Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  Sebastian, his body betraying him, shivers. He replies, “I do not,” without the conviction he wants.

  “Yes, you do!” Emir’s feet rest on a chair, Willie’s chair, as he bends to steal the granola bar from Sebastian’s tray. It won’t be missed. “Actually,” Emir continues as he points a finger at Sebastian, crunching on granola, “you used to make that same face when Mrs. Callaway made us read My Side of the Mountain.”

  Mrs. Callaway was a tyrant, always making them read books that put Sebastian to sleep. The Hobbit was an awesome exception. “Literature was boring,” Sebastian mumbles.

  “If you were struggling, I would’ve helped you.” Emir’s mouth slants and his brow creases when he adds, “Back then.”

  Sebastian’s skin prickles from his chest on up. He chews his thumbnail; confusion and conflict fester in his system.

  Emir sits, inscrutable, as if they’re not walking on this very thin sheet of ice.

  Tension and his warped sense of timing make Sebastian ask, “What happened?” before he realizes what’s coming out of his mouth.

  Emir chews granola slowly. “Remember when I went to England for a summer?”

  Sebastian nods. After fifth grade, Emir’s family left, and he didn’t hear from Emir at all. It was their first Fourth of July without viewing the fireworks from a tree in Sebastian’s backyard while fireflies hovered around their ankles. No one explained to him what happened. Life simply ripped Sebastian’s left arm off and told him he didn’t need it. And, sure, Sebastian could’ve tried to find Emir, but he was ten. He knew how to operate his Xbox, not set up a Facebook account.

  “My grandmother, my nani, was sick for a long time. Then, she died,” Emir says, face pinched as if the memory’s still fresh. “We stayed in London because my mom was too shook up to function.”

  Sebastian chews his lip, wanting to say something but unsure what.

  “And then I came back.”

  He came back in the middle of the school year, when Sebastian had filled the emptiness left by Emir with Willie, Mason, and Zach, and was living in an alternate universe where his new best friends were Mason and Willie. Then, out of a wormhole, Emir returned with a different view of Sebastian, as if Sebastian was an alien and not the kid who’d sat alone on a couch, missing a goofy-grinning, skinny kid no longer there to help him bomb zombies.

  Sebastian kept his distance. Emir did too. Their lost friendship became a passing thought.

  “I get nervous around people,” Emir says, staring at his knees. “People call me weird all the time, but I’m just extremely shy. It’s easier for me to stick to myself.” He hunches forward, growing smaller.

  Sebastian absently puts a hand on Emir’s knee.

  The tops of Emir’s cheeks blush rose. “So, no, I didn’t mean to be an asshole to Hunter. I’m just not good with people. The only person I never had to try with is you. We got on well, and then you were gone.”

  Sebastian sinks in his seat. It’s not a sucker punch catching him off guard, but it aches. He would gladly have made room for Emir in his crowd if they actually talked once Emir came back. That’s mainly Sebastian’s fault too. Why the hell isn’t working through feelings a class offered to middle school kids? As soon as puberty hits, all of a sudden people find reasons not to like you: weight, height, acne, sexuality, race, parents’ income, whatever. Confidence is earned by how many flaws you can find in someone else.

  “Once high school started…” Emir trails off for a moment. “It’s bloody easy not to want to make friends with people when they stare at you.” Emir sighs. “The crippling shyness is just a bonus.”

  “I went through it, too.”

  Sebastian is overwhelmed by the reality that what ruined his friendship with Emir was a misunderstanding. They’re not mortal enemies, but each have some major self-esteem issues to work through.

  “I never noticed what people said about me when you were around.” Emir smiles at his knees. “That’s the thing. I spent so much time caring about you, I didn’t know anyone else existed.”

  Sebastian slumps, but he’s not willing to admit that Emir’s confession knocks him back.

  The dining hall is slowly starting to fill. Players walk in laughing; loud conversations are punctuated by trays dropped on tables. Emir tenses under the hand Sebastian has on his knee.

  “Sorry,” Sebastian says, nervously, pulling away.

  “I should go.” Emir pushes off the table with one hand. His cagey eyes look around. The noise is getting louder. His mouth pops open and his eyes scan Sebastian as if he’s about to say something else. Instead, he nudges through the congestion at the entryway to leave.

