Instead of reassuring him though, it made everything worse. He was terrified I’d push someone too far and get myself fucked up, which made him retreat even further inside himself, as if we could both act straight enough in public to avoid getting any bullshit comments, even though it’s a small town and everyone in it is aware that we’re fucking.
So, I try to rein it in any way I can. That doesn’t stop me from feeling this ineffable urge to be as queer as possible as loudly as possible most of the time. Especially now, when the shadow of my dad and whatever shitty judgmental things he’s probably thinking is lurking around every corner.
So instead, I settle on a t-shirt that says ‘ALL PANIC, NO DISCO’ with a possum underneath, because it seems fitting, as well as tongue-kissing Silas in the parking lot of the Feral Possum long enough that we’re both walking in with a more-than-socially-acceptable amount of wood.
It’ll go down. I don’t really care, though, letting my fingers graze Silas’s ass as he shuffles past me to slide inside.
Even here, the action feels dangerous. But I think that’s more a me thing than a reality thing. I know Gunnar would never tolerate open bigotry in his bar. That’s the whole point of this place. For people like us to have someplace safe to go.
Which is the reason I blame for being here probably more than I should be. It’s one of Tristan’s favorite haunts as well, and even though he’s significantly more domesticated now that he lives with Ford, he’s still a feral cat at heart and in need of someplace to hang out beyond work and his house. We’ve stopped here after a shift more weeks than not recently, and it’s a simple thing that always seems to release the pressure valve inside me just a little.
I’m not surprised to see Tristan here tonight, tucked into a round booth at the back. I am surprised to see his boyfriend, who is even more introverted than Silas when it comes to public activities. But with the goofy, love-struck look on his normally impassive face—goofy by his standards, at least—as he watches Tristan animatedly tell some story, I can guess how he got sucked in.
I’m glad, anyway. As much as I would have been happy to just hang out with Silas, some company will help ease any lingering tension. You can’t talk about real shit in front of your friends. It’s just not what you do.
“What’s up, motherfuckers,” I say with an energy I don’t feel, collapsing into the booth next to Tristan hard enough to interrupt him mid-sentence.
“You know you’re allowed to stop talking like a teenage boy who just discovered cursing whenever you want. Consider me officially declaring you enough of an adult for that.”
Tristan stares at me with one eyebrow raised as he speaks.
“Bitch, please. Every other fucking word out of your mouth is ‘fuck’. And you’re fucking ancient. As if you have a leg to stand on.”
“That’s different, you tool. I’m from the East Coast. We increase swearing exponentially as a sign of maturity. Like how the cartilage in your ears never stops growing as you get old. You’re supposed to be one of those good old-fashioned country boys I keep hearing about. Not a Jesse Pinkman wannabe.”
I can’t help but snort.
“Don’t talk shit aboutBreaking Bad. That show basically raised me.”
I make sure to make eye contact with Ford and up-nod him in between the banter, because it must be easy for him to get overlooked a lot when he’s always next to Tristan running his mouth. I’m waiting for the next retort in our little back andforth, but Tristan doesn’t say anything for long enough to get me looking at him.
His eyes are crinkled at the edge, like the start of a smile, and he’s looking at me all fond and shit. It’s unnerving.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“It looks good,” Tristan says, quiet and serious as he reaches up and cups my cheek roughly with his palm. He does it sometimes and it always feels sort of paternal in a way that makes me freeze up and not know how to hold my body anymore.
This time his thumb is resting by my eye, and I realize what he’s talking about.
“Oh. Uh, thanks. It’s not a big deal, I just follow this guy on TikTok that’s always doing it and I thought it looked cool.”
In reality, it kind of is a big deal, because not only was learning how to put on fucking eyeliner about a thousand times more difficult than I expected, leaving the house with it still makes me feel more vulnerable than I’d like to admit. But I wasn’t lying when I said it looked cool. I’d always thought of makeup on guys to be specifically drag-related. Which is fucking dope, I’ve discovered, but also not something I think I’m built for. I think.
But there’s this queer guy who constantly rocks a smokey eye and does these little tutorials I got hooked on. He somehow manages to make it look super masculine and feminine at the same time, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It’s stupid, because I’ve never really thought that much about my appearance before.
Okay, that might be a lie. I fucking love my tattoos. And I think about my hair sometimes.
A lot. Whatever.
Either way, it’s not something I expected to ever do, but it feels good. It feels like I’m connected to something outside of all my normal day-to-day bullshit. Like if I ran into the TikTokdude in the street he would see me and recognize that we have something in common, instead of writing me off as just another dumb redneck straight guy. I have this urge to feel seen that I can’t really explain, and this kind of thing satisfies it. I don’t know if that makes me attention-seeking, or asking for trouble or something.
I’m probably overthinking it. But I’m not overthinking the way I saw Silas’s pupils dilate the first time he saw me all kohl’d up, even if it was fucking messy, and I thought tonight might be a good night to try it out in the real world. Or the slightly safer version of the real world that the Feral Possum is. Without meaning to, I curl my hands into fists, suddenly feeling exposed and not wanting anyone to notice that I also painted my nails black. It’s messy and my nails are super short, but I think it looks cool. Kind of goth-pretty. I’m sure they have noticed already, but it’s suddenly too much attention on something that I should feel comfortable with, but keeps catching me by surprise with these weird feelings of shyness. It’s not like me.
Tristan must sense me getting self-conscious, because he lets go of my face, but doesn’t stop looking at me with that weird proud expression that’s making me squirm. As if I actually did anything worth noticing.
“Right, Cujo? The kid looks good. Like an influencer, or someone else who gets paid to be pretty.”
“Right,” Ford signs to me in ASL, always careful to go slow so I can understand. “I like it.”
