I'm perfectly fine with my addictions." And that isn't a lie. "You don't think it's cool that you can be happy whenever you want?" 

My eyes follow him as he gets up, in what seems like anger, and slowly paces around my room. His eyes are closed, hands on either side of his head with bits of chocolate-brown hair jutting from between his fingertips. Then I see tears hanging on to his dark lashes for dear life. All I know how to do is sit and be quiet; I've never had to deal with this kind of comedown before. 

"How long does it last, though, Roman? Look at me. Twenty minutes ago I'm high and I'm happy. Now I'm fucking angry—I'm sad. I wish I could handle my emotions the right way instead of relying on pills all the time." 

My heart is pounding a bit, honestly, because I'm nervous for some reason. Don't ask me why—I really am not sure. Like I said, I've never really witnessed a bad reaction to drugs like this and don't know how to handle it. "Okay . . . I think you need another line—" 

"Son-of-a-bitch, Roman." He stops in his tracks just to give me a stupid look. Like I just bitch slapped the Queen of England or something. Hands in the air, he fumes, "Open your fucking mind a bit. There's more to life than the next fucking line." 

Jesse grabs the keys to his truck and storms out of my room, slamming the door behind him. I stare incredulously at where he last stood, mouth slacken and eyes probably like saucers. A huge part of me feels horrible, and just plain confused—horrible because I said the wrong thing, and confused because it all happened so fast and I wasn't even sure what the right thing to say actually was. The whole incident dampened my spirits for the rest of the evening, and I didn't even want to have a party or get wasted with my friends over a few rounds of Pedro. 

No, instead I decided to sulk in my bedroom and eat sweet and sour chicken in front of my Xbox like a loser. Don't get me wrong, a little peace and quiet like this isn't so rare; I occasionally take some time for myself and be "normal", as Jesse called it. But this time was different, and I can admit that. I was really just too upset to be around people. And even with the distraction of violence and action and chicken, my mind just keeps wandering back to what Jesse said. Open your fucking mind a bit. I growl to myself—why does his opinion matter? This dude doesn't even know me, nor I him, for the most part. Sure, we hang out sometimes, but we only met almost a month ago. I mean—what does this guy fucking know! 

I can say that, sure, but I don't mean it. He's intelligent and deep and good where it really counts and, like I've said before, different than other people—especially other addicts. Even those in class with the will to change lack Jesse's depth and passion in everything he seems to do. That is why his opinion matters, and why I am so upset (yeah, I can admit it) over his obvious disappointment in me. 

. . . . 

I wake up to a strong vibration against my thigh. I look under the sheets to see my phone lit up with Jesse's name. I answer in a groggy tone, and am admittedly a little scared. "Hello?" I say, almost like a kid knowing his mom is calling to tear him a new asshole. 

"Hey, man, I'm on break. What's good where you are?" 

I hesitate to answer, and feel my brow wrinkle. "Uh . . . Nothing. I just woke up, nothing." 

"It's 3:00." He sounds amused, and I can hear his smile through the phone. "Good, though. I get off at seven. How's about you and I get together afterward? I was thinking—" 

"Wait." We are both silent, and I realize I still have a puzzled look on my face. A few more seconds go by before I can even gather my thoughts enough to speak. "You aren't angry at me or some shit?" 

Now it's his turn to be confused. Although he doesn't say anything, I can hear it in his silence. "No . . ." he says slowly, and it was closer to being a question than it was to being a statement. He breathes a laugh as if I were crazy. "Anyway, I was thinking we watch a movie. I think I'm addicted to torture porn more than I am p—" 

"What porn?" I bust out laughing. 

"You know . . . Hostel, Saw, Vile. Movies with torture and gore, man." 

"I'm into that, definitely. Drop by whenever. The door will be unlocked." 

After we hung up, I laugh a little to myself. This guy really doesn't stay mad long—that, or I was just being completely paranoid. I wonder if he even remembers what he said, although I got the impression that he doesn't. Because you typically don't say shit like that unless you really mean it. Come to think of it, I don't recall ever being told to open my mind or to, more or less, stop focusing so much on drugs. That's just one of the things that draws me to him so much. 

Seven seemed to come at a snail-like pace, and the hours leading up to it were mostly spent on Netflix and checking my phone for the time. At about 6:50 the thud in my chest became audible to me, and it was getting to be quite difficult to swallow. I can't understand why I feel so anxious when I think of him—that, or maybe I would just rather ignore my suspicions. Either way, with every passing minute I grow more excitable. 

Finally I hear a knock on my bedroom door. He peeks his messy-haired head in with a wild smile before entering and dropping his backpack to the floor. "Figured you'd be in here. What are you watching?" 

I click the TV off and get up. "Oh, nothing. Just some Always Sunny." 

His ears perked up. "That's one of my favorites. So, any idea what you want to watch?" 

We walk downstairs to the living room (it has a bigger TV and my room is cluttered) and I shrug. "What's your favorite?" 

"The Strangers. No gore in it but one hell of a horror movie. Oh!" he adds with excitement. "Dennis from Sunny makes a cameo! And Scott Speedman, the boyfriend, is so hot." 

I set up the movie after searching for it online, and as requested Jesse goes into the kitchen to grab junk food. He comes in with his arms full of shit, and I can't help but laugh. "You weren't specific," he frowns. 

The movie gets started, and I promise I'm paying attention. But once I realize who Scott Speedman is, I focus on him entirely—his movements, his voice, his talent. So this is who he thinks is hot. Starting from the top on down, I analyze him and I can't help but admit that he is attractive. Those eyes, and that incredible jaw. 

I silently scoff to myself. We both have blue eyes and I'm even probably just as tall as him (I'm only 5'11). Jesse is just a few inches taller than me, so maybe he likes shorter guys. I don't have his precious boy's hair, though. My hair is black, and quite a bit longer than Jesse's—wavy, bordering curly. Part of me is just dying to know what it is about him that is so attractive. Then guilt sinks in. 

I feel dirty and wrong for some reason. Sometimes when I masturbate I feel this way too, and I cry. But don't tell anyone—how mortifying. I know I shouldn't be looking at this dude. I always did have a huge crush on Liv. "She's cute, isn't she?" I say casually. 

He looks at me in complete horror. "She's absolute perfection. Ever since she played Lady Arwen I wanted to make that classy broad my wife." With that, he looks back at the TV. Gay as can be and clearly had no issue fawning over a woman. I laugh at myself, feeling foolish. There was nothing wrong with what I just did about the guy on TV. You silly goose, you. 

Still, focusing on this movie is relatively hard. Because the more I try to justify to myself the attention I paid precious Scott, the more okay it was becoming in my mind. Confusing—don't get me wrong. But it just made me more and more curious with every passing minute. Scott and Liv are engaging in a sensual scene, very heated and emotional. When he takes control and whispers into her ear, I feel a very familiar sensation in my pants. Panicking, I shift my leg to hide what is quickly developing into a raging hard-on. Yes, that quickly. 

I thank my lucky stars when the scene ends with finality, a harsh knock interrupting them. Gradually the movie gets scarier, and gradually my dick gets softer, until eventually I'm completely enthralled in the movie rather than the man starring in it. I get a playful nudge and exaggerated wink when Glenn Howerton finally shows his face, but other than that we sit in silence, only the occasional jump reminding us of one another's presence. 

