So here I am, standing in my room in nothing but a black thong, George Michael’s saxophone-laden masterpiece blasting from my speaker while I stare at my reflection like it holds the answers to all my problems. The thong is riding up in ways that make me question whether this is a nightmare or not, and the mirror is doing nothing to help my ego.
“Careless Whisper” hits different when you’ve actually been careless, when you’ve actually said the wrong thing to the right person.
I turn sideways, examining my hockey butt in the tiny scrap of fabric. At least that still looks good. Small victories.
The song builds to its emotional peak, and I’m mid-dramatic arm-raise when my door slams open.
“DREW!” Gerard bounds in, also wearing nothing but a thong—metallic gold, because he’s destined to play Rocky Horror in some fan’s wet dream—and immediately throwshimself onto my bed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! We need to discuss performance strategies!”
“Gerard, what the fuck?—“
“The door was unlocked!” He spreads his legs wide, getting comfortable against my pillows, and I watch in horror as his massive balls escape the confines of his thong. “Oops.”
“Jesus Christ, man.” I turn away, but it’s too late. The image is seared into my brain. “Could you maybe contain yourself?”
“It’s the thong’s fault. They don’t make them for guys like me.” He makes no move to adjust himself, just lounges there like some kind of Swedish fertility god. “Why do you look so sad? Is it the music? This song always makes me cry.”
I reach over and turn down the volume, the saxophone fading to a whisper. “I don’t think Jackson’s coming tonight.”
“What? Why not?”
The words stick in my throat, cutting me with their sharp edges. “Because I’m an idiot. He told me he had feelings for me. Real feelings. And I called him my bestest friend.”
Gerard’s face goes through about seventeen different expressions before settling on genuine confusion. “But you love him.”
“I—what? No. I don’t?—”
“Drew.” Gerard sits up, his balls thankfully retreating back into their fabric prison. “You literally talk about him in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“The walls are thin, buddy. Last month after the roller disco, you were mumbling about his eyes and his laugh and something about wanting to hold his hand forever.” Gerard’s expression is surprisingly serious. “It was really sweet.”
My face burns. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.” Gerard shifts his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he plants his elbows on his knees, his facesuddenly inches from me, gold thong glinting in my peripheral vision. “You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re scared. You push people away before they can hurt you because…” He pauses, tilting his head. “Actually, I don’t know why. But the thing is, you’re allowed to want something real without waiting for it to fall apart.”
I stare at him. “Since when do you give actual advice?”
“I’ve always been wise. People just don’t listen because I’m a pretty boy with a big butt.” He grins, but it fades quickly. “Elliot says I have hidden depths.”
“Elliot’s clearly rubbed off on you. Your emotional quotient has increased by at least a thousand percent.”
“That’s what love does.” Gerard stands, all six-foot-five of him towering over me. “And that’s what you need to tell Jackson. Tonight. Before it’s too late.”
I turn away from Gerard to stare at my forlorn self in the mirror again. “He’s not coming.”
“You don’t know that.” Gerard closes the distance between us and wraps me in a bear hug that would kill a smaller person. His thong-covered equipment presses directly against my ass, and I realize this is probably the least homoerotic moment I’ve ever experienced at the Hockey House. Which is saying something.
“Gerard—”
“Shh. Let me hug you.”
I stand there, arms pinned to my sides, while Gerard squeezes the life out of me. His chin rests on top of my head, and I can feel his heartbeat through his chest. It’s oddly comforting.