  “Bro,” Mason says, smacking his tray on the table. Willie follows; Hunter and Grey squeeze into the other side. “What was that about?”

  Sebastian frowns. “Nothing.” But it’s a pretty big something that he hasn’t got a clue how to explain.

  “But that was Shah, at our table,” Mason says, annoyed.

  “Just drop it.” Sebastian’s face is hot, his shoulders are way too tense, and he hasn’t had time to process the last ten minutes. Explaining any of that to Mason is an unnecessary task.

  “But he hates us.”

  “You,” Hunter corrects, biting into his ham sandwich. “He hates you, Riley.”

  “Whatever.” Mason rolls his eyes.

  Sebastian’s hands shake, and a crackling fire licks at his chest. He’s not a violent person, but hell, he wants to punch something or someone. Also, he wants to ask Mason if he’d ever let Emir sit with them? If, outside of camp, Mason would have a civilized conversation with Emir the same way he talks to all those assholes at their school who pretend to be his friend? But he can’t, because Mason has been a good friend. Along with Willie, he filled that gap in Sebastian’s life where Emir used to be. For that, Sebastian’s grateful.

  “So, you guys aren’t friends?” Willie inquires, confused.

  “No,” Sebastian says, but the lie sticks to his throat. “I don’t know. Let’s just talk about something else.” His hairline is sweaty; his stomach gnaws its way into his chest.

  After a silent conversation with their eyes, Willie and Mason shrug. Mason goes on about Coach’s plans for their first game. Willie complains about the heat. Sebastian can deal with his nauseated stomach as long as he doesn’t have to talk about Emir.

  He steals glances at Emir’s empty corner.

  The topic turns to the pro leagues. Grey says, “I think—”

  But Mason clears his throat, “Show of hands for who doesn’t care what The Brat thinks?”

  Of course, Mason is the only one with a hand up, but it’s enough to awaken a little hurt in Grey’s eyes. She lowers her chin.

  Sebastian slips an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispers. He wants to tell her that Mason’s an asshole with a good heart, that his only example for treating someone he might care for was his father, the deadbeat bastard who ditched his mom while she was pregnant with Mason’s youngest sister, but that’s not his baggage to unpack.

  Pride overruns Sebastian when Grey smiles with her eyes. Maybe he’s not so bad at this friendship thing.

  15

  Rain plinks steadily on the cabin’s roof while thunder rumbles in the distance. Fat, heavy, gray clouds sit in the sky like a fleet of battleships making port. A storm is approaching. This early, the rain’s as cold as it is annoying.

  Sebastian shakes out his hair; his Bloomington hoodie does little to keep the rain off his head. Why didn’t I just sleep in? This is lazy, beneath-the-covers weather. Now he’s ruined his own day by fighting for ten minutes to drag Emir from under his blankets.

  “You’re bloody insane!”

  “Are you gonna get up now?”

  Sebastian’s smart enough to know that if anyone saw them right now, with Sebastian straddling E
mir’s hips, Emir’s wrists pinned to the bed by one of Sebastian’s hands, and Emir’s legs kicking wildly as he tries to squirm away, it would appear pretty suspicious. But the moment “You look like a wet, pathetic dog,” popped out of Emir’s mouth, it was on.

  “I hate you!” Emir says through laughter, freeing an arm.

  Sebastian’s quick reflexes keep Emir from punching him in the chin. Emir is freakishly strong for someone so skinny. “I’ve heard that before,” he tells Emir, locking his wrists above his head.

  “Bastard!”

  Sebastian coos at Emir almost adorably. He will never be adorable, though. Not ever. He is ruthless and cunning and a Bloomington Lion!

  A very clumsy, preoccupied lion who notices three seconds too late that Emir has wretched an arm free and is tickling Sebastian’s ribs. It’s all over in a yelp as limbs smack against the ground. Sebastian gets an upside-down view of Emir’s smug grin as he peeks over the edge of his bed. He’s going to kill Emir, or at least mangle his stupid face, once he figures out if it’s medically appropriate for his ear to be kissing his knee.

  “Jerk,” Sebastian grumbles, twisting until he’s certain he hasn’t broken something. He stands and dusts himself off. Emir shrugs with a bashful smile, as if he didn’t mean to nearly paralyze Sebastian.