Once the film is over we quickly discuss my opinion of it, and move on to Xbox and the rest of the snacks. We drag my navy futon up to the TV, shoving my computer chair out of the way. "This thing is so comfortable. Better than my bed at home." 

"Memory foam," I responded, distracted and too busy button-smashing to really say much else. 

Until he lets his character die just so he can pull out a can of spray paint, a sock, and a Ziploc bag. Without even acknowledging me he shoves the sock in the bag, then sprays what looked like most of the can of paint onto it. Hastily, he surround his nose and mouth with the bag and inhales deeply multiple times, a small cough or two in-between huffs. Without hesitating I drop my controller and replace his face with mine. His head is lazily leaning against the back of the futon, and he giggles a bit. 

I laugh a bit too and let the bag fall to the floor. Giddily, I turn on my side and face him. "Hey, what's your favorite book?" 

"Well, mate, Shel Silverstein is my favorite book. Sometimes I feel like that old tree." 

I laugh, and it makes him laugh. "I don't read. Fuck books." 

"You never read that purple crayon book? I wish to be Harold. He was the one that had the purple crayon. You know what?" he said, with a frustrated wrinkle in his brow and pout in his lips. 

"What!" 

"Purple is an ugly color, I hate purple. I wish my crayon were red like blood." 

I pick up my controller and try to play Xbox again but it is impossible to concentrate. All I can hear is a buzzing in my head like wham, wham, wham, wham. A few hours must have gone by that I didn't even realize, because when I look to the side of me Jesse isn't there. Looking around my room provides no solace: he is not here, and I feel lonely. Lonelier than I usually do when Mom isn't home, or I'm alone. No, what I suffer from then is boredom. This is different. 

A thought pops into my head, and I hesitate for a moment. Wobbly, I get up and look around again, this time calling his name so that it rings through the upper floor. To the window I stumble and see that his truck is gone. I should be worried, but know this is not new to him. That thud in my chest comes back, and I giddily hop into my bed and pull my shorts off. I think of him and smile, looking down at my semi. Although I still feel guilt and confusion, I decide to test the waters. After all, if I'm going to have these thoughts inevitably, I may as well enjoy it and see where they take me. 

I grab my dick and slowly move it up in down. Eyes closed for the best, clearest image, I picture Jesse standing at the foot of my bed. He has on his black pullover hoodie and cargo shorts, white Converse, and a tattered, white baseball cap on backwards—same as tonight. He smiles at me with that perfect grin, so mistakenly cocky yet so wonderfully modest with his tongue pressed against the backs of his teeth. It's the one that makes his golden-green worlds twinkle beneath his thick lashes. Without breaking eye contact, he unbuckles his belt slowly as the look on his face goes from playful to sultry. 

My heartbeat is full of passion, making my dick hard as nails in my hand. Pace quickening rapidly, I envision him leaning over me—the wonderful smell of Dolce and Gabbana flooding my senses. In one swift motion, he removes my boxers. Biting his lip, he looks me in the eye. Right then my heart nearly exploded, and a moan escapes my lips. The swollen head of my cock disappears into that warm mouth of his. 

Ever the tease, he pulls back with a knowing side-grin. Without lowering his cargo shorts, he pulls out his perfect cock and straddles my chest without ever actually touching it with more than the insides of his knees. I run my fingers along his legs just so that I can feel the golden-brown hairs against me. Once again, he bites that pouty lower lip at me and jacks off by my mouth. 

"Open up," he says in a husky voice so full of need. 

Staring at his cock, I do as I'm told. With a demanding, yet cautious, hand, he grips the top of my hair and lifts my head. Locked in place, he slides his hot flesh into my mouth and down my throat. It seems so easy in my fantasies. He begins thrusting, slowly at first, and he sighs under his breath. With the hand he has nestled in my hair, he gives my head a stern shake. "Look me in the eyes when you suck my dick, Roman." 

The use of my name combined with his commanding tone made me moan uncontrollably. Vibrations from my throat caused him to hiss and thrust faster. As deep as he would go, I would never gag or need to pull back. No, instead he'd go as far down as he could and hold it there every now and then. Once it were there for more than three seconds, he'd moan loudly, pull back, and repeat. Then his head rolled back. Jesse's exposed throat was somehow a sexy sight for me; it drove me wild knowing it felt too good for him to hold his head up. 

I'm now jacking off with desperate motions, repeating his name under my breath whilst still trying to breathe. The closer I get to coming in real life, the closer he gets to shooting his load in my inviting throat. Jesse. Jesse. Jesse. Closer. Closer. Closer. 

I feel the delicious cum hit my tongue, and I shoot my own cum all over my shirt and arm. Out of breath from the most intense orgasm I've ever given myself, I make my way to my bathroom as best I can. As soon as I see my cum on the piece of toilet paper, the realization of what—or should I say who—I just jacked off to dawns on me. Without warning, I find myself bent over the toilet seat vomiting uncontrollably. 




The False House Ch. 03



My mom finally managed to get a day off from the hospital, and I fully intended to utilize the small window of time I had with her. I nervously knock on her door. 

"Come in, darling." 

"Mom, we need to talk." I have to literally blurt those words out, otherwise I wouldn't be able to muster the courage to have any type of serious conversation with her. If you couldn't already tell, we aren't exactly a close, cuddly family where heart-to-hearts flow freely. We're hardly a family at all, which is why I don't know why I am even bothering. It's not like my life is her business anymore. 

She stops applying layers and layers of makeup, looking at me cautiously through the mirror of her vanity. Swiveling her chair around, she gestures to the foot of her bed and gives a curt nod. As I sit, I get more nervous. With every step forward I want to crawl in a hole and die just so I won't have to do this. It's not like there was ever any inkling before, or any acceptance of myself to nudge me along and comfort me. 

I fidget with my fingers and stammer a bit, which is also new for me because I am always collected. "I'm bisexual." 

Her face had been tight from nervousness up until I opened my mouth and amused the ever-living shit out of her. Swiveling back around, she nods and continues her makeup. "That's fine, whatever you want." 

Completely in awe, all I can do is sit there with a quizzical look on my face. Confusion turned to total expectation, and expectation turned into hurt. Her absolute refusal to fucking acknowledge me made me realize why I even bothered telling her in the first place: I wanted her to act like a mother and give me some advice. This was the perfect opportunity for her to step up to the plate and show me that she cares. I'm sure most kids in my position would die for a parent to be this nonchalant. And maybe it wouldn't get to me so much if she weren't this nonchalant about everything concerning me. 

Tears well up, and I quickly walk out so she wouldn't see—although I'm sure she forgot I was even there. I storm into my room and throw myself on my bed, and to my surprise I cry. I'm faced with this huge challenge and this huge burden, and have no one to confide in. I have never felt so alone. My natural instinct is to call Jesse; he always knows what to say. For obvious reasons, however, I can't, and that hurts worst of all. I have two options, and I decide to hit two birds with one stone. 

I grab my bottle of Prozac from beneath my mattress and go over to Andrea's. I pop a few pills on the way there, and by the time I'm at her front door my aggression is raging. I slam her against the wall and we fuck like rabid animals. I expected to feel better afterward, and in a way I do. I don't have so much unexpressed emotion inside me, sure, but that anger has only been replaced my guilt and hopelessness. Out of kindness, I stick around and we bullshit a bit. But the only person I am capable of thinking about is Jesse—I need to see him. 

I stay with Andrea until I'm mostly sober (I get irrational on Prozac), then hop in my truck and call Jesse. I sit in front her house as the phone rings, and I feel excited about the prospect of him answering my call. 

