What the fuck does Toby think he’s doing? And don’t even get me started on Jules– I don’t recognise him right now. His body is lax against Toby’s chest, his face twisted yet soft somehow, like he’s holding onto something that is begging to be let out.
A moan, maybe?What would that even sound like? Would it come from deep in his throat, vibrating out in a low groan, or would it spill softly from between his parted lips, almost like a whisper? I tell myself it’s fascination that renders me immobile. That I’ll always want to know everything about Jules. It’s part of the territory that comes with being best friends, but where is the line? My thoughts are inappropriate, but it doesn’t make them any less true.
Watching his hips roll back, and his eyes struggle to stay open as the fight between lust and lucidity sweeps across his face, pulls me in. I’m curious to see his reaction to being touched for the first time, to see just how responsive he is,butnot like this…
Grabbing a shot glass less than gently, I throw the liquid back. The taste barely registers, not until it's working its way down my throat like venom burning through each layer as it creeps down.
“Jules. Time to go,” My tone leaves no room for argument, as I slam down the glass and make my way around the bar. I swear, the little shit looks at me andgiggles,tipping his head back into Toby and whispering something to him. Toby grins and pulls his hand from the waistband of his trousers, giving him a playful shove and puckering his lips.
“See ya again soon, Jules.”
“Yeah,” Jules replies, a blush creeping into his cheeks.
When he finally reaches me, I’m pretty close to boiling point. With all the grace of a baby elephant, I manage to direct him to the door so we can start–what I’m sure is going to be–the longest walk home of my life.
“Why you angry?”
“I’m not.”
“Are.” He goes to poke my cheek. Well, that’s what I assume he was aiming for when his finger sailed past the end of my nose.
“Jules, watch where you’re going.”
“Tell me why you’re mad and I will.”
“Jules, just–” My feet stop moving for a moment, like the weight of the sigh I’m exhaling is holding me in place. “I’m not mad, okay?”
“Tell that to your face then.” He’s practically winding me up now, moving to stand in front of me, so close that he’s all up in my business. His eyes are sparkling with amusement and a freedom that I haven’t seen before. He looks…happy.
“I’m not mad at you, Jules. I’m pissed at Toby for what he did.” His face scrunches dramatically at the admission as he pulls his head back.
“Why would you be mad at Toby? He was just trying to make me happy… like you were with Trixie,” he mumbles the last part, but the bratty edge to his voice is so clear that I hear the roll of his eyes.
“Is that what you wanted?” What feels like minutes pass before he answers, and I don’t take a full breath the entire time.
“What I want and what I can have don’t really matter.” Jules dips his head, turning and walking away.
“Why would you say that?” No answer.
My feet carry me in a jog after him, but he doesn’t respond; he just continues walking in a not-so-straight line.
“Jules, answer me,” I grip the top of his arm, causing him to spin around, batting my hand away in the process.
“What am I supposed to say, Zander?”
The truth is, he doesn’t need to say anything. We can’t excuse our behaviour as being naïve kids anymore, and I don’t think that Jules would want to, given the chance. I, on the other hand, don’t know what this is or what I want. I know it’s him, it will always be him, but now the question is leaning more towards what capacity?
I’ve been telling myself that he looks at everyone the way he looks at me, excusing his gentle touch for that of a familial one. But the more evidence I bury, the more it rises to the surface. The way his pulse beats hard against his skin every time I so much as touch him. The way he welcomed me into his bed andwrapped me in his arms without question. The way we both woke up that morning hard as steel and painfully embarrassed.
Those aren’t things that best friends do, so why do I reciprocate? It’s like my body and mind reach for him without permission; it’s a base-level instinct, deeply ingrained and immovable. Things are changing as the years creep up, and there’s still more to come, given that the clock is ticking with Theresa, and Jules still isn’t aware.
He knows something is off, but so far, she’s managed to stall by making up excuses– doctors' appointments, inconclusive test results, the endless waitlist for NHS patients. I’ve pleaded with her to tell him, to let him know that their time is limited so that he can make the most of it whilst he can, but so far, she’s insisted that he isn’t quite ready.Would he ever be?
I’ve spent the last twelve months trying to coax him out of his shell, introducing him to new experiences and people. All in the hopes that he gains more independence and builds up a strong support network for when his Mom is gone. I’d like to think that I can be everything he needs, just as I promised Theresa, but from his behaviour tonight, he’s looking for something that would fall outside the perimeters of friendship.
“Say something that makes these thoughts make sense, Jules,” softly, I plead for an answer that I don’t know I can handle, or that he can either. Do I want him to give voice to his feelings, or do I want him to tell me I’m crazy?
All I know right now is that a line has been crossed, scratch that– it’s been completely erased.