  Sebastian accepts the half-assed apology.

  “It’s raining,” Emir complains when Sebastian insists they practice. It’s hard to take Emir seriously with his hair standing up at absurd heights.

  “Rain or shine, the team plays.”

  Emir falls back on the bed; his face is covered by a pillow. Sebastian can’t make out everything he’s saying, but he’s heard quite a few of the words used in Judd Apatow movies. He waits, impressed by how long Emir shouts into his pillow. The wet cold makes Sebastian desperately crave his bed.

  Finally, Emir climbs out of bed. That’s good, because Sebastian is tempted to drag him, half naked, kicking and screaming, into the rain. Emir stomps around like one of Mason’s little sisters when she’s pissed he won’t play Barbies.

  “You will suffer,” whispers Emir, too close for comfort. Warm breath skims against the side of Sebastian’s face before Emir continues shouting about how soccer sucks.

  Sebastian, deft as a ninja, pulls his hood over his head to hide his mortified expression.

  “You look like your dad,” Emir says while destroying his cabin in search of clothes.

  “Do I?”

  “Oh, my god, you’re a bloody Manchester fan like him, aren’t you?”

  “Of course!”

  Emir chucks a shirt across the room; a pout puckers his lips. “Yeah, whatever. Have you taken Ms. Haverly’s history class yet? It’s proper dreadful, mate.”

  “Really?”

  “The worst.”

  They fall into an easy conversation about more teachers they hate. It’s weird, at first, but Sebastian doesn’t want to give Emir a reason to shut down again. Then he changes the topic to last season and the guys. In the middle of Sebastian’s ranting, Emir says, “Zach’s pretty good.” His head is stuck in the collar of his shirt, so it’s muffled.

  Sebastian steps forward and tugs down the shirt. “He’s come a long way,” he tells Emir, trying not to laugh at Emir’s tousled hair. But then his eyes drop. Emir is pants-less in tight boxer-briefs. Sebastian tenses.

  “Too bad he’s such a dick,” Emir says through a yawn.

  “It was a rough night for him, that’s all.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Get to know him.”

  Emir hums, running fingers through his hair. “Maybe I will, if I’m on the team long enough.”

  “You’ll be fine, man.”

  “Quit being nice,” Emir says with a huff negated by his tiny grin.

  “It’s my job,” Sebastian says, gently punching Emir’s shoulder.

  The heavy clouds hood Emir’s cabin in dramatic shadows. His eyes shine silver and moss in the dark. The cabin is eerily quiet with just the echo of thunder and the constant plink-plunk of rain on the roof.

  Finally, Emir says, “I’m not going out in that,” with a frown. Now Emir’s eyes remind Sebastian of a cold, gray sky in November. All of this is unhealthy for his overcrowded brain.

  “What’s a little rain?” he asks, pretending he didn’t just choke on the words.

  “That’s a lot of rain, idiot.”

  Sebastian doesn’t even flinch. Emir’s insults bite with less venom now. He retaliates by punching Emir’s arm; Emir slugs back with a high-pitched laugh. Sebastian has an urge to toss Emir on the bed for a wrestling match. But that could lead to—no, it would lead to—something involving a lot less clothing.

  And there it is, like a kick in the head. Would Emir kiss him back? Does Sebastian want Emir to kiss him back?

  “Let’s get this over with.” Emir sighs.

  Sebastian follows Emir to the door. In the back of his mind, he’s stuck on how their brief kiss seemed like a wild summer in the heart of an ice storm.

  “Let me win!”

  “For what?”

  “Because I said so!”

  Raindrops drip from the end of Sebastian’s nose over his top lip to his unruly smile. His clothes are soaked from the storm.

  “I don’t do charity, Emir,” he yells over the rolling thunder. “Beat me!”

  The howling wind carries away Emir’s shouted “Arsehole!”

  Sebastian’s laugh echoes in his ears. He licks the metallic flavor of rain from his lips. Emir slicks the limp fringe off his forehead and focuses on the ball. They’ve bypassed drills today and started their morning with an epic scrimmage that has gone scoreless.

  “Let’s go, rookie.”

  “Rookie?” Emir’s voice squeaks.