"Hey, man," he says when he finally answers. "Sorry about that, I was in the shower. What's up?" It sounds like he's smiling. 

"Can we hang out?" I try desperately to use mind powers and take back those words or reverse time or something, but I already know he heard how pathetically desperate and clingy I sound. All I can do is wince at my own humiliation and thank my lucky stars that he isn't at all the type to make fun. 

I heard the background noise on his end of the phone stop. "Are you okay?" 

"Rough day." 

"Head on over, man. I'll make you some food." 

Without a moment's hesitation I start my car and haul ass to his house. My heart races at the thought of him, and then when I finally see him it stops—if only for a moment, for the sight of his wet hair and shirtless body makes the speed immeasurable. Immediately after opening the door he gives me a comforting hug and then closes it behind us. That was the first time we hugged, and man did it feel right. Our bodies were like the only two pieces of some beautiful puzzle. He was soft and warm and it was almost too much for me to handle, considering. 

"I wasn't expecting you so soon." 

I follow him into the kitchen and sit at the bar as he peers into the fridge and pulls things out. "I was in the area," I lied. 

"How does bourbon chicken and fried rice sound?" 

I nod like a kid with too much sugar in his veins. Jesse smiles at me with those warm eyes, and for a while I forget why I'm so upset. He has that power over people, you know. If he were aware of it, he would be a dangerous, dangerous man. But his innocence shines through in his every move as his hums and dances around the kitchen. I watch him quickly mix ingredients, occasionally smiling at me. 

"Don't think I forgot about you," he said, without looking up at me. "I want to wait until I can focus to talk about your day." 

I feel a smile force itself on me, and I nod even though he isn't looking. "Nothing worth mentioning." It was only a fib, compared to a full-blown lie. Sure, I hate that my mom responded the way she did—or more like didn't respond at all. And yes, it hurts. But by that same token, it was almost good in a way. A definitive moment in our relationship, that conversation bestowed upon me the knowledge that she is not worth my efforts. Over time I noticed her getting progressively more absent with me. This was make or break, and she broke. It isn't my problem any longer. "Maybe a little hit would be nice." 

He stops what he's doing to rest his messy hands on the counter and look me in the eye. "Listen, man . . . I want to be sober—I'm really making an effort. I don't want to be a goddamn waiter my whole life." With sudden frustration, he throws the spoon in the sink. "I have dreams, you know. Don't you have dreams?" I had none, so I was happy that it was clearly a rhetorical question as he continued on. "I care about you a lot, and you've become a great friend to me. So I hope that this doesn't force us to go our separate way, although I'll understand if it does." 

"I'm happy for you," I smile. And I mostly am. That selfish part of me is trying to get the best of me though. I can't help but wonder what this meant for us. No more parties as a way to spend time with him. And then there's the fact that if he succeeds he would probably find love. I shook those thoughts from my mind. "What's your dream?" 

"I want to teach. Younger kids, of course." Although he continued cooking and was no longer looking at me, I could still see a twinkle in his eye when he talked about it. 

"Were you in college?" 

And just like that the twinkle was gone. "No. I was too focused on getting high rather than fixing my screwed up life." He puts the chicken in the oven and the rice to cook, then grabs a seat next to me at the bar. Fingers laced together in front of him, all he does is stare at them in desolation. He tries to force a smile, "Soon though." But I see through it. 

Maybe it was coming out to my mother so easily or my hurt left me too apathetic, I do not know. All I do know is that I feel particularly bold at the moment. I'm getting desperate to know him. "Why do you never talk to me about your life?" 

I'm shot a quizzical yet defensive look. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean I feel like this friendship is a one-way street. I tell you anything you want to know about me and when it is your turn you don't ever budge." Oh god, I'm sounding like a fucking jerk and can do nothing about it. It wasn't meant to come out that way, but my sour mood got the best of me and I am pissed off at the world. So what's the best thing I can do to make things better? Keep talking. "What kind of lousy friendship is that? You take but never give. How am I even supposed to trust you?" 

When I look over at him his face destroys my heart, and I literally feel my cruel glare soften. It looks like he just witnessed his pet being run over by a train repeatedly, followed by his best friend kicking him in the dick. "Roman . . ." he finally says, clearing his throat. I brace myself for get the fuck out of my apartment, asshole. "I'm real sorry, man. I didn't mean to be selfish. I can be a huge asshole sometimes, but it is never my intention to hurt anyone—least of all my friends." 

Guilt consumes my entire being, and entirely against my will and most desperate inner pleas, I burst into tears and hide my face in the palms of my hands. I hear him gasp. "Please, don't cry. I am so fucking sorry." 

"No," I interrupt. Thankfully my tears have slowed down to a sniffle. "I meant it that you never open up, and that does bother me. But I didn't mean that other horrible stuff I said. I'm just in such a shitty mood and I am taking it out on you." 

Jesse's soft hand found its way to my shoulder. "I just wish you would tell me what happened." 

I suppose I could tell him what happened without telling him every dirty detail. Running a hand through my hair, I graze his fingertips at the end and electricity shoots through my body. "Nothing. I tried to have a serious conversation with her and nothing happened. I don't think I matter anymore. Every single day I fade more and more into the back of her mind." 

He smacks his lips and sighs. Quite a few seconds go by where he's just stroking my shoulder blade with the pad of his thumb. "Know what I think? I think you should talk to her about this. It can go one of two ways: it'll wake her the fuck up and she can make a change, or things don't change at all. And if that happens, you can begin the process of moving the fuck on from her. I know it isn't the happiest thing I could tell you, but I get the feeling you want someone to be straight with you. I know you are sick of hearing bullshit." 

Jesse gives me a pat to let me know he is still listening before he gets up to check on the food and work on the vegetables. "Is that what you did?" 

Aha! I had him cornered. He had to open up now; I was a friend in need that just told him his silence was an issue with me. No, he didn't stop what he was doing. And his level of discomfort wasn't visible to the naked eye. But I did see his pace quicken and body tense up, if only a little. Another few seconds drag by, then another, and then another. I am patient though, because I'm sure it is hard. 

"No," he said, with finality. Another few seconds. "My situation was a little different from yours. My uh—dad was a huge prick. He always fought with everyone over everything, and said . . . horrible things . . . Um, there were times where he would get physical, especially with my uh—mom. When I got older, I—uh—started fighting back. Once my siblings left, things were getting worse for me and my mom. I was doing drugs pretty hard, so I just split instead. A "talk" was not really suitable—Mom wouldn't have said a word and Dad would have said too much." 

And just like that, I felt better about my situation and happy that he shared even though I know it hurt and even though he refuses to look at me. That all fades, though—and fast. Suddenly I feel so small and I am mad at how I've been feeling bad for myself when he had it so much worse. Sure, it's not like I knew or anything, or even chose not to know. But still, I hurt for him. 

"What did he say?" I ask, slowly and unsure of whether or not I want the answer. 

He has to fight with himself to prevent brushing the question off, and I know he feels obligated to answer me. And although it does make me feel bad, and although I promise I really do want to tell him he doesn't have to answer, I sit there patiently. Silently. Guiltily, as he writhes in pain on the inside. 

"Please don't make me," his voice breaks—and with it my heart. 

I hear his front door open and in comes the chattering roommates. The noise had drawn my attention, and we all smile at each other. They don't seem concerned that Jesse is in distress. No wonder—when I look back at him he has a huge smile and is acting like he couldn't be happier. 

"Hey, guys!" he chirps. "Bourbon chicken and fried rice tonight." 

They both pump their fists and head into one of their bedrooms, waving good-bye. 

"It should be done any minute now," Jesse says as he peers into the oven. He tosses chopped onions and vegetables into an oiled pan, waiting for them to brown before adding the rice and egg. It smells incredible, and it's almost enough to keep my mind away from the conversation we were having. But, I knew how badly Jesse wanted to get the hell out from under me, so I let it go. 

Knowing that he allowed himself to be vulnerable for my sake only made me want him more, ensuing this incredible pain in my chest. I've never felt anything like it before—just a combination of aching and hurting and yearning. The AC kicked on and his cologne hit me again, and I begin to salivate. It is impossible not to stare at him in awe; his perfection makes my chest tighten, and it feels like someone is continuously lying bricks onto it until my body breaks. All I want to do is scream to him that I love him, then taste those plump little lips of his. 

His voice wakes me from my dreaming when he lets the others know the food is ready. They file into the kitchen, and the one who I think is Troy refuses to look up from his DS. Everyone goes into the living room to eat except for Troy, who takes his food and goes hide out back in his room. 

No, it isn't awkward. Or, maybe it is for them, but I rarely find myself in a position that leaves me uncomfortable. Andrew puts some TV on as background noise, and we all occasionally glance at it while we eat. The food, by the way, is phenomenal. 

"Holy shit, this is so good, Jesse," I moan over a full mouth. 

He nods a thank you. 

"We mostly make him do the cooking," Andrew pokes, winking at us. 

"How long have you guys known each other?" 

Jesse swallows his food and looks at Andrew for confirmation. "Since senior year?" 

Andrew nods. "He was good friends with Troy, my brother. And then we ended up getting really close. So we all just decided to get an apartment together. I may be leaving soon, though." 

"Why?" I pry, wondering if maybe Jesse is a crappy roommate. 

"Well, I've been dating this girl for about a year now and we want a place of our own. That kind-of thing." Seems genuine enough. 

When we finish our food, Andrew takes off to visit his girlfriend, and I help Jesse clean the kitchen. "I guess I better get going," I say. "Getting kind-of late, I suppose." 

"You don't have to go home, you know. If you don't want to be around her or be alone feel free to spend the night here. I'll take the couch." 

I decline his offer. Mother wouldn't be home, which was fine with me, and I couldn't bear to spend another night smelling Jesse's pillow all by my lonesome. So I thank him for the kind invitation and head to the door. He follows to walk me out, and he's so close I feel the heat from his body. "Listen," he says, kind-of under his breath. He leans against the door frame, and puts himself in the perfect position for me to grab him and kiss him deeply. ''If you wanted to get out of her house, you could always come live here once Andrew leaves. I can make it plenty loud for you," he winks. 

The remark was a clever joke, and I know that. But it makes my cock rock hard instantly, and I feel it painfully rubbing against my jeans. I gulp—probably audibly—and thank him profusely for the offer before jetting out of there. The minute I get into the truck I waste no time pulling out my dick and jacking it off. My head falls against the back of the seat and I'm so hot to the touch that I hiss. I literally cannot stop thinking about what it would be like to get in between those masculine legs and fuck the daylights out of him, and him loving it so much that he moans without shame. Headboard slamming against the wall. Hands clawing at skin. Sweat dripping down our writhing bodies. Within seconds I feel an orgasm coming on, so I cup my free hand over the head and let loose. 

It's a huge load—I impressed myself with this one, I won't lie. Although it's only my second time getting off to the idea of another man, I am considerably more comfortable with it this time. And on a plus side—still no guilt afterwards. I honestly think I just needed to tell someone that I had these thoughts. Sure, that someone didn't give a damn and provided me with no real comfort or consolation. But I didn't need her to; it's one of those things where just finally acknowledging it aloud made all the difference. As I drive home a thought dawns on me. Maybe I was always into men, and that's why I have felt so guilty every time I am with a woman. But this also poses the question of whether or not I'm gay or bisexual. Perhaps I just prefer guys, or the guilt was just my subconscious letting me know something else is in store for me. 

I just do not know! I won't pretend to understand this at all. Just because it's easier for me to accept doesn't mean all my answers are obvious to me. But I am okay with that, because I know in time things will become clearer. 

Just as long as Jesse is there beside me. 

. . . . 

The following Thursday rolled by relatively quickly. Would have been uneventful until Jesse comes in shamelessly late—and he looks fucking lit. That accidental arrogance I always talk about seems to now be a cocky rage, and he gives off a "don't fuck with me" vibe that I have never seen him display. I have to admit, he looks extremely intimidating, and even Mr. Murphy seems hesitant to make an approach. 

"Thanks for joining us, Mr. McKale." 

Jesse sits in his seat. I look around and no one seems to be paying him any mind, except for me. But he refuses to look anywhere except for the one spot on the wall that his eyes burn holes into, even though I beg silently for him to give me a look—something to let me know what is going on in his head. Minutes go by like this, until eventually I give up when I'm called on. Every now and then I'll glance in his direction, and anger seems to be fading into apathy. Or maybe sadness? There's an emptiness in his eyes I can't put my finger on. 

I'd pretty much been in my own world, tuning them all out, until his familiar voice wakes me up. He's scoffing, looking absolutely repulsed by Murphy. "Jesus, man. You're a fucking doctor, aren't you? Shouldn't you know better than telling these assholes lies just to make them feel better about themselves?" 

"Jesse . . ." Murphy warns sternly. 

But he just continues on. "No, fuck that. I'm so sick of hearing this bullshit about addiction being a disease. It's a disease? Was it in your genes? Did you catch it from someone else? No, you didn't. You fucking chose this." He angrily stands from his chair, knocking it to the ground—voice raised and suddenly so deep. If he weren't so busy making me feel small, I would be rock solid. "But you are all so desperate to rid yourself of the fucking blame that you're listening to this guy's bullshit about how it isn't your fault. News flash, you fucking morons, you did this to yourselves," he spits at us venomously. Then he gives Mr. Murphy one more look of disgust. "And you need to stop justifying it for them." 

He storms out of the room, leaving us literally stunned into silence. Murphy in particular looks stunned, mouth ajar and eyes wide. The thought of going after Jesse only makes me nervous because of what consequences I may suffer with Murphy. But I already know what I need to do, so I do it while carefully avoiding eye contact. By the time I exit the room, he's more than half-way down the hallway. 




The False House Ch. 04



When I'd told Mother about me moving in with Jesse, she didn't ask why or beg me to stay. I got a congratulatory smile and a promise that she'd pay my share of the rent. Fine with me—I quit being sore weeks ago. She offered to pay Jesse's share, as well, since she liked him so much. But he respectfully declined, saying that the work keeps him grounded. What an amazing guy. We've only been living together two days now, and I can admit that I didn't think this through. 

Oh, no, there is nothing wrong. Only having to be around the man I love but cannot have all hours of the day. Gets tiresome, if you can imagine. Ever get that way about someone? Their very presence makes you ache something awful. Hard to breathe. Want to die—that sort-of thing. Then there was the whole issue about the drugs, but I refuse to worry about that right now. 