  “Yeah, you heard me.” It’s a diversion; Sebastian goes for the ball. Emir one-ups him, spinning while the inside of his foot keeps the ball close. His speed is a nice counterattack, but the grass is slick. It’s impossible for him to get far without stumbling.

  Emir goes down hard in a patch of mud, screaming, “Kiss my ass!”

  Sebastian doubles over, hands on his knees, hacking a laugh into the cold. His hair’s gotten longer over the summer; it drips into his eyes as Emir gives him a middle finger salute from the ground.

  Okay, so it’s not exactly Godzilla versus King Kong, but Sebastian’s sure Hughes versus Shah is still pretty legendary.

  Emir grumbles, “I had you,” as Sebastian helps him up. He’s got an ugly brown smear from his armpit to his thigh. His hair sits drab and flat on his forehead.

  Sebastian tries, and fails, not to snicker, gripping Emir’s hand until he’s on steady feet. Then his hand lingers in Emir’s. His fingers weave between Emir’s as if they belong there.

  “You’re getting slow.”

  “Bite me, Emi.”

  “Or I could kiss you.”

  “Wait, what?” slips out of Sebastian’s mouth, but he’s too late to recognize the distraction. Emir sweeps his foot between them. He snags the ball, and Sebastian is left in awe as a rookie smeared in mud takes the ball all the way up the field for a goal.

  Emir meets him midfield, smiling wryly. Sebastian stands, hands on his hips, scowling, but he’s impressed.

  “Ready?”

  Emir drops the ball between them. “Are you ready, Hughes?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “I guess you’re about to find out, dude.”

  Emir’s mouth opens to retort. Sebastian uses the advantage to swoop in and steal the ball. Emir is shouting after him when he’s already down the field knocking in a goal. It’s a total douche move, but he fist-pumps the air when Emir finally reaches him.

  “Again,” demands Emir.

  They trade goals, back and forth. Their cleats are caked in mud; brown and green are the
new colors of their clothes. Thunder booms off to the left. Rain turns to mist. Their battle continues without a break. Breathless and red-faced, they keep going.

  “You’re cheating!” Emir whines.

  “You kicked my shin last play, Emi,” Sebastian argues. His feet try to keep up with Emir’s and come up short. Emir weaves around him, but Sebastian manages to hook a few fingers in Emir’s hoodie to drag him back.

  “Cheater!” yells Emir. His thin fingers coil around Sebastian’s hips, tugging. The ball pops out and rolls away, but they still wrestle for control.

  Emir has Sebastian’s nape in a cold hand. Sebastian is sneaking a hand under the hem of Emir’s hoodie when Emir says, “You lost,” with a trembling laugh.

  “Did not.”

  “You let me win?”

  “Maybe.”

  They’re so close, their foreheads are a sliver away from touching. Raindrops are translucent pearls on the ends of Emir’s eyelashes. Sebastian’s faint breaths are rough. His chest squeezes tight at the curl of Emir’s smirk. Abandon ship! blares in his mind, but he can’t.

  Their hips press together. Emir flushes; the world around them blurs. Sebastian has no idea why he’s leaning back until the light pressure of Emir’s thumb registers. It traces lazy circles on the nape of his neck. Sebastian bites his lip, unsure.

  And then, Emir’s breath hitches and that’s all it takes.

  It just happens.

  This kiss is nothing like the first one. It’s mutual. It’s deliberate. Emir pushes as much as Sebastian pulls. It’s needy. Wet mouths move as if there’s not a second to lose. They’ll never be able to dance around this kiss. Sebastian likes that; he’s also half panicked over it.

  Emir makes a choked noise. He presses farther in, as if he’s never been kissed this perfectly, and Sebastian’s brain goes offline.

  Well, no, he has one very clear thought: Emir Shah, Emir Shah, more Emir Shah.

  With his thumb at Emir’s jaw, Sebastian takes his time. He’s never kissed a boy. Holy shit, Sebastian is kissing his first boy, and it’s Emir Shah.

  Emir’s mouth is something Sebastian needs more of. Sam was a lazy kisser; her mouth was flavored by pink bubblegum. They shared nice, but emotionless, kisses. Emir’s different. He tastes bitter and cold from the rain.