As I stand in my finally-finished room, I can't help but feel triumphant. Unpacking all these boxes was the first real thing I ever did on my own. Jess, and even Troy, offered to help but I was insistent on handling it alone. My room is nice, I think. Jesse and I share the same carpet, but my walls were a dark gray color. My furniture is also nicer and more abundant, cluttering my room. The TV in my old room is bigger than the one the boys have in the living room, so we happily reached the agreement of a switch. I don't mind it, though, because now that I have a real friend, I don't feel the need to stay in my room because I'm scared of an empty house. 

I know I said I was stressed about the Jesse issue, but when I look at the big picture it's hard to be anything less than elated. Ironic though it may be coming from an addict, I've been a pretty sheltered person most of my life. When my dad died, everything changed. That's when Mom was gone a lot, so I never really got to go out and experience the world. And naturally I grew to fear the unknown, so when I got older it was something I avoided. I have never had any real experiences, and this is my first one. Although there are larger things at stake here, I am still grateful that this can be shared with Jesse. 

"The room looks great." 

I snap my head in the direction of the doorway and see his stunning grin of innocence. You know who he is. "It does," I say, more to myself. 

Jesse, who had been leaning against the doorframe, walks in and sits on the edge of my bed. "You know . . ." he trails off. "I know this must have been hard for you. It was for me when I left home. I—I uh, viewed it as accepting defeat; I hated myself for doing it, and have continued to up until this very moment. But do not look at it in a negative way. You did the right thing and, for what it's worth, I am so proud of you." 

Too happy to speak, I smile at him and take the computer chair to his left. "Why did you hate yourself until now?" Because, Roman, I am in love with you. 

He laughs to himself before looking me in the eye. "Because the way I viewed myself for leaving is not the way I view you for leaving. You are doing nothing wrong here, and neither did I." When he stands to go, I want to grab him by his sexy hands and beg for him to stay. Yeah, I know I could just follow him into the living room and hang out there. But we were so close here—physically as well as mentally. It was a moment, if you will. We were having a moment. I didn't want it to leave. But. I let him get up anyway. "Yeah, the room looks nice," he finishes softly. 

He looks around again with a sad look in his eye, forces a fake-ass smile to me for not even two seconds, then starts to walk out. The true nature of his words begin sinking in, and I realize that I had been angry. No, I doubt it was self-hatred. But there was a lot of anger and hurt within myself over my decision. I had been viewing my move as selfish and thinking why can't you stay and make it work with her? Jess made me realize she was the reason I was leaving, and I was doing it for myself not in a selfish way, but in a way that makes me a strong person. After all, it wasn't easy accepting that she and I are a lost cause. I mean, she is my mother. 

I have to tell him that. "It means everything, by the way." He stops in the doorway and gives me a confused look, so I continue. "Your pride in me—it means everything. Thank you for talking to me, Jesse. It helped more than you know." Saying his name aloud set me ablaze inside. 

A genuine, warm, modest smile is not only on his lips but in his eyes, as well. He gives me a polite nod and walks out, leaving me smiling to myself. Sometimes I have to wonder if he knows I am in love with him. I hide it well, but moments like these I feel give me away and leave me naked to him. They also make me think he loves me, too. 

. . . . 

When I wasn't living with Jesse it was only natural for me to be ignorant about his withdrawals. When we would be hanging out everything seemed fine to me—part of the reason I could only assume he was still using. But after a few weeks of living with him I have finally begun to see when he is having symptoms of withdrawal. The withdrawal symptoms of Klonopin aren't as lethal and hard to deal with as, let's say, heroin. Not even close. But as with any type of withdrawal, K-Pin comes with its fair share of symptoms and is a bitch to deal with. 

Some nights I can hear him in his room cursing to himself and moving around constantly. I can fall asleep and wake up at 5 AM to piss, and he will be doing the same thing he was six hours ago. The day that follows is full of depression and him being slightly aggravated by small things we do. Luckily, Troy and I know to take his attitude with a grain of salt, something that was especially important for me to do. I can't be taking every little bad thing to heart, especially when I know it is more or less out of his control. 

Another thing about Klonopin withdrawals, thankfully, is that they last only around three months. They should be gone soon, and I am so excited. Not for myself, but for him. It hurts me to the point of tears having to watch him suffer in any way. If I could trade places I would, but I would never tell him that. Not only would it be really corny, but his symptoms are so sporadic sometimes that I never know what he'll look into and what he'll just let go through one ear and out the other. 

I talked to a doctor for him—too impatient for the side-effects to naturally go away. It was recommended that instead of him quitting cold turkey, we wean him off. Naturally, Jesse was all for the idea of getting back on those pills so long as he hid behind the idea that it was to make him better. A few days ago he got fucked up on pills, and his entire demeanor was different. Seeing how happy he was after being high was a huge contrast to what I was beginning to view as his normal attitude. I guess sinking into depression was so gradual of a thing for him that I didn't even notice how unhappy he seemed. 

Back to his normal, outgoing self we goof off and stuff, and it is good to have him back. Tonight we are going to Outback just for the sake of getting out the house (his idea). This is something I guess I am pretty stoked about; I haven't eaten out in such a long time. The girl sits us down, and I sit next to Troy—Jesse opposite us. Seemed only fair since he is the only connection we have to one another. The waiter that comes is extremely cute with pretty-boy looks. He asks me and Troy for our drink orders and then when he looks at Jesse he smiles. 

Jesse, looking at his menu, says he wants a Sprite. The waiter—who offered his name as Ryan—continues to smile at Jesse even though he isn't even paying attention. "I'll get you those right away," he says to Jesse, and walks off. 

I laugh to myself and roll my eyes—what a tool. Jesse clearly wasn't interested, yet Ryan still laid it on pretty thick. Still . . . it made my blood boil. I wanted to tell this asshole to fuck off because Jesse was mine. He made my skin crawl. 

Troy busts out laughing. "Jesse, that guy was so into you. Wasn't he, Roman?" 

I cut him eyes that could kill. "I didn't see anything." Then I smile at Jesse, who looks amused. 

But Troy just keeps on. "Oh, come on! He was staring you down and smiling like a googley-eyed freak." 

Thankfully, Jesse laughs it off with a "whatever" and we look at our menus, talking about food rather than fucking Ryan—who makes his appearance yet again. Naturally, Troy and I get our drinks first. He places Jess's down with precision, slow enough to make Jesse look up at him. To my shock and complete outrage, it's Jesse who smiles at him and gives him a playful wink. He wasn't trying to be sexy. He was just being himself, I know. That is his sense of humor—and apparently how he flirts. I could kick a kitten and all her kitten friends off a building right now I'm so mad. 

He takes our orders, easing up on the flirting. He gives no coy smiles, but still looks Jesse right in the eye as he orders rather than the impersonal way he writes down what Troy and I say as we say it. I hate this guy, but fuck he is smart. Letting Jesse know he's interested, then laying off so that Jesse becomes interested. Once this was all fucking over with, I will have to get tips from this douche because his little technique is working. 

When he walks away, Jesse's eyes linger on him before quickly flashing us a sexy grin. "He's hot." 

I laugh aloud, deliberately harsh and sarcastic. "Yeah, if you like snobby boys who haven't even hit puberty." My comment rolls off him. 

The next fifteen minutes or so are pleasant. We talk about anything really. It's mostly consisting of Troy and I getting to know one another. He's a computer engineering major at Nebraska University, and loves video games and anything else having to do with technology. 

Then guess who comes back with our food and an endearing smile of bullshit. You guessed it! He further brushes Jesse off, giving him his food first, then me and then Troy. He smiles at us all and asks if we need anything else. We say no and thank you, and I hope he just leaves us the fuck alone forever and ever. But no. He feels compelled to smile at Jesse and say, "Let me know if you need anything," and walks away. 

Call me crazy, but the way he says the word 'need' had a sense of allure and seduction in it. I look at the boys, who are already scarfing down food, so they must have not even noticed it. I scoff to myself. I am being silly here. I think I am just looking into the details way too much. I decide to forget about it and enjoy my food like everyone else that is normal at this table. We joke and make small talk, mostly. I'm starting to really like Troy; he's hilarious and painfully blunt almost to a fault. The fact that he is so consumed by video games and school make him entirely uninterested in women, and he has no issue joking about how much of a virgin he is. The guy can really take a joke and is shockingly witty. We probably spend an hour at the table having an absolute blast. When Ryan comes by to give us the bill we pay no attention to him. I am glad to enjoy myself as much as I do so I can take my mind off of the tool. It also fills me to the brim with relief. I can't tell you how scared I was that I would be disliked and it would just be an unbearably awkward situation that would leave me feeling unwanted and unwelcome. 

As we are about to walk out of the large double-doors, Troy gives an exasperated sigh and grabs my arm to stop me from leaving. I turn around, lost, and then realize Jesse isn't with us. "Where'd he go!" Troy looks at me, rolling his eyes, then points to the opposite end of the room. 

If life were a movie, time would be slowed to nearly a halt and you would hear Why can't you ever see what's in front of you? playing in the background ever so softly. Jesse leans against the wall, a smirk on his face as he nods and talks to Ryan. I can't read his lips, and I don't want to. Because I can clearly see the dickhead likes whatever he's saying, smiling and blushing. Good God Jesse is smooth. I can see his confidence from across the room. He glows. 

I hear nothing in the room, and everything around the two is blurry. Have you ever been in a situation where it really does go in slow motion? Your heart just fucking stops, and the air is sucked right from your body? That is how this feels, magnified by a billion. Then time catches up with itself so suddenly; noises are amplified to the point my head hurts, and before I know it we are all in the car. I don't speak to them out of the fear that opening my mouth will open a door I cannot close. Jesse got his number, and it feels like the end of my world. 

Fuck being realistic. I'm not stupid—I know things aren't guaranteed to work out. Do you think I'm worried about some slut from Outback? No! Jesse can and will do better than him because he is only a speck of dust floating in the great Milky Way. That isn't what this is about at all. Watching Jesse so suavely hit on this other man was like watching him cheat on me. Of course that's absurd, and I know we aren't together. But in my fucking head we are, and he is mine and I love him. I love him. The desire to be the only man in the room to him is stronger now than it ever has been. Jealousy: that's what this is. I am mad with jealousy, and mad with myself for not having the balls to fucking tell him how I feel. 

We get home and I immediately go to my room, not even bothering to change or shower. My body feels too heavy to hold itself up any longer, and I don't have the mental stability to force it. I'm too numb. Tell me what Sarah said—did she swallow it? 

Jesse comes in without knocking, quiet as a mouse. My back is turned to him, and I so badly wish for him to fit his body to mine and hold me. But he doesn't, and I don't ask him to. I don't even acknowledge his presence. "Hey . . . you okay?" he asks in a soft voice, inching closer until I feel him above me. No response. "You were acting weird on the way home. I . . . I didn't want to say anything in front of Troy. So don't think I was just ignoring you or something." 

Oh fuck, just my luck. My eyes well up with tears, and I bite my lower lip to gain composure. In a worn whisper I croak, "Go away." 

The issue is not pressed, and he says not another word. Before walking out of my room he rests a large hand on my shoulder and gives it a soft squeeze, unaware of the fact that his gesture only hurts me more. Why can't you ever see what's in front of you? I shut my eyes and bury my face in my pillow—the one that doesn't smell like him. Yearning and broken, I cry myself to sleep. 

. . . . 

The next morning I dread coming out of my room, but the smell of coffee takes control of me. Groggy-eyed and stretching, I enter the living room to see a pill of Klonopin and what looks like an untouched cup of Joe on the coffee table. Just then, Jesse comes from the bathroom with an inviting smile on his face. "I made coffee." He pops the pill and has a seat, inviting me in with his golden eyes. 

I prepare a glass and then join him, trying not to sit too close. I'm positive my eyes were tomato red from crying and lack of sleep from the night before. The thought of being cornered petrifies me. But my goodness, he looks beautiful in the mornings. Hair messy and eyes still trying to close themselves, and let me not forget how his mouth is extra pouty. 

"Troy in class?" I ask. 

Jesse picks up his coffee. "Yeah, he's been gone for a while. Will prob'ly be—" 

"I love you." Horror now rules my every thought. What the fuck just happened. What did I fucking do? Just go with it, I kept telling myself. 

He gives me a confused smile and a laugh. "Love you too, Rom—" 

"I love you," I repeat, staring him hard in the eye, followed by a big, dry swallow of nothing. 

Realization dawns on him, and the smile disappears.



The False House Ch. 05



"Please say something," I say, no louder than a whisper. Anything more than that would have sent me toward a breakdown. 

This is not how I imagined telling him. It wasn't supposed to happen when we both least expected it and I had no game plan worked out in my head. I threw myself into this wildly, like a bull in a china shop. And I was destroying everything in my reach—the utterly stunned look on his face told me so. 

"I . . ." he rasps, clearing his throat. I hold his gaze, which seems bold of me but is really only an act; truth is, I am horrified. It's been hours, it seems, since he's done anything more than open and close his mouth as he looks for words. I have never been so nervous in my life—my chest physically hurts from the thunder-like thudding going on inside it. "I don't even know what to say, Roman." 

"Say you love me," I beg. 

Jesse sighs like he's been holding in his breath this entire time and shakes his head. "This makes no sense. You aren't into men, you have a—" 

"Don't say it." 

Another long stretch of silence. "Please, explain this to me, man." 

"Jesse, I don't know." Aaaaand here come the tears. Scratch that—the sobs. "I was perfectly content before we met. Then as soon as I laid my eyes on you something ch-changed. I was attracted to you. One thing led to another and now I am fucking in l-love with you." I hide my ashamed face in my hands and listen to the painful echoing of silence. The sounds of me choking on my tears don't even drown it out. 

"Roman . . . I love you as a friend. And I know I could love you as so much more—I could make you so happy. But—we are on different paths in life. I'm struggling to get sober and you don't have any desire to do that. And that's fine—don't think I'm trying to change you, or judge you. But at the end of the day, we will be bad for each other because of it. I . . . I'm sorry . . ." 

Maybe it shouldn't have, but his answer made me happy. My head shoots up, and I look him in his glassy eyes. "If I get sober—if I kick this fucking bullshit addiction—are you telling me—" 

"Yes." 

I start crying again, but this time I am not ashamed one fucking bit because I am too busy laughing. "Jesus, Jesse. These months have been the worst." 

"I wish you would have come to me, Roman. You don't have to go through things alone." 

I stutter and look for words. Now that it was over and done with, I wish I would have done this sooner. What did I expect his reaction to be? That he would delete me from his life? Ridicule me? Hate me? I should have known better than that. "You're right, I'm sorry. So . . . I mean. What now?" 

Goodness, the answers I yearn for. Now we live happily ever after. "Now, we go about our day and go about our lives until the time is right." He gets up and brings his empty mug into the kitchen, leaving a very disappointed Roman behind.  

"That's it?" I muster. Patiently, I watch him clean his dishes. Waiting. Waiting for an answer. 

"What did you think was going to happen? I told you what needs to be done. I refuse to settle for less." 

A frown sits on my face, but I tell him I understand. It's an understatement to say I am upset. Sure, he is giving me a chance. But his attitude would suggest that he wouldn't care much if we dated or not. No, I don't expect him to be giddy like a school girl. But am I mad for wanting something! To make matters worse, we really do just go about our lives. He doesn't act literally any different toward me. Not standoffish, not coy. Nothing. A few hours later, after we goof off and I pretend things are fine, he goes to work and that is it. 

This isn't how it should be either. All of this—it is all wrong. Too out of it to talk to Troy, I head to my room. The first thing I see is a bottle of pills. Temptation is slowly consuming me, taking me down to a dark place. With haste I grab the tube and empty its contents into the toilet. The pills lie at the bottom of the bowl so sadly, and for a moment's hesitation I feel regret. All it takes is the image of Jesse to give me the strength to flush them away forever. 

It gave me hope. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard. 

Troy peers into the bathroom. "Want to play some Nintendo, homes?" God, he is so white. 

I shake my head. "I think I'm going to go back to bed." 

"It's only 5:40!" he screeches, making me wince. 

"I didn't sleep last night, prick." 

He chuckles before bidding me goodnight. I drag my sluggish body to my bed and collapse. The energy it requires for me to strip my jeans off is unreal and kind-of pathetic. But once they are gone and my freshly-exposed flesh hits the thick, cool blanket, euphoria sinks in and I have never felt so comfortable in my life. Under the blankets I go, curling into fetal position and holding myself. My mind races, from Jesse to the pills in the toilet bowl then back to Jesse again. What do I feel? I don't know. I can't differentiate between sadness and ecstasy—it's all too much for one day. 

I try to sleep but cannot. I hear Jesse come home, chattering with Troy like gossip queens. They joke and laugh and play video games. It feels like hours that I listen to them, ears perking up when I recognized his voice. I let it soothe me until I finally fall asleep, only to dream of it—I never want it to go away. Jesse has a radiant, infectious laugh. Just like the rest of him, it is achingly genuine and could light up an entire city. But he was just too modest to care, although the confidence his laugh gives off would convince us all otherwise. 

I haven't been asleep long when I hear the brushing of my carpet. I open my eyes just enough to see the clock beside me: 1:58. I slept harder than I thought. Ignoring the sound, I let my heavy lids fall back into their proper places. But then the empty half of my bed sinks in. I'm mostly asleep and react slowly; before I have the chance to turn over, a warm set of arms clutch me gently, and the body they are attached to scoots into mine until we are one. My heart starts to slam against my chest and my breathing goes shallow. My body tenses up and my mouth goes dry. My ears get hot and my belly does flips. Despite all of this—despite the inexpressible joy my lonely heart feels—I say not a word, for I am too tired. Too content, out of the simple knowledge that finally, this is right. 

Those rugged fingers brush my bed hair away from my neck and ear. Soft lips peck at my newly exposed skin. "You know," he mumbles soothingly, hot breath tickling my lobe, "you consumed my every thought today." 

I don't want to move nor speak, fearing that anything at all would shatter this otherwise perfect moment. But for the first time in many, many years I actually feel loved. Warm and fuzzy inside. "I think you are perfect, J. I want to give you everything." I wonder if he even understands me; my voice is muffled by the pillow and by my sleep. 

"Please, just get sober." He peppers a few more gentle kisses, then lowers his head onto my pillow. I get a final squeeze, and I lace my fingers into his and fall back asleep. Feeling no need to dream. 

. . . . 

I woke up this morning to an empty bed. For a moment I wonder if last night really happened, but when I notice the sheets disheveled beside me, I cannot help but smile. Jesse crawling into my bed was everything I needed; it was all the reassurance I yearned for to let me know this is what he wants—that I am what he wants. Yesterday somehow is a blur to me even though I remember every sight, sound, and smell. I reckon I'm more surprised at the fact that I had the balls to tell him the truth. 

I have never been remotely close to being in love before, and especially so with a man. It was destroying me inside, and is now just as easily making me the happiest I have ever been. Isn't love funny that way? I can only hope that is gives me the strength to do the impossible task of getting sober. Sad to say, but I have never tried before. I've been addicted to Oxycodone for years now, and spend most of my time high on them. Still, even though it isn't ideal, I'm pretty stoked about the prospect of sobriety. I honestly cannot remember what my life was like before Oxy. 

But I don't have a choice, because they are flushed down the drain, aren't they. 

Ridding my mind of the thought of Oxy, I climb out of bed and walk into the living room. "Where is Jesse?" 

Troy, still wildly smashing buttons, looks at me for not even a second and then back at the TV. "Work." 

A massive lightbulb goes off in my head. I need a job. Not a minute is wasted before I throw some decent clothes on and bolt out the door. The smile on my face refuses to falter—I am finally growing up. 

I go to several places: retail stores, restaurants (although I avoid the one Jesse works at), and I even went to the library. There was a lot of resentment toward Outback; if I saw Ryan I would smash his bones into dust. Luckily, he wasn't there, and the manager was super laid back and cool. When I get to the complex where we live, I am ecstatic to see Jesse's truck parked in its same ol' spot. 

I shove my way into the apartment with a massive grin on my face, slamming the door on my way in. The boys look at me utterly perplexed. Not much attention is given to Troy. "I went apply for jobs for the first time, Jesse." So excited, it comes out as a squeak. I'm almost embarrassed at how masculine that made me not look. 

A stunning smile makes itself known. He looks so touched, and so proud. Those soft eyes say so much right now. "I am so proud of you, Roman." Although he said it in a normal voice, his tone was warm and genuine. In my peripheral I see Troy's face change, and he does some spastic dance in his seat. 

"What?" I ask. 

"You two? It's so obvious!" 

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch. He needed to see that I can grow. "No, Troy. Not yet. Not until I get sober." Piece of cake. Been sober all day. Jesse looks back at me, obviously impressed. Troy gives us a thumbs up and heads into his bedroom, an overly-dramatic wink letting us know he was giving us privacy. But for what? Did he not hear what I said? 

Jesse gets up from the floor where he had been lying down on his side, propped up by his right arm while they played Xbox. He sits at the bar and smiles at me. I sit and smile at him. Suddenly, he is serious again. "Don't do this just for me. Do this for yourself. You deserve so much more, Roman—with or without me." 

But I just keep on smiling. "This is why I love you." 

The rest of the evening is great—we all eat and play some Nintendo. Then in an attempt to be responsible like them, I go to bed fairly early. I have no intention of asking Jesse to join me, and lack the expectation that he will do so on his own. Even I can admit that I am smart enough to know what last night was. No, not a trial run. But it was a way for him to let us both know what was possible for us. It was a way for him to validate how he felt. I don't know, however, who he was trying to validate it for. Nor did I care. It was perfect, and gave me everything I needed to push forward. 

To my surprise, sleep comes fairly easily. And I sleep for quite some time, until I am shot from my bed. I race to the bathroom, not giving a fuck if I am loud or not. There is not a moment to spare after I lift the lid of the toilet. Clutching it with all my strength, vomit pours out of my mouth like an endless waterfall. Jesse and Troy rush to my aid and pat my back. I know Jesse understands the situation when he quietly tells Troy we need some space. "Feel better, man." And with that he is gone. 

Nothing is to be seen through the watery film developing on my eyes. Instead, I just rest my head against the rim of the toilet, only arising when I have to vomit some more. A reassuring hand squeezes my shoulder. "When was your last hit?" 

"Yesterday when I woke up." 

He gives a sigh and straightens up. "I'm surprised you lasted this long. I'll put a garbage bin by your bed and sleep on your futon tonight. Come on." He lifts me up, even though my limp body tries refusing. "Up we go, let's go." He carries me to my bed, taking with him the garbage can from the bathroom. It's a blur when he lives the room, and a blur when he comes back. I feel his weight next to me on my bed, and a knuckle under my chin. With the touch of an angel, he takes a warm, wet cloth and cleans my mouth. "On your side, don't sleep on your back. Did you do any research about this?" 

Turning on my side lazily, I nod. He smacks his lips. "You have hell to pay, Roman. The garbage is right here. Try to sleep." I can't see, so I listen to the sounds of him getting comfortable across the room. My eyes are closed but there is no peace. Eventually I hear his soft, steady breathing and feel envious of his sleep. Hours and hours go by where I sweat and shiver. Hair is matted against my neck and face, my mouth tastes like puke, and I am freezing cold. Yet none of that compares to the muscle aches. 

Oh God, the muscle aches. I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy. Gradually, I began to feel again, and those feelings were heightened tenfold. Before this, I guess I hadn't realized how numb my body actually was. Deep growls escape my body until I am sobbing and begging to be killed. Within seconds Jesse is by my side with a Tylenol and several bottles of water. 

"I need it," I beg desperately. "I need Oxy." He gives me three Tylenol and holds my head up so I can take them. When he tries to feed me water I shove it away, frustrated. "I'm not thirsty. I don't need water. I fucking need to get high! Just one fix. Please, Jess—" 

"Roman, you are sweating and vomiting. Do you want to dehydrate yourself? Drink it." 

I take it happily, but am too impatient for the Tylenol to kick in. The pains grow so crippling that I am hollering, trying to muffle it out with my pillow. Jesse is flustered, I can see that by his movements and owl-like eyes. "Give me the password to your phone," he pants. I can't stop hollering long enough to. "Come on, Roman, please!" 

"3693." 

"I'm calling your mom," he says with finality. 

"No!" I scream at the top of my lungs. At this point my voice is hoarse, but I keep repeating it until my throat burns from vomit and screaming. "I don't fucking want her! No!" I hear him in the living room talking to her, frantic, but can't make out what they are saying. Maybe it's because I am screaming. 

Seconds later he is back by my side, squeezing me because I am shaking so hard that my head hurts. It is freezing. But he takes my blanket anyway. "You can't cover up. You are sweating so much." It's hard to say but I think he is crying. 

Soon I hear sirens, then all is a blur. 

. . . . 

Consider the drug counseling a parole—a parole I broke. After I was rushed to the hospital to receive emergency detox, all my pain was over pretty quickly. But, it was still made mandatory that I go into a rehab for 90 days to make sure all would be well when I went home. It actually wasn't that bad, considering. The people there were really nice and, unlike Murphy, the instructors seemed to love their jobs. Still, maybe things would have been worse had Jesse not been there, constantly in my thoughts. I called him every chance I got, and on visitation days he always showed up. Mom tried to, but I told them I didn't want her there. Troy also stopped by a few times, to my pleasant surprise! I was finding a great friend in him, as well. 

Finally, today is the day I got out. When Jesse would visit, we got to sit outside in the grass next to large oak trees. There would be flirting, mostly with the looks we gave one another. But it was never enough for me. And today he was picking me up; I fully intended to discuss what this—this sober lifestyle—meant for us. 

I guess it doesn't surprise me how nervous I am as I sit outside and wait for that Chevy Silverado to pull up. No, it isn't like I haven't seen him at all in three months or anything like that. But being out of rehab meant great, great things for us—oh my goodness. There he is. I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming in excitement. But it isn't enough to hold back my massive smile as he leans across the passenger seat to open the door. Careful not to be so obvious, I try to maintain my cool. With my heart racing, though, the best I could do was a fast-paced walk. 

Hopping in, I stare at him. We are both smiling, but he is the first to break contact by turning ahead and driving home. "Glad to have you back," he says sincerely. "How are you feeling?" 

I shrug. "Pretty great." What a bunch of bullshit. Without those pills I am deathly depressed. Being in this truck is the happiest I have been in three fucking months, yet still the saddest I have been in years. Once again, I didn't realize how much those drugs erased. How much I would now have to confront and handle like an adult. I shake those thoughts away. "What about you? You clean?" 

Jesse looks at me then back at the road, nodding rather enthusiastically in the process. "The tapering worked. Which is good because I could never afford rehab. Your moms also paid all the rent while you were gone. We didn't pay a dime. Said it was a way of thanking us for getting you sober. She's also going to pay it for the next six months." 

I roll my eyes. "Of course she shows such gratitude with money." 

"Hey," he frowns. "She offered to pay for my first year of college but I refused. She understood that I wanted to work for the money myself, so she decided on this instead. It's pretty nice of her if—" 

"Are you on her side?" I glared at him. 

Those sparkling eyes glance over at me and he flashes a smile to tell me I am foolish. "No. I'm just grateful, is all." 

The rest of the car ride was pretty silent. No, I wasn't upset, and neither was he. More like I was just content and tired and ready to be home. Back to my normal life with Troy and Jesse. Sure, there's a lot of work I need to do as part of recovery. It isn't just rehab, then I go home and life is perfect. I'm not dumb enough to think that—but today I just want to enjoy my first day back. That's all. 

We park next to my truck, which had probably sat in that same spot the entire time I was gone. Man, it was good to be back! The familiarity of everything is so welcoming to me. When we walk into the apartment Troy isn't there. "Where's the fuckface?" 

"I don't know," he says, in a tone I cannot decipher. How odd. 

"Well," I walk to the couch to put my bags down and he goes into the kitchen for something to drink. "Do you work today?" 

"I . . . took the week off. I didn't want you to be alone very much." 

"Troy will be here. What, you think I can't be alone? The addict will relapse the second he isn't being supervised?" I snap. 

Once again, Jesse just smiles that knowing smile and walks toward me. "Someone is awful crabby. Oh come on, I'm joking. You know Troy has school. It's not like I think you need to be supervised." His playful demeanor trickles away, and he looks genuinely hurt by my remarks. "I just thought you wouldn't want to be alone . . . I know I wouldn't. I can imagine you need someone to lean on to avoid those temptations. You know, now that you have all this freedom." 

I let my ass fall onto the couch and with a smack of the lips I apologize. "You're right. I'm just on edge today, I don't know why." 

Jesse sits beside me and faces my direction. I smell his sweet scent and salivate. The glass from the coffee table clinks as he sets his drink down. He is sitting so close that not looking at him would be weird. "I've missed you." 

I swallow but nothing is there. "Really?" I croak. 

His right hand finds itself around the side of my neck—which is now scalding hot—and he ever so softly thumbs my cheek. The other hand holds a weak grasp on my jeans and I can just feel his hand touching my thigh. My eyes close and he leans in, brushing his nose against mine. Teasing me, making it so hard not to fucking beg. How I have waited for this—needed this. To taste him is my wildest dream. Our lips haven't even met and already I am so happy that if I died right now I'd feel I lived a full life